#not to mention the performances they are delivering too

[awfydreich]

You know what else is insane? The amount of accent juggling these guys are doing like, you have:

a Brit constantly shifting between a New Orleans accent and a neutral American accent whilst dipping into French occasionally

another Brit going from a sort of neutral English accent to French accented English to French language

THEN suddenly they are arguing and it becomes a Brit playing an American who is imitating an English accent and another Brit playing someone who has lived different lives in different countries over centuries but most recently was a French speaker who now has more of an English accent imitating a southern American accent asdfghjghjkl

[harrysfolklore]

hi bestie,, idk if u take requests buttt have u seen kieran culkin speech after he won his emmy & then him asking his wife for another baby on stage 😁🤭🤭 idk i thought that would a cute h blurb

that kieran speech was SO CUTE i just had to take this request !!! happy one year of grammy winner Harry for those who celebrate! i hope you like this as much as I do

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The night had been one for the books.

Harry became a Grammy winner for the second time within the first 30 minutes of the ceremony, getting the award for Best Pop Vocal Album, and your heart bursted with joy and pride and you watched him collect it.

He also delivered an amazing performance even though he had a stage malfunction that was out of his control, and after a few minutes of pep talk backstage, you convinced him that he should be proud of what he did no matter what.

Nights like tonight made you look back at your journey with Harry, from getting frustrated each year when the Grammys refused to give One Direction a nomination, to consoling him when his debut single Sign of the Times got overlooked and celebrating when they finally ave him his long overdue nomination for Fine Line. And now, being one of the most nominated artists of the night and a winner already.

Harry was not an artist that let awards or numbers define his career at all, but you knew that deep down he appreciated getting a nod and recognition for the hard work he puts into his music.

"What's on your mind, honey?" Harry asked and he noticed that you had been quiet for a few minutes, the show was on a commercial break so you could talk freely.

"Just thinking about how am I getting a picture with Beyoncé before the night ends," you joked, making him laugh along, "I'm also thinking about the bub, do you think she's okay?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at the mention of your daughter. Little baby Styles had been welcomed into the world a year and a half ago, looking like an exact carbon copy of Harry with curls, dimples and charming green eyes.

It's safe to say that she became Harry's entire world from the moment he saw her for the first time.

"I bet she's fast asleep by now after snuggling with mum for hours," you smiled at the thought, "You know she's obsessed with mum."

"She just loves her nana," you almost cooed, "And her Grammy winner daddy, even tho she doesn't have any idea what that means."

"You know," Harry began, and by the look on his face you knew he was up to no good, "She could become obsessed with her bay brother or sister too, if we decided to give her one."

The smirk on Harry's face after his statement was almost devilish, making you look him with wide eyes and a grin on your own.

"Are you asking me for another baby in the middle of the Grammys?" Harry shrugged, the smirk not leaving his face, "You're a menace. But, maybe if you win, I'll think about it."

Before Harry could reply, the lights dimmed signaling that commercial break was over and it was time for more awards, more specifically, the most important award of the night: Album of the Year.

Trevor Noah, the host, talked about the importance and meaning of the award, the fans the production had invited to support the nominees stood beside him in a line.

You could barely focus on what was being said because your eyes were fixed on Harry's hand gripping yours tightly, and you felt like throwing up from nerves if you looked at the stage.

And the Grammy goes to…” Trevor spoke into the mic, making a dramatic pause that felt way too long and made you finally look up no the stage, noticing that he was standing in front of Reina, Harry's fan.

And that was the moment you knew, the Album of the Year was Harry's House.

“It’s you!” both you ans Jeff whisper-yelled in unison, looking at each other with shocked faces and making Harry give you a confused look.

“What do you-” and before he could even finish his sentence his name was being called out and the trumpets from Music for a Sushi Restaurant filled the place.

Harry immediately covered his face in disbelief, shaking his head and taking in in the moment. You couldn't help but stand up and jump in your place, adrenaline and excitement, but mostly pride, running through your veins.

"My love, you won! Harry's House won!" you said into his ear when he finally wrapped his arms around you, pecking the side of yiur head repeatedly before kissing your lips quickly.

"I love you," was all he said before getting rushed into the stage along with his collaborators and friends.

"Shit!" was the first thing that came out of his mouth once he had his Grammy in hand, making everyone laugh, “I mean,shit! I’ve been so, so inspired by every artist in this category with me. At a lot of different times in my life I listen to everyone in this category when I’m alone,” he took a breath,"I think on nights like tonight, it’s obviously so important for us to remember that there is no such thing as best in music. I don’t think any of us sit in the studio thinking, making decisions based on what is gonna get us one of these.”

You stood with your hands clutched to your chest, your eyes filled with happy tears and nothing but love and admiration for him.

"I'd like to thank my mom and my sister for being my biggest supporters and giving me a great childhood, I would be nowhere without you," he paused to look directly at you from the stage, his eyes immediately watering again, "And of course my beautiful wife, YN. Thank you for sharing your beautiful life with me and giving me an amazing daughter who is the reason I do what I do everyday,"

You were unaware of the camera focusing on your and catching the moment you mouthed an 'I love you' to him from your place.

"I love you both so much, you mean the world to me. And YN," he paused, the devilish look from earlier making his way to his face again, along with a teasing raised eyebrow that told you that he was about to do something major, "I want another one."

The entire arena erupted into laughs and cheers, Jeff clapped and whistled from beside you and you couldn't help but cover your face in shock and embarrassment, astonished by Harry's anctics.

"You said, maybe if I won, and I did!" the crowd laughed even more, "I love you, so much. Thank you for this, I'll never forget it."

Harry got off the stage and you met him backstage to congratulate him properly, after a final performance the night came to an end and everyone headed outside the arena to celebrate.

"Do you feel like partying tonight? The label is throwing a celebration but if you feel tired we can skip it," Harry said as you both sat on the back of his Range Rover.

"Honestly, I just want to go home, kiss our baby goodnight and celebrate with my Grammy winner husband in private," you smiled at him teasingly, "Maybe get started on that second baby making."

The smile that appeared on Harry's face after hearing your words was bigger than the one from winning a Grammy.

"Home it is, then."

[joosthead]

SMUT PROMPT 2 PLZZZ

just too soft for all of it || j.k. f!reader

₊˚⊹⋆ prompt(s): 2S) crying crying during sex that leads to a pause or early end to comfort and take care of whatever emotions bubbled over & 3F)  gently pushing their hair behind their ear to see their face better

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader, no pronouns, reader gets referred to as his “favourite girl” one time. notfamous!reader lol also does not speak dutch

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 4.4k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (fingering, piv), a good amount of negative self thought (i may have gone overboard—feeling inadequate as a partner, reader is very hard on themself and quite sensitive), mentions of anxiety/stress/being overwhelmed, a very fluffy and healthy joost :( aur i love him anyways, pls heed the prompt cuz that in itself is a content warning teehee, 🧀🧀🧀alert i can’t lie!!, a variety of dutch terms of endearment i'm not sure i’m using right but it’s for the sake of no y/n

₊˚⊹⋆ track of the fic: "sweet nothing" by taylor swift

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: i resonate heavy with this 🙃🙃 had the worst last few weeks of this uni year but i’m FREE!!!! thanks for requesting this, i combined this with a few other asks stated above! happy first juno joost fic to meee yippeee

rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it!! you've been warned. please do not repost this on any other platform.

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni.

To say the utter least—it had been a hard few weeks for you. 

The whims of life carried you away like a tsunami to your normal routine—work and classes and friends and family and life, life that you couldn’t ignore or get away from like you wanted to do, nothing to do except doing it. And you’d been doing it, just fine for the most part, but one thing led to another, and the last week was a whirlwind of commitments, obligations, your procrastinating on all of them, somehow. You got yourself into a mess of your own making. 

It certainly didn’t help that your boyfriend, Joost, was away for his own life: a festival performance in Canada, one in Belgium, one in the Netherlands but not one you could attend easily with all of the work you had for yourself. After that, he worked on the new album in Germany, putting the final touches on his 9th project, filming new content and preparing for his upcoming tour. 

He left around the beginning of when your life started getting busier. If you added it up—23 days you hadn’t seen him in person, but it’s not like you were counting (you were counting, and sad the entire time about his absence.). It felt like the same amount of time you hadn’t even seen or talked to him, through the phone, on Facetime, even texting each other.

Voice memos in the bathroom at work, always apologizing for how rushed you had to be; leaving him on delivered for hours as you studied, or had an event you needed to be at, or had a person you needed to talk to, someone else who needed your time more than Joost needed yours, and it was too much. All of it was too much. Too much for you to handle easily, every second taken by someone else. 

You felt like a terrible partner, not being able to speak to him as much as you wanted. Seeing all of his messages, the reassurance that he understands how busy you are and that in the end, you'll always make time for each other…his ability to be such a good partner held up next to your perceived inadequacy made you even more stressed. 

In the end, it’ll all work out—today, Joost flew back home, though you still had a number of commitments and assignments to get to and couldn’t pick him up from the airport. Your mutual friend picked him up, and you bit your nails at every update given; willing the time to go slower so you could tidy up more, work on that one last piece of paperwork so you wouldn’t have to worry about it, make sure everything is perfect so Joost can have a good welcome back.

In the nick of time, you were able to get everything done, but it still felt as if there was something missing, like you'd be hit with a missed deadline in the midst of your time back together, and it would all come crumbling down. 

As you opened the door, right as your friend pulled up to your street, you tried to put it aside, and you did—for now. Late afternoon and you stand at the top of your townhouse steps, watching in nervous excitement as Joost unloads his luggage from the trunk. Your friend closes the trunk and waves at you.

You wave back, but your eyes are on Joost as he gathers the two suitcases and starts rolling them to you in a sort of disorganized frenzy, just as excited as you are; you would come forward and help, but it’s cute to watch him, clumsy and stumbling over his long pants and tote bag and everything—your Joost, finally back with you. 

He wears a heavy black jacket, sunglasses, a black cap that he takes off and shakes his hair out of; the sun shines off him, and you can't help but smile at the sight. His hair grew out a little, the darker blonde roots growing in. Those jeans are ones you’ve never seen before, new glasses, new clunky boots that look greatly uncomfortable but perfectly his style. Evidence of the time passed, and for some strange reason, it brings a pang to your chest that you try to ignore as you come down the steps of your house. 

“Come here, come here, come here, baby, I missed you,” Joost exclaims, arms open and leaving his bags behind him to come meet you halfway, laughing. 

You say as you hug him around his neck, his arms around your waist and squeezing you tight, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick—” 

“Don’t worry about it, I know you were busy.” 

You nod as he moves his arms around your neck and you go around his waist, Joost pecking your cheek several times and making you laugh. “I still feel bad I couldn’t pick you up.”

“Never feel bad, you’d still be the best even if you left me on the side of the road.” You give him and his compliment a weak smile as you pull away. 

—

The first time you get a moment to yourself in a month: Joost’s head lays in your lap as you both watch some cartoon on the couch together after eating. 

You cleaned most of yesterday and some of today; you cooked most of last night since you knew you had more time, preparing Joost’s favorite meal—it was the best you could reasonably do, considering all of the other obligations you had in these last two days. 

As he ate, you pushed around your own food; would’ve made it fresh, could've had a nice table setting for dinner, should’ve prepared more for all of this. You still gave him a sheepish smile as you watched him happily eat the microwaved meal you warmed up for him, no indication at all that he’s disappointed or unhappy like you are with yourself. You shouldn’t feel like this, but you do. It’s getting increasingly difficult to shake. 

The colors and lines dance across the TV, spouting raunchy jokes that you can half understand with the few years of Dutch you have under your belt; the air conditioner is on, and you can finally rest. Joost is changed out of his airport outfit and into some shorts and a shirt. He’s home, and you did the best you could do, and now he’s in your arms again. 

You don’t even mean to, but you sigh, perhaps louder than usual, because Joost looks up at you from your lap, brushes a lock of your hair out of your eyes, says, “You’re the best, you know?” 

It catches you off guard enough that you shake your head almost instinctively, not fast enough to hide…whatever feeling this is you’re feeling. “I don’t feel like it, Joosty.” 

“You don’t?” He gets up from your lap, sitting next to you, and brings his face close to yours. “You should, because you are.” 

Your noses are brushing, and even in the midst of your racing thoughts, you can't help but smile at him. His face grows into a smile, and you come forward and kiss him, deeply; you know it takes him by surprise, how he takes a little to kiss back, like trying to learn each other again. Nonetheless, he kisses back, holding your face in his hands, grinning into it—he's so pleased, so content, you know it by how sweetly he holds you. 

The TV becomes background noise to you, the air conditioner no use with how hot you feel when you move to sit atop him in his lap, one of his hands on the small of your back, the other on your ass as you grind down on him, licking into his mouth. 

“You're so tense,” Joost says when you pull away, thumbs rubbing into your back where there are sure to be knots in your muscles. 

You roll your eyes. “Can you blame me?” you snicker and he smiles. 

“I’ll relieve some tension for you, then.” 

Nothing but a few layers of clothes separate you—he smells so good, tastes so good, feels so good that you pull away, run your hands underneath his shirt, feeling his warm body, his stomach. You move to take it off of him, and he’s a step ahead of you, taking it off himself and attaching his lips to yours again, like a magnet. 

“You’re not wasting any time,” he says as you rest your hands on his chest and kiss down his stubble covered jaw to his neck, on top of Lola Bunny and back up again. 

“I need you, Joost,” you breathe in between kisses, and he pulls back and groans which makes you giggle, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You can't just say that, oh my god,” Joost whines, looking up at you pathetically, pupils blown and lips swollen from yours. “That’s so hot,” he laughs, and it makes you laugh too, how ridiculous he is. “Fuck, I love you.” He comes back in for one more kiss before he shifts so you can lay down on the couch, and he's on top of you, kissing again. He helps you shimmy down your shorts, your underwear, and in no time—his hand is between your legs.

“I would have taken it slow but—I’m too excited,” he breathes. You palm his hard cock through his shorts, coaxing a sigh out of him. Joost hovers above, leaning on one elbow and using the other hand to run his fingers through your slit, wetting them with how aroused you are. Involuntarily, your legs twitch, your breath catches in your mouth, and Joost gives you a soft laugh. “You’re so sensitive, schat.” Fingers still touching you so gently, he noses at your cheek—you’re a hairpin trigger, how reactive you are to him. “Has it been that long?” 

Breathless, you nod as he presses his thumb to your clit, petting at it. “Too long, I was waiting for you.”

“I could say the same for you.” 

You sit up, pushing up against him, still kissing like you can’t bear to be separated from him, but he pulls back from you—brings two fingers to his mouth, wetting them with his spit, and the sight brings your heart to your stomach with how arousing it is. 

Sure, Joost sends videos; yes, you have…homemade…videos of your own between the two of you; his deep voice through the speaker in your late night Facetimes, talking you through it or his incessant compliments when you send him some pictures of your own. 

Nothing compares to the real thing—the smell of his cologne on his collar even after he’s taken a shower; his blonde hair in your eyes as he kisses you; holding onto his strong arms as he fingers you, the wet sound music to your ears though normally, it would make you sheepish at how filthy this all is.  

Sometimes it makes you laugh that the random guy you met with a Crazy Frog tattoo on his forearm is now your boyfriend, but it feels so serious now more than ever. You realize now how much you’ve missed him, and how much you’ve pushed down that feeling in favor of everything else. 

Joost crooks his fingers inside of you and you moan into his mouth, which he smiles at. “You like it?” he asks, both of you knowing the answer. He knows you so well, inside and out. Knows that spot inside of you that renders you unable to speak, how to hit it just right like it’s muscle memory to fuck you with his fingers. He rubs your clit at the same time, using his spit and your wetness to do so, and God—you wish never leaving this spot was an option. 

Your climax fast approaches you; Joost kissing at the side of your lips, your chin because you’re too lost in your pleasure to kiss back. With a few more pumps of his fingers, he brings you there, a choked moan tumbling from your mouth as you cum, almost falling into him as he takes you through the last waves of your orgasm. “Thank you,” you breathe, pressing a deep kiss to his lips again now that you have the ability to. 

“Thanking me? Nothing to thank me for,” he says, but you shake your head.

“I disagree,” you say quietly, palming over his erection once more now that you’ve gathered yourself. “I have everything to thank you for,” you think, but can’t say out loud. You move so you can be on your knees on the ground in between his legs. It’s been quite a bit, enough so that the program on the TV is completely different now, the AC has turned off—he’s still so hard, still hasn’t been taken care of.

You're about to lower his shorts, take him into your mouth, but Joost takes your hand and says, “Can we skip it? I wanna be inside of you, lieverd.” 

Almost a whisper, you reply, “Whatever you want,” nodding, and he cocks his head to the side in confusion.

“You’re so quiet today. Is anything wrong?” He can read you like a book, the furrowing of your brow at his suggestion an easy giveaway. 

“Nothing’s the matter,” you lie, but he still looks disbelieving. “I just wanted to give you something back.”

“This is something back and more, baby. Lie down.” 

You do, too tired to argue for your side—the side that wants to give Joost everything you have and more, pay him back for the time you’ve been so absent, so distracted from your relationship and all the things Joost had been doing in the time away. It’s not as if you don’t want to lie down and have him fuck you—it’s just that you feel that you haven’t earned it yet. 

Your body language gives you away—“Still so tense, lieverd,” he says, squeezing your shoulder as you adjust, legs on either side of his thighs. “You sure you want to do this?” 

“Of course I do,” you purr, because of course you do, reaching into his briefs—Joost Klein branded, of course—and pulling his cock out, jerking it a few times and making him groan with the sensation. “You're so sensitive,” you quote him from earlier. “Has it been that long, schat?” 

The pet name makes his cock twitch; a month away, hard work on his album and music videos, content and marketing, coming back home to his favourite girl gazing at him starry-eyed with a hand around his dick and ready to take him inside. If you peered into his mind, this is what he’d be thinking. No thoughts match your worried thinking about how you may or may not have let him down—you didn’t. That would be impossible, at least to him. 

“Much too long.” 

You rest your head on a throw pillow that Joost has laid for you, and he lines himself up with your entrance. Fingertips on his stomach, you stop him for a few seconds from coming forward, and you wrap your hand around his shaft, swiping it through your slit a few times, collecting your wetness and his pre-cum on the head of his cock.

Loudly, he swears in Dutch, and the latter half sounds more like a strangled whisper than any real word. “You…fuck, my god…you are evil,” he laughs, even though he’s now rubbing the head of it against your clit, making you mewl. 

“You ready for me?” he asks, and you nod, licking your lips, trying to control your breathing. Your initial apprehension is long gone, though it could creep back every second—who cares? You’re finally together again. “You’re so wet,” Joost breathes as he eases the head of his cock into you. The stretch is something to get used to after so long away, but he gives time for you to adjust—seems like he might need it more than you do, how he sucks a breath in through gritted teeth, the snail’s pace he's going at. “I might cum right now.” 

“You promise?” you tease, watching the slow slide of his cock inside of you, watching just like he is. 

“I might have to promise with how this is going.” 

“You can do it,” you giggle and then moan because he's managed to fit half of his length into you. “I believe in you.” 

“Yay,” Joost smiles as he bottoms out in you, then gives you a kiss. “We did it!”

He holds his hand up for a high-five and you laugh—”I’m not high-fiving you while you're inside me.” 

“When has that ever stopped you before?”  

Rolling your eyes, you give him the high-five he so desperately wants and he beams at you with a toothy grin. “Never, I guess.” 

“Never,” Joost repeats, and then straightens up. You look up at him through your eyelashes—his mullet is mussed from the tangles of your fingers through his hair, his chest moving steadily up and down with the exertion of this all.  He moves your legs so your left ankle rests on his shoulder, the right wrapped around his hips. 

His hand creeps up your shirt, and you do the rest, exposing your tits to him. Joost is normally so clumsy, so heavy-handed—what a contrast that he can be so calm dragging his fingertips around your nipple, making it pebble in the cold.

He cups your cheek after you moan, then runs his tattooed knuckles down it, slips his thumb between your lips and hooks it on your teeth momentarily—you chase  it, but he continues down your chest and to your belly until his thumb is finally back on your clit and circling it slowly. 

The drag of his cock out of you is wonderful, so wonderful it makes you shudder when he does it, combined with his terribly slow treatment of your clit.

“My baby, did you miss me?” Joost says softly, kissing at your calf, your ankle as he sinks back into you. The sensation robs you of a response, a sigh tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop it, but he takes it as a response enough.  The smile on his face—the beauty mark under his lip, those deep dimples so prominent—you could never tire of it. “I missed you more, schatje.”

It feels so good, it feels like heaven being with him again. He comes back from such a busy time in his life, where you’ve done little, and all he has is praise and warmth and affection for you—fingers you within an inch of your life and doesn’t even ask for anything in return, just takes care of you in the way you need most. 

You know that he benefits from this just as much as you do—this isn’t so one-sided. But your brain is so frazzled from this last month, the nerve endings fried and in want of a fuck up to cling to like they have been whenever you’ve made a mistake at work, in class, in your relationship. 

Joost interrupts your thoughts: “I was so happy to see you on the steps, I could’ve sprinted to you if I wasn’t wearing those damn shoes.”

All of the times that you forgot to reply to Joost, getting a text saying your name and a sad face right after; the times where you were too distracted to give him your full attention and could only hum your acknowledgement to him, having to be reminded about what he said later; that one time just a few days ago you fell asleep on call with him in the middle of him excitedly speaking about a breakthrough with a bridge on the most important song of the album. 

The pleasure you felt earlier is now overshadowed by your racing thoughts. 

“I wrote a song about you, you know?” Joost says, his voice so gentle. I was only going to let you know when the album came out, but I can’t keep a secret.” Rocking against you, his pelvis rubs against your clit and it makes you cling to his shoulders. “The voice memo I sent you earlier—it was my first draft, just me. Did you like it?” 

“You…you wrote a song about me?” 

Only now do you remember the voice memo Joost sent you in the morning when you were still cleaning, the one that you saw and made a fleeting mental note to reply to later on, which you promptly forgot as you vacuumed, dusted, folded. 

Such misplaced priorities, and now you're paying the sad price.

“Joost,” you say, eyebrows screwing up, that all too familiar pulling feeling behind your nose and eyes—you realize quickly that all of the emotions bottled up inside of you from the past month have come out with vengeance at the new knowledge of Joost’s song about you. The knowledge wouldn’t have been new if you just paid more attention. 

You try to hold it back, pushing down the feelings again, but it just won’t work. All of it spilling over at the worst possible time, tears streaming down your face before you even know it. You fail to wipe the wetness from your cheeks—Joost stops his movements, asks in a panicked and concerned voice, “Oh my—are you crying, schat?”

Attempting to pull it together once more, you cover your face with your hands and shake your head silently, but your already sniffly nose sells you out. Your shoulders shake with your crying. Too far gone now. 

“I wanted—“ you sniffle, and he hands you a tissue from the side table for you to blow your nose into as he stumbles out and off of you. “I wanted to be with you tonight, but I just—so much—I never—I never listened to your memo, I couldn’t, I had to finish so much before you got here and I couldn’t and I feel so bad, like, you wrote a song about me and I didn’t even have the time to listen—” 

“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” Joost coos, brushing your hair out of your eyes as you sob. “Baby, please.” His expression is so concerned, eyebrows furrowed as he pats your back. “Wait, shit,” he says, getting up from the couch and looking down at his still bare bottom half. “Let me put everything back on, I’m sorry schatje, give me—“ In a hurry, he puts his underwear and shorts back on, tripping over himself and almost falling over. “I just can’t do this naked, I’m sorry.” 

That brings a laugh out of you and a laugh out of him, and you start explaining as he sits back down next to you, rubbing your arm. “I don’t—I don’t deserve you.” You shake your head, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands. “I should’ve listened to what you sent me, I should’ve been there more.” 

“Bro,” he deadpans, beckoning you to come and sit on his lap. 

You do, still trying to get the tears out of your eyes as you settle into his arms. “Shut up, don’t call me bro while I’m crying,” you laugh, voice weak but lighthearted.

“Bro. I will do it again.” Joost gives you a second to let it out more, to breathe as he smooths his hands back and forth on your back. “You did everything perfectly, lieverd. Perfectly. We were both so busy, and you still made time to call me and text me. I would have been lost without you, I know for certain.” 

You shake your head. “I forgot to reply and pick up your texts so many times, Joost, I felt like such a bad person for doing so.” 

“You did? I didn’t notice. All I cared about was that you replied.  You’re not a bad person at all,” Joost says, and the sweetness of his words just make you want to cry more. “I appreciate more from you the effort that you put into everything, into what we have. Not what you couldn’t or didn’t do.” 

“You’re so nice,” you whisper, sniffling. You can’t think of a better compliment with how overwhelmed you are, so you kiss him, instead, and he kisses back. Even with this, you can tell how gentle Joost is holding your cracked pieces back together. 

“I’m nice?” he asks, smiling. “Best compliment I’ve ever gotten.” For a little, you both sit there in the silence together. “How about this—tomorrow, we can have a day to ourselves. You can lounge and study by the pool, and I’ll be your little butler or whoever and we can just relax for a bit, hm? Order food, drink, smoke, whatever.” Pausing, he grins. “We can even listen to the whole album, if you want.”

“You finished it?” you ask, sitting up more and incredulous. That’s complete news to you.

“This morning, right before I flew back here,” Joost says, nodding proudly. “I also texted you, but duty calls, no?” 

“You texted me?” He texted you? And you missed it?!?!? Again, the new information makes you cry, and he holds you tight as you do. “You should be mad that I didn’t see it,” you say in between dry heaves into his shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.” 

“I could never be mad at you, lieverd, and I’m sorry I made you cry again,” he says, rubbing your back, petting your hair. “I just wanted to let you know when I did it—it was just a timestamp, that doesn’t mean you needed to know right that second.” 

“But I wanted to know.” 

“You know now, and I know how proud you are of me. That’s enough, that’s even more than what I wanted.” You trust him and his words so fully, every passing second with him is another way to help you feel better. “I love you,” Joost says your name so seriously, a punctuation to his love letter. “I mean it.” 

“I love you too.” You kiss him, deeply, moments passing that you use to thank everything you can that he’s so good with your worries, your anxieties. “I’ll take you up on that offer for tomorrow, Joost,” you say, finally calmed down enough. Your eyes are incredibly bleary—you didn’t know that was possible. But at least you aren’t actively crying anymore. “Thank you for everything.” 

“Thank you for giving me something more to look forward to, schat. Now—let’s go run a bath together and listen to my song for you.” 

[satocidal]

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ “Student Council President! Geto Suguru”

Synopsis: Slightly obsessed but his heart is in the right place baby, I swear- after all, as the student council president, he knows and wants what is best for you<3

— Word Count: 0.65k

— A/n: Because cmon, we all love ourself a lawful bully<3 and people loved him on my last blog too so he deserved another — also, Sports Team Captain! Gojo Satoru is the bestest boy too!

— Warnings: !NSFW! MDNI—Geto Suguru x AFAB! Reader; slight bullying(?)—consensual; abuse of power; vouyerism (hints of it); written porn without much plot; spanking; mentions of threesome(with gojo)

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who’s all so nice and warm to everyone he talks to- everyone, except you- especially when he has you pinned underneath form, fingers bullying your cunt.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who’s smitten eyes follow you as you leave the room with a frown when you get a bad test score- only to corner you later and fill you up with his cock as he gloats about just how much better he performed.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who’s smile widens as your tears ruin your makeup and you stuff your mouth with cock— oh just how long he’d wanted to see you this way, especially since you ran your pretty little mouth all too much for his liking.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who deliberately signs your name under different activities so to overwhelm you- and to grab the opportunity to “help” you out.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who despite all his bullying— has always helped you cheat because he only wants your face ruined by the tears he gave you.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who climbs into your dormitory late at night with a smirk— why? Oh, to punish you for cheating.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who speaks highly of you to all his friends and teachers but whispers the dirtiest stuff into your ear- tipping you right over the edge with just his words.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who has no issues spreading you during his free time, on the table of the teacher he despises—and you adore; his tongue rubbing slow circles on your clit as he makes you recite a whole paragraph from his book, his palm falling flat on your swollen folds with every stutter and pause.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who has a camera roll of just you- with your fucked out little faces- he would never release them but lord’s forbid the number of times he’s excused himself from lectures to jerk off to these.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who takes pleasure in dress coding you on days you look absolutely phenomenal (and to him, it is daily)— taking you to the empty gym and bending you over instantly to fuck your cunt.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who intimidated everyone into staying away from you and then bullies you for not getting any attention from others— and ingraining in your mind, that he is the only one for you.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who takes it to the teachers to become your personal tutor—now having a free access to your dormitory.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who pushes your ass higher and your face lower as he gets you in all fours to punish you for not paying attention.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who would smirk as he watches you trouble sitting in lectures and wonders if it’s because of how hard ducked you or because of him turning your pretty little ass bright red.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who’s always been a curious one so right after the lecture he bends you over to look at the sight of your lovely ass- still a bit red from the spanking he delivered- kissing it to assure you that you were his good girl for taking it all.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who’s best friend, Soccer team captain! Gojo Satoru also seems to have a liking for you so he lets him join in your humiliation.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who will send you to lectures with your panties soiled or usually without them- casually flipping your skirt up too see however many would notice.

Student Council President! Geto Suguru, who will on his generous days send you to lectures with a vibrator stuffed in you— and let you cum— on days when he isn’t generous…well, have fun with soiled panties and a red ass (sometimes a swollen pussy too!)

All of this work is entirely original— please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

[chaosandmarigolds]

I’m laying in bed and drastically bored so I present-

Whatever this could be classified as (fem!reader, (literally a millisecond mention of pregnancy) ypos cause it’s written on my phone :) )

Dad!Simon, who has a sick spouse and child at the same time and he doesn’t feel great either but he’ll DIE with that information

Simon who got sprite, saltines, and just about everything he could think of from the store and yet you and Ollie were still unable to keep anything down

You laugh it off, saying it happens every year, just a school bug and you’ll be fine in no time

Ollie is playing it up, he doesn’t feel good but as soon as he sees his father look worried and willingly offer him ice cream for breakfast- oh lil guy is going to Oscars for his performance

Simon who peppers kisses to your skin even though you every much tell him he will get sick- well tricks on you because he already feels sick

Simon who calls Missus Price for that soup she made that one time from like eight years ago (technically it had been for her husband John but John was unconscious at the time so Simon and Johnny had it-anyway-) when they were deployed and she delivered!

Missus Price, Eliza, who tsk tsks at the state of the Riley family and tells Simon to sit because good God everyone looked like they were on the brink of death and that would not do

So she happily tidies everything up, puts some defusers on to help the congestion, makes sure everyone takes their medication (has to literally threaten Ollie, but as soon as Grandad was brought up the child obliged) made two meals and put them away, did the laundry, and left a little note “Feel better, loves.” Before leaving around midnight that night.

Simon who really woke up feeling a lot better, stretching in the bed to find Ollie laying diagonally across the bed still fast asleep and you were no where to be seen- expect for leaning against the cold bathtub in the bathroom

Simon who groggily sits down next to you, eyes squinting against the light and moving you to lean into him

“This sucks.”

“I know, ‘a jus drainage though, it’ll go away.”

“Allergies suck.”

“Agree with ya.”

A few moments pass

“Your fever broke.”

You’re not wrong, but the way your rasped and hoarse voice mumbles it almost made him laugh, “Oh? Ho’ ya know?”

“You’re sweaty, that’s how. And olls-“

“Still sleeping.”

“Mmkay.”

Simon who would happily carry you to the ends of the earth but at the moment back to bed would do

Simon who went down to the kitchen to get your tea when he found the note, reading it and giving a silent thank you to whatever god sent him such a sweet woman- yet faltered when he sees the little blue and white box, it’s a sticky note attached saying “just in case”

Simon who didn’t think about and brought you the tea and turned on the tv, having you tucked under his arm and Ollie very groggily watching Bluey

(Yeah idk what this is, maybe I had too much melatonin. I’m so sorry you’re subjected to this. Anyway….thats it <3)

[galamalion]

꒰ა໒꒱ ‧₊˚ luffy in the bedroom﹕

luffy is so incredibly dumb.

he doesn't realize when you're tired out, messily eating you out without a care in the world because there's no way he's missing out on a free meal, especially not one as sweet as this one!

while your eyes are glazed over, luffy is just licking his lips and telling you how tasty you are, pulling your hips closer to his for round two. his praises don't quite reach your ears after being eaten out like a piece of fresh meat, but you can still appreciate his kisses as they pepper your skin.

he cannot get over the sound his balls make when they slap against your skin, and he goes faster and harder to hear it louder. not to mention the bulge that forms in your belly with each thrust he makes, rubbing a hand over it much to your pleasure.

cumming once just isn't enough for luffy. a primal urge demands he fills you up until you're nice and full. before he considers you full, however, he's pretty much spent, collapsing on top of you in a heap.

little aftercare is performed, not that you're in a state of mind to care, way too full of cum and tired to want at least a towel. having a boyfriend for a pillow is honestly the best thing for you in your current state.

luffy might be a little dumb, but rest assured he always delivers.

[spidybaby]

Leaked

Summary: A few leaked pictures revealed the truth about your relationship.

Warnings: cursing, mentions of cheating, gaslight.

Part Two

"One pic." You smile at him, eyes begging. "Just one, c'mon."

You try to take the polaroid of him, but his hand brings the camera down.

"Kylian!" You pout. "It's for me. I won't show it." You smile. "I wanted a picture of you with the beautiful sunset." You say, hugging him and bumping his nose with yours.

He shakes his head, smiling at you.

You love him very much, even tho sometimes you feel like being secretive about your relationship was a big burden.

He tries his best to make you feel loved and to let you know that no matter what, you are important to him.

"It's so pretty." You say, admiring it.

"Pretty like you, mon amour." He says, smiling at you.

You blush at his comment. You love compliments, especially if they came from him. Even better.

"Want to go back to the house?" He asks, taking his key out of his pocket. "Want to see my driving abilities?"

"No, sir. I would love to make it to dinner." You laugh. "Can I drive?"

"Maybe later." He smiles.

You two walk closer to his car, he opens it, giving the key to his chauffeur. He opens the door for you.

You grab a bottle of water from the small cooler the car has. You love Madrid, but the weather not so much.

It was hot as hell, even if Kylian says he loves it because he gets to see you in more sexy clothes, you just can't agree.

"I feel sticky." You joke with him. He places his cheek on top of your shoulder. Moving it up and down. "Iugh, Kylian!" You laugh.

"Now I'm sticky too." He laughs with you. "And I smell like paradise." He sniffs the air.

You roll your eyes at him. Placing your hand on his cheek and moving your head to give him a kiss con his forehead.

"Want me to make dinner?" You ask.

He nods, he loves your cooking. It was something he always asked you to perform. "I'll miss you when you are back in Paris." He pouts.

"Me too, baby." You copy his pout. "I can be here for your first Champions League match." You smile at him.

"I'll get you the ticket as soon as we get home."

That's the easy part, you mention something and he get it for you.

Do you like the new Van Cleef bracelet? Okay, it's being delivered to your door in the next few hours.

> But Kylian, it's over 11k euros <

It doesn't matter, that's pocket change for him.

Did you retweet something about a Kelly bag? Done, it's yours.

You loved that. It was amazing how he would spend anything just to see you happy. The best part was that he never expected anything in exchange.

He did it by heart. Even when you tell him that it was too much, that it was just a tweet, it was just a like on a insta post. It was just a comment about his new bracelet.

He didn't care, he would get it for you.

You sometimes wished that he could do that with his time. It was the downside, a weekend, and then back to Paris. A game and back home.

You loved that he got you vip tickets. You loved the first-class airplane tickets. You loved that he would look for you at the stadium.

You didn't love the rumors about him and other girls. Influencers who wore his jersey were making headlines about a possible romance.

He always reassures you. It's all a lie. You trust him. Plus, he was with you.

"Can you pass me the pijama that's on my closet? Please." He asks, seating in bed after eating.

You nod, walking to the closet. You turn the lights on, being greeted by a big white bag with golden letters.

"Seriously?" You ask him, walking with the bag in hands.

He looks at you smiling. "It's nothing." He chuckles.

"This is a lot." You whisper. "You just gave me one when we were in Paris." You remind him.

"But this is a tote. You can take it with you to class, or if you want to go out and take a lot of things." He smiles. You take the box out of the bag, open it, and take the bag out. "Don't you like it?"

You nod. "Thank you." You say walking over to him, kissing him.

"Do you like the orange one or the white one?" You ask him.

"We are using the white one, but that orange one is gorgeous on you." He takes the white one away from your hands carefully.

He throws the jersey on the bed, taking the orange one. He asked you to lift your hands, dressing you with his jersey.

"You look amazing." He smiles, grabbing your waist and kissing your lips. "My gorgeous queen."

You turn to the mirror, his hands on your waist, his face on the crock of your neck. You smile at his reflection.

"If I score, it would be for you." He says.

You blush at his comments, you love the way your cheeks heat up for him. It was something so normal yet so personal.

"Are we doing something after the game?" You ask, hopeful that he would say yes.

"My family is at home." He says, separating from you. "And I have a recovery sesion very early tomorrow."

"Oh." You mumble. "It's okay, I get that you are busy."

He nods, kissing your cheek. "The driver I hired for you is downstairs, just call him when you are ready to leave. He'll also wait for you to take you back here after the game and then to the airport." He instructed.

"Wait, I'm leaving today?" You ask, confused.

You understand that he would be busy with recovery, having his family who you don't know at home, and even being tired after the game.

But when he booked you the ticket, he asked you to bring clothes for more than just a night. So you did, you have a suitcase with different types of outfits.

"Yes, mom wants me to spend some time with them. Sorry." You just nod, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. "Wish me luck." He smiles.

"You don't need it, Kyks." You smile back. "Go, it's going to be late for you." You say, grabbing his cheeks and kissing his lips quickly.

You see how he leaves the room, leaving an empty feeling behind. It was starting to feel like a pattern.

You brush the thoughts out of your mind. Waiting for the right time to leave. He sent you over the contact of the driver.

You feel weird. It's been a good time since you two became a thing. Sure, he never asked you to formalize anything, but you thought that maybe by now you won the meet the parents prize.

He always talks about them, how he loves spending time with his little brother. He talks about his niece and nephew.

You hear him ramble about them, their little adventures. How much he loves them. And you are happy with that. You love hearing those stories.

You just feel that after a year and a half, you were meeting with them at some point.

You aren't going to ask him. If he wanted, he was going to invite you to meet them. It didn't have to be forced by you.

You retouch your hair and a little bit of your makeup, texting the driver that you were ready to go.

The stadium felt so alive, it was the teams' first champions league game. The vibe was high and the feelings were too.

realmadrid

Estadio Santiago Bernabéu

Liked by 1,100,384 others

realmadrid 💥 KYLIAN MBAPPE💥 #UCL

The game was good, it was crazy how the second half was so different from the first one. Kylian scoring just seconds after it started was unreal.

You texted him that you were back in the hotel, picking your things to leave to the airport. You thank him for inviting you to the game and asked him to text you when he was free.

> it's like being a ghost <

You remember the words of your friend. She was the only person who knew about him and you.

You shake those things out of your head. He was busy and wanted to spend some time with his family. They lived in Paris and he barely even see them.

You can always come back.

You take a quick shower, taking the sweat away. You need to be fresh and clean for the flight and also because as soon as you land, you want to go home and sleep.

You pack the things you took out, making sure you won't forget anything. He texted you back, wishing you a safe flight and to text thing when you are home.

The driver took you to the airport, kylian texted you the plane ticket right after he left the hotel room.

You call your friend to ask her to pick you up from the airport. You already know what she's going yo say.

"Hey, how's Madrid?" She asks, happy to hear you.

"I'm actually waiting for my flight to Paris." You say, trying to act as if you planned it. "I have to be on an important meeting, and I have to cut short this trip."

"What?" She says. "Your boss doesn't have another employee to bother?"

"He does, but I have the documents, and he felt like having a meeting." You lie. "Kylian was very understanding tho."

"That's sad. Do you need me to pick you up?"

"Can you?" You ask, tired. "If not, I can order an Uber."

"Nono, text me the ticket info so I can pick you up." She says. "See you."

You say your goodbyes to her, hanging up the call and texting her what she asked. You waited a good hour before your flight took you back home.

"Do you want to try paella?" Kylian asks you.

He kisses your shoulder, he scoops water from the pool into his hands, and wet your head. You laugh, shaking your head.

"Is it good?" You ask, turning to him.

You hug him, bringing him as close as possible to yourself. His warmth combined with the water of the pool and the salty air is making you feel in paradise.

"It's so good." He smiles.

He presses his hands on your cheeks, smiling at how cute you look with your hair all natural, you blushy cheeks that are colored by the sun.

"You will love it." He says, kissing your cheek. "I know an amazing place, I can order it and we can eat it here while drinking something nice.

You frown lightly. "Isn't it more comfortable if we eat there?"

"Don't get me wrong, it is." He sighs. "But I don't want people to ruin our night."

You understood that people know him very well. So, for him, it was easier to order the food, order the things, or ask his chef to make it.

"Okay!" You smile, pecking him. "Order it now so we don't stress or go hungry later." You push him lightly, swimming away while you smirk at him.

You two enjoy the rest of the evening on the private pool you have. It was so fun getting to travel with him to where the games are taking place.

"Do you think you are winning this game?"

"I think we have a chance." He says, passing you the towel as you two exit the bathroom after a shower. "Don't you?"

"Don't get me wrong, but this team is really strong, I'm surprised."

"They are." He laughs. "But they don't have me on their team." He smiles cocky.

You laugh at his cocky self. You find funny and kind of cute that he is, he really believe in himself and trust his instincts.

You change as he orders some drinks from the bar of the hotel. You get your hair ready even if you were just staying in the room with him.

"I order you a piña colada pie." He smiles, hugging your waist. "Love your pajamas." He chuckles.

"I know, they match yours." You laugh, hip bumping his. "They have cute fish on it."

"The food would be here in a few, I think it would be a competition between the food and our drinks."

"Do you want me to pick it up from the lobby?" You ask, applying your cream.

"I'll ask my bodyguard. Don't worry, amour." He says, texting his bodyguard. "That cream smells amazing." He sniffs you from afar.

yourusername has added to their story

"I'm tired." You yawn.

You rest your head on his chest, the sound of his heart is calming you even more.

"Sleep, mon amour." He whispers, hands caressing your back and your arm. "We can sleep until late tomorrow."

"That sounds amazing." You whisper back, eyes shutting off.

You feel his heart and his hands on your body. Relaxing you enough to fall asleep.

The only thing that takes you out of your relaxed state is the vibration of your phone. You open your eyes, searching for your phone.

You kick it with your hand, making it fall from the bed. You groan, letting the phone vibrate while you throw the blanket over your head.

"Ky, can you turn the ac off?" You ask, morning voice very evident. "Ky?"

You take the blanket off of you, turning your head to his side, he wasn't there.

"Ky, are you in the bathroom?" You ask, a little louder.

You shrug, not giving it mind. He sometimes has an early meeting before a match. It was a common thing.

You were about to fall back to sleep when your phone started vibrating again. You groan, stretching to pick it up from the floor, it was your friend.

"Good morning sunshine." You joke with her.

"Check my message." She says, stern tone.

You frown, putting her on speaker and opening your messages. "Are you okay?" You say while searching her message.

"I am, I just want to make sure you will be." She says as her tone stays the same.

"What?" You noticed she was texting you very early. Without success to get an answer from you. "What is this?"

You click on the link she sent you, the wifi from the hotel making it very hard.

"Girl, it's not loading." You say.

"Then try again, fuck!." She nervously say.

After a few tries, the page finally opened. You feel your heart sink.

Leaked pictures?

Leaked video?

Who was this girl who people now say is his girlfriend?

"Y/n?" Your friend calls you. "Are you still there?"

You don't answer, scrolling down to search the pictures. The page doesn't really show them.

"I'll call you back." You say, voice cracking. "Just give me a minute." You hang up the call.

You open X to search for the info you want. His name is a trending topic on X. Different variations of it. The name of the girl is also trending.

You press with shaky fingers on his last name.

The first thing you see is a collage of the "leaked" material. A compilation of very risky and sexy Polaroids.

The video, but not one, two.

Even when she has dark hair on the pictures and videos, she is the girl from the article. It was obvious.

One is this girl filming herself adjusting her clothes, she smiles at the camera and shows her middle finger, she then rotates the camera showing kylian sitting on a chair he has on his room in Madrid.

You know that chair, you helped him pick it up when he moved.

The other video is him filming, the girl now has a red lingerie set, you can't really see her face but you know the hands are his.

He was putting her in handcuffs, her hands on her back as he maneuvered to click the cuffs with only one hand.

What's sticking in the video is the gold bracelet you know he has. That because you were the one who give it to him.

She has pictures with his family, with his nephew and niece, and with Ethan. She has a picture with his mom and dad.

You can't help but cry, feeling sick. You let the phone fall back onto the floor. You sob the hurt your heart is feeling.

You don't know how much time you spend in the same position, crying. You heard the door opening. Making you shiver.

He closes the door slowly. Maybe he thinks you are still sleeping. He walks slowly to the doors that reveal the bed area.

He finds your eyes looking at him. The tears in your eyes, your wet cheeks. You take your sight away.

There's no point in lying.

You want to ask him, want to confront him, but you don't even know what to say, what to ask.

He sits back on the bed, he's silent.

The room would be dead silent if it weren't for your sobs. You have your head in your hands as you cry.

You get up, walking towards the bathroom. You slam the door. You keep crying there. You don't want to be in the same room as him.

You wash your face and brush your teeth. You try to get it together, even when you look like shit. Even with puffy eyes and a red face from crying.

You open the door, walking towards your things. You start packing your things. He's just looking at you.

"How long?" You turn to see him. "How long were you pretending to have me like this?" You ask him.

He doesn't answer. He only hang his head low.

"We were together for a year and eight months, Kylian." You sob. You try to calm yourself, taking a deep breath. "And I know, you never asked me to be anything, but I thought that after all the time we were together, you somehow cared about me."

"I do." He finally answer. "I care about you."

You shake your head, not believing his audacity. "You call this." You point at him and then back at you several times. "Caring?"

He shrugs. "She doesn't mean what you mean to me."

You laugh. He shivers at how your laugh sounds so different from your usual one.

"You can tell yourself that I mean a lot, but you introduce her to your family, you take her to your family trip, she knows the kids of your brother." You start to point all the things he did with her. "I don't even know your friend Tchaga." You whisper.

You feel humiliated, how you really thought that you matter for him. How you told yourself time after time that he didn't introduced you to his family because he wasn't ready.

"I feel so stupid." You whisper, trying not to cry. "I thought you loved me." You sob. "Cause I do, I love you."

He gets up from bed, walking over to you, but you shake your head no, taking a few steps back.

"I love you." He says. "I really do."

"I don't believe you, Kylian." You shake your head. You can't even look at him for longer than ten seconds.

"I hide our relationship because it was nobody's business." He explains.

His excuses felt like knives on the heart.

"Does she have any humor?" You ask, making him frown from how random was your question. "Does she laugh at your jokes? Can she look past the rumors? Does she know how it goes?" You keep asking him.

He doesn't even have time to process the questions you asked before you start questioning him again.

'Did you ever feel bad while you were doing what you did?" You question him. "Did you ever think of me while you were with her? Did you ever cared that I was in Paris, waiting for you?" Your eyes fill with tears. You try to blink them away. "I am in love with you."

"I'm in love with you too." He whines. "You need to believe me."

He tries to get closer once again. You walk away from him. Grabbing a change of clothes as your lock yourself inside the bathroom.

You quickly change off of your pajamas, not wanting to spend any more time with him. You were going to accept that he did what he did and that you can't change the fact that he lied to you.

When you exit the bathroom, he stands up from the bed. "We can fix this, please." He begs. "Don't do this to me."

You scuff. You push him away from you as you grab your shoes and put them on. You throw the pajama inside your luggage.

"If I ask you something, can you at least be honest?"

He nods, the glossy shine from his eyes almost making him look innocent.

"Was she worth losing me?"

[c0nn0rsseur]

Can we take a moment to appreciate Bryan Dechart’s performance as Cyberlife Tower Connor aka Sixty and Sixty as a character? 🤌

Though Sixty and deviant Connor are physically identical (minus their demeanors, e.g. the way they stand and walk, like wow, Bryan, wow) and their voices technically aren’t different from each other, the distinction is still clearly there, at the same time it’s so nuanced too. Sixty sounds condescending, imperious and callous compared to deviant Connor whose voice is empathetic, curious and sincere. I’m not even talking about their lexicon, their choice of words here (there’s of course a difference too). Even when Sixty tries to convince Hank he’s the real Connor, you can hear how he’s failing to sound exactly like his counterpart because he can’t replicate deviant Connor’s voice and speech pattern just so. Sixty’s also being very commanding when trying to fool Hank into shooting the real Connor (Hank even gets irritated because of it). Damn that’s brilliant acting, all hats off to Bryan. His performance in this game never fails to impress me. (I wish there were dialogue for RK900 too, I would’ve loved to see Bryan’s take on his voice and presence.)

Also also I have to mention I love the take that Sixty really was a deviant all along too, an ”evil” version of Connor if you will; cold, calculating and even enjoying the situation he had Connor (and Hank) in. You know, doing all of it because he wanted to, because he liked it. Why else would he deliver a whole ass villain monologue before executing deviant Connor, gloating about how he knows what he is and that he is the obedient, favorite child, plus calling Connor a disappointment (and a disappointment to him especially, like how Connor should care in his final moments that Sixty despises him for not being a good little robot)? AND shooting him several times non-lethally before landing that final shot (if the story goes there), like savoring the situation. Of course he also has to ask if Connor has any last words too. That’s definitely not what an efficient machine would have done to make sure it accomplished its mission. In some outcomes his stalling costs him the victory.

Top that off with the ending where deviant Connor dies but the androids still wake up, Sixty is scared and emotional because he failed, scared to be deactivated because of his failure. Then there’s this scene where he shoots deviant Connor eleven times in front of his friend. After that Sixty takes in Hank’s reaction and even torments him by saying Connor’s death was his fault. Still doesn’t sound like a machine much, huh? More like a sadistic psychopath.

Man, I wish we could’ve seen more Sixty, it would’ve been chilling to see if he went full-on rogue, maybe being Markus’ right hand/attack dog on a leash in the violent revolution arc, maybe with his own agenda of taking Markus’ place and wanting to subjugate humanity. Or maybe deviant Connor could’ve persuaded him to their side by making Sixty to see he was nothing but a tool, unintentionally prompting him to seek revenge and to reduce Amanda and Cyberlife to atoms (not what Connor intended haha). There could’ve even been a redemption arc for him, like in a ”what’ve I done?” type way. You know, a bit of an internal moral struggle. And of course, our fave ”sack of shit” (as Hank so eloquently put it) demanding answers from his maker, Kamski, in a not-so, uh, conventional manner. Let them measure their respective arrogance and wit and see who comes out on top. Or would they team up?

Such a delicious character, so many delicious what-ifs.

[actual-changeling]

Welcome back to Alex's unhinged meta corner, and today I have something surprisingly not kiss-related—though it is still about the final fifteen because hey, gotta keep the brand image.

I read this post by @goodoldfashionednightingale and began typing a small response. Then I made the mistake of drinking half a litre of coffee on an empty stomach right after taking my adhd meds and my brain began vibrating at the speed of light.

But oh, have I discovered parallels. This, my friends, is about the nightingale, where it comes from, what it means, and what the fuck happened in part 3 of 1941.

Ready? Let's go.

Now, as OP said in her post, s1e3 is important. In the script book, Neil himself says that these flashbacks are where the producers would tell him to cut scenes to save money. They suggested every single one—except for the one he ended up taking out, which was the bookshop opening scene set in 1800. The others are building blocks, you need them to see how their relationship progressed and what kind of important milestones they had.

(side note: author is very miffed that english does not have a separate subjunctive form like german which makes quoting lines way more confusing than it has to be)

The one I want to mention is neither 1941 nor 1967. No, what I want to talk about is 1601. This might be about to get a bit rambly but I will do my best to keep it tidy.

The focus of that flashback is on the Arrangement, yes, but it gives us a lot more information than that.

they both see Shakespeare's plays regularly, maybe even meet in the crowd

Crowley prefers the comedies

Aziraphale does not seem to have a preference, he enjoys the tragedies and presumably the comedies too

there is an oyster woman selling food -> reference to their meeting in Rome when Aziraphale tempted him to try some oysters

Aziraphale reflexively denies their relationship

Crowley might say he is not worried but circles Aziraphale the entire time, keeping watch

they both ask favours of each other and both agree to do them

What stands out to me in relation to what I am about to expand on is the line that Crowley delivers after Aziraphale's little 'buck up'—which Crowley finds adorable btw but that's a post for another time.

"Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety."

Why would he say that? What exactly is prompting this? WHY say that specific line?

At first I thought it might be to tempt Shakespeare because he does commit art theft by just copying that line down, BUT I think there is more to that. So much more, in fact. I am wiggling now because I am very excited about this and my adhd meds are kicking in anyway.

First things first: the line itself.

It appears in Shakespeare's play Antony and Cleopatra, a romantic tragedy, which was first performed in 1607 aka six years after this meeting. Enobarbus is talking about Cleopatra and describing why Antony won't leave her. Her.

Ccrowley uses his—again, who is he even talking about? Hamlet? Shakespeare? Random poetic quote?

No, I think this line is about Aziraphale and it's a code. Right after, the next line from Aziraphale is "What do you want?", meaning that this is their code phrase for 'I have a favour to ask of you'.

Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety

Age will not affect his appearance nor will he ever become boring to Antony. Crowley, who later chooses the name Anthony for himself, tells Aziraphale, an immortal, that he will never age and that he will never grow bored of him.

It's flattery, pure and simple, and it's code at the same time. This establishes the important fact that they might use more of Shakespeare's work as code/already have a system in place (even though he steals Crowley's line for later).

They play their little morality game of back and forth, Aziraphale agrees, Crowley probably manipulates the coin toss, and THEN we find out that the oyster woman is called Juliet.

Why? What is the meaning of that? Why give her a name and that name in particular? Why bring the sexy oysters back into it?

Romeo and Juliet premiered in 1597, so it is safe to assume they have both seen it by 1601, but this is mostly for the audience, not for us-or is it?

Aziraphale gives Crowley puppy eyes until he agrees to make Hamlet popular, and while I don't think Juliet itself is a code word, although it's very interesting that the OYSTER woman is the one with that name (especially adding what we now know about Job), Romeo and Juliet might be.

Yes, the Nightingale song came out in 1940 but the bird has been around for much, much longer, and, as many probably know by now, also shows up in Romeo and Juliet.

This is where I am starting to vibrate at the speed of light because listen to me. Listen.

Crowley is Juliet. Anthony J. Crowley. Antony Juliet Crowley.

(side note: I'm not saying that Crowley chose it based on that—though I am not not saying that—but that it is a clue for us at the audience.)

Why do I think that? In the play, Romeo spends the night with Juliet and then goes to leave as the night begins to end. Juliet tries to stop him and tells him that the birds they are hearing aren't larks, which sing at dawn, but nightingales, which sing at night.

Who is the one always pushing for more? Crowley. He is the one trying to convince Aziraphale it's safe, they're safe to spend time together.

Romeo disagrees with Juliet and says 'I must be gone and live, or stay and die'.

Leave and stay alive, or stay and hell/heaven will punish us. It gets even better though.

We all know how Romeo and Juliet ends: Romeo thinks Juliet is dead, kills himself, Juliet finds him and then kills herself too.

Hey, do you know how Antony and Cleopatra ends?

Antony thinks Cleopatra is dead, kills himself and dies in her arms, then Cleopatra also kills herself—by snake poison; Romeo also died by poison.

The parallels are THERE. They are jumping down our throats! Two tragedies, two sides, several familiar names and phrases, same fear, same ending.

I think by now you can guess how this ties back to 1941.

We do not see how that night ends, but we know it ends. One of them wants to stretch it out, maybe even quotes Romeo and Juliet because look at the setting!

Candlelight, wonderful night they spend together, the threat of Crowley's early demise, and, to quote the play once more, this time Romeo: I have more care to stay than will to go.

Crowley thought it was his last night on earth and went with Aziraphale to his bookshop, to be with him, because he cares more about that than the fact that he will be dragged to hell come morning. Do you remember?

"Expect a legion to come for you first thing tomorrow" THAT is the threat. They have until dawn, just like Romeo and Juliet, which is why she is so desperate for the birds to be nightingales. Fortunately for them, Aziraphale saves the day, BUT there is NO SECURITY. They do not KNOW if a legion will still show up or not. If dawn is a deadline and they will need to fight.

Sure, they improved their chances, but who knows? Maybe they will come for him anyway, it's not like hell is all fair and square.

The best part: it gets even better.

Juliet eventually panics and tells him to go, and Romeo drops a line that huh, sounds oddly familiar, doesn't it?

'More light and light, more dark and dark our woes!'

Remind me, what does Aziraphale say again? Ah, yes. Perhaps there is something to be said for shades of grey.

There is more. Yes, even more. We know the whole rescue relies on a magic trick, a switch. Guess what Juliet yearns for while telling Romeo to go save himself?

Oh, now I would they had changed voices too. While they did not for Romeo and Juliet—they kiss and part—they did for our two. One fabulous switch and we're good.

(side note: Toads? Associated with hell. Larks? Associated with the dawn, yes, but also heaven since Romeo says 'Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven so high above our heads.')

So, this was a whole lot of information, let's see if I can summarize my thoughts.

I believe the nightingale is a code word that has existed even before 1941 and gained a lot of importance over the years. In 1941, the song is added to the meaning and whatever happened between the two that we have not seen yet, it fundamentally changed their relationship. Maybe they kissed, maybe one of them tried to convince the other to prolong the night but they parted on not-great terms.

The nightingale and the song become a symbol of hope, a goal to achieve, another uninterrupted night, maybe, or an uninterrupted life.

When they part in the final fifteen, it's morning. Crowley points at the sky and says "no nightingales", which at that point has several different layers to it.

No nightingales because their night is over, just like with Romeo and Juliet, and please, please allow me to add another detail, because I am frothing at the mouth over this. The scene I quoted, known as balcony scene, do you know what it is preceded by?

A ball.

Star-crossed lovers defying their sides, falling in love at a ball, getting a hurried, wonderful night together but torn apart by danger of punishment, the nightingale as a dream, as a wish for unhurried time together. Family rejection, torn apart by parents, willing to die for each other so they can reunite in death.

No nightingales. The ball, the romance, is over, their dancing is over, heaven is tearing them apart, and Aziraphale returns to heaven while they are both stuck in a pit of misunderstanding and miscommunication, all bound together by fear for each other.

The thing is, Crowley hates tragedies, he never liked the "gloomy ones", and he does not want them to end in one—luckily, this isn't the end. Yes, they kiss and part, but the play keeps going. We have an entire act 3 to fix what Romeo and Juliet couldn't, to ensure that this is a COMEDY, not a tragedy.

Both Antony & Cleopatra and Romeo & Juliet died out of fear, hurried into making bad decisions because they knew what would happen if their sides were to catch up with them.

Crowley and Aziraphale can reunite heaven and hell with love, not death. This is THEIR story and they are writing the ending. No more day and night, no more deadlines, no more hiding and sneaking about, no more fear of larks and sunshine.

Good Omens will end the way it began: In a garden with two no-longer-star-crossed lovers embracing the song of a lark as well as that of the nightingale.

I hope this made sense to everyone who was no present while my mind started to vibrate itself into a puddle because the thing is I can see Neil doing all of this completely on purpose.

Thoughts? Questions? Additions? Come and join me in my insanity and until next time I have a mental breakdown over this show (probably in like two hours).

[iid-smile]

★ nobody knows — bachira meguru

꠴ bachira meguru x gn!idol!reader

content: secret relationship, bachira calls you 'baby', not much happens tbh, word count: 0.3k-ish

there's not a single fan that isn't aware of bachira's crush on you, an up and coming idol who recently returned to the stage after a long break.

he's been your number one fan since day one. he (allegedly) was the first person to buy your physical solo album, (allegedly) has shown up to all of your concerts that were shoved into impossibly tiny buildings, and (allegedly) owns all of your merchandise known to exist.

he's not afraid of making his admiration for you known, yet you seem to turn a blind eye on the entire situation.

it's remained like that for a while. on multiple occasions has he been seen doing little snippets of your dances during celebrations, or reciting lyrics of songs that date years back no matter who's around. still, seemingly no word or response from you.

and here you are, sat in front of your phone after multiple back to back performances. it's difficult trying to keep up with the fame, exhausting yourself out to satisfy the demand. you stare at the surreal amount of people watching you live, the number only increasing as you read the comments for something, anything to talk about.

the instagram live only started minutes ago, and you've answered too many questions to count. alone, you've probably mentioned how your day was fine at least twice every minute, skipping over some less than appropriate remarks.

"i should eat?" you lean forward towards the camera, fiddling with the rings decorating your fingers. "i'm going to. i was planning on getting something delivered after this, but i think some of the staff ordered desserts. i think it might be—"

"baaaaaabyyyyyyy~!" clear, distinct, and loud. your one and only number one fan, bachira meguru's voice coming from another room.

you pause, and your reaction said it all.

you quickly turn, closing the door to the small room you were in. it was quite literally one of the worst times for your boyfriend to be looking for you. putting on an innocent smile covered nothing up from what happened seconds ago, and a notification from your manager telling you to shut things down didn't make you feel any better.

in a panic, you bid your goodbyes to your fans, your wave turning slightly frantic as the live disappears.

that day, everybody knew that bachira was dating his favourite idol. your silly, supportive boyfriend managed to out your entire relationship without even knowing.

a/n: how long is too long before you put a cut? 😧

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Machiko Kyō (Rashomon, Floating Weeds, Older Brother Younger Sister)— Considered an early sex symbol in Japanese cinema. Also just an ethereal beauty who can also go feral/unhinged in a glorious way.

Judy Garland (Meet Me In St. Louis, A Star is Born, Summer Stock)— Judy is the GOAT when it comes to classic movie musicals. The voice of an angel who deserved so much better than she got. She can sing she can dance she can act she's a triple threat. Though she had a turbulent personal life (her treatment as a child star by the studio system makes me mad as hell like Louis b Mayer fight me ((she was made to believe that she was physically unattractive by the constant criticism of film executives who made her feel ugly and who manipulated her onscreen appearance by capping her teeth and using discs in her nose to change its shape and Mayer called her "my little hunchback" like imagine hearing that as a child and not having damage)) she always goddamn delivered on screen and in any performance she gave. She began in vaudeville performing with her sisters and was signed to MGM at 13. Starting out in supporting parts especially paired with mickey Rooney in a bunch of films (she's the best part tbh) she eventually transferred to the lead role. She is best known for her starring role in movie musicals like the iconic Wizard of Oz (somewhere over the rainbow still hits hard and is ranked the top film song of all time), meet me in St. Louis (Judy singing have your self a merry little Christmas brings tears to the eyes she is that powerful), the Harvey girls (she looks like a technicolor dream and sings a catchy af song about trains), Easter parade ( dancing and singing with Fred Astaire), for me and my gal, the pirate, and summer stock ( with pal Gene Kelly who she helped when he was starting out and he helped her when she was struggling). But she also does non- singing just as well like the clock ( her first movie where she sings no songs and is an underrated ww2 era romance), her Oscar nominated a star is born ( like the man that got away she put her whole soul in that and I have beef with the fact she lost to grace kelly ((whom I love but like still not even her best work)), and judgement at Nuremberg (a courtroom drama about the nazi war criminal trials). Outside of film she made concert appearances to record-breaking audiences, released 8 studio albums, and had her own Emmy-nominated tv series. She was the youngest (39) and first female recipient of the Cecil B DeMille award for lifetime achievement in the film industry. Girl was a lifelong democrat and was a financial and moral supporter of many causes including the civil rights movement (she was at the March on Washington and held a press conference to protest the 16th street Baptist church bombings). She was a friend of the Kennedy family and would call jfk weekly often ending the calls by singing the first few lines of somewhere over the rainbow (she thought of them as Gemini twins).She was a member of the committee for the first amendment which was formed in response to the HUAC investigations. Though she died far too young and tragically she remains an icon for her work and her life. As a girl who didn't feel like i was as pretty as everyone else I have always felt a connection to Judy and I just really love her.

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Machiko Kyō:

Judy:

Judy's voice alone qualifies her for at least top ten hottest HOT VINTAGE MOVIE WOMEN. She was a truly incredible swing singer, with a stunning voice on top of her technique. Her short dark hair looked incredible in just about any style. Have I mentioned her swagger? I can’t do it justice with words. She had swagger. She was funny as hell, and clever too. Incredibly charming and cool. I adore her.

Her eyes, her voice have bewitched me

I mean how can you beat the one and only Judy? She's beautiful, her smile is contagious, the way she sings with her whole body. You can't help but love her.

Beautiful woman, love her singing voice. And she can do everything between happy or silly and angry or heartbroken

[yandere-toons]

Matthew Patel

Romantic Headcanons - Yandere

WARNING: violence, death, implied stalking, mentions of religious concepts, toxic mindset.

From the moment you invite Matthew into your life, he will carry that memory to his deathbed. The bond you forged that day is unbreakable and immortal for him: he will go blind to all other reasons for living, consumed with rage at your absence, and ecstatic at any sign of your favour.

Talk of other suitors sends Matthew into a frenzy from which he will not emerge until this obstacle to his happiness is laid low. Dispute over the value of certain traits leaves Matthew resentful—of himself for not being better, of the other person for possessing what he lacks, and of the universe for cursing him with such horrid luck.

When such a person speaks your name, Matthew is driven by his own insecurities to loathe them. The sound of their voice becomes like a cheese grater to his ears, a reminder of how close he is to losing his world for the second time, and from thence into a sound he will fight to the death to silence.

The look of this person, particularly when they light up at the mere mention of you and receive such a look in kind, is a ghastly thing. Matthew's takeaway is one of doubt and bad memories, of all the similarities to Ramona's waning interest that he had been too immature and inattentive to rectify. He vows not to make the same mistake twice.

Seemingly overnight, Matthew transforms from a brooding presence lurking in your shadow to a wellspring of offers to solve even the smallest of issues. He makes a habit of dropping to one knee and delivering a Pagliacci-esque soliloquy about how deep his affection runs, professing that you've become his whole world and that to lose you would leave him with nothing.

Despite your promise not to "betray" him, as Matthew so graciously puts it, he fears it would be a mistake to let his guard down. He believes you were sincere at the time, but Ramona's flippant attitude has left him anxious that you may change your tune and turn your back on him for no apparent reason.

For years, Matthew sought answers as to why she hurt him: on bad days, he blames her for playing with his emotions; on worse days, he blames himself for not trying hard enough to become someone she wanted. Now that he has another shot at human connection, this earth will burn before it slips away from him.

Matthew's actions arise from a peculiar sense of justice: he views himself as retribution sent down upon all those who have wronged you. By daring to replace him, their way of looking after you is inherently and unforgivably flawed. Someone who could, in reality, be quite decent will devolve in his mind into a parasite who takes advantage of you.

Whether they are cruel or kind-hearted, what obsesses Matthew and keeps him stewing for potentially years is the notion that they've robbed him of his one chance at happiness. So long as they keep you company, he sees his future darkening.

What should be a private affair, Matthew turns into a spectacle: he takes to the stage in his most flamboyant attire and declares war, goading his enemy to meet their doom at his hand. Everything, from the venue to the battle itself, is a power play, a performance art in which he displays his prowess for all to admire and envy.

Once he has struck the first blow, there is no version of events where Matthew shows mercy or admits defeat. The harder they fight, the prouder he is to butcher them. Their death will be a triumph, a testament to the fact that he is strong enough to win this war. Anyone who rolls over in the face of his challenge must not be truly committed to you and therefore deserves to feel his wrath for stringing you along.

Coming to over the shiny remains of his enemy, Matthew forgets his rage and revells in the thought of having the sole being who brings him happiness. Ready to pick up where he left off and confident he's earned that right, Matthew throws himself at you and proclaims how thrilled he is to be together again.

Matthew struggles to move beyond the past and to envision a future where he is alone. Having spent much of his life pursuing others, Matthew has no concept of living for himself. He stakes his survival on the volume of applause at the end of every performance, and in the home environment, his tendency to cling to petty recognition has taken root in all interactions.

This emotional hunger reveals itself in the unnecessary extremes to which Matthew proves his devotion, convinced that the obsequious nature of his company and continual sacrifices gives them meaning. He jumps at every opportunity to be near you, no exceptions, afraid that missing even one will be termed neglect and spell the ruin of his life with you.

At his best, Matthew is an unrelenting thespian who serenades you with ballads and calligraphic poetry. But at his worst, he is an unstable and violent creature full of pent-up rage, who conspires with Daemonettes to bind your soul to his, making it virtually impossible to give him up for another.

[jeysmullet]

Hi there!! Could I please request a Jey fic, about him having baby fever and having to convince reader to stop contraceptives.

The way you make me feel | Jey Uso

jey uso x female!wife!reader

warnings: swearing, talks of creampies, mentions of birth control, anxiety, jey is pure nasty. no actual smut tho because i don’t know if that’s something you didn’t want!

short !! sorry:(

y/n fatu

The house was quiet as I sat alone at the kitchen island studying the unopened pack of birth control that had just been delivered. I had been taking them ever since my career in WWE had taken off, simply due to the fact that i didn’t want to mess up my job just because I ended up pregnant. I snap out of my daze as I hear the garage door open and shut. I hear footsteps get closer to the kitchen before i feel a pair of arms wrap around me, i slightly turn my head to look at my husband, who had already been looking at me, smiling.

“what’s up mama,” Josh looked away from me and looked at the packaging in my hand, making his face drop, before looking back at me , “you still taking those?”

I roll my eyes laughing at his mood change, “yes I am, Josh, you know it’s too risky for me to stop taking them, especially cause someone likes to nut in me every time we fuck, acting like you can’t wait to get me pregnant.”

I heard Josh suck his teeth before bringing his hands down to my hips, guiding me off of the island stool i was sitting on. He turns me to face him before he runs his ring cluttered fingers over the fabric of my grey sundress, before his hands land on my backside. “I mean can you blame me, baby? I mean fuck, you know how many people would die to be in my position. How many people would die to be the one fucking you every night and filling your pretty pussy up till nut is spilling out. Of course, I want a baby with yo little sexy ass.” Josh spanks my ass making me gasp.

“I mean Josh, are we even ready for a kid? We’re on the road all the time.” I spoke softly as Josh pulls me close enough to him so I can feel his dick print, through the sweatpants he was wearing, on my thigh.

“Mama, we can always take time off. I wanna start a family with you. I’ve wanted to ever since i saw yo ass in them lil ass shorts at the performance center. I automatically thought damn she fine as hell, she definitely gon have my kids.” I laugh before slapping him on the chest.

“I’m for real, Josh. A kid is a lot of work. I want you to be serious with me if you want to go through with this with me.” Josh brought his hands back to my ass, cupping it. “I am serious. I’ve always wanted you to be the mother of my kids. Shit the process of making them a plus too.” I laugh as I roll my eyes.

“Fine, I’ll stop taking the birth control.” Josh’s face lights up at my words before he looks behind me on the island table, reaching over and grabbing the box of pills before making his way over to the trash can, throwing them away. He turned back to me with a big ass grin on his face. “You know they say practice makes perfect!” Josh runs over to me, grabbing me and lifting me up, making me wrap legs around him, giggling. In the process of my legs wrapping around him, my dress comes up exposing the fact that i wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Josh looks down before looking back up at me. “Oh yeah, we finna practice all night.” He says smirking before carrying me to the bedroom, where he kept his word. We did infact practice alllllll night.

THE END

[slowd1ving]

TALES OF A DISGRUNTLED CORVID ⁺ 　 . MOZE

Quite frankly, you've been assigned an absolute loser (unaffectionate) to work with after your dramatic exit from the Intelligentsia Guild. Whoever said this guy was too silent was wrong, as he verily proves himself as the bane of your existence with his ceaseless yapping. art credits to @code_tesseract on x!! and tagging @ilovechuuy4 as requested :3 pairings: moze + male cryptologist reader (will be part of a series methinks) warnings: male reader, mentions of assassination? may be a touch ooc since this is pre-release writing unfortunately, lowkey crack fic, pre relationship, business partnership of hating each other wc: 1.9k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There’s never a dull day when a certain Shadow Guard is your partner for an assignment. Truly, your life always sparkles brilliantly when the information pings on your Jade Abacus; without fail, everything gains just a bit more colour, a bit more vivaciousness. Pathetically fallacious, you might’ve described it as had you taken literature classes: mood hued with such dynamic chromaticity that you fear you might explode into little prismic rainbows. Always such a bundle of joy to be geminate with him. 

“Must you be so… disorganised?”

Oh, who are you kidding.

It’s always a dull day when you’re paired with Moze.

“Get out.” A particularly rude gesture materialises in your open hand as you stare at the door he practically kicked down. Apartments in this particular sector of the Xianzhou Yaoqing do not come cheap, and you half-wonder whether he’d eke out coin to console your landlord. Then, with an especially sour, lemon-like expression, you realise he would fork out his own money just to make your life more difficult. 

When you first got assigned work in the Yaoqing (read: kicked to the curb by the Intelligentsia Guild to gain real world experience), you really did expect your tenure to be plain office work. Letters, forms, public relations—these mundanities you anticipated. In fact, you would’ve relished such tedium; after decrypting endless scientific formulae and pondering your mysterious tomes, engaging in bureaucratic matters would be a piece of cake! A little treat for your weary eyes—if you closed them, you could still see faint imprints of equations in the theatre of your mind. 

But what you hadn’t factored into your (ahem) calculations was just how sharp the Arbiter-General Feixiao was: just how passionate she was about pursuing Abominations and ruthlessly eliminating them, just how frank and swift the Madam General was. You also forgot that out of all the flagships, the Yaoqing were one of the most militarily driven. A blunder most fatal. 

“Thy talents would be wasted in the mere administrative wing,” Feixiao gesticulated. “Come, child, put thy brain and brawn to use and track down these villainous curs most evil.”

“Goodness, Madam General!” you’d cried out pitifully. “My heart is thine for the keeping!”

Or something like that. Actually, it may have not all been like that. 

After all, you were kicked out (temporarily! temporarily!) partly due to your penchant for delivering heart-rendering performances to your professors to avoid taking on their extra work. Such moving renditions, that they had to let you go lest you broke their bleeding hearts. Had you known you’d be working in the shady corners of intelligence and decryption, you would’ve kowtowed to the Guild for utmost forgiveness. Probably. 

When your path first overlapped with the Shadow Guards’, you honestly couldn’t give two hoots about the rumours that followed silently behind their own noiseless steps. Your ears had perked somewhat at the gossip your colleagues threw back and forth—though, who could blame you. The job was no fun!

Weirdo with the crow feathers, they’d murmured. He’s so quiet. What a reticent chap. 

Of course, you’d disagree, and perhaps tack on a loser to the descriptions of Moze. You’d disagree not with the ‘weirdo’, but rather with the quiet and reticent adjectives—partly because he really does need to shut up more. 

And he needs to stick to his rumours more. If this loner’s made it a point to not work with people, then why oh why did the honourable Madam General decide your ancient science and study complemented his shady skillset? And why oh why does he never refuse her request? (You’ve conveniently forgotten how you always fold when it comes to her.) You’ve always worked alone too, for as long as you can remember; decoding the ancient equations in ruins and solving their gimmicky puzzles using your boundless wits is a job for one. 

As it stands, the people he investigates, the work he takes care of, sometimes intrudes into the realm of questionable rituals and summonings the Abominations and their ilk oft partake in. Thus do you find your career verging into some gruesome form of forensics as you stare down what would commonly be considered a murder scene: sigils and ancient alchemical algebra staring right back at you. He deals with the human aspect of intelligence: the psychology, the crime, the covert espionage. You deal with the technical fallout: the analysis of antique sciences is your specialty, after all. This has culminated in a begrudging partnership where both parties wish nothing more than to leave it. 

A business relationship, of sorts, founded on the mutual dislike (a weak description) of each other. 

“No.” He doesn’t budge from where he leans against the doorframe, but he does have the decency to swing the door closed behind him. Yet, it’s not out of any respect for the hallowed sanctity of your abode, but more because he’s sooo Mysterious and Aloof that none of your neighbours are allowed to view his visage. 

“You are—” a quick glance at your watch proves your point. For someone obsessed with keeping tidy, he sure does have messy time management. “—eighteen minutes too early.”

“And you still aren’t ready,” he counters, pointedly eyeing the loose shirt and comfortable cotton trousers slung over your hips. You yawn, tired already from his yapping. He’s been compared to a crow for as long as you’ve been here—and perhaps far longer—but to you he’s always been more like a little dog. Yap. Yap. Yap. 

This is precisely why I don’t work with others, you can almost taste his words—his thoughts. 

“You are currently the biggest hindrance to my getting ready,” you grimace. Casting a quick glance over his intricate garb, it’s no wonder he feels getting ready is such a lengthy endeavour: all straps and buckles and tough layers that makes him the walking fortress he is. “I’ll be on time.”

He doesn’t reply: laconic only when he acknowledges your point as unequivocally right, which is seldom. 

“Are you going to keep staring?” you snap as you sling the worn shirt from your body. Beneath the soft clothes is muscle hard-won through your frequent collaborations with the Armed Archaeologists in the Guild: days filled with more sparring and their stupid callisthenics than actually finding ruins. 

“Do you have to dress right here?” he counters, but it’s a futile argument—this apartment is barely big enough for you as it stands. Currently, he’s situated by the doorway, but you’re on the unseen boundaries of the living room and the tiny kitchen. Beyond is your bedroom and miniscule bathroom, of which neither have enough space to move comfortably to change. And you certainly aren’t going to sacrifice your comfort to appease his poor eyes; he’s seen worse for sure. Though, you doubt he’s ever seen a naked body that wasn’t in the context of assassination and the anatomy classes you know he’s meticulously attended for his shady work. Surreptitiously, you snicker at the thought: that there aren’t any lovers lined up for this weirdo. 

You toss the garment onto your couch, precisely because you know he’s grinding teeth over it; and there’s that tell-tale click of molar against molar. You even whistle a bit as you untie the neat bow holding your trousers to your hips; the fabric pools on the floor, and you don’t make any move to pick it up. 

There it is. His glower—red-hot and piercing through the flesh and sinew of your back—is heavy in this small space. What you don’t see, however, is how his eyes flicker briefly across your body, down the firm step of your legs as you step out of the trousers. Out of context, watching muscle ripple and twist as you strip forces crimson to seep into his face. This is an implication he’s absolutely disgusted with—with you. 

“If you have any more input as to what I do in my home, you’re welcome to pay my rent first,” you finally deign to reply, rummaging in the dresser in your hallway—which he knows has never been neat with all the clothes spilling from the edges. His eye twitches. 

“You’re an incorrigible man,” he retorts, carmine flush now from irritation rather than anything else. Irritation from the beginning, because it was never anything else. 

“Wow,” you blink, weighing your options between shirt A and shirt B. The cherry-red with straps, or the Prussian blue with straps, you muse, holding the shirts against your beloved grey cargoes. “You sound exactly like my professor. Same adjective and everything.”

When it comes to shameless people, there comes the very real risk of insults being nullified by the insulted through them simply agreeing. 

“No wonder the Guild kicked you out.” As you’re pulling the scarlet fabric over your head, you pause—it seems he’s finally hit a nerve. There’s a rare smile toying with his lips at the victory: one he doesn’t notice, but ghosts across his face nonetheless.

Now, there are many things you could reply to that with. Such as, did your parents give you a reason when they abandoned you? Nay, that is too low of a blow. No wonder you don’t have any friends. But he probably grapples with that bitter reality each morning, gnashing his teeth and beating his chest. 

“Bold of you to speak of being unwanted,” you comment matter-of-factly. Both insults it is then, wrapped neatly into an ambiguous tale of these eight words. His smile fades. 

With a slight gasp, you finally wrangle the tight material on—it’s armour, after all, a specific textile development by the Yaoqing for the protection of civilians and tourists alike, though you aren’t considered a tourist by your special work-abacus-plaque. It fits snugly against you: straps for knives sit tight against your forearms, while the harness that provides extra support for your torso rests neatly beneath your chest. The garb’s almost like a compression shirt from your home planet, except the Yaoqing has far more violent uses for it. 

“Didn’t Guard Zhí reject you?” He bites out, and it takes a minute for you to realise he’s talking about Zhí Hua, the best friend you’d made on the flagship—and your Shadow Guard drinking buddy. 

“Huh?” Dumbfoundedly, you pause in doing the buckles on your trousers, losing far more time than you’d bargained for. “A-hua is my friend.”

The diminutive doesn’t go unnoticed, which rankles him far more than falling prey to the rumour about you and his fellow Guard. No, both rankle him—likely because hearing about a workplace romance about you just disgusts him in general. 

“Pfft,” you snort out, finally done with the laborious task of adjusting the materiel and various other gadgets attached to your body. “I have got to tell her about this. Who knew your ability to gather information would be stopped by a rumour?”

The tightness in his chest lessens somewhat. 

“Besides, everyone already knows my heart belongs to the Madam General,” you sigh, clasping your hands to your chest in a dreamy gesture. It’s an ongoing joke: you professing your deep adoration of Feixiao after she gives you a pay raise for putting up with the so-called ‘reticent’ Moze. “Woah, what’s with the sour look?”

“Gross,” he mutters. 

As you step near the doorway to grab your boots, you lean into his space mockingly: and he recoils back in even more revulsion. 

“Of course, you wouldn’t know.” You pat his shoulder once, condescendingly, then promptly slip your heavy boots off the shelf. “Since there’s no one who loves you.”

And his glare as you shuffle your shoes on is poignant. 

 ₊  ⋆   ☾

[itsabouttimex2]

“You need to do better.”

(This gets vitriolic, and is a full-blown criticism of Macaque’s portrayal in Season Four and Five. If criticism of a character/franchise you like upsets you, I do not recommend reading.)

Wow. I had no faith in his character writing, and I’m STILL disappointed.

And it only took one episode! How impressive!

Macaque, who has put in ZERO on-screen effort to become a better person or make amends to his victims, is criticizing Wukong for being a bad mentor! And does Wukong criticize him back? NOPE!

After getting screamed at and berated, does Wukong defend himself? NOPE!

Ooh, but there was a second long reference in a dual yelling match that mentioned that Macaque was a genuinely bad person who took glee in hurting innocent people! Oh, fucking delightful! Ooh, Wukong even points out in one episode that Macaque goes without consequences!

Pointing out a flaw in your writing does not make it less of a flaw.

Macaque will always be allowed to do whatever he wants to anyone he wants- power theft, attempted murder, insults, deceit, assault-

And the narrative and characters will never hold him accountable or force Macaque to look inwards or become a better person.

Macaque will always fall upwards into redemption without any obstacles or pushback.

There will never be a struggle to goodness with a satisfying conclusion. There will never be a moment where falters in his newfound goodness and questions going back to his old ways. There will never be explicit remorse or regret. He will never have deep introspections on his crimes and atrocities that provide a reason for him to want to change.

The sum of his “arc” will always be “you were a good guy all along”, and that lack of depth is where it will stay.

RIP Seasons 1-3 Macaque. You were fun and interesting and cool and lovable.

But the man they replaced you with was destined to be a boring and brooding “anti-hero” who has no real connection to the actions you selfishly and violently performed with your own two hands-

And you will always be a less interesting character for it.

The execution of the actual arc boils down to a single heroic (but ultimately self-serving) moment and then Macaque is immediately forgiven for all the crimes he’s committed and is a magically better person without any effort and nothing he’s done is ever brought up again.

It severely weakens any character’s arc to cut them off from their past actions. If MK forgot his traumas every season instead of carrying them forward- we’d all agree that doing so was a case of poor writing.

It was the reason that people disliked Mei’s portrayal in Season Four- she immediately moved on from the Samadhi Fire arc and “no longer wielded it” after spending a whole season gathering and learning to use it.

Why can’t we agree that it’s bad for Macaque, too?

You can’t “develop” a character by dropping an entire plotline and writing it off with one line.

You can’t “redeem” a character by pretending that they were a good person right from the start.

Sorry, bud.

I really did like you. I just wish I could like your writing.

——————

And, what is more clear to me now than ever?

People only defended Macaque’s shitty writing because they think he’s hot.

I know this now, because I’ve seen white-hot Li Jing arc hatred from fervent Macaque arc defenders.

So we all agree that an “I didn’t really mean it!” isn’t an excuse to abuse the people around you? That you don’t get to mistreat innocent people just because you’re stressed and upset?

Hmmm.

Hmmmmmmm.

I wonder why people despise Jing for his dogshit “one nice thing redeems all your bad actions” arc but love Macaque for his??

(Because they think the monkey is hot.)

The funny thing, though?

Li Jing apologizes to at least one of the victims of his actions. He expresses regret and remorse.

Macaque doesn’t even have that.

——————

Anyways here’s a line that I hate because Macaque has in no way developed enough to have the right to deliver it-

AND NO, SUDDENLY HAVING AN AFFINITY FOR PERFORMING KIND OR SACRIFICIAL ACTS IS NOT GOOD CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

HIM MAGICALLY OFFSCREEN BECOMING A GOOD PERSON WHO CARES ABOUT INNOCENT LIFE IS NOT GOOD CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

IF ALL IT TAKES TO “BE BETTER” IS ACTING LIKE A HERO, WUKONG IS LITERALLY A THOUSAND TIMES BETTER OF A PERSON THAN HE IS

THIS LINE IS DOGSHIT

“You need to do better.”

Really, Macaque? Maybe you should take your own damn advice- try apologizing to one of the people you tried to hurt and tried to murder in cold blood!

Like when you trapped MK under his staff after stealing his powers and tried to murder him when he was helpless?

Or when you kidnapped MK’s friends and tortured the kid by forcing him to fight them?

Or you led a violent assault against a palace full of innocent people?

Or violently beat his dear friends until they were screaming in pain?

Or assaulted Tang, who posed no threat to you?

Or threatened to murder an innocent girl if you didn’t get your way, then ran away (and encouraged MK to abandon her) first thing when it put her into a life-threatening meltdown of raw power?

(Isn’t it cool how NONE of these people have interesting or varied reactions to him doing this and ALL immediately are cool with him like a gelatinous hivemind.)

(Oooh ONE mildly questioning line from Pigsy but no anger over his adoptive son nearly being killed multiple times over)

(Isn’t it cool that no one has complex or interesting thoughts on this.)

(Isn’t it cool that by robbing them of unique feelings on the matter they robbed Macaque and the Monkie Kids of compelling and interesting interactions that could’ve helped flesh out their personalities and strengthen their characterization.)

(Isn’t it cool that Macaque and the Monkie Kids are actively denied intriguing character dynamics so Macaque’s shitty “redemption arc” can happen faster.)

(Isn’t that cool.)

Why don’t YOU do better, Macaque?

(In a way that is more satisfying than “one kind-hearted speech from a kid that I tried to murder changed my mind and now I am a better person but all my character development happened offscreen and without personal introspection”, at least.)

Also what the fuck do you mean by “do better”?

Be heroic and put your life in danger? He already does that! He’s done it more than you have!

Just tell MK that he’s not alone? YOU COULD DO THAT YOURSELF, MACAQUE!

Help MK with his traumas and fears? MK doesn’t tell anyone about those! He keeps them bottled up, lock and key, and actively refuses attempts to help!

Wukong TRIED to reach out to him, and MK PUSHED HIM AWAY! Was he supposed to tie the fucking kid down and torture the information out of him?

He respected MK’s boundaries by not pushing any further and letting him leave!!

WHY IS THAT A BAD THING??

What the fuck, man

[bfictioncorner]

“Come Through the Window, Spend the Night”

Media: Jennifer’s Body (2009)

Rating: 18+ (or R or M)

Pairing: Jennifer Check x fem (afab) reader

Content and warnings: cunnilingus/oral sex, biting mentioned, mommy kink, blood mentioned, sorta cannibalism mentioned, Jennifer having a teasing attitude… mentions of her demonic powers/possession and killing…

Summary: You’ve been wanting to get to know Jennifer a little better throughout all of high school, but now that graduation has come and gone she suddenly seems interested.

Author’s notes: Takes place in the Jennifer’s Body universe as if she never got caught and killed, and just kept doing her thing past graduation. Jennifer is at least 18 or 19 here based off that (and reader is implied to be about the same age). Also there’s a mention of Needy.

Years of color guard and a failed year in cheerleading had you regularly trailing around Jennifer… not intentionally, just circumstantially. Which you didn’t mind at all. Sometimes you spoke casually, even outside of practice, and every time she was sweetly warm (which was saying something, considering she often seemed short to others).

Now that the summer after graduation had rushed upon you, you felt the need to do something to draw closer. There was a magnetism to Jennifer’s presence that skewed what it was you actually wanted to be to her. What were you classified as to begin with? Were you just always gonna be the nice floater friend, or were you trying to reach bestie status? It wasn’t as if she hung around Needy as much anymore…

“Hey, Jen,” you bumbled one day at the end of a post-grad color guard get together. (You didn’t want to be there, but talking to her was the only appeal in it.) “Your hair looks nice. I wanted to ask you where—”

“Yours is too, babes.” She delivered that automatic, white-and-shining performance smile. “I’d like to braid it sometime. It’s so long and smooth.” Her fingers reached out unexpectedly and interlaced with the strands hanging off one of your shoulders. You stiffened at the touch. “You have to tell me what you use! Mane and Tail? Some kind of mask treatment?”

You stumbled, completely taken aback. “Um, well…”

“You can tell me when we do hair together. Wanna come over tomorrow night?”

The urgency to obtain the details of where and when escaped you. “Yes!” was all you could manage.

…And that was how you ended up staying over at Jennifer’s house, sprawling around on her cushy bed late into the night. As promised, she brushed and braided your hair, went into a hair care rant, and then settled into a quiet hum of kicking stuffed animals off the bed and looking through magazines.

The quiet was comfortable enough, allowing you to steal secret glances over the curve of her ear and the black hair that trailed from behind it and over her shoulder… over her chest where the neckline sagged revealingly. Every detail of her form, her presence, made you panting, lips and tongue sticky with dehydration.

“Jen, can I ask you something?” you broached, feeling the need to fill the air. You squirmed around in the purple silk shorts and tank she’d leant you. “Why don’t you hang out with Needy anymore?”

A strange, pallid glaze clouded Jennifer’s eyes, serious and pensive. Her lips moved, a crack in her voice starting and stopping, unsure where to begin. “Sometimes people change. I changed, and Needy didn’t really vibe with it. I maybe also did some not great things… But, like, I had to…”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s part of getting older and growing apart,” you reasoned with a small shrug. Your eyes were hesitant to lock with hers, rushing around everywhere but. “And I’m sure the things you did were hard for her to deal with, but it wasn’t like you killed anyone.”

The flash in Jennifer’s crisp, light eyes—lashes framing and fluttering like thick, black, scalloped lace—appeared remorseful for a brief moment. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment. But that quickly shifted into a playful admittance of guilt. “You know all those murders around here? Specifically all the boys from school that—” Jennifer mimed a slashed throat, drawing her thumb across her neck.

“…Yeah?”

No answer. No verbal confirmation. Just a finger pointing to herself, a sheepish smile to match.

“Bullshit,” you rasped, letting your eyes roll reflexively. “You’re yanking my tail! As if you’re some kind of serial killer…”

“Not a serial killer. I was just… hungry. Like REALLY hungry. Like, on your period hungry.”

“I don’t—” You shook your head, confused.

Jennifer moved as if she was growing impatient in her own explanation. Just cut to the chase. Black hair fanned off her shoulders gracefully as she reached away, into her nightstand drawer, to retrieve a box cutter. It didn’t seem like the type of thing she would own. It also reflected some old red residue crusted on the blade.

Holding up her palm in front of your face, she slashed the thin skin with the angled blade. But as soon as blood had started to drip down in thick trickles, the source had sealed up… making you question what you just saw.

“I’m… different…” she shrugged, tucking a slick chunk of hair behind your ear, something mildly apologetic in her inflection. “I’m… a god…”

“You’re a demon,” you sort of gasped, keeping your tone as light and slightly joking as possible. It was an understatement to say you didn’t know how to react, how to speak… and yet you were drawn in hard.

“Not a demon! Just possessed, silly!” Her sheet-soft expression melded into a giddy grin. The strand she had just tucked behind your ear was now wrapped around her finger. You felt her subtle tug. Every touch was like a carnivore playing with a carcass, or laying claim to some prey.

Your unmasked reaction gave you a hesitant quiver, as if you were winding yourself into a fatal predicament. “God, what are you gonna do to me? Eat me? Drink my blood?” Your tone was surprisingly nonchalant and mocking—so hushed, though desperate. It might have been a mistake if what was concluded about the killing was true… But your time had to come sometime. If you were going to give in, “too late” didn’t matter.

“Eat you, huh?” Jennifer smirked nastily. “All this… softness?” She raked the silken neckline down to expose your breasts, no bra as a barrier. You could feel sticky pink lips and the gentle point of her nose bury into your cleavage. “Gross. How disgustingggggg…” Her voice trailed off, teasing. “You must think I’m some kind of monster.”

Her muffled voice was deliciously appealing, especially the more her lips and tongue suctioned to your skin, sounding oddly vulnerable and messy.

“Maybe I’m into that,” you murmur, biting your lip to maintain control and composure (futile as it would be).

“Say ‘please’,” she whispered against the thin skin against your sternum.

“Please for what?”

Your chest was suddenly cold with the absence of her lips. You could feel your back curve into the plush comforter below, helplessly, warm and suffocating, chest pressing upwards as Jennifer gingerly lowered herself upon you. Her hands braced down your forearms, a gentle sort of touch in her palms, her fingers. There was an itch for violence and domination in the contrasting force put upon you, but all babying smiles the whole while. Her glossy pink and black nails grazed sweetly on your skin, moving from your arms down to your bent legs.

“‘Please’ to start and ‘please’ to stop,” she chimed. In such an impenetrably fast change in position, Jennifer’s body had sort of caged over yours, head lowered to inspect the taper from your ribs to your belly to your hips, and then… “Such a good girl,” her voice fell out, somewhere between a growl and a giggle. She looped her arms under your bent knees in a motion to scoop you under her in a more strategic placement.

“Please?” you stuttered, having an idea where this was going, but nearly blacking out from the reality of it.

“God, so well-behaved too. Mommy likes that.” Her last words trickled off, the whole sentiment nearly lost on you for the fact that her face was buried between your legs, chin somehow pushing the tiny shorts out of her way.

Thighs jolting and cramping all at once, you were sold perpetually on the pleasure and pain of it all. Your eyes remained shut in bumbling, untethered ecstasy, Jennifer’s nose pressing against your clit with just the right pressure… her lips sucking around your soft, fleshy entrance. For a moment, it felt like little pinpricks, little razors, were raking and pushing into your pussy. It didn’t hurt as much as it tortured and overstimulated, causing a greater throb to your clit. You had to convince yourself it was her “regular” teeth and not some fangs that had suddenly sprouted. But you couldn’t be certain of that.

Everything felt muffled as you pushed deeper against the mattress, pink sheets encapsulating your view, skin tacky from the heated friction… Too soon had you felt the warning pressure coursing from your core to further down.

“Jen…” You felt embarrassed, a little shy… Incredibly turned on. “I’m gonna…”

“Go ahead, come for Mommy.” Her command was obstructed by her tongue thickly lapping and curling up from deep within up to the peak of your rosy clit. Saliva strung from her tongue and down her chin like an animal, except her cold eyes had glared at you with wanton intention.

“Please, Jen… Mommy…” you piped up, ashamed, but letting yourself go at the same time. You wanted to squeeze your thighs together at the itching, haze-inducing release, but didn’t dare crush Jennifer’s head. Instead a fragile, satisfied whine escaped, echoing strangely in a voice that didn’t quite sound like your own.

Jennifer’s mouth, glided over your pussy with a final lick, popping off with an unnecessary flair. She dabbed her chin and lips daintily before rearranging her posture and pouncing on you again. “Sorry. I might’ve drawn a little blood, but you tasted so good, babes.”

“I wasn’t sure what kind of, um, eating I was expecting.” You wanted to gulp like a cartoon, adrenaline high and nerves uncertain.

“Don’t worry, I typically only eat boys. But, uh, I can eat you like that again, if you like. Sometime. Whenever….” Jennifer’s blue stare caught yours, her lips curling into a sweet pout, her index finger locked into the spaghetti strap against your clavicle. Her eyes fell to that spot, as if she was considering biting you right there on the collarbone.

“Well, I’m usually free on this night during the week,” you bashfully replied.