#should i have? probably not. but i did anyways | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

steddieas-shegoes · 2 days ago

Text

the perfect pair (of tits)

for @vecnuthy

Happy birthday Vec!!!! I genuinely lost track of my days so have this extremely silly and rushed fic that I wrote this afternoon/evening! Brought to you by the images shared of Joe Keery at the beach, tits out. I hope you’ve had a lovely day and can’t wait to see you at the Djour ♥️

rated e, 18+, minors dni | 1903 words | cw: unsafe piercing practice | tags: friends to lovers, getting together, chest hair, nipple licking, biting, coming in pants, coming untouched

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“He’s got the perfect nipples, you know?” Eddie laments.

“Uh…no?” Robin replies.

She’s looking at him like he’s a pervert. Maybe he is. He’s definitely horny.

“I should take him to get them pierced,” he resolved. He stands to offer it, but Robin shoves him back into his seat. “What? He’d totally do it.”

“You’re drooling,” Robin says in response. “I can’t possibly listen to you say even nastier things about him if he gets a nipple pierced.”

“Not a nipple. Nipples, plural. Since he has both of his.”

Steve gets out of the pool and Eddie watches water drip down his hairy chest, down his even hairier legs, onto the pavement below. He wishes he could lay under him, between his legs, maybe he could lick the water from behind his knee or something. He’s had dreams of licking sweat off of him, but this might be the next best thing.

“Jesus,” Robin groans. “Did you hear me?”

“Obviously, I did not.”

“Hopeless. Disgusting and hopeless.”

“We should probably head in. Looks like a storm’s coming in,” Steve says as he drips water onto the chair Eddie’s sitting in.

Eddie slides his leg closer, sighs when a few drops fall on his knee. He’s too busy looking up at Steve to notice that there are some small drops of rain falling on the pavement a few feet away.

“I call the big shower,” Robin jumps up and rushes into the house. “See ya!”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling fondly as she races inside. After the sliding door closes, he looks back down at Eddie. He reaches a hand out.

“You wanna head in?” He asks.

“Sure,” Eddie says, taking his hand. He feels like a damsel in distress, a princess being led to her wedding chamber. “Lead the way, my prince.”

Steve’s neck is red and Eddie can’t look away. The rain gets heavier and he hears thunder rolling in the distance. He doesn’t remember the weatherman saying they were expecting rain today, but they’re never right anyway.

He kinda wants to stay out here, let the rain soak them both through. Steve’s already wet, and Eddie hasn’t completely dried off from his dip in the pool. It might be kinda fun.

But where there’s thunder, there’s lightning, and Steve’s a bit of a stickler for safety. It wouldn’t be smart to stay out in a storm.

“You ever thought about getting a piercing?” Eddie’s dumb mouth asks as soon as they’re inside. Steve’s toweling off his hair, sending more water droplets to the floor of his kitchen and Eddie’s body.

“Like what? Like what Hargrove had in his ear?” Steve starts to towel off his chest and Eddie can’t stop staring. God, he just keeps drawing attention to his perfect, stupid, hairy chest.

“No. Or, I guess, if you’d like that. I meant a body one,” Eddie manages to explain while his brain melts out of his eyes. “Not ears.”

“Oh, like a belly button ring?” Steve pokes at his bellybutton, pinches skin together like he’s imagining a piercing there.

Eddie’s going to have an aneurysm.

“Sure. Or your nipples.”

Steve looks up at him, brows drawn together. Clearly he hasn’t considered that. He is now, though.

He doesn’t break eye contact with Eddie as he brings his fingers up to one of his nipples, pinches it, then nods.

“Yeah, I guess I could see it,” he says, nonchalant.

Eddie feels as chalant as a person can. He’s going to pass out from lack of oxygen in his lungs and blood in his brain. His dick is rock hard in his borrowed swim trunks.

“You could?” Eddie squeaks.

“Yeah, man,” Steve pinches his other nipple, lets out a gasp. “I think having a hole in my body that I chose to be there would be kinda like therapy. Plus, I could get a shiny ring and it would look cool.”

“Yeah,” Eddie chokes out. “It would look super cool.”

Steve rubs at his own nipple, then his hand drops. “You know someone who could do them?”

Eddie’s still staring at his chest, unable to look away.

The hairs on his chest are dark, still wet. His nipples are hardened from his pinching and the air conditioning being turned much too low for their post-swim activities. Eddie wants to bite them.

“I mean, I could probably do them,” he offers.

He should not have said that. He has only ever done two piercings. One was his own nipple and he was high out of his mind when he did it, and the other was Frankie’s lip, which he ended up hating and taking out two days later. He has no training.

Also, he’s so in love with Steve, there’s no way he could focus on doing it right.

“Dude, really?” Steve’s eyes light up. “That would be sick.”

“Yeah. Sick.” Eddie steps closer. “But it does hurt a lot more than just a pinch.”

“Like how much more?” Steve steps closer.

“More like a bite.”

What is he doing? He’s standing so close to Steve, his shirt is almost brushing against his wet body, and there is no way Eddie can handle that.

“Like the bats?” Steve’s face falls.

“No!” Eddie rushes to explain. “Not like that. Like a person!”

Now, Steve just looks confused.

“No one’s ever bitten my nipples,” he says, and he sounds heartbroken. He looks heartbroken. “Or done much at all with them.”

Eddie’s hand flies up to his chest, rests against his heartbeat. What is he doing?

Steve looks down at where he’s touching him, then back up at his face. “Eddie?”

“Sorry!” Eddie’s hand drops, but Steve shakes his head. “What?”

“Show me what it’ll feel like.”

Eddie must’ve passed out earlier, hit his head on the floor. There’s no way he’s conscious. This is straight out of his fantasies.

“I…what?” He wouldn’t fumble this hard in a fantasy. He’s always so smooth, so charming in his dreams. “You want me to…”

“Bite them.”

Eddie nods, but still doesn’t understand.

“Right, right. With my teeth?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “How else would you bite them?”

Eddie doesn’t think Steve knows about nipple clamps. It’s probably for the best.

“Right. I’ll just…do that.”

He leans down and figures while he’s here, he might as well lick them, too. Just to get Steve ready for his fucking teeth.

They both let out moans when Eddie’s tongue connects with Steve’s nipple, circling the pointed bud a few times before he sucks it into his mouth. Steve nearly falls, but Eddie’s arm wraps around his waist and holds him up.

“Shit,” Steve whispers.

Eddie looks up. He’s red-faced, biting his lip, one hand tangled in his own hair.

“I can-“

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Okay,” Eddie says as he lets out a breath.

He still thinks he’s dreaming, being this up close and personal with Steve’s chest.

He’s gentle when he takes him between his teeth, not applying much pressure, just keeping him there. Steve’s holding his breath, and Eddie swears he can hear his heart beating in his chest.

When he bites down, Steve whines so loud, he’s sure Robin’s gonna come downstairs to yell at them.

But then Steve’s hand is in his hair, grip so tight it’s making Eddie groan. It feels good, borderline too much.

He knows rolling Steve’s nipple between his teeth is more than what he needs to do. A piercing is over quick; A sharp, seconds-long pain and then a dull ache. Nothing like what he’s doing now.

Steve’s holding him in place. He couldn’t move if he wanted to.

“Shit, do the other one,” Steve says as he tugs him back and moves him over to the other nipple. Eddie’s not gonna argue. “God, that’s good.”

Eddie whimpers as his teeth tug on Steve’s nipple. He can feel himself leaking in the swim trunks that he will have to refuse to return until he’s washed them himself. This is not the point of this little experiment. This is only to prove to Steve that he can handle a fucking nipple piercing.

Clearly he can if he’s enjoying this.

Steve’s hips shift and Eddie realizes he’s just as hard as he is. He manages to pull away enough to look at him, watch his head tip back when Eddie’s hot breath cools the spit on his skin.

“No one’s ever done that to you?” He can’t believe how many girls have been in bed with Steve and just…not attached their mouths to his chest in any fashion. They must’ve been clueless as to what it looks like and feels like to have a beautiful boy helpless and wanting more because of them.

Steve shakes his head.

“Shame. You’re pretty when you’re feeling this good,” Eddie smirks before he latches back on.

He lets his hand run through the hair on his chest, groaning when Steve starts panting and whining, desperate for something. Eddie wants to convince him to let him suck him off right here in the kitchen, but he isn’t sure how to ask.

Biting and sucking a man’s nipple is one thing, choking on his dick in his kitchen is another.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Steve says as he frantically reaches down to put more space between Eddie’s body and his lower half. He gives a high-pitched moan. He stills. “Shit.”

Eddie stops what he was doing and pulls away.

He looks at Steve’s face, still red, but completely relaxed. He looks fucked. Well and truly fucked.

“Fuck me, Steve, did you just come?” Eddie can’t tell. His bathing suit is a bright floral print that Robin got him as a joke, and it’s already wet, so it’s hard to see a particularly dark spot.

Steve nods.

“I made you come just by playing with your nipples?” Eddie can’t believe it. He’s the luckiest man in the world. He wants to suck on Steve’s dick even more.

“Can you pierce them now?” He asks instead of answering.

“Are we gonna talk about how I just made you come from playing with your nipples after?” Eddie is a firm believer in communication.

Also, he wants to offer his dick sucking services.

“Yes. Definitely. How long will it take them to heal?” Steve sounds like he’s catching back up to what just happened, his breathing slowing back down to normal.

“You want the safe answer or the answer that’ll make you happy?”

“The safe one. I’m not trying to lose a nipple,” he gives Eddie a pointed look. “A week? A couple?”

“At least a few months,” Eddie says. “But you healed from the bats so quickly! Maybe you’ll heal faster.”

Eddie does the math on it. If they pierce them tonight, he should be good to have a mouth back on them by Christmas. Maybe even sooner if they’re extra careful and he doesn’t get them caught on anything or get an infection or-

“Do it again.”

Eddie’s a simple man. When a beautiful guy asks him to bite his nipples until he comes in his pants, he’s gonna do it.

And later that night, after Eddie’s successfully pierced Steve’s nipples, he holds ice packs to them while Steve sleeps. Robin’s in the guest room, mad at them for being so stupid. She’ll be over it by morning.

Eddie won’t be over any of it anytime soon.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #robin buckley #steve harrington x eddie munson #friends to lovers #getting together

302 notes · View notes

nolita-fairytale · 2 days ago

Text

and for us, it won't be long | joaquin torress x fem!reader | chapter two

summary: you and joaquin can't even order thai food in philly without making flirting. a conversation ensues.

warnings: smut (minors dni) tooth-rotting fluff, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, swearing, use of she/her pronouns, one bed trope-adjacent, mentions of food, limited spanish, top gun reference, inappropriate mention of isaiah (poor guy he did not ask for this he's just training the youths of captain america!!), friends to lovers

word count: 5.7k

a/n: omg it's finally here i finally did it! i haven't written a fic in so long so if you're still reading this... thank you for your patience. this one is spicy! these two are yappy overthinkers who are so damn sweet on each other. i don't know how to explain it but... this is who they told me they wanted to be.

read chapter one here

It’s a very serious decision that you have to make—your final dinner selections—one that should never be taken lightly, and the sole reason you’ve found yourself inside of a Thai restaurant bickering like an old married couple.

“So… I say we do an order of egg rolls, a chicken pad thai, a curry, and maybe something else to share? Or is that too much?” you chuckle as you review your order, taking charge of the endless indecision that’s plagued the both of you.

“I think you underestimate just how much I can eat,” Joaquin shoots back, stealing a playful look at the mom and pop restaurant owners that wait, patient smiles plastered to their faces as the two of you fail to make a decision.

“It’s not a competition,” you tease him, side eyeing his flex.

“It won’t kill us if we get two pad thais. It’s kiiiinda my favorite,” he adds, while simultaneously, you interject with a, “Yeah, why not? We can have leftovers.”

“Okay, well, what if we just get one pad thai and then something else, but you can have most of it. I only want a few bites, I promise,” you reason with him, though you can’t promise it’ll be true.

“Bullshit.”

You laugh.

After all this time, he still knows you so well.

“Okay fine. I guess we could double up on pad thais or do you want to get another noodle dish and we’ll still share,” you suggest, bringing up your former idea again, this time expecting some kind of acknowledgement from Joaquin. You send an apologetic look to the restaurant owners—a silent, I’m Sorry—who, you can only imagine, are growing more and more impatient by the minute.

You both wait a beat, thinking it over before simultaneously coming to the conclusion that:

“No you’re right we should do that,” Joaquin agrees with a sigh, admitting defeat.

“No, let's do what you want! You just said pad thai was your favorite,” you concede, in complete harmony with your twin concessions.

You both laugh and the couple who own the restaurant share a knowing look.

“Well, what do you want to do?” you ask with a giggle, your eyes wide as you look to Joaquin. “Nah, you’re right. We should mix it up instead,” Joaquin reiterates, holding his ground.

“You sure?” you question, hesitantly.

“How about we give you all three noodle dishes, plus the curry…” the woman finally interjects, putting you both (and probably her and her husband) out of your misery. “...and a discount for the Falcon.”

“Your service to this country is much appreciated,” her husband adds with a curt, yet reverent nod.

Joaquin grins in response, and you’re not sure whether he’s celebrating his two-chicken-pad-thai win or the fact that he’s been recognized as an Avenger. He thanks both of the restaurant owners with a charming smile, before pulling out his wallet.

“Oh you are not paying!” you protest, panic in your eyes as you move to stop him. “Yes, I am!” he insists, shooting you a look. “At least let me go dutch with-,” you begin.

“Absolutely not!” he scoffs, shrugging your suggestion off like he’s almost offended. “You’re letting me crash with you anyway.”

“Joaquin!” “Oh honey, let the handsome boy pay,” the restaurant owner interjects once again, this time with a wink in Joaquin’s direction, putting yet another debate between you and Joaquin to an end.

“Let him pay,” her husband repeats firmly, his face serious enough to shut you up.

You’re speechless, so instead you let out an exasperated sigh, throwing up your hands in defeat. The couple shares yet another knowing look before tearing your order off of their notepad to give to their kitchen as they talk amongst themselves, switching quickly from English to Thai. You can only assume it means they’re talking about the two of you as they share a laugh, then a pointed look back to you and Joaquin, and you can hardly blame them. You’ve sure put them through it in the five minutes you and Joaquin have been here.

“Did you put them up to this?” you ask in disbelief, launching your mostly-joking accusation at your friend.

“Oh yeah. They’re paid actors,” he replies quickly, the wittiness and smugness evident on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest.

You scoff with a playful eye roll, trying your best to ignore how a familiar warmth fills you. You’ve missed Joaquin’s flirty banter, something that had always been there between the two of you, but never acknowledged. All these years you’d kept your distance, certain that you’d be a terrible army wife. You knew you’d be no good, sitting at home waiting for your husband to return from his deployment, and Joaquin had been intent on enlisting when the two of you graduated high school.

You wonder if it’s the only thing that held you back from ever taking your friendship with Joaquin any further. Not that anything has changed… he’s still active duty… and now he’s an Avenger. But after his accident, you’ve questioned your own stubbornness, unable to deny just how much his near-death experience scared the shit out of you.

The Thai takeout has been demolished, what’s left of it stored away in the fridge hours ago. You’re half asleep when the credits music of Matrix Reloaded—Joaquin’s request—wakes you. You blink your eyes open to see Joaquin half asleep on the other end of the couch, his feet kicked up, legs stretched out across the length of your incredibly comfy couch.

“Hey doofus. We fell asleep,” you whisper, nudging his leg with yours.

Joaquin groans, slowly beginning to blink his eyes open. His heart skips a beat as he wakes to you, making note of the fact that he really likes it.

“So much for our Matrix marathon,” he mumbles, sitting up a little taller from where he’s curled up on the couch.

“You should take the bed,” you suggest softly, noticing the way he shifts uncomfortably.

It hasn’t been that many weeks since getting out of the hospital. It makes the most sense and you don’t mind sleeping on the couch for a few nights.

“No, I’m fine. Really,” he brushes off the notion. “I just-. Well, you’re still technically recovering and-.” you begin making a case for your suggestion.

“But the couch is really comfy!” he grins, trying a little harder to convince you. “It is a comfy couch but I still think you should take the bed,” you reply, firmly.

Joaquin searches your expression for any kind of retreat, realizing that you’ve clearly made up your mind. And he knows what that means.

Once you’ve made up your mind, there’s no changing it.

But he doesn’t love the idea of kicking you out of your own bed either.

“Why don’t we just go halfsies?” He suggests so casually, as if he’s suggesting the two of you split the bill he insisted on paying earlier. “Not like we haven’t shared a bed before. Doesn’t have to be a big deal or anything.” “You do have a point,” you drag out slowly, your breath catching your throat. But you know you’re going to have to sell it better. “Right, yeah. No big deal.”

He’s technically right. You’d had plenty of sleepovers as kids, and had spent many a class overnight field trips in sleeping bags next to each other.

“Just like last time,” Joaquin adds, caution in his voice this time.

Last time.

“Last time” had started the way they always do. After returning from the blip, you and Joaquin reconnected and had gone out to catch up, dancing into the early hours of the morning, fueled by a few too many tequila sodas in downtown Miami. It was a night to remember—except for the parts you’re not sure he does.

You’re not even sure you remember correctly.

You remember the next morning, waking up in the same bed as Joaquin, and having to explain to both sets of your parents that you’d both had a little too much to drink and crashed at Joaquin’s because it was safer than going home.

It was harmless.

Just a night of fun and old friends after five years of being gone.

Nothing happened, you both insisted, much to the unconvinced looks on both of your mothers.

Except… if you remember correctly… there was a kiss.

A few kisses, actually.

But you’d never talked about it and both you and Joaquin had been drunk, so you assumed it wasn’t worth talking about, an event of the night swept under the rug so seamlessly you figured it clearly hadn’t mattered to either of you.

“Right yeah. We should… share the bed. Totally makes sense,” you finally agree, plastering a fake smile on your face like you haven’t just had a mini-existential crisis.

“What?” Joaquin asks, searching your face for a reason you’re suddenly acting so weird.

“Nothing,” you’re too quick to defend. “That’s not a nothin’ face,” he points out, unconvinced. “I-, it’s nothing!” you shrug, your voice higher in pitch, telegraphing that it really is okay. “No, what’s up?”Joaquin asks, this time much more concerned as he begins to back off his suggestions. “I don’t have to share the bed if you-.”

Had he pushed too far? Should he not have brought it up?

“Joaquin, it’s fine, it’s just-.” you interrupt, wishing you had just done a better job lying in the first place.

Joaquin chuckles, “You’re a terrible liar. You know that?”

You roll your eyes, because you love and also hate how easily he recognizes the look on your face.

“I-,” you start, giving yourself one last chance to back out of telling him the truth. But you know there’s no use. He already knows something’s up.

“It’s just-. Well last time…. Listen, it wasn’t a big deal or anything, and we were really drunk and I had just gotten back after being gone for five years so there’s that but-,” you stammer out, tripping over how awkward and uncomfortable this conversation is about to be.

He waits patiently, a softness in his eyes that lets you know that whatever’s on your mind is okay to share.

“I take it you don’t remember…” you sigh with a nod.

It’s not like you’d been holding out for him to bring it up, that you thought he’d been holding on to the memory ever since, just waiting for the right time to confess his love, but you’re surprised to find yourself disappointed as you accept that he really must’ve not remembered.

“...Well, there was sort of… a kiss between us. That night. You know. Last time.”

“Oh, uh,” Joaquin begins hesitantly, wanting to tread as carefully as possible. “I uh. Yeah I-, I know.”

Oh.

I know?!

Your heart skips a beat.

It’s not exactly the reaction you were expecting.

“Wh-?” you begin to ask, caught off guard by his admission. “I-, I didn’t think you remembered.” “I didn’t know if you wanted me to,” he admits, earnestly.

You have to stop yourself from letting out a laugh.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, a laugh following as you feel a warmth in your cheeks.

“I-. You didn’t say anything the morning after and, like you said, we had both been drinking the night before so… I don’t know. I didn’t say anything because you didn’t,” Joaquin explains, almost shyly, catching you off guard even further.

It’s your turn this time to say:

“Oh,”

“Yeah,” he lets out a sigh. His eyes nervously search yours, trying to get a read on you.

“Listen, this doesn’t have to be a big deal. It’s-, it’s not a big deal!” you deny, trying your best to get things back on track. “I think I just… I don’t even know why I brought it up. Maybe just so it wasn’t awkward when we-. You know. Address the elephant in the room and get it out of the way, you know?

You know you’re rambling, but it’s as if your mouth’s run away from you and taken on a mind of its own. “But…” Joaquin trails off, as he decides to tumble off this cliff with you, uncertain whether the risk will pay off. “... doesn’t it feel like it? I mean, this feels weird, right?”

You take a breath.

A beat.

“A little,” you admit quietly, as the two of you exchange nervous laughter.

Yeah. A little, being an understatement.

You try your best to gauge any kind of reaction from Joaquin, wondering why the tension between you feels so charged, especially considering how many times you’ve insisted that this was so not a big deal.

An idea crosses your mind, and you think you might be going insane, but you’re not sure you can fall asleep feeling this weird about things.

“Okay, well, before we jump into my bed together… I think we should… resolve this,” you begin, deciding to take charge.

“What do you mean?” Joaquin asks, hesitantly.

“I-. I don’t know. It doesn't seem like talking about it is getting us anywhere. And… well, shit. I brought it up in the first place so. Sorry for that,” you continue to ramble on nervously. You take a deep breath before suggesting what you think might be a terrible, terrible idea.

“Maybe we should just… get this out of our systems? So we can prove to ourselves that it’s totally not weird at all and just… not even a big deal.”

Joaquin processes, going over and over in his head what he thinks you’re trying to say. “You mean… kiss again?” he finally asks, a hope in his eyes he prays isn’t too goddamn obvious. “Maybe. Yeah. I don’t know. What do you think?” you ask, shakily.

A beat.

“Fuck it. This is a terrible idea and I-,” you begin to backtrack, shaking off how silly that way.

“No, it’s not!” Joaquin is quick to interject, inching a little closer. “But… I mean. You sure?”

You nod slowly, contemplating what you’re agreeing to, before finally deciding on:

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” You both exchange nervous laughs, before shifting just a little closer to each other. “So should we just-, I mean are supposed to just-,” you giggle, awkwardly, gesturing towards the man.

Why was this so weird?

Joaquin grins, another small laugh falling out of his mouth as he leans in closer to you.

“Oh my god! Joaquin, what’re you doing?” you gasp, your voice quiet as his lips are inches away from yours, as if this weren’t your idea.

“Well, you said we should just go for it,” he teases gently, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I know but. It’s weird. This is-, it’s weird, right?!,” you giggle again. It’s as if your mind wants to pull away, but your body betrays you, as your heart skips a beat, reminding you to learn forward this time too.

“Mhmm,” he hums, with an aplomb you certainly do not have. He lowers his voice, and almost as if he’s warning you, he adds, “I’m gonna kiss you now.” You nod, just a little, before replying with:

“Okay.”

He chuckles.

“Okay.”

Joaquin takes his time, almost teasingly, before brushing his lips against yours. You’re taken by surprise by the fact that it doesn’t feel like enough. He pulls back just enough, before pressing his lips to your with full force this time. You inhale him, this moment, and the feeling that everything is about to change as you kiss him back, meeting him just as deeply as he’s met you.

It’s not like you’d never wondered what this would feel like, but thinking about kissing Joaquin had just a thing of your childhood fantasies—something you’d thought you’d long forgotten. The way his lips move against yours feels like the fucking Fourth of July, explosions going off in and outside of you.

“Joaquin?” you murmur against his lips, hanging onto the last threads of self-control you have (which, you think should come with a gold medal, considering especially the way he’s kissing you right now).

“Hmmmm?” he hums against you, his hand coming up to cup your face, with no intention of stopping any time soon.

“Yeah, so this kinda feels like a big deal,” you reply, in between kisses. “Uh huh,” he sounds in response, before sucking on your top lip. You gasp, more than happy to keep going, but he wants to make sure you feel the same.

Joaquin pulls away just momentarily, his hand still cradling your face. He’s inches away from you once again, his gaze matching the seriousness of his tone as he asks, “We don’t have to keep going. If you don’t want to. We can stop.”

“No!” you practically cry out, eliciting a small chuckle from his lips. The ones you very much wish to be kissing again.

“Dimelo. Tell me what you want,” he says softly, and you’ve never felt safer with anyone. You’re actually not sure how you’ve managed to keep it together, ready to melt off of the couch and into his arms. “You wanna keep going?”

“Uh huh,” you nod, this time closing the distance between the two of you, crashing your lips against his. “I wanna keep going.”

So much for this not being a big deal.

He takes your ‘yes’ as a sign to keep kissing you, as you shift for your body to face his. You’re wrapping your arms around his neck, and he’s licking into your mouth so that his tongue can tangle with yours, the two of you surrender to whatever this thing is between the two of you. It’s as if you can’t get close enough to him. His hands are cautious, his fingertips grazing your arms, before hesitantly trailing his hands over your waist. You lean into him, wanting to be even closer, and on your cue, Joaquin pulls you onto his lap. With your knees on either side of his hips, you straddle him, pressing your body to his chest as his tongue teases yours.

You pull away, only for a moment, your eyes telling him that you need to explore more of him. You begin to kiss along his jaw, then down to his neck, leaving kisses along the column of his throat. As you begin to travel outwards, you notice the scarring along the back of his neck and shoulders from the accident, surprised at how quickly the skin has healed.

It’s gotta be some kind of super-medicine, you think to yourself.

His eyes search yours as if to ask, Is it okay?

His scars, he means.

You begin to kiss along the tops of his shoulders, his collarbone, and where his shoulder meets his neck, as if to reply:

They’re beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

It’s more tender than you’re ready for, caught up by surprise by the moment, so you lift your head, meeting his lips once more. Joaquin’s hands are less cautious this time, pressing you against him as you wrap your arms around his neck, continuing the passionate makeout.

Holy shit.

You’re making out with your childhood sweetheart.

The one you swore you’d never date.

But right now, you could care less, because he feels too good, and he kisses you like you’re his favorite thing. It’s all soft sighs, gentle hums that turn into moans, and hands all over. You could really lose yourself in this as you feel Joaquin’s hips buck up into yours, causing you to let out a moan.

“Joaquin, wait,” you pant, using all the willpower you have left in you at this moment, as you break the hot and heavy makeout session that’s gone on between you.

Because it feels too good.

And because you want this to go where you think it’s going.

“If we keep going… this-, we- we can’t unring this bell,” you pause, your eyes searching his for confirmation that he wants this just as much as you do.

“I don’t wanna,” he replies, with the utmost sincerity and admiration in the way he looks at you. “I don’t wanna unring the bell. No take backs.”

You giggle with a nod, “Okay. No take backs.”

It’s innocent and hot all at once. He pulls you back into him, his kiss tender as he smiles against your lips.

“Hold on,” he rasps, his order direct and sure.

Before you know it, he’s standing up, and you’re clinging to his strong form with your legs and your arms letting out a laugh as soon as you realize what’s happening.

“So does this mean you wanna share the bed or-?” he teases you, knowing very well that that’s your only plan for tonight.

You chuckle in response, shaking your head, “Take me to bed or lose me forever, Torres.”

“I love that movie,” he smiles. “I know you do,” you smile back.

“But I mean it. Take me to bed, baby.”

Baby.

He likes the way it sounds on your lips, and he likes the fact that it’s you calling ‘baby’ even more.

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, as you hold onto his body, feeling every step towards your bedroom.

You’re grateful for once, that your apartment isn’t that large, as Joaquin reaches your bed before you know. He lays you down gently, hovering over you as he removes his shirt.

“Oh my god!” you gasp, as he approaches the bed, this time shirtless. You cannot get your hands on him fast enough, feeling each plane of his superhero body against your hot, hot hands. “Please remind me to thank your personal trainer.”

“Oh that’s Isaiah. He-,” Joaquin begins to explain, smirking as you chase his lips.

“I really don’t want to think about Isaiah right now,” you interrupt him, taking your shirt off for good measure.

Joaquin is on you in seconds, kissing you like he’s kissed you a million times before. Were you really going to do this? Were you about to have sex with your best friend?

Before you can overthink it, Joaquin begins to leave kisses down your neck, returning the favor from earlier. His hot, wet mouth feels incredible, and all you can do is feel every single nerve ending in your body ablaze. You moan as he nibbles on the sensitive skin just below your collarbone, and you can feel him smile against your skin. He takes his time, making his way to the very top of the bralette you wear, leaving delicate kisses as he looks up at you.

“May I?” he asks.

He’s met with an eager nod from you, his large hands coming up to pull the fabric down, just enough to expose your breast to him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he sighs out.

Before you can respond, he’s wrapped his mouth around the peak of your breast, and you’re crying out in response.

“Oh my God, Joaquin,” you sigh, feeling the way his tongue begins to circle your nipple.

This is so not how you expected this evening to go, but you let yourself enjoy it anyway. Joaquin makes his way over to your other breast, giving it the same attention and reverence as the former.

As he pulls away, you’re practically tearing the bralette over your head and onto the floor, tossed somewhere you won’t worry about till tomorrow morning. Joaquin’s mouth is on yours for a brief, smacking kiss, then he’s making his way down your body again, allowing your mind to wonder what else he can do with his mouth.

You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Before you know it, he’s removing your PJ shorts and panties, and leaving teasing kisses along your inner thighs.

“Fuck, you’re wet, baby,” he practically moans as he gets closer to where you need him.

“Hmmmm, yeah. Well, someone likes to tease,” you let out on an exhale, unsure of how you’re able to make a joke at a time like this. “You want my mouth? That it?” he asks you, nibbling on the soft skin.

You moan, your hands tangling themselves in the thick locks at the back of his head.

“Yes, baby. I want your mouth. Please.”

Please.

He never thought a word could sound so sweet, but coming from you, here, between your legs, as he’s wound you up enough to make you beg him? He’s lost all shreds of self-control he has left, unable to deny you nor him any longer.

You cry out as soon as you feel the warmth of his mouth on you, parting you open with his tongue.

“So wet,” you hear him groan into you before beginning to devour you.

His tongue is everywhere, licking broad stripes up to your clit, drawing abstract shapes like he’s Matisse, then dipping into you over and over again. It’s not until he slides a finger, and then two into you, his tongue focusing on your clit, that your pants of pleasure have turned into a string of moans.

“Holy fuck, Joaquin!” you cry out.

“I think I’m gonna-,” you stammer out, feeling the coil inside of you ready to snap. “Don’t stop, babe. Please. Fuck. I’m gonna come.”

He’s relentless, his tongue on your clit and his fingers inside of you, bringing you up and over your peak till you break like a wave. Joaquin takes his time, slowing down the ministrations of his mouth while he cleans you up with his tongue.

“How was that?” Joaquin asks, a mischievous smirk on his face as he stares up at you from between your legs. You look just as wrecked as you sound, and he can’t help but feel accomplished.

You let out a laugh, “Holy shit. Was the screaming of your name not enough?”

His smirk turns into a grin, and he’s moving up to kiss you as he answers, “I think I could hear it again.” You can taste yourself on his lips as you kiss him back.

“Then you’re gonna have to make me come like that again,” you’re quick to parry back, as if it’s a challenge.

“I think that can be arranged,” he replies. “You have condoms?” “Mhm,” you reply, before sitting up.

You promise you’ll be right back, and anything said after that is lost on him as he watches your naked body move around the room. As you return to him from your quick trip to your nightstand, condom in hand, he can’t get over how beautiful you are.

“Looks we still gotta get you naked. And do not bring up your personal trainer again, my God,” you groan, earning a laugh from him. You place the condom down on the bed beside you, before pulling Joaquin towards you.

He kneels on the bed, his knees on either side of your legs as he begins to pull his sweatpants down. You’re not sure if you’re nervous or excited to see him completely naked as your heart flutters. Joaquin clumsily makes his way out of his sweatpants, the two of you exchanging nervous laughs, before he’s kneeling over you again, completely naked.

He’s thick, and just long enough that you’re glad you’ve had a solid night of foreplay so far. You reach for the condom, handing it to him. Freeing up your hands, he takes it, and you slide one hand around his cock because you just have to feel it.

Joaquin hisses in response, shooting you a warning look.

You giggle, allowing him to slide the condom on first, before returning to you.

“We don’t have to-, you know. Right away. We can do some more of this,” he says, as he kisses you, slipping a hand between your legs.

It’s insane how your legs fall open for him without hesitation. You moan as he drags his index finger along your heat, earning a soft moan from. You allow him to tease you for just a little longer, the kisses shared between the two of you are long, patient, and passionate.

This is it. The point of no return.

As if he can read your mind, he slots himself between your legs, and you’re making room for him instinctively.

“You sure?” he asks you, almost as if he’s giving you one last time to back out.

“I’m sure,” you answer confidently, this time, reaching down between your bodies to line him up with you.

Joaquin hisses once more, the feeling too good as you drag the tip of his latex-covered cock up and down your sex.

“Baby, please,” you say, as if you know they’re the magic words.

“Oh my god,” Joaquin groans, because he can’t take it anymore.

Slowly, he pushes just the tip in, the two of you moan at first contact. He pulls away just enough, before pushing in again, deeper this time. It goes on like this, each thrust bringing him deeper into you till he’s full seated inside of you. Joaquin pauses, allowing the two of you just to feel. You breathe each other in before he kisses you with a passion and fervor that takes your breath away.

Joaquin begins to move his hips, giving you a few experimental thrusts.

“Feels so good. You feel so fucking good,” he whispers in between kisses.

“You feel good too, ‘Quin,” you whine, as he begins to pick up the pace.

You cry out, because you can feel him so deep, and because he feels so goddamn hard and so goddamn good inside of you. It’s as if your bodies take over, and before you know it, Joaquin’s fucking you into the mattress, pressing your hands above your head, tangling his fingers with yours, and making you come on his cock for the very first time.

He watches you come down from your high, and he thinks he could do this forever, because you’re so damn beautiful when you come. There’s something about it—knowing it’s him that’s making you feel this way—that makes you feel this good.

“Switch with me,” you order, pulling him from his thoughts.

“What?”

“Let me get on top.”

He must have the dopiest smile on his face as he does, laying back against the mattress and watching you crawl on top of him.

This can’t be real.

Could this be real?

It feels really fucking real as he feels you slide down over him, your head thrown back in pleasure, taking him inch by inch.

“Dios mio, baby,” he sighs, his hands moving instinctively to your hips as you ride him.

He lets you set the pace, moving your hips slowly at first, settling into a rhythm as he admires your naked body. From the way you tangle your hands in your hair, the way your breasts bounce as you ride him, the way your hips swivel every few thrusts, he’s never seen a more magnificent sight. You take your time, just enjoying this, enjoying each other, with no rush or care in the world.

Joaquin can’t take his eyes off of you.

It’s just you and him and the way you feel.

With one hand on his chest, your back arched, your hips working up to a feverish pace, you can feel yourself on the verge again. He feels too good: Joaquin, your childhood best friend, the one that, just hours earlier, you thought would forever just be your friend. But now that you know how he kisses, what his tongue feels like, what his cock feels like, there’s absolutely not going back.

You let out another moan, an offering to the gods, because all you want is more, more, more.

“Holy shit! Why didn’t we do this sooner?” you gasp, the pace of your hips quick, chasing your high. “You said you didn’t want to be an army wife,” he pants in return, his thrusts meeting yours.

“Well, I’m currently reconsidering because-. Oh fuck!” you cry out, and you know you’ll have to bake apology muffins for your neighbors later this week.

There it is. It’s there.

You’re so close.

You can feel it.

“If you’re still talking, I don’t think I’m fucking you good enough,” Joaquin teases you.

“Well then, put your money where your mouth is, Torres, and make me cum.”

It’s meant to sound like a challenge, but you wonder if it just comes out as desperate as you feel.

Joaquin pauses, and before you can complain, you feel him shift so that he’s sitting upright. You both moan as she sinks just a little deeper. He kisses you deeply, his thrusts starting out slow before quickly moving to something with much more intention. He knows exactly what he wants from you.

With your face buried in his neck, he’s set a blistering pace, and you’re meeting him thrust for thrust. He really meant it when he said he’s fuck you even better.

“Fuck. Yes. Right there, right there, right there. Oh my god,” you shout into his neck as he hits that spot inside of you.

“I’m not gonna last long,” Joaquin grits out, and you can tell how much he’s holding back. “With you squeezing me like that. Fuck.”

“Then don’t,” you beg him, before your orgasm takes over you one last time. “I want you to come, baby.”

All you can do is hold on, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, moaning into his neck as you come again. He fucks you through it, his thrusts getting more erratic and sloppy with each one. It’s the way you pulse around him, how tight you’re squeezing him, milking all remnants of self control he has left that brings him to his high. Joaquin follows shortly after, because you just feel too good coming on his cock.

He comes with a strangled moan, stars exploding behind his eyes, followed by sharp pants as he tries to catch his breath.

You stay like this for what feels like forever, and not long enough.

“Holy shit,” you say, lifting your head to look at him.

“Uh… yeah,” Joaquin breathes, as the two of you share a smile. You leave gentle kisses along his shoulder as the two of you breathe together, enjoying your last moments like this. “Just uh, give me a second.”

You nod, careful as you let him slip out of you, allowing the both of you to collapse on your backs.

“So…” Joaquin drags out, looking over at you. “Still think we should share the bed?”

You laugh, pressing your lips together before answering with:

“You’ll be lucky if I let you out of this bed this weekend, Torres.”

“Mmmm I think I like the sound of that,” he grins, rolling over onto his side.

“Me too.”

#joaquin torres x reader #captain america brave new world #danny ramirez #joaquin torres #marvel mcu #mcu fandom #marvel fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #the falcon #the new falcon #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres smut

185 notes · View notes

spiteful-opossum · 17 hours ago

Text

I’m gonna go with dead tired just cause that’s my favorite.

Tim was having a stressful day. He’d had a rough patrol the night before. He then woke up later than he should’ve, which was still really early for him because he had a virtual meeting with a team in a different time zone. The espresso machine at the only coffee shop that would give him 10 shots of espresso was broken. And to top it all off he had to deal with a new board member who was trying to convince him get rid of the company’s robust maternity/paternity leave program to increase “shareholder value”.

So to sum it up Tim’s day had been stressful but not unbearable. But that was all over now. He was finally done with work for the day and wasn’t scheduled to patrol for the night. He was gonna go home and have a nice, relaxing, entirely average evening where nothing big or important or unexpected was going to happen. The idea of spending the night relaxing with his boyfriend, Danny, was the main reason Tim didn’t try to kill the new board member.

When he finally got home and opened the door he was greeted by the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, Danny. Danny was currently doing homework for one of his classes on the couch. Tim went to go take a quick shower and get changed into something more comfortable before making Danny take a break. He’d learned the hard way just how much Danny can get consumed by his astronomy homework. His passion for astronomy was something Tim loved about the guy, but sometimes he could lose track of time.

When he came back he was not expecting Danny to have finished whatever he was doing and moved to the kitchen table. He must’ve taken longer in the shower than he thought. But when he went over to his boyfriend to say hi he got concerned by the expression on his face. His usual relaxed and unserious expression that he even maintained while being kidnapped was gone and replaced by a very serious one. Tim was officially alarmed because in several years of dating he’d never seen him like that.

“Danny? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Tim couldn’t help but asking. Every worst case scenario in the world and how to deal with them was running through his head right now. It only got worse when Danny looked at him a bit concerned and had to take a deep breath. He was also fiddling with something that he couldn’t quite see as it was covered in a paper towel.

“Tim we need to talk.” Danny said “i have some big news, you should probably sit down for this.” And Tim did as he was told taking a seat next to Danny at the table.

When Tim sat down he put his hand on Danny’s arm and said “Whatever it is I can handle it.”

“I really hope you mean that,” Danny responded before taking another deep breath and continuing, “I know we’ve only been together for a couple years, but they’ve been the best years of my life. But I don’t know how you feel about this and I’m worried how you might take it.” Then he pushed whatever he was fidgeting with towards Tim. When he unwrapped the paper towel he was shocked. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t this. It was a pregnancy test, a positive pregnancy test. He picked it up and just stared at it for a few seconds, then back up to Danny wanting to confirm he was seeing this right.

“You’re pregnant?” He asked not bothering to hide the hope in his voice.

“Yeah,” Danny started, “And I get it if you’re not quite ready for this, I know I’m not, but I want to keep-”

Tim didn’t let him finish that thought before pulling him into a tight hug. “I love you, and I agree. I’m definitely not prepared to be a dad but I’m going to try to do my best to try anyway. This is great news and no matter what I’ll always be right beside you.”

Accidental Parenthood

DP x DC Prompt

Danny's life is pretty good right now. His parents have accepted him as Phantom. Vlad remains a Thorn in his side that won't go away. The Justice League had tried to put him on one of their young hero teams after his parents flagged them down about the GIW and the Anti Ecto Acts. He refused them because he's petty that they ignored the calls he and his friends made whenever they thought they needed help on something that looked out of their control. He's accepted to just being a person that they call on for help whenever they need it.

He's only in Gotham now, after he graduated high school and the whole business of the Justice League trying to get him to be part of their little group, because it has the only university that's crazy enough to enroll a Fenton.

He's found a balance between his university life, his Ghost King duties, and the Justice League needing his aid on a few occasions. He had to deal with a few unexpected instances where he was mistaken for a Wayne, but those were handled when he was, reluctantly, saved by the Batfam (he's still got the pettiness in him from being ignored for most of his high school years).

That might have been where his life started to change, as he soon found himself in a secret relationship with one of the Wayne boys, who even accepted him when he told them that he's Trans.

Near the end of his scholarship at Gotham University is when he learns of something that will definitely be a turning point in his life.

He's in the Far Frozen, having Frostbite check up on him because he's been feeling pretty weird the past couple of days. And it's here where he's told that he is pregnant.

#dpxdc #trans danny #dead tired #pregnant danny #Danny was afraid Tim might leave him #Tim was afraid Danny was gonna tell him he had cancer or something #the only thing that has Tim more nervous than being a father is the rest of his family finding out #the moment the rest of the bats find out they’re gonna be fighting over who gets to be the favorite #now that he has a kid on the way Tim is going to expand maternity/paternity leave just to screw with the new board member #Tim is going to pay so much attention to their kid because he’s afraid he’ll end up like his parents

801 notes · View notes

designerpvssy · 3 days ago

Text

"I deserve it more" -ryomen.s♡

Tw¡; Jealous!sukuna, co-workers, smut/no plot, cheating (reader is married), oral (fem receiving), office sex, piv sex, doggystyle, choking, spanking, slight dacryphila, pet names, mdni.

It was no secret really, sukuna was one of the most notorious green eyed monsters there was, always thinking he deserved the things everyone else rightfully earned and more, his eyes narrowing every time he hears some good news about anyone else in the workplace that wasn't him, "I should've had that promotion, they didn't do shit to deserve it", he'd think to himself as he huffs and leans back against his chair in his office.

But if there was anything else that made him more bitter than plain black coffee, It was seeing you walk into the office everyday, wearing that short pencil skirt that damn near violates the company guidelines, a few buttons of your blouse always unbuttoned to expose a glimpse of your bra and cleavage. shit, he wants you, he could have you..

Only if it weren't for that fucking husband of yours, a scowl spreading across his face every time he catches even a glimpse of the man, He didn't deserve you, he could tell you guys weren't all happy and 'power-couple' as you guys tried to act, but if you were with him? Oh, you'd be over the moon. fucking. spoiled. rotten.

He would lavish you and treat you like a queen, Not treat you like someone who will just wear you on their arm like some prize (your husband *cough*), you deserved better just like sukuna deserved you.

And surely within time he'd get what he deserved, he just needs to slither his way into your heart like he did everything else, Lavish you with small things at first, Like bringing you your exact coffee order every morning, Giving you small subtle flirty compliments, Making a point to always acknowledge you, 'Consoling' you when you finally broke and poured out your anguish about your broken marriage,"he's always fucking his secretaries, ryo!"

ah, poor girl, if it were him, he'd be making you cry for numerous different reasons but not because he was being a shitty husband.

So of course, in his attempt to comfort you, here you were, bent over his desk, skirt hiked up, panties tossed carelessly aside on the floor, biting down on your bottom lip to desperately stifle your moans and sobs as sukuna's tongue delved into your walls, his thumbs pulling your lips apart to delve even deeper, making you gasp out with a shaky whine.

You know you should feel bad, you really do, but how could you when his tongue was drinking you up so good??

Your eyes nearly going cross eyed as his tongue hits a certain spot, moving one of his thumbs to rub your little clit which is all it takes you to soak his face in your fluids, groaning out shakily and whimpering as your legs tremble beneath you, feeling your walls clench and spasm as you experience an orgasm like never before, (not like your husband made you cum anyways)

You whimper out shakily as his hand suddenly connects to your ass in a stinging slap, squirming under the lingering pain.

"damn, princess, already?", He snickers as he stands up behind you, beginning to unbuckle his slacks with one hand while rubbing his thumb against your entrance with the other, making you whine out in anticipation.

"c-can't you just put it in?", he scoffs at your impatience, Married but you're eager like a little whore, he doesn't blame you though- he knows you're probably not getting what you need at home, And since he knows that, he'll skip further prepping you since you're just soo eager.

And now you're really regretting being impatient as he bullies the blunt head of his cock into your sopping wet cunt, choking on a gasp at the stretch as he presses in further, feeling a slight burn in your walls from his girthy cock.

"fuck, you're so tight, baby", he pants out against your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin to mark what's his as he absolutely wrecks you from behind,"you must've not been getting dicked down probably, huh?" You can't answer except with a shaky sob with how his cock repeatedly hits the deepest depths of your cunt, but he doesn't like that, he wants to hear you say it.

smack, "answer me, I fuck you better don't I?", he punctuates with yet another smack to your ass, quickening his thrusts, "y-yes! fuckk, ryo! t-t-too much!!", you managed to sob out, your mascara running down your cheeks in streaks with your tears as you desperately hold onto the desk as you feel your legs threaten to buckle underneath you.

Sukuna hooks an arm underneath you to support you while also rubbing your clit with his fingers, moving his free hand to wrap around your throat and pull your head back so that he could get a clear view of your fucked out expression, a slight smirk pulling at his lips at the sight of your tears, "you look better crying for me, y'know that?"

He says with a particularly hard thrust that has your eyes rolling back with a gutteral groan, feeling your core snap in that split second, He was really making you cum back-to-back like it was nothing.

A groan leaves him as he feels you milking his cock, his hand reflexively tightening around your throat as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will himself not to cum yet but with the way your sensitive cunt is spasming around him, he knows there's no way he'll last any longer in this peace of heaven.

He pulls out last second, pulling you to your knees just as strings of cum shoot from his dick, splattering all over your pretty face as you stare up at him with those teary doe eyes, Licking some of his cum from your lips before leaning forward to lick the remnant bead of cum from his tip, "why.. didn't you just do it inside?"

He shudders a groan at your words, leaning down and grabbing your jaw, "because when I do, you'll be mine, you won't be with that excuse of a husband", biting your lip, you give a nod before letting out a little gasp, muffled against his lips as he takes your lips in a rough kiss, "by then, I'll have what I rightfully deserve"

💗Skyy's notes xoxo: hello again!! This was ALOT longer than I hoped, I still enjoyed it!! And this is another special for the "ten desires" even by thee one nd only @merakidoll 😘

#jujutsu kaisen #*.✧𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓮𝓹𝓿𝓼𝓼𝔂𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓰✧.*#— ten desires event! ˚ෆ 𐙚 #mdni #jjk smut #jjk #jjk sukuna #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader

402 notes · View notes

stanart4clearskin · 2 days ago

Note

Hey, please write for art Donaldson! I was thinking something like massage therapist/ physiotherapist!reader x art, or loser art!, or dilf! Art. Anyways please and thank you!

-Anon

art knew it was wrong that he sprouted a boner every single time he had a session with you. he knew that he should probably find a new massage therapist who wasn’t as pretty, didn’t have such a sweet voice—but god, art could never actually bring himself to do it. he would stare at your number on his phone, finger hovering over the call button. all it would take was a few minutes and you’d be gone from his life, but he just couldn’t do it. your hands were so soft and gentle against his skin as you massaged the knots out of his back and art found himself buzzing with excitement before each session.

“how has your back been feeling?” you asked art as you grabbed out the various oils that you would be needed.

his cheeks flushed as he stripped down to his boxers and sat down on the bench. “it’s been feeling a lot better, thanks to you.”

you smiled at his words and warmed up a small bottle of rose scented oil in your hands—it was art’s favorite. he’d never admit it, but the only reason it was his favorite was because you always smelled like roses.

“is there anything in particular that’s been bothering you lately?” you waited for art to lay on his stomach. when he did you poured a small puddle of the rose oil onto his back. when you began to massage it into his skin, art had to bite down a moan. he’d always been sensitive to touch, but your touch was other-worldly.

he hesitated before talking. he knew this would be a risky move but it was now or never—he’d be off on tour next month so he wouldn’t be seeing you soon after this session. “my uh… thigh has been cramping lately.”

if you knew his motive, you didn’t comment on it. “thigh? i can work on that,” you said, wiping you hands off on a towel while art sat up. you poured a small amount of oil onto your hands and began to massage his left thigh.

unexpectedly a small whine left art when your hand brushed against him. he had already started to tent in his boxers. art knew you had noticed, but you were kind enough to not mention it.

you raised an eyebrow and glanced at art. “everything okay?”

his cheeks flushed pink. “y-yeah. just a little sensitive, that’s all.”

you nodded. “just let me know if anything hurts.” you continued to massage his thighs and every so often you would deliberately brush your hand against him. you saw the way he tried to hold back a moan and it was honestly endearing.

the longer you continued to massage him, the closer your hand got to his straining boxers. you smirked when another whine left him and he went even redder.

“does that feel good?” you asked with faux innocence, smiling at art. you thought the poor man would pass out anytime soon. he clenched his jaw and looked anywhere but at you.

the man simply nodded and let you continue his ministrations. you both knew how fucked up this was—art had a wife and kid—but neither of you could find it in yourself to stop. your hands began to wander, lingering at the waistband of his boxers. without a word he lifted his hips slightly so that you could tug them down and off.

you bit your lip to hide your smile when you saw how he was leaking at the tip. it was adorably really that a grown man managed to get this flustered by a few simple touches. your eyes met his and you raised your eyebrows slightly, asking permission. he nodded and with that you were sinking down to your knees in front of him. you’d dreamt about being in this position for weeks, but now that it was finally happening you couldn’t help but be nervous.

sure you’ve had some experience being on the giving end but it had never been with someone you liked as much as art. he seemed to notice your hesitancy and cupped your cheek. his hands were rough with calluses from his years of playing tennis but you couldn’t help but lean into his touch like a cat.

“you don’t have to,” he said, his voice low. it sent a rack of shivers through your body. you shook your head, “i know. i want to.”

his hand went from your cheek to gently gripping your hair. art encouraged your head down and you followed. you parted your lips and licked a hot stripe up his length. his grip tightened and he instinctively pushed your head down further. when you finally took him into you mouth, art thought he could die. he’d never felt anything like this before and it was perfection.

—

by the time art’s official session was over, the two of you were laid out on the floor of your office, breathless. art had you tucked into his side, one arm around your waist and the other playing with the strands of your hair. neither of you had spoken a word in the past few minutes. you were both afraid if you did, you’d break the illusion that this could mean something.

so instead of speaking, the two of you got dressed and art left you with a kiss on the forehead. you sanitized every surface before your next client arrived. you knew just how fucked things were going to get, but for a moment you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

lowkey the writing just got worse as this went on

#challengers #art donaldson #mike faist #art donaldson x you #art donalson x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader smut #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #challengers movie #josh o'connor #zendaya #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson x reader

99 notes · View notes

casssmalefantasy · 2 days ago

Text

team usa: the series — paige bueckers x oc!

ii. looks that linger— when late nights turn into something more. something quieter. charged. the lines between teammates blur, and maybe it's not just friendship anymore.

s: ivy’s trying to play it cool, but something about paige’s distance cuts deeper than she wants to admit. a room full of teammates, a stupid game, and one honest answer threaten to break the tension that’s been simmering for weeks.

w: emotional tension, jealousy, swearing, angst, team bonding, slow burn, mutual pining, first kiss, suggestive theme

word count: 3.4k

make sure to read part one! this is a two part chapter!

part one of “looks that linger” | next part!

part two of: “looks that linger”

ivy’s pov

my phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up the room in the dim glow of a cloudy evening. i reached over without thinking.

team usa demons

azzi: party in my room. bring vibes or don’t come

i snorted. classic azzi.

across the room, the bathroom door cracked open and steam spilled out. paige stepped out with a towel around her neck, brushing damp hair off her shoulder. she looked… relaxed. or at least, like she was pretending to be.

“you going to azzi’s?” she asked, voice casual. our eyes met for a second too long.

“yeah,” i said, shifting on the bed. “i have nothing better to do.”

it came out more like a joke than anything else. i was trying. i really was. for a moment, paige almost smiled—like the old way, the real way—but it faded before it reached her mouth.

“you going too?” i asked.

she paused, then grabbed a hoodie off the chair. “i’m meeting azzi in the lobby. we’re grabbing snacks first.”

“oh,” i said, blinking. “interesting.”

i wasn’t trying to sound weird, but it came out sharp anyway. something small and jealous cracked open in my chest before i could stop myself. the words were already out.

“are you and azzi… like, is there something going on?”

paige froze, hoodie half-on. “what? no. god, no—it’s not like that.”

i raised an eyebrow, surprised by how fast she responded. “sorry,” i mumbled. “i just thought…”

“we’re just best friends,” she said. “always have been. it’s nothing.”

“right,” i said quickly. “sorry for assuming.”

paige stood there for a second like she wanted to say more, but instead she looked at the door. “i should go. azzi’s probably downstairs already.”

“yeah,” i said, nodding. “see you there.”

and then she was gone, leaving behind the same silence we hadn’t figured out how to fill.

—

paige’s pov

“you good?” azzi asked, tossing a bag of chips from the vending machine into her arm like she was shooting a free throw.

i didn’t answer right away.

“paige.”

“i’m fine.”

azzi raised both brows. “you’re never fine when you say you’re fine. what happened?”

i sighed, leaning against the wall. “ivy asked me if something was going on between us.”

she blinked. “what did you say?”

“what do you think i said?”

“hopefully the truth? that i’m way too good for you?”

i snorted. “shut up.”

“seriously though. what did you say?”

“i told her it’s not like that. that we’re just friends.” i hesitated. “she looked… i don’t know. upset.”

azzi tilted her head. “because she likes you, dumbass.”

i groaned. “don’t start.”

“no, seriously. if you don’t tell her, i will. the tension is actually painful.”

“you don’t know what could happen.” i reply

“what’s the worst that could happen?”

“everything,” i said. “we could stop being friends. it could ruin everything.”

azzi rolled her eyes. “or—and hear me out—you could be honest for once and maybe, i don’t know, be happy?”

i didn’t say anything.

“whatever,” she said, grabbing the last bag of candy. “i’m just excited for everyone to be in my room tonight. that’s where the real drama’s gonna be.”

and she wasn’t wrong.

✦ ✦ ✦

ivy’s pov

azzi’s room was already packed. someone had pushed the beds together and turned out the lights except for a pink lamp in the corner. jordan was trying to convince someone to take a bite of her spicy ramen, and someone else was playing music off a phone speaker that kept skipping.

“truth or dare,” someone called out. i didn’t even see who said it.

“what are we, twelve?” paige said from the floor, leaning against the edge of the bed with a smirk.

but no one objected.

it didn’t take long before the dares got ridiculous. someone had to wear socks on their hands for the rest of the night. someone else had to drink pickle juice.

“azzi. truth or dare,” jordan called out.

azzi hesitated, like she knew she was being set up. “truth.”

“who was your first kiss?”

the room got quiet.

azzi looked straight ahead. i saw the flicker of panic on her face. next to her, paige’s body went stiff.

“uh,” azzi started. “just… a childhood friend. it didn’t mean anything. curiosity, that’s all.”

the group groaned and moved on, but my stomach dropped.

i knew.

it was her. paige.

i looked at paige just as she looked at me, and we both looked away.

my chest felt like it was caving in.

“i think i’m gonna go,” i said quickly, standing up. “headache.”

paige looked up, concern written all over her face. i didn’t let myself meet her eyes.

i just walked out.

paige’s pov

“shit,” i muttered, watching ivy disappear out the door.

“you need to go after her,” azzi said.

i shook my head. “she knows.”

“of course she knows. and now she probably thinks you lied. again.”

i rubbed my face with both hands. “we promised not to talk about it.”

“we were twelve,” azzi said. “and we both know it meant nothing. well—except for the part where it helped you figure yourself out.”

i nodded. “yeah. it wasn’t you. i mean—it was you. but not because it was you. it just… made me realize i liked girls.”

“i know what you mean,” azzi said. “and she will too. if you talk to her.”

i hesitated, then stood up.

—

ivy’s pov

i heard the knock a few minutes later. soft. hesitant.

i opened the door and there she was.

paige looked like she’d been holding her breath since the truth or dare game started.

“can we talk?” she asked.

i nodded and stepped aside.

we sat on the edge of the bed, facing opposite directions.

“about earlier…” she started. “that kiss with azzi—it was forever ago. it wasn’t… anything. we were kids. it was stupid and quick and just… a moment. i didn’t even really know who i was yet.”

i stayed quiet.

“i never lied to you,” she said. “we’re just friends. me and her.”

“okay,” i said, quietly.

she looked at me then, and the look in her eyes was the same one from weeks ago. the one i missed.

“i only avoided you because i was scared,” she admitted. “because every time i looked at you, i felt something and i didn’t know what to do with it.”

i turned toward her.

“i like you,” she said. “i’ve liked you since the first night we stayed up talking about our futures.”

my heart jumped.

“i like you too,” i said, and the weight in my chest finally cracked.

she leaned in slowly, giving me time to stop her if i wanted.

i didn’t.

we kissed.

and when we pulled away, forehead to forehead, breath shaky, i whispered, “maybe we should focus on the team. figure the rest out later.”

she nodded, but neither of us meant it.

authors note: oh shit! they kissed? but what happens next? stay tune for the next part.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #ncaa women’s basketball #paige bueckers x reader #azzi fudd #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x black!reader #wlw relationship #wlw

104 notes · View notes

tacobacoyeet · 3 days ago

Note

Hello it’s me again

ART X READER

so basically it’s when they’re at boarding school and reader is kinda awkward but friendly but kinda an outcast, art is in like the popular group and stuff with Patrick and reader is ‘friends’ with the group but they all kinda bully reader but like don’t but they do but they don’t, anyways so art doesn’t really bully reader but he always laughs along and stuff ANYWHO one day they’re all lounging around in one of the community room and one of the girls in their friend group goes, “omg did you see her play today at practice, it was so bad” and one of them makes a joke that she was too busy drooling over art and they all tease art and then one of them has an idea that art should ‘entertain’ reader until a certain tournament so they have a better chance of winning, and art reluctantly agrees to it, kinda weirded out by reader in general. So he hangs out with her and then goes back to his friend group everyday to tell them everything and they all laugh about it and now she tries to flirt with him but as time goes on art actually starts to like reader, and really falls for her. Then when the tournament comes around maybe the team looses still because of her and everyone is pissed and then when she walks into the community room it goes quiet cause everyone is talking about it and she just goes into the corner to study while everyone glares at her. One of the girls on the team that are also in arts friendgroup rushes up to art with the rest of his friends behind her and yells at him because he was supposed to butter reader up in order to win and then reader runs out crying because she heard everything and then art reprimands the group for blaming her and him because all they do at practice is ignore her and she can’t get any better if she’s neglected and how they pushed this onto him when she’s really just a really cool girl. Then he rushes out to find reader and then they get into a screaming match but then they kiss and happily ever after cause this is #spring and a #fairytale

I’m sorry this is like my 4th request 😔 I just love your writing style sm

until the tournament | art donaldson x reader

a/n: thank you angel! hope this does your wonderful request justice!!

warnings: bullying, not proofread

The first time you cried at Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy, it was over a dropped sandwich and a shoeprint in your lunchbox.

You hadn’t even liked the sandwich that much—turkey, the wrong kind of mustard, bread already going stale—but the weight of someone’s heel crushing through the plastic lid had been enough to set something loose in your chest. It was only your second week, and you hadn’t figured out yet where to sit at lunch or how to tie your shoelaces fast enough after practice or what to say when the other girls laughed about something that wasn’t funny.

So you cried. Quietly. In the farthest corner of the outdoor benches, head ducked like a kid in a storm. The bench was cold, even through your uniform skirt. The wind carried someone else’s laughter like it was meant for you and missed. Somewhere, a whistle blew—sharp and shrill—and it felt like it echoed down the center of your chest.

Art Donaldson saw you, but he didn’t stop. Just looked for a second longer than he probably meant to, then turned away to where Patrick was already shouting something about backhands and protein bars.

That was four years ago.

Now you’re sixteen and you’ve learned not to cry over sandwich boxes.

Now when they laugh, you laugh too.

Even if it’s about you.

Especially if it’s about you.

Now you know where to sit, even if no one ever saves you a seat. You know how to tie your laces faster than anyone else, double-knotted with the frayed ends tucked tight. You know how to nod when someone makes a joke at your expense—just enough to seem in on it, never enough to seem hurt.

You’re not friends with them. Not really. But you orbit the group like a borrowed moon—glowing just enough to be useful, just close enough to be kept. Never quite belonging to their sky, but still tethered by the invisible gravity of routine, of silence, of needing to be somewhere. You know that pulling away would leave a bruise too deep for anyone else to see.

Patrick talks the loudest. The other girls smile with their teeth and pass you looks like notes you’re not allowed to open. Once, one of them asked where you got your skirt, and when you said your mom mailed it from home, they shared a look like they’d just unwrapped a secret. Another gave you a granola bar after drills and said it looked like you needed it—smiling, syrup-sweet, like it was kindness instead of a blade.

And Art? Art laughs along. Always a second behind the punchline. Like he knows he should, even when he doesn’t want to.

Sometimes, when he thinks no one’s looking, he glances your way. Not long enough to mean anything. But not short enough to mean nothing, either.

You pretend not to notice.

And you pretend not to care.

Because at Mark Rebellato, you survive best when you feel nothing at all.

The community room always smells like chlorine and reheated pasta. The couches are sagging, the carpet is worn, and the ceiling fan clicks with every third spin, but no one seems to care. It’s where everyone goes after practice—sweaty, loud, half-asleep with their shoes kicked off and protein shakes melting on the floor.

You sit on the edge of the room like always, notebook open, textbook in your lap, headphones snug over your ears—your walkman clipped to your waistband, rewinding the same scratched cassette you always turn to when the world gets too loud. You pretend to study while your eyes flick across the page, but your ears stay tuned to the noise anyway, letting the music blur the edges of their laughter.

Patrick’s sprawled across the couch like he owns it. Art is next to him, one arm thrown over the back cushion, legs stretched long in front of him. The rest of the group is scattered—elbows and ponytails and empty water bottles.

“Did you see her at practice today?” one of the girls says, too loud. You don’t have to look up to know she’s talking about you, but you tune her out. She either thinks you can't hear her, or she doesn't care if you do.

“She totally biffed that volley,” another chimes in. “Like, cartoon-level wipeout.”

Someone snorts. "She was too busy watching Art."

Laughter breaks out like a ripple. That's when you turn your music up loud enough to drown them out. You don't care to hear them anymore.

“Should’ve asked for his autograph,” someone adds.

“Oh please,” the first girl says, “she’s obsessed with him. It’s actually kind of sad.”

“Hey,” someone else says suddenly, mischief curling around her voice. “I have an idea.”

There’s a pause, the kind that means trouble.

“What if Art hung out with her a little? You know, keep her happy until the tournament. Give us a better shot.”

Art laughs, a short breath through his nose. “What, like—entertain her?”

“Exactly,” Patrick says. “Kill her with kindness. Or whatever it is you do.”

More laughter. A rustle of agreement.

Art doesn’t answer right away.

But he doesn’t say no, either.

The next afternoon, he finds you on the benches near the courts—same spot you always go when practice ends early and the sun still feels warm enough to chase the ache out of your legs.

You’ve got your notebook open, pen resting between your fingers, headphones on again. You don’t notice him at first.

He clears his throat, exaggerated. Twice.

You flinch when you finally look up, pulling one side of your headphones off. “Oh. Hi?”

Art shifts his weight. Leans one shoulder against the fence. “Hey. Just, uh… figured I’d say hi. See what you’re working on.”

You blink. “Homework.”

“Cool. I love homework.” He pauses. “That’s a lie.”

You nod slowly, brows knitting. He’s never talked to you like this before. Not without the rest of them.

“I didn’t know you liked sitting out here,” he says, squinting at the horizon like it's part of the assignment.

You shrug. “It’s quiet.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

The silence stretches. He scratches the back of his neck.

You wait. Patient, polite. Wondering if he’s lost a bet or something.

Because it sure doesn’t feel like he came here for you.

Art clears his throat again. “You, uh… played well yesterday.”

You look at him like he’s just said the sky is green.

“I fell. Twice.”

He shrugs. “Happens.”

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. “What?”

“You’re acting kind of weird. Like… unusually nice. No offense.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “None taken.”

You wait a second longer. Then, like flipping a switch: “Do you want to sit?”

He does. Hesitantly. Like the bench might bite him.

You both stare out at the empty courts. The sun makes everything a little too bright.

“I like your headphones,” he says eventually.

“They’re from 1997.”

“Vintage, then.”

You smile, small and surprised.

He doesn’t expect it.

And he doesn’t know why it feels like he just passed a test he didn’t study for.

That night, in the boys' dorm lounge, Art sits half-slouched on the couch while Patrick paces the room with a tennis ball in hand, bouncing it off the wall and catching it with one palm like he’s conducting a very casual interrogation.

“Well?” Patrick prods. “Did she bite? Did she fall in love with your soulful silence?”

Art shrugs. “We talked. She’s… weird. In a good way, I guess. She’s kind of funny.”

Patrick snorts. “Funny how? Like, funny haha or funny sad?”

“I don’t know, man. She made this joke about vintage headphones.”

The other guys laugh like that’s the punchline.

One of them flops onto the floor dramatically. “Dude, if you end up catching feelings for the homework gremlin, I swear.”

Art rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’m just doing what you guys asked. Keeping her happy until the tournament.”

But when he says it, it feels wrong in his mouth. Like he’s repeating someone else’s line.

Still, he leans back and lets the noise of the lounge carry him, pretending it doesn’t matter.

Pretending it won’t.

The next few days start to fold around a rhythm.

He finds you near the vending machines after practice, offers you the last red Gatorade without asking if it’s your favorite—somehow already knowing it is.

You let him walk you back to the dorms. You make fun of the way he tapes his grip, the dramatic way he groans after drills. He teases you for your annotated notebook margins and the way your socks never match.

It’s easy. Easier than he thought it’d be.

Until you start flirting.

Soft, blink-and-you-miss-it things at first—like brushing your hand against his when you pass him a pen, or bumping your shoulder into his on purpose, laughter tucked behind your teeth.

One afternoon, he catches you watching him stretch from across the court. You don’t look away fast enough.

The next day, he lingers beside your desk in the study room a few beats longer than necessary. You ask if he wants help with algebra. He says no but pulls up a chair anyway.

You compliment his backhand form. He forgets how to respond.

He doesn’t go back to the lounge that night. Or the next.

By the third day, you’re under the bleachers together, sneakers kicked off and the backs of your hands brushing on accident and then not so accidentally. The courts glow in the late sun, soft and hazy.

You’ve been trading favorite songs and cafeteria horror stories when your voice gets quiet. Too quiet.

“It’s weird,” you say, fingers picking at the rubber edge of your notebook. “Being seen.”

He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head slightly, waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever… tried. Not really.” You let out a half-laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Maybe it’s easier when you’re the joke.”

He watches you a beat too long.

Then nudges your shoulder.

“They shouldn’t get to make you feel like that,” he says, and it’s not loud but it’s sure.

You look at him like you’re not sure how to believe it. Like it’s something you’ve never been told before. Like it's something he shouldn't be allowed to say.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

And it’s the first time he forgets why he started this.

The softness keeps unfolding like pages he never meant to read.

You share your music with him—one earbud each, knees brushing, both of you pretending not to notice how your shoulders keep inching closer. He hates your taste in music. He doesn’t tell you.

One night, he finds you asleep on your notebook in the library. You’ve underlined every third word in pink. He watches you breathe for a minute longer than necessary, then tucks a hoodie over your shoulders and walks away before you wake up.

He starts bringing you extra granola bars. Pretends he “accidentally” grabbed too many. You pretend to believe him.

He starts looking for you on the court before every practice, just to see where you are. Just to see if you're looking for him too.

You always are.

And then the week of the tournament arrives.

Everything at Mark Rebellato gets sharper when the stakes are high. Voices carry farther. Shoes squeak louder. Coaches bark orders like their lives depend on it. Even the sun feels more blinding.

There are extra drills. Extra laps. Extra eyes watching everything you do.

You try to focus—on your serves, your footwork, your posture. You try not to notice how quiet Art’s become.

He doesn’t meet your eyes as often. Doesn’t joke as much. There’s a kind of electricity humming under his skin like he’s stuck between wanting to win and wanting to tell someone he doesn't care.

You ask if he’s okay. He says he’s just tired.

You believe him. Because you want to.

And when you miss a shot during the second round of practice matches, you hear the scoff from one of the girls behind you. You don’t look. But you feel it.

Art doesn’t say anything.

That hurts worse.

You lose in the third round of the tournament. Not spectacularly. Just enough to sting. A wide shot here, a misread ball there. You try to hold it together through the match, through the post-game shake, through the claps on the back that don't feel like they mean it.

No one says anything as you walk off the court.

But you feel it in the way no one looks at you.

By the time you walk into the community room that night, it’s already started. The hush. The way laughter cuts off mid-sentence.

You make your way to the farthest corner with your books. Your hands shake when you unzip your bag. You try not to drop anything.

It doesn’t matter. They’re all watching you. Even when they pretend not to be.

You can hear them whispering. You don’t even need the words.

Then one voice rises above the others.

“You were supposed to keep her together, Art!”

You freeze.

It’s one of the girls—one of the ones who’d laughed the loudest that first day.

“You were supposed to butter her up or something! We said keep her calm so we could actually win this thing.”

And that’s when you hear it. Like the floor drops out from under you. Like every laugh, every kindness, every afternoon on the benches has been rewound and played back with the volume off. You hear it, and suddenly your hands won’t stop shaking.

What it was. What you were.

What it meant.

You don’t look at him. You don’t want to know if he’s surprised or sorry or silent.

You just run.

And when the door slams behind you, Art doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the group, fire catching behind his eyes.

Something inside him snaps—something he didn’t even know was still holding on. Maybe it’s the way she didn’t look at him before running. Maybe it’s how quiet the room went, like they all knew exactly what they’d done and didn’t care. He hears his own voice rise and doesn’t try to stop it. For the first time, it feels good to speak up. It feels like truth clawing its way out of his chest.

“She didn’t lose it for us,” he snaps. “You did. You ignore her in practice, you treat her like a joke, and then you expect her to pull off miracles?”

No one speaks.

“She’s better than any of you even see. And yeah, I talked to her because you told me to. But I stayed because I wanted to. Because she’s smart and kind and actually tries. Which is more than I can say for the rest of you.”

He leaves before they can answer. Before they can say anything that might make him stay.

He runs out after you.

You’re already halfway down the hill behind the dorms, gravel crunching under your shoes, your lungs burning like they’ve turned inside out. You don’t care where you’re going—just away. Away from the stares and the silence and the sound of your own heartbeat trying to climb out of your chest.

He calls your name once.

You keep walking.

He calls it again. Louder.

And then his hand wraps gently around your wrist, not tight, just enough to stop you.

“Let go,” you snap, voice shaking.

“Just—please. Please listen—”

“To what? To more lies? To more of you pretending I ever mattered?”

Your voice cracks, loud and raw and too real in the dark.

“I never mattered. Not to them. Not to you. I was a joke to you, Art.”

“You weren’t,” he breathes. “You weren’t. I didn’t mean for it to start like that—God, I didn’t even want to be part of it—but then you—”

“Then I what?”

“You mattered. To me.”

You laugh. Harsh. It feels like it tears your throat on the way out. “So what? I was your project? Your personal charity case? Did you write about me in your group chats? Compare notes?”

“No.”

“Did you tell them how stupid I sounded when I tried to flirt with you?”

“No.”

“Did you pity me?”

“No!”

The word echoes, punches between you.

He looks wrecked. Hair a mess. Chest rising and falling too fast.

“I liked you,” he says, so softly you almost miss it. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to. But I did. I do.”

Silence rings.

He takes a step closer.

“You made it easy to be real. And I didn’t know how to handle that. I was stupid and scared and—”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he says again. His voice is breaking.

“I thought you saw me,” you whisper.

“I did,” he says. “I do.”

And then he kisses you.

Not soft. Not delicate.

It’s desperate. It’s messy. It’s the kind of kiss that only comes after too much silence and too many lies and everything finally, finally snapping.

And somehow, it’s the only thing that feels like the truth.

You don't pull away.

Not when his hand cups your cheek. Not when his forehead rests against yours, breathless and trembling. Not even when he says your name like it’s something he’s still learning how to say right.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The quiet wraps around you both like the dusk settling in.

Then, softly:

“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”

You nod, but it still takes a minute for your voice to come back. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“But I’m really glad you chased me.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “I’d do it again.”

You link your pinky with his without thinking. It feels small. It feels steady.

And under the stars, beside the gravel path behind the dorms, with hearts pounding and eyes still red—you let yourself believe in something soft again.

Just this once.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl

#a writes #ava's asks #art donaldson #art donaldson fic #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson angst #challengers fic #challengers #challengers movie #patrick zweig

111 notes · View notes

musedeluce · 23 hours ago

Text

Money "Troubles" (Sylus x Reader)

A/N: Happy Birthday Sylus! (This has been an Idea of mine for a while lol I just so happened to write it now) I've seen other, lovely fics where Sylus spends money on MC and wants them to spend his money on themselves. But personally the thought of spending someone else's money is so distasteful to me, I really hate the thought of it. My idea of Luxury and Decadence is the same as MC in this fic, so I wondered how the LI's would deal with that. (l do plan to do the others!) Anyway - Some Musings about money, a pragmatic MC who’s definitions of Luxury differ from Sylus’s and how he deals with that. This is more like small vignettes tied together and not a full fic, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“5 Million, otherwise they’ll think I’m broke.” Sylus’s deep voice sounded in your ear, and you couldn’t help but snort under your breath.

“Or they’ll think you’re stupid, for paying way more than it’s worth.” You whispered, knowing only he could hear it. But since it was his decision and his money, you bought the protocore for 5 million, ignoring the pit in your stomach at the thought of spending that much of someone else’s money. Little did you know, that small exchange would initiate a domino of events, a single thread in the tapestry of your relationship with Sylus.

・・・

Sylus sighed, looking down at his phone, the notification from his bank taunting him. Earlier, he had given you his card, insisting you go out and buy clothes for an upcoming event in the N109 Zone - Black market gala, information hub, the usual for his line of work. You would be accompanying him of course, as your goals aligned. He made sure of that. Apparently, the implication that there was no limit to what you could spend was lost on you. In fact, he wanted you to get whatever expensive designer clothes and accessories your heart desired. Which is why the notification that you spent 187 dollars at a thrift store bothered him so. When you arrived for the mission prep at his place, he took the opportunity to tease you.

“187 dollars? Who knew you had such expensive tastes, Kitten.” It backfired for him, though, as you winced.

“I’m sorry, I tried to keep the cost as low as possible. I can pay you back!” Sylus internally facepalmed. There was no way he was going to have you pay back that paltry amount, especially when it had been such a battle to get you to use his card for this in the first place. He only succeeded when he framed it as work expenses, as if he had hired you, and listed out all the practical reasons for you to use his card, such as making sure your purchase history couldn’t be linked to activity in the N109 zone. (Which was why you mostly used cash when you where there.)

He had to admit though, that your money sense was impressive. The outfit you had managed to put together from the thrift store was absolutely stunning. Everyone around you would be intimidated and impressed by you, as they should be. It probably would have cost at least 2,000 dollars, designer label and brand new. He supposed the cost didn’t really matter as long as you were happy, but he ached to see you in the lap of luxury, as he thought you deserved. As he looked at you though, he was love-struck. Sylus felt incredibly lucky to be at your side, and happy that you wanted him there.

・・・

Concerned, you look at Sylus, who’s expression is displeased, as if he had just swallowed a lemon. Raising an eyebrow you asked him - “Are you alright?”

“Sweetie, you live on how much a month?” He was appalled, and you didn’t help the situation by misunderstanding the reason for his dismay.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s really low, all things considered. With my hunter’s salary it’s easily doable and I have enough to put in savings, an emergency fund and for fun afterwards.” Your smile is radiant as you continue. “I’m grateful to be in a comfortable position.” A smile grows across Sylus’s face in response, because he really does admire you and is proud of the work you do. He just thinks you deserve any luxury you could ever want.

“Of course you have everything handled. I’d expect nothing less of you, kitten.”

・・・

The crux of the matter was, of course, that you and Sylus had very different ideas of luxury and decadence. To you, things like buying the more expensive foods while grocery shopping, splurging on small treats, and sometimes going out were all luxuries to you. But for him, things like a private chef, the newest model motorcycles, designer clothes, state of the art technology, and so on were all luxuries that he wanted to share with you.

His least favorite words to hear from your mouth are “I don’t need it.” You say it almost all the time when he tries to spend his money on you. It’s not a lie though, you genuinely are refusing his attempts to buy you some of these things because you truly do not need or want them. But sometimes, you graciously accept them. He loved it when you did. It made him feel wanted and accepted, as well as triumphant because he felt that you were receiving what you deserved.

・・・

The key was to figure out the common denominators when you accepted his gifts, which was easy enough as Sylus was a smart man, and one who paid particular attention to you. It was a fun game he played with himself, teasing you in the process.

You almost never turned down gifts, as long as you didn’t see him buy them, and as long as you didn’t feel like it was excessive. A single expensive bottle of a perfume you loved? A single set of jewelry? Small treats? Expensive dinners and outings he invited you to? All of those you’d let him pay, and accept. Buying the company that makes the perfume or all the jewelry he thought would suit you? Not accepted.

Every time he tried to get you to use his card it was a battle. You’d almost always refuse, only acquiescing if he framed it as necessary for work or as something you could do in order to help him.

You were loath to spend more for things that you thought they were worth. A designer name meant nothing to you. Multiple versions of something when you only needed one? Out of the question.

It seemed to come down to a balance, anything he provided seemed to be fine as long as it wasn’t something that made you feel obligated, or manipulated, something you thought he might use against you. (Not that he would, but you, your memories gone, didn’t know that.) The two of you were still learning about each other, it just so happened that he knew more right now.

・・・

It was simple - all he had to do was treat you as you deserved, like his most treasured connection, his partner, equal in all things and deserving only the best. He’d give you gifts that you would accept, things you found useful, things you wanted, never making you feel trapped. It was all up to you. Eventually you’d get used to it, and eventually he’d make sure you rose your standards, and wouldn’t question when he treated you to only the best. You’d come to expect it, as you should, he’d make sure of that. Sylus had resolved to be with you, his partner, his equal and he would always treat you like the treasured person you were to him, who deserved only the best that he could offer, happy to spend his days with you, and that would never change.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus qin #love and deepspace sylus #x reader #lnds x reader #lads x reader

136 notes · View notes

yingdu-lover · 2 days ago

Text

"I am not an accessory...I want freedom!" : Li Haolin's critique of the comphet media expectations, toxic entertainment industry and deconstruction of 'heroism' in To Be Bero X episode 2

Disclaimer : There are two more episodes left, and things will go haywire beyond our expectations; interpretations will change. However, I do believe that the core message should not change; the vision Li Haolin has, and I hope people who have watched his previous works recognize this. Li Haolin did say that the core theme remains the same in all To Be Hero works. May I have the pleasure of reminding you that Link Click was previously named 'To Be Hero: Photo'? Yeah. That being said, I should start my yapping.

Note : If you are a Link Clicker and have gone through all the stages of emotional peculiarities when Yingdu was airing, you may have noticed, with a critical lens, that Yingdu was very vocal about the nuances and politics of the entertainment industry. The recurring dialectic between (heteropatriarchal) capitalist consumerism and subversive counter-narratives really makes me happy; it affirms that Li Haolin is a political artist.

TBHX had a massive worldwide release; of course, it is aimed at an international audience, but I am sure that releasing TBHX a short period after Yingdu's completion was something Li Haolin did purposefully. Probably, it was a deliberate nod to avid Link Click fans to keep thinking intertextually. I took that as a sign.

Link Click and To Be Hero : Photo

(If you wish to skip this section, you can, but you won't be able to understand much when I actually start talking about To Be Hero X. I will draw ample comparisons with these discussions.)

Link Click, especially Yingdu, really deconstructs the concept and construction of 'Hero' and their identity. To quote Li Haolin: Tbhx is not your usual superhero story. It is fundamentally deconstructing the typical popular narratives.

To summarise, Link Click has/shows/raises questions about

1. explicit references to the concept of 'Hero'

2. how heteronormative masculinist capitalism forges the figure of 'Hero'

3. the question of agency : The dichotomy between public and private

4. narrative identity : hero, villain or is it a blur?

5. the 'soft' power of artistic hierarchy : genre and gender

6. the politics of ordinariness in popular culture (the communist propaganda :D)

[Of course, a lot of introductory yapping is about Link Click! It's important! So I am not stopping]

1. explicit references to the concept of 'Hero'

Starting with the 'Hero' (Hero with a capital H) theme, I think the first time we were introduced to Power Rangers-type heroes in Link Click was in the Doudou episode. Oh my God, this was the only episode that really stressed me out. Anyway, the Doudou story hits so hard because it is painfully realistic; it weaves simple yet endearing love with guilt, escapism, patience, helplessness, brutal honesty, and the acceptance of vulnerability, creating an alternative form of 'heroism' that is both funny and poignant at the same time. It is truly one of the most powerful episodes in the entire season 1.

Season 2's 'hero' discourse is more nuanced, so I'll discuss it while addressing the fifth point. It continues in Yingdu.

Ah, Yingdu. Cheng Xiaoshi's studio was called 'Hero Photo Studio' (ah) before Lu Guang moved in (actually- no, 'Hero' was replaced with 'Time' after they returned from Yingdu and Cheng Xiaoshi kept the promise he made with his maa)

Cheng Xiaoshi exclaiming : am I a hero in a freaking donghua-?! (ah.)

And those lines from The Eye full version :

No matter how hard we looked in the lost and found We never could shine the moonlight underground To the point where we got sick of pretending like we are saviors Till we learn to carry on

Heroes and their savior complex: What is a hero if he does not save people? Useless, right? Heroes are built on narratives. There needs to be a villain to blame, victims to be saved, and most importantly, people to identify the hero as a hero and give the final verdict. What happens when even one parameter is missing?

It's quite amazing how Lu Guang is highlighting his fragility. He does pretend, and he has to be adamant and quite delulu in order to continue his task, or he will collapse.

The interesting thing is that there is an utterance of 'we' rather than 'I.' So, is Cheng Xiaoshi cognizant of this? Something is amiss. It beautifully haunts. It's not just a recollection of the past or their shared suffering and understanding of the world, but rather a sense of final submission on Lu Guang's part.

2. how heteronormative masculinist capitalism forges the figure of 'Hero'

'Heroism' is a fundamentally masculinist construction. Even the term 'virtue,' which has taken on a moral connotation in modern vocabulary, is actually associated with virility/vir (the Latin word for 'man'). Historically, justice, reason, and virtue—the three most basic tenets of heroism—were reserved for (and believed to be possessed only by) exclusively able-bodied men. Women are bestial, devoid of reason, driven by excessive passion, and therefore can never be eligible for the role of a 'Hero.' Even in recent years, the trend is that a female character has to renounce some (or all) parts of her femininity to access aggressive masculinity. Moreover, she can almost never exist without being a shadow to her male counterpart(s). In short, humanist 'Heroism' is predominantly masculine. Female characters must follow a norm to be considered a 'Hero'; they can't topple a system. The fixed binary positions of hero/heroine are heteronormative constructs. Ever wondered why, when a 'heroine' saves a 'Hero' (let's assume both are able-bodied, of equal caliber), it's considered very 'subversive'? It should just be another story of saving people, right? But...It is the normative story that sells. It sells, and that's what matters to capitalism. An alternative story of heroism will remain alternative and special (you know those companies that hire disabled people, queer people, and Black people as a form of tokenism? Then they sack them first without any legible reason or notice). A cluster of 'heroes' will never be able to compete with the 'Hero' (hero with a capital H).

Now, what kind of 'hero' is Qiao Ling?

Honestly speaking, she has been saving Shiguang's ass since the beginning of season 1. Whether it is financial help, legal help, paying hospital bills, paying their bail, or confronting difficult opponents, Qiao Ling hardly backs down. She takes risks; she is overprotective of Shiguang, but since her 'heroism' is so subtle and there is a lack of an audience to identify her as a hero, her 'heroism' goes unnoticed for the most part.

3. the question of agency : The dichotomy between public and private

I discussed a hell lot about it in my analysis of Xia Fei's character before. A few excerpts-

He (Xia Fei) is smart enough to know he is being exploited (and tbh the theme of surveillance and making him the 'morbid' object of gaze, I say morbid because in the last scene of his pv, it's a dead shot, his eyes look so dead, the camera's battery is dead. But yk what remains? his face card. The like button continually popping with likes made me very uncomfortable.

and

Also Xia Fei's story talks about another important theme of the donghua; photo! How photos taken in private spheres are meant to preserve memories of the loved ones, loved encounters. How you capture someone you love in that still image, alive with the emotion you associate with them, giving it an afterlife. The photo becomes the literal and metaphorical medium through which Lu Guang can rewrite history. Forget-me-not, remembrance. It empowers him.

On the contrary, for Xia Fei, it is the panopticon seizing his life and rendering it absurd. The emotive power and affect for lu guang changes into viscous institutionalised power politics for Xia Fei. Brilliant! 😭

Xia Fei is surrounded by cameras and it's the play of fate that it continues even to his private life (while befriending Shiguang)

The most perfect focus Wandering between gazes

Wherever there's a good position, I'll offer a smile To the lights, I lend this beautiful body To stand in the center

No need to guess, this complete disguise The crowd will eventually forget this mask It doesn't matter if the great fire extinguishes the truth Who will it be, perfectly concealed The stolen gaze Yeah, I know I gotta run Yeah, fake a smile in calm

It's a public performance and an elaborate enterprise of concealing the truth; the more you can hide yourself and present what the viewers want, the more success comes to your plate. But very dangerously, when the mask starts to replace your real face, you don't even process it in the beginning, but when it's realized, it's actually too late.

4. narrative identity : hero, villain or is it a blur?

Let alone heroes, villains, or contradictions, all of us are a cluster of fragmented or gap narratives trying to make sense of each other's existence. The reason we resonate with others is that some of our own narratives click with theirs. Our narratives have gaps, and we fill those gaps with what we want to believe. The way we perceive others, forge relationships with others, or even ourselves fills in the gaps in the storytelling. That's how we become complex human beings. Objectively, we are on a perpetual stage of liminality, but to make it easier for our subjectivity, we appropriate narratives according to our ease and taste.

A few months ago, I would easily lose my calm over the 'Is Lu Guang evil?' debate. Now, I feel that it is actually important. Lu Guang himself doesn't identify as a 'Hero.' The problematization of Lu Guang's stance as a 'Hero' is important. Remember the fable-esque story of the forest fire that began featuring in S2 and continued in Yingdu? Who was the culprit? Who was the hero? We may NEVER know. When you are searching for the absolute truth, after a point in time, you realize that absolute truth has no practical value. If you have watched Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon (I strongly recommend this movie; please watch it), you know how people choose a narrative for their own convenience and continue their lives with it, however contradictory they might be from each other. This is what really happens in our daily lives. The problem arises when one narrative is weaponized by a certain group and preached as the grand narrative, and the people who believe in alternative narratives become victims of persecution.

The similar story follows in creating the figures of a 'Hero' or a 'villain.' Until now, Xia Fei and Lu Guang's characters have subverted those horizons of expectations the most in the Link Click universe.

5. the 'soft' power of artistic hierarchy : genre and gender

First, I would like to mention a few lines from Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own

Speaking crudely, football and sport are 'important'; the worship of fashion, the buying of clothes 'trivial'. And these values are inevitably transferred from life to fiction. This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing room.

Sadly, there will be even a tiny residual of internalized misogyny even when we grow up. It's hard to deal with and that's why it's very important to point out. Romance and shipping is for feminine minds, therefore 'trivial' as a genre. War narratives and heroic battles talk about 'serious' topics, therefore it has an actual 'plot.'

Firstly,

the notion of heroism is inextricably linked with patriotism. In modern-day popular narratives, we may not see the blatant nationalism, but there always remains an echo of 'sacrificing for our own people.' Who are these people? Heroism can't exist if there is no distinction between 'us' and the 'other.' Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. (Very rough translation: It is one's sweet duty to die for his fatherland/country.)

Heroic narratives are war narratives. If you change the perspective, your hero becomes a villain. We always like to see ourselves at the end of suffering as people who have been wronged; injustice has been thwarted against us, and it's our hero's duty to save us.

I know this is more relevant to tbhx, but if you look closely, Link Click implicitly builds upon this: the hierarchy of gendered genres.

Also, Lu Guang's commentary on art, fiction, and philosophy was much more than just shits and giggles. He equates Shakespeare with donghua and manhua; all of these are forms of popular art with different modes of presenting philosophy. Donning a mask and playing a character from Shakespeare's play and cosplaying as a donghua or manhua character are not that different. Lu Guang questions the hierarchy of high culture and low culture. He writes his diary in Latin and Mandarin; he is undoubtedly a fierce scholar. He respects alternative belief systems such as Tarot cards, traditional Chinese medicine; indigenous or pagan forms of knowledge that are often looked down upon by modern Western scientific disciplines (I will write a separate post on this). The crux of my discussion is that Lu Guang continuously identifies the various forms of hierarchy in social beliefs and art and questions their validity. It's a form of soft power that no one bats an eye at, but many do not realize that it shapes how they process information. It is very much linked to the gendered hierarchy, as misogyny and the exclusion of women are very pervasive. And this brings to our last point : the question of power.

6. the politics of ordinariness in popular culture (the communist propaganda :D)

Lmao. Did I say communist propaganda? wth sure.

I will start my combined discussion from here.

Heroes are these big, big people with big, big superpowers-very flashy, very cute, and very demure. Can ordinary people afford to be a hero? It's not a new question, but I can't remember anyone who has dealt with this topic the way Li Haolin has.

I have talked about this before. This genre reflects Li Haolin's vision in his various works. Take, for example, an episode from To Be Hero: Leaf, where little children are playing on the midnight streets, where all the adults have gone for a factory strike. There is a HUGE focus on ordinary people. The reason I remember Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin's Odessa Steps sequence is not because it was a government-funded Russian film to preach communism, but because it showed how to decentralize your focus from grand narratives in artistic representation (for example: navy mutiny and soldiers fighting) and strike the audience with alternative, lesser important narratives (normal people suffering from the war). Digressing from the crime-suspense plot and delving deep into Emma's experience, weaving the Shiguang story with hers in 'Keep in Mind' was not truly a necessity plot-wise, but Haolin felt compelled to do so. To the person who mentioned in their post: 'link click' centers around two young boys who are struggling to pay their debt. I will forever be indebted to you. It's all there, but we need to identify it.

Now that I have discussed all of that, let's dive back into To Be Hero X. Just a list so that I don't forget things,

1. Moon and her plight : Idol culture and how relationship rumours affect female idols' public reputation

2. how corporate dehumanizes people

3. Private queer lives and politics in entertainment industry: Wreck and Nice's relationship as a twofold critique on the audience.

So, Moon.

Can you imagine how disturbing it is to be romantically associated with a person just because you signed a contract with a company? For three years, her main identity was someone's girlfriend, whom she didn't even love. She used to be a travel vlogger, a woman who constantly travels and archives different experiences. If you are into the earliest feminist discourses, women traveling is a frequent topic. From Mary Wollstonecraft to Virginia Woolf - everybody acknowledges that. From THAT, she became someone's girlfriend. The sheer humiliation. The most heartbreaking part is that it is the people's expectations which curbed her teleportation powers; it can only open to Nice's side. Moon can't leave Nice. But is Nice bound to her? I don't think there were any suggestions like that.

If you have already guessed it, then congratulations! You are right; Moon's experience as a female idol is actually a microcosmic representation of how women are treated in a heteropatriarchal society.

When they were hatching the plan to 'free' Moon, Lin Ling said :

'Since Nice is a perfect husband, you can't say no to his proposal.'

Of course! If a man is handsome, virtuous, a respectable 'Hero', and the people love to see the heroine as the Hero's partner, how dare the heroine refuse this proposal? The Moon's consent does not matter. It would be a narrative so audacious and absurd that it would not sell. Champagne problems, ha?

And that woman who constantly speaks corporate said: "We have locked them in the same room for a whole month without any other engagement. Of course, they will grow feelings for each other." Ah, fuck-ass logic. Before you jump on me saying, 'But oh, what about the propinquity effect?' and shit, it is a very heteronormative notion to assume that a man and a woman will always develop romantic feelings for each other. Many people (me, I am the many people) headcanon that Moon is queer, aro-ace, and a strong independent woman—I second all of these, but my point is Moon doesn't need a thesis paper on her sexual preference or romantic orientation to reject Nice or Nice's substitute. Again, Lin Ling is Nice's substitute! Imagine the horror: you are shipped with a man you don't love, and people want you to marry him. Then the fucking company doesn't even have the basic courtesy to inform you that that man died, and now you are playing the same game with a substitute! It's a double violation of Moon's dignity. So, Moon is just a mindless idk animal? You throw a man assigned to be her husband or his decoy WITHOUT her consent and EXPECT her to fall in love with him? I mean, Moon would eventually know about Lin Ling's identity...wha-what was the point of excluding her from the discussion and keeping her in the dark? If it was just work, then why wasn't she consulted before the step was taken? She is the central figure, and she has no say in any of the mayhem unfolding.

Moon could be a sorted woman totally comfortable with her heterosexuality and still say no to Nice, even if he is the last surviving man on Earth. She just doesn't like him; it's that simple. That should be the end of the debate. However, people are not ready to accept that. The audience of the 'To Be Hero X' world and the real audience of 'To Be Hero X' donghua both should question themselves: is it okay to still enforce a relationship between them when the woman clearly expresses her sheer irritation at this fake relationship?

And that staged marriage plot! A perfect woman can either be a wife or a dead wife. Part of the reason Lin Ling cries while holding Moon during Moon's 'death' scene is that Moon has to metaphorically and literally die and withdraw herself from the narrative in order to chase the freedom she deserves. She can't exist with her individuality and agency in this world; capitalism and heteronormativity will not allow that.

Also, Moon's mock attempt at suicide is not funny. If I remember correctly, Li Haolin said in the Link Click art book interview that Liu Siwen and his girlfriend's story was something he actually took from a real-life story from a newspaper. Contrary to the happy ending in episode 5.5, the girl actually ended her life.

Another thing I want to mention is Moon from Lin Ling's perspective. In that interview, Lin Ling said

: Moon is not my girlfriend, she is my goddess.

It is not a typical 'romantic' declaration. Lin Ling acknowledges his position and accepts the fact that he will never be able to reach an equal position with Xiao Yueqing. That's why Yueqing is an inspiration to be admired from afar. And do you know why he accepts this? Because he respects Xiao Yueqing. During their one month together, Lin Ling realized that she never loved Nice to begin with. Lin Ling was the person she learned to be a bit softer. "Lin Ling is a much better name," she said. There is no possibility of assuming a relationship (which, honestly, most men don't even pay heed to. If I love you, I will be eligible to be with you, I will make you fall for me, and then how will you be able to say no to me? This is the general logic. Annoy, cross boundaries, violate personal space, and then coerce the woman into falling in love with you because YOUR love is so pure, omg) when the other party doesn't reciprocate. Lin Ling can still love her, but the love will not be actualized. I think Lin Ling was really upset when he learned that Yuqqing was forced to be in a fake relationship with Nice. He didn't want to hurt her more. The idol-fan relationship was fine, but in my opinion, Lin Ling did see her as more than an idol. His simple efforts to make things better for Xiao Yueqing without the illogical hope that 'if I do this, she will fall in love with me' make their relationship very humane. There might be a desire to be with her, but it never becomes the determining motive. I think Lin Ling would say this to Xiao Yueqing: Ti voglio bene. The literal translation of this Italian phrase is 'I want good for you,' which feels more impactful to me than its allegedly more intense romantic cousin.

Whatever the nature of the feelings Lin Ling had for Xiao Yueqing, if more people had this kind of feeling for others in our world, the world would be a much better place than it is today.

I love Li Haolin for how he tries to liberate heterosexual relationships from heteronormative constraints. In a sense, he introduces a splash of queerness into those relationships. Haolin's hetero couples are couples not merely because they share the same room as a boy and a girl. He portrays heterosocial relationships in a beautiful way. There is room to explore and form different kinds of human bonding. If things were normal, maybe Moon would form a really good friendship with Lin Ling. I feel that Lin Ling is the best interpreter of Moon as a human in tbhx.

2. how corporate dehumanizes people

Moon clearly has a more marginalized space in the dynamic, but how does one process power and position thrown towards them without their full control? Nice's character makes us ponder over this. Power and privilege come with a price. For Moon, she still had room to be subversive because things were clearly not working in her favor. What excuse does Nice have in this regard? It's much more complex. His death was so comical and absurd that until a new character is introduced in the second episode, we don't even feel that a real person has died. THAT is the power of perspective and storytelling. Lin Ling didn't quite process what he saw and perhaps didn't feel the need to bother. And Moon... yes, Moon had her reasons and irritation towards Nice, but it was really appalling to see that she did not even feel a little sad about Nice's death. How bitter must her workplace be? How much does capitalism isolate people to the point where fellow sufferers do not even bat an eye at each other? I am not blaming Moon, but I am asking you to consider the horrifying simplicity in this admission: so what if he died? You arranged for another one? Well, I felt chills. Imagine, one day you die, and then, very unfortunately, you didn't actually die and return to see a clone of yourself performing better than you probably could have done. Corporate not only dehumanizes people but makes people dehumanize each other and that's how it thrives.

Next, I would ask you to remember or re-read the third discussion; the question of agency : The dichotomy between public and private. Just replace Xia Fei with Nice. Heck, listen to Xia Fei's character song and if that doesn't make you remember Nice-

fake a smile in calm

3. Private queer lives and politics in the entertainment industry: Wreck and Nice's relationship as a twofold critique on the audience.

*sighs*.

I thought Haolin would just tease us with a iykyk rivals-enemies to lovers trope between a hero and a villain. Like, people who want to ship, ship. I really didn't expect him to pick shiguang, reverse the colour scheme and maintain the trauma and go : did you like my doomed yaoi?! 😃 man-

Haolin's obsession with widows needs to be studied. He pulled the similar string thrice in Yingdu and it's just the second episode in tbhx. Chill, man.

Back to analysis...what should I say? Let's assume you are Wreck.

you look at him like this. You wanted to be a hero with Nice together. So, for Wreck, to be a hero really meant to be with Nice.

Then one day, a script shattered everything. He became a hero, you became his villain, a literal stepping stone for him, so that his trust value increases.

The flashback suggests that Nice would frequently visit Wreck's house, probably the only place he could call 'home.' Nice would let his imperfect but real, unguarded self liberate in front of him.

And then suddenly, one day, he calls Moon his 'goddess.' You text him, call him, and send letters, but he doesn't reply. You shared a private life beyond the gaze of the camera and the prompt of scripts with him, and the company doesn't feel the need to inform you of his death. You reached there for the much-awaited encounter because nothing makes sense to you. The moment he speaks, a world shatters in your heart; he doesn't seem like your Nice. Still, you urge him to speak, almost pleadingly, because nothing makes sense and you hold onto that one tiny belief that things are still okay; maybe it's just a play. Then the illusion breaks. You can't tolerate it anymore and implore the imposter to speak the truth. He says that Nice committed suicide. He died.

People will remember Moon as an individual and someone who had an emotional dynamic with Lin Ling. But Wreck makes us mourn for the original Nice who died.

I don't know if Wreck knew that Nice was capable of doing something like that. He had already begun to cry, and when he heard the truth, he didn't even say things like, 'It can't be possible,' or 'How can it be possible?' Probably, it was more than possible, and that's why he was so tortured and disturbed. Wreck fell to his death with a smile, thinking that perhaps he might finally be able to be together with Nice peacefully.

Now, after everything, people will come and say: 'Ah, they were best friends.' Sure, they were. And that doesn't sit mutually exclusive to being lovers. What I feel is that it is a very conscious narrative within the narrative that Haolin deliberately put forth to unfold the compulsory heterosexuality and queer erasure in the viewership. Fans in the tbhx world forgot Wreck and didn't bother to understand what made him a villain. If tbhx donghua fans do the same after knowing the other perspectives, it's really... just, um, disappointing. You are proving Haolin's point, and you are the type of fans being criticized in the show. If Wreck were a female villain, my god.

I mean, yeah, I am kind of tired of 'proving' that they were lovers. It's the basic lack of media literacy.

I HAVE YAPPED TOO MUCH HELLO

did moon really survive? we don't know. did nice really die? we don't know. did wreck really die? i don't know. did LIN LING REALLY survive? I DON'T KNOW.

But I don't think those will totally topple these reflections.

Special note :

hello, today is this head emptu's birthday. please give him blessings and pray that he does not bite through the longevity noodles. He has a wife at home. and a sister. please. He has a family.

#to be hero x meta #to be hero x #tbhx #tbhx nice #tbhx wreck #nicewreck #link click meta #tumblr meta #rupu yaps #link click #lu guang #cheng xiaoshi #shiguang #时光代理人 #chinese donghua #happy birthday cheng xiaoshi

79 notes · View notes

lessersole · 3 days ago

Text

Bridging Boroughs

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Bartender!Reader with a past. Platonic!Matt Murdock

Summary: You and Matt come up with a plan to take on Kingpin politically.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: Spoilers for DD:BA episode 8, (but works if you're not watching). Probably misunderstandings of the US political system.

------------

Matt groans as he wakes up. He feels like he got punched in the chest by a truck.

He tries to take in his surroundings - it’s hard over the beeping of the machines, but under the stillness of night he realises someone is sitting beside his hospital bed.

“Heather?” He croaks.

“Nope,” comes the unapologetic answer. He recognises that voice, but hasn’t heard it in a while. Matt frowns - is he wrong?

The pressure of booted feet landing on his bed, one ankle crossing over the other as his guest casually stretches out her legs gives him a better idea who his visitor is. He tries another name.

“You got it," you confirm. Matt can hear the mirthless smile in your voice. “Glad to hear we’re not complete strangers, even if I never would have guessed you’d throw yourself in front of a bullet aimed at the Kingpin.”

“I wasn’t-” Matt’s protestations are cut off by a tightness in his chest and he coughs, wincing at the pain, “I wasn’t trying to protect him.”

Your feet leave the bed as you press a plastic cup of water against the back of his hand. Matt takes it as silently as it's offered, a few sips doing little to soothe the roughness of his throat.

“What are you doing here anyway?” He asks, reluctantly letting you take the glass from him when the wires tangled around him stop him reaching the sidetable himself.

“Well, that’s rude.” Your tone is more amused than offended.

“I mean it. I haven’t seen you since-” his voice dies in his throat.

“Since the funeral.” You finish for him, voice softer, “But I keep up to date. You’re all over the news. Thought it would be polite to visit an old friend in hospital.”

“We’re barely friends,” there’s a bitterness to Matt’s tone, more from regret than animosity. It’s been a long time since you were close, “And I’m pretty sure visiting hours were over a long time ago.”

“I make my own hours, you know that. And I said old friend.” You pause, continuing when his only objection is an irritated sigh. “Plus I saw a mutual acquaintance of ours recently - he was worried about you.”

Matt’s mouth sets in a hard line. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Forgive me if I’m not convinced,” your eyes scan over his damaged body, the tubes and machines keeping him alive, “And honestly, when Frank Castle is concerned about your mental health, something’s gotta be pretty wrong.”

“So you’re still in touch with Frank. And you think I’m the one who’s in trouble.”

“I drop in on him now and then, make sure he’s not dead. I don’t charge in on him like a madman with a deathwish.”

Matt grimaces.

“So come on, Matt. I’ve seen the other news about you too. The other you. What’s going on?”

In the absence of anyone else to talk to who won’t judge him, Matt reluctantly opens up.

Time passes, and as the sun threatens to break over the horizon, you both sink into thoughtful silence.

"Did you ever think that maybe you need to meet Fisk on his level?” You ask.

“I’d never do what he does,” Matt spits emphatically, “That’s the difference between us-”

“That was the difference between you. The difference now is that he’s the one who’s gone ‘legit’. Officially, at least.”

Matt opens his mouth to object, but you talk over him. “You not changing the city as a lawyer is nothing new. I thought you'd resigned yourself to that after - after Foggy. But Fisk isn’t fighting in the dark any more; you’ve lost your advantage.”

“So what, are you saying I should run for Mayor?”

“God, no. But we need to look in that direction. Maybe someone else, someone who’s pro-enhanced p-”

“Wait,” Matt bolts upright, ignoring the pain that slices through him, “There is someone. We could at least ask for help, while I’m stuck here.”

“Oh, so there’s a ‘we’ now?”

Matt grins, “How familiar are you with Brooklyn?”

—

Getting inside the Congressman’s office is easy for you, even in broad daylight. Plenty of people filing in and about, milling around - and you know how to go unnoticed. The bustling space is a much more casual, open place than you'd expected.

Getting access to him directly is more of a challenge.

After holding a store room door open for a smiling volunteer, you duck inside. Spotting a pile of discarded t-shirts from the recent campaign, you grab one and quickly swap it for your own plain top, before adding the casual blazer you'd worn to look appropriately professional on top of it. No need to be too obvious.

You'd spied his private office on your first loop around the floor, and now you make your way indirectly towards it. One well-placed slippery flyer in the path of a rushing intern later, and the woman stationed at the desk outside his door is running to the bathroom to try and soak the hot coffee out of her shirt.

Smiling benignly, you slip unseen into the Congressman’s office. The man you're looking for has his back to the door, standing behind a desk leafing through a file.

You have a moment to admire his broad back, the white shirt straining over strong shoulders, tapering down where it tucks into dark pants over narrow hips.

Forcing your eyes away from where they’ve drifted down, you've barely taken two steps into the room before he speaks.

“Are you one of those people who breaks in to try and sell me extra security?”

You stop abruptly - he hasn’t even turned around.

“No,” you answer casually, continuing to approach, “But maybe I should be, that sounds like a fun job. Do you think it pays well?”

“No idea,” finally Congressman Barnes turns to face you, dropping his papers onto the desk between you.

You let your gaze linger over his torso. He must get those shirts custom made, you think, so they're snug over his flat stomach without bursting the buttons over his chest.

Barnes crosses his arms, and the motion reminds you to look at his face, where he’s quirking an eyebrow at you, unflustered and unamused.

“So what are you doing breaking into my office?”

“Breaking in?” You try to sound offended, “I just wanted to meet the person I’ve been door knocking for-”

“You’re not one of the volunteers,” he interrupts cooly, “And you’re definitely not on the payroll. So now you need to explain why you’re lying as well as breaking in.”

“What, you know every single person who works for you?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat while you recalculate your approach, then take the last few steps towards him, smiling broadly and holding out your hand, “I just wanted to say hi, have a quick chat.”

Instead of answering or shaking your hand, Barnes narrows his eyes suspiciously at you.

“And there was no breaking anything, so it wasn’t breaking in,” you grumble, lowering your hand.

“I’m still not hearing an explanation.”

“Okay,” you sigh, presumptuously dropping into one of the chairs in front of his desk, “I’ve come to ask what you’re planning to do about Mayor Fisk.”

Bucky’s neutral facade cracks in surprise. “What I'm planning to do about Mayor Fisk?” he repeats.

“His crusade against ‘vigilantes’,” you put air quotes around the loaded term, “His so-called taskforce are breaking every law they come up against to wipe out anyone they decide is suspicious, including everyone with enhanced abilities they can get their hands on. You were elected on a platform of protecting those same people, right? You can’t just do nothing.”

“I ran on more than one issue,” Bucky says, sitting down opposite you, “And Mayor Fisk was also elected by the people - and even if it wasn’t a key part of his campaign, as I understand it his opposition to vigilantes wasn’t exactly a secret.”

“That’s no excuse to just roll over and let him do what he wants!”

Bucky frowns. “No, it’s not,” he muses, “But so far his taskforce have restricted themselves to Manhattan. Unless they cross into Brooklyn, there’s not much I can do about it.”

You're visibly unimpressed at his answer, crossing your arms and glaring at him in place of a response.

After a moment of thought, Bucky’s gaze intensifies, and he leans towards you across the desk, “Do you have a - vested interest - in this?”

Fighting to keep your heart rate steady, you answer him honestly, “I’m here on behalf of a friend. And everyone else who feels hopeless about what the Kingpin is doing to our city. Everyone else who wants to fix it.”

Bucky studies you silently. Your answer was true - and you have no intention of sharing more than you need to about your history, or those nights when it bleeds into your present. Even Fisk never knew about you, and with Karen in California, Matt and Frank are the only people left in the city who have any idea what you've done, and neither of them know you've not given it up as thoroughly as you suggest.

"This friend," Bucky starts, clearly not believing you, "they didn't want to speak to me themselves?"

"They're in hospital." Your answer is more vehement than you intended, and you hope you've not given too much away.

Barnes sits back with a sigh, “Okay. I’ll talk to my team about it. We’ve been considering putting out a statement; a citizen complaint is a good enough reason to push that through. And I’ll look into what else we can do. Encourage an investigation into the taskforce, or some kind of oversight requirements. Legal protections for enhanced people with no record of vigilantism.”

It’s less than you wanted, but more than you'd hoped for from a politician. “Sounds like an okay start,” you allow.

An amused smile flickers across Bucky’s face as he stands up, dismissing you. You mirror him.

“Are you a Brooklyn resident?” He asks.

“Not exactly.”

“That’s a no.”

“Compassion doesn’t stop at the East River,” you retort, and Bucky’s smile widens.

“I agree. And I give you my word that I’ll do everything I can to rein Fisk in and keep innocent people safe, inside my jurisdiction and out.” He holds his hand out to you.

“Good,” you answer begrudgingly, grasping his hand firmly, “I’m holding you to that.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” he squeezes back, “And your friend - if it’s dangerous for them in Manhattan, there’s a safe place for them this side of the river. Always. If Fisk’s taskforce follows - well, there might be more I can do.”

“Good to know. And if you ever want to update me on your progress - save me trekking all the way out here again - I work at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen,” You give him the name as you turn to leave. “If you make good on your promise, I might even buy you a drink.”

Bucky smiles. It’s an appealing offer. “I’ll keep that in mind. Wait,” he nods to your shirt, where Vote Barnes for the 9th District is emblazoned across your chest, “Did you pay for that?”

Rolling your eyes, you slip your jacket from your shoulders, Bucky’s eyes following the smooth motion, “I was going to give it back,” you lie.

“Don’t.” he stops you, a quick twitch at the corner of his lips, “You can keep it. Looks good on you.”

You smile languidly as you pull the jacket back on.

“Thanks, Congressman,” you reach for the door handle, adding over your shoulder, “I’ve been looking for something to wear in bed.”

Once his door has swung shut behind you Bucky lets out a long breath, rubbing his right hand over his face as he sinks into his chair.

He could have handled that more professionally, but something in your fearless attitude and sly smile had intrigued him - and the reason for your questionable visit was smart, principled - and ballsy.

He’ll definitely be stopping by that bar in Hell’s Kitchen.

136 notes · View notes

monstersandgenderqueers · 2 days ago

Text

Little Gifts (Part Five)

You find Loki, and you decide that perhaps the best gift would be honesty. But really, he should appreciate your gifts more.

Pairing: Loki x neurodivergent!reader

Word count: 2950

A/N: The fluff returns. Maybe. It's somewhere in the middle, really. There's a bit of an awkward jump between the two segments in this part, but the last portion wasn't enough to post on its own, I feel. I'm also now over 12.6 k deep into this. I may have to get myself a little treat or something.

Divider credit @/saradika

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

You sit in your usual seat at the far end of the dining table, the horse plushie held tightly to your chest with one hand as you pick at your food with the other. It's just Nat and Steve eating tonight, and their whispers seem far too loud for your ears right now.

You've come to expect his presence at the table, even though you definitely hated it in the beginning. You've even started to become comfortable eating with someone directly across from you. For a while, it was nice to listen to someone talk and actually know what they were saying instead of just nodding and pretending.

You sigh, wondering where Thor is. Is he really still looking for Loki?

You hope not. You hope Thor already found him hours ago, shortly after you holed yourself up in your room. You hope the reason Thor is not here eating three full plates is because he's with Loki right now, trying to convince him to come and eat dinner. You hope Loki agrees, and sits across from you, and taps your foot with his to get your attention. You hope that when you finish the part of the meal you enjoyed the most, you'll look down and see more of it on your plate, and an almost shy smile on Loki's Face.

Devastatingly, nothing you hope for comes true.

You force yourself to keep eating, knowing that Nat has been keeping an eye on you today. Worse, by the way Steve glances your way, he's probably aware of what happened. Or, at least, what Nat thinks happened. After finishing your meal, you whisper goodnight to the two, not knowing whether they heard you or not. Since you don't want to repeat it, you simply stand and clean up after yourself.

On your way back to your room, you notice that Loki's door is ajar.

Is he back?

Shuffling toward it, you knock on the door lightly. When there's no response, you whisper-shout, "Hello? Loki?"

You hear nothing, just your own breathing. Holding the horse plushie up higher on your chest, you decide to walk in and do a little investigating.

The first thing you notice is how empty it is. With the exception of the bed, topped with boring white bedding, and the equally uninspiring white cube nightstand, there's nothing.

You know what would liven this place up? A fern! You think, feeling a bit snarky.

Your frustration is short-lived, however, and you feel a wave of fatigue. It seems as though you're way past your emotional limit, and already the ache behind your eyes and the sting in your nostrils is making a reappearance.

Not wanting to cry in Loki's room, you turn around, only to find yourself inches from Thor's chest. You back up, your cheeks warming from getting caught.

"S-sorry, I just saw the door open…"

He waves it off, obviously not bothered by your snooping. Not that there's much to snoop around, anyway.

"Did you have any luck in the training room?" He asks, his stiff stance telling you that maybe he hasn't made any progress finding his brother.

"No… Nat took me to my room, remember?"

He frowns and puts his hands on his hips. "Lady Natasha? Did she say anything?"

"Huh? No, I mean, she escorted me to my room because she thought I was having a, uhm, a meltdown, but I wasn't. And no, I didn't tell her. Did you find anything?" Your hands get clammy as you continue, "I know you couldn't say anything in front of her when we passed by, but…"

He scrunches his brows and opens his mouth a bit, confused. "I don't recall that happening."

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

You both seem to come to the conclusion at the same time.

A few minutes later, Thor is busy charming the security guards in the surveillance room, taking advantage of the fact that they seem to be big fans.

"Forgive me, but I believe my brother is masquerading as me. As a prank, you know." He laughs a bit, playing it off as a silly joke rather than the more serious truth. "May we see the recordings from earlier this afternoon?"

It seems to work, and you make a mental note to yourself to bring up that these agents are really bad at their jobs the next time you speak with Tony or Nick. You might even tell them that having people watch screens that an AI designed by Tony is already keeping track of is a bit of a waste, really.

But since their lack of awareness works in your favor, you let it slide and stand next to Thor as they pull up the recordings from around the time you and Nat walked down the residential hallway together.

You watch as 'Thor' rounds the corner and speaks with the past you, with great concern on his face. For the next thirty minutes, you trace Loki's steps as he wanders the compound under the guise of Thor. The odd thing is, he doesn't seem to be doing anything particularly strange. It appears as though what Thor had speculated is right—Loki was just looking for a place to be completely alone, and using Thor's identity to search the compound with little interruption.

"Uhm, can we go back to when Loki passed me and Nat in the hall?" The screen resets, back to where the three of you are standing in the hallway. "Can we go back further? See where he came from?" The footage plays backwards, keeping 'Thor' centered on the screen as he comes from down the hall near your room. Further back it plays, until it shows him leaving your bedroom.

A horrid mix of feelings boils in you, and as much as you'd like to sit down and dissect each one, you dash out of the security room and bolt all the way back to your quarters. You slow down a few yards in front of your door, keeping your steps light as you quietly unlock the door.

You don't know what you're thinking, your thoughts colliding head on at full speed and essentially cancelling each other out.

There's no way he'd be in here. I mean, I saw him leave as Thor. Still, I need to know what else he did in my room. Did he leave a note? Was he trying to talk to me, but I wasn't there? Why didn't he come to me sooner?

What did I do?

He's not there, of course, and neither are any stray papers or strange items that he could have left behind. Still holding on to the horse in a choking grip, you pace the length of your quarters, feeling absolutely foolish.

"What a jerk. Sending me and his brother on a… on a wild goose chase!" Your voice raises in volume as you rant to yourself, and the words keep coming out like there's a leak. "Like Thor and I have all the time in the world to just play hide and seek, like we have nothing better to do!" You feel it boiling hotter in your veins. "Ah! What an attention-seeking asshole! Making me scared and worried and he's just out there lollygagging about, probably enjoying the fact that I've been crying over him!"

You're furious. It's a feeling that hardly ever fills you up. You're used to the constant nagging and gnawing of disappointment or annoyance, but hardly anything makes you this mad.

You have half a mind to just tear up the stupid horse in your hands, but you think better of it, remembering the last time you let yourself give in to anger and destroy things that didn't deserve your rage. Instead, you toss it at your book stacks, the plushie bouncing off in a very unsatisfying way.

I hate this. I hate him. I want to go back to before he moved in and everything sucked in a completely different way but at least I knew how to navigate everything that sucked!

Crossing your arms tight over your chest to hold yourself together, you keep pacing and turning, needing to work off all the energy that's fighting to free itself in an explosion.

You grab the plushie that normally rests on your bed. It's heavy and solid, so you hug it tight and then tighter, filling in that hole in your chest that the anger burned through as it coursed through your body in a tidal wave.

The little black horse plushie moves on the floor just barely at the corner of your vision, drawing your pacing to a halt. Rather, it is moved by Loki, who sits with his back against the wall amongst your towering stacks of books. He holds it on his lap almost tenderly, petting its back.

"You know, that sort of language is very unbecoming. I didn't think you had it in you, little one." He smiles, and it's neither soft nor a smirk. It just is, and you're struggling to place it.

Nervous. He's nervous.

"But it's true."

He laughs, "I agree. It wasn't very kind of me to do that to you."

"Or to Thor."

He snorts, "I can and will do worse to Thor, little one." His eyes meet yours and you know he can just see the questions tumbling around in your head. "As you've likely guessed, I needed a moment alone. Thor's been pestering me endlessly, and as you're aware, there aren't any places in this trash heap that one can be truly alone in."

You sigh and sit cross-legged on the floor in front of Loki while still hugging the other plushie, mirroring his position. He smiles again and this time it seems warm and it makes you feel warmer.

Desperate to know what he's thinking, and even more desperate to know what he's feeling, you wonder if you have to be the first to share something like that. He might be more willing to share if you give something, first.

You look down at your lap, finding it difficult to hold his gaze, "I used to hide a lot. Whenever I was scared, or confused, or made a mistake. I'd hide in the smallest place that I could possibly fit in."

You know you're being a bit of a hypocrite. You complain all the time about how people imply things without stopping to check whether you understood or not, and then get upset when you don't.

But some things are too hard to say outright. You look up, not sure what to expect. He just looks at you, his head back against the wall and his eyes just a little watery.

"Why did you stop hiding?"

"I don't know. I think I just got too big to hide." You rub the plushie on your lap, crunching the beads inside. "Why did you want to be alone?"

It takes him a minute to speak, like he's unsure if he should say anything or not. His voice is soft and velvety as he answers, "Like you, I have… difficulty with my feelings. Not in the same way as you do, but I…" he fidgets with his hands, rubbing his cuticles. "I'm well aware of what I feel, but I loathe having to feel at all. The… emotions that have been running amuck in my heart feel like they aren't mine to keep." He laughs dryly, "I'd sooner destroy the world than succumb to what I feel right now."

You scoot closer until your knees touch his. "What kinds of feelings?" Your heart flutters with nerves as you wait.

"Things I haven't felt in a very long time, darling." He twists the plushie in his hands, talking to it rather than you. "Fondness. Worry. Endearment. I… I don't remember how to deal with these things any longer. They're more foreign to me than the ever-evolving Midgardian 'smart' phones."

You stare at him blankly. There's no way he's talking about me… right?

As if sensing your self doubt and wanting to redirect your thoughts, he tilts his head and smirks, "It was amusing to see you and that buffoon run around. I believe I saw Thor berate a chair before he sat down. A bit paranoid, if you ask me. Turning into a piece of furniture is beneath me."

This makes you giggle, the sound surprising you as it bubbles out of your throat. Loki smiles again, and you have no choice but to look away, because it almost makes you dizzy.

He sets the plushie aside and stands, adjusting his clothing before reaching down to help you up. You feel warm and tingly when his hand engulfs yours and tugs, bringing you to your feet effortlessly. He takes in your expression, his own ears tinged pink.

When he lets go, you almost cry out, but you hold it in and tuck your hand against your chest.

He opens the door and asks before he leaves, "Do you think there's any chance there's still a portion of dinner left, or do you think Thor's already gotten to it?" You follow him out, wanting to see for yourself, floating on your feet with a lightness you haven't felt in forever.

A few days later, Tony sits you down in one of the labs. He holds a device to your ear, lasers mapping out the contours of your ear canal.

You cringe when he turns it on, "Why are we doing this?"

He tuts, "You'll see. Now hold still, or we'll have to start over again."

You huff and cross your arms, "But it tickles."

"It's just lasers," he sighs, "you shouldn't be able to feel it."

"Well, I do, so hurry up," you whine, definitely not in the mood to feel something tickling your inner ears.

"What's the big rush? You don't have an assignment."

"I'm not in a rush. This is just icky."

"You certainly are fidgety." He's right. You're kicking your feet a little like dogs do when you hold them above water. He moves on to the other ear, poking your shoulder when you keep moving away.

"Ugh. Just get it over with." You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that'll distract you from the sensation.

Soon, Tony's gathered all the data he needs and within seconds the 3D printer whirs to life, creating something that looks like a pair of hearing aids. You look at them, confused, "Uhm… I don't really need those, so…"

"They're not for your hearing."

"Uhm.. then what are they for?"

He plucks the finished devices and hands them to you. "Just put them in."

You sigh, fitting them over your ears. "Are they earbuds, or something? Why aren't they, like, smaller?" you ask, referring to the tiny little ones that are often used on missions.

"Your comfort." He does something on his tablet.

A little voice chimes in your ears. "Conversation Extractor is online."

Conversation Extractor? "Uhhhh what is this?"

"Something for your audio processing issues."

"Amplifying sound won't help…"

"It doesn't amplify sound, unless you want it to. It uses the direction you're facing to pick up voices coming from that direction, then muffles the rest. At least, it should."

You start shaking a bit. You need to try this out now.

"It's a busy day today, so there's plenty of people in the lounge. See if you have an easier time following a conversation even with other people talking all around you."

You're excited, and you have to keep thinking walk, walk, walk to keep yourself from sprinting all the way there.

Even so, you make it there faster than you thought, the doors sliding open to reveal nearly two dozen people inside, Avengers and agents conversing and making so much noise you'd probably cry if you hadn't gotten so good at keeping them in. Hopefully, you won't feel the need to cry this time.

Since everyone seems like they're really engaged with… well, whatever it is that they're talking about, you sit in a corner, facing the center of the room, and decide to wait for a good opening to join in. You look around and see Loki sitting in an armchair with his arms crossed, and Bucky leaning on the opposite chair. They're definitely too far away to hear, but you find it hard to look away from Loki's clear annoyance and amusingly complete lack of interest.

"...never felt that?" Bucky's voice fills your ears and you almost squawk in surprise. It's working! A little too well, but…

"No. I have no clue what you're rambling about," Loki says, staring at his nails.

"Seriously? You've never once felt the urge to just squeeze something really tight because of how adorable it is? Like puppies?" Bucky sounds offended. You snort a little, wondering how on Earth the conversation they were having led to this.

Both of them must be awfully bored, and equally awful at small talk.

Loki looks at you, then, making eye contact, as if he heard you across the room and through half a dozen animated conversations. You freeze, trying to act casual.

Count to two and then look away. Then look back after two. Look away, look back….

It takes half a dozen heartbeats for him to respond. "No," he repeats, his voice less tense now. He's still looking at you. "I have not ever once in my life wished to 'squeeze' a living creature for that reason." He looks away when Bucky notices that he's staring at you. You look away, too, hoping that the heat that prickles your cheeks isn't as visible as you know it probably is.

You take out the devices. That's enough eavesdropping for today…

Tag list:

@princess-ofthe-pages @blaze-the-idiot @anxiousskylar @athyend @cosmicstxrdust @the-ultimate-librarian @ceeisatlumon @webpage-loading @xxashes-rebornxx @mischeveousscamp @lilredpanda-1999 @booksooks

Let me know if you want to be removed/added 💚

#loki x gender neutral reader #loki x gn!reader #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki x female reader #loki x male reader #loki #loki x you #ff: gifts

74 notes · View notes

creatingblackcharacters · 1 day ago

Note

jesus, tumblr mobile just glitched and told me your blog was deleted 😭 that was terrifying i thought they got you again. anyway, i noticed an interesting trend in the polls, which is when a character has straight hair they automatically get a "nah" or "mid" from the white/NB voters. but a few of these characters just look like they have a wig or straightened hair, and those get "peak" or sometimes "mid" from Black voters, but a "nah" from everyone else.

i think in a sense its.. good that voters are conscious of the age-old erasure of Black hair by making every Black character have *naturally* straight hair, but have y'all not had Black coworkers or friends or just.. opened a social media app and seen Black creators and celebrities? a lot of people don't wear their natural hair! especially when other character designs from the same piece of media have natural hair textures, it just reads as a wig or straightened hair! not a bad character design.

also my condolences you have to keep sending out those reminders, i bet your ask box is a nightmare. thanks so much for running this event!

Yeah, I have noticed that trend as well. But, I mean, unfortunately we know that a lot of white people don't really know the range of what we look like. Which is another reason why I run this blog 😅 Because I'll be honest, there are some that I too didn't care for. Like y'all loved Clawdeen, but me... I'm sorry, i'm sick of that little wavy hair tips end design that people consider "curls". It's not. It's wavy. But when it came to Billie, it was like... Yeah she looks like a auntie in the straightened hair, but it dead ass does look like our hair when straightened, or in wigs.

It also is a matter of intent, which is what I did ask as part of the question, so we can't be too ungracious. Like with Trudy, I was shocked at the results bc Trudy looks the way my mom did, back when flatironed hair was the thing for Black women. She was drawn intentionally to look that way. Versus some others, the intent for textured hair is VISIBLY not there, and that should affect your vote. But I do recognize that Black voters can probably see that intent a bit better.

I do hope people remember that you CAN look up more details 😅 it doesn't have to be just the one picture. There are a lot of asks, yeah. 👍🏾

64 notes · View notes

mr-tony-stark · 11 hours ago

Text

Tony shook his head. “Steve hasn’t said much, really. We butt heads so much and he told me how much I reminded him of dad - which I think was supposed to be a compliment but really just reinforces to me how I can never have any kids,” he explained. “I just know - you know? I’ve seen it before. From the ‘he means well, you just need to be the bigger person’, to being told lying about things like that is messed up.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, we argue so much and he talks so highly of him. I can hear ‘I’m sure he meant well’ in his voice. But even if he did believe me, I don’t want to ruin the relationship they had when he’s dead anyway. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, to be honest. If you liked him too. But I said I’d be honest. So I’m being honest.”

Tony took a sip of his coffee and sat back in his chair and thought on the question. “So - being devil's advocate, I don’t know you have to have experienced something to know how to fix it. I fix things I’d never seen before regularly. Your arm for example. And you go to college to be a therapist. I wouldn’t think a therapist had to go through ever terrible thing. Maybe you’d be a challenge, but in the end it’s still PTSD. It’s still trauma. They know how to address that.” He pulled a face and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it could help both of us. I don’t want to talk you into doing it when I don’t myself. But - I mean my coping mechanism is drinking and that’s not great, right?”

There was something strangely intimate about the way Bucky squeezed his hand back and started to trace his thumb over the back of his hand. It was a very ‘couple’ move and yet, Tony liked it. He’d always been a little touch starved and one of the things he loved most about his friendship with Rhodey was that he was free to hug him and sling his arm around his shoulder or whatever and Rhodey was okay with it. So he and Bucky held hands after hooking up? It didn’t need to be a big deal.

“I can probably help with that,” he said. “I should be able to track her down quickly with her name and your parents and I’ll get to the bottom of it no problem.”

“I get that, I mean you can’t force people to change their minds or how they view things and I don’t expect you to try to it’s just…I don’t know, I still can’t believe people have responded that way. I know Steve must have had some kind of reaction about your dad, and I’m guessing it wasn’t the best kind. I barely met the guy so I have no previous bias about him, but the way Steve worked with him especially after the Serum…it doesn’t take a genius to know what Steve’s perspective on the guy was,” he reasons.

He nods, to everything Tony says after that, “I never thought of it that way but yeah, therapy really is just non-judge mental talking about stuff. I’m not sure if you feel this way though but the idea that a therapist who hasn’t actually gone through even a quarter of the mess I’ve dealt with being the one to be able to help seems…crazy. Sure they might be able to listen and understand how I feel about things but I genuinely don’t understand how they’ll be able to figure out how I should best cope with it all”

He looks down for a moment when Tony’s thumb brushes his skin, he doesn’t know why but he was actually able to take comfort from little gestures like that when it came from Tony. The only other person who came close to be able to ease his anxieties or traumas had been Steve and it had still never felt like his. Steve was empathetic sure and he cared deeply for him, obviously, but with Tony it felt like more than that, more like Tony genuinely understood exactly what he was dealing with when it came to stuff like that.

He squeezes Tony’s hand lightly, “Yeah..yeah you’re right. I don’t know the first thing about trying to track anyone down from before, I think Steve did it to track down the Howling Commandos when he woke up. But I guess I should start by trying to figure out which boarding school she was sent to and go from there? I don’t want to have any more regrets, especially not from just taking too long,” he mumbles, his own thumb tracing absently against Tony’s skin.

#misfxtteam #pick your battles #ironwinter rp

132 notes · View notes

tennessoui · 3 days ago

Note

Would you like to do this one for Obikin ? 👀

22. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

💯

[from this list of prompts]

[2. 'have you lost your damn mind?' (LATEST) - 5. 'are you jealous' - 13. 'kiss me.' - 14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.' - 18. 'this is the stupidest plan you've ever had. of course i'm in.' - 19. 'the paint is supposed to go where?' - 24. 'you're the only one i trust to do this' - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 28. 'marry me?' - 29. 'i thought you were dead' - 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' - 37. 'wanna dance?' - 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

22. 'I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice.'

"Oh," a very familiar voice says. "I wasn't aware you were attending the banquet tonight."

Anakin stares down at the empty plate before him. The servers are moving around the tables as guests rise from their seats and begin to chatter amongst themselves. Anakin thinks for a moment about trying to catch his master's eye, but Qui-Gon is across the hall in deep conversation with the representative of Alderaan the last time that Anakin checked. And anyway--he's not sure his master would intervene to help him with this problem.

Even though, technically speaking, this problem is half Qui-Gon's problem. Or, like. At least a quarter of it.

Probably.

"Though I suppose I would have known if you'd responded to my comm-message," the voice says in a lilting and crisp Coruscanti accent that Anakin knows is as much of a ruse as the rest of him.

Anakin scowls down at the table and counts to five. He is here to represent the Jedi Order as a senior padawan. He is not here to start a diplomatic incident by stabbing Prince Kenobi in the hand with a shrimp fork.

Or is it Lord Kenobi?

He thinks, yes, technically probably a lord. Or maybe it was a knight? A duke? Anakin can never remember all the words that make up Kenobi's title. He just knows that Kenobi's elder brother married the queen of Stewjon, so he's now the king consort, and Obi-Wan got to claim a bunch of useless titles without even doing any of the hard work.

And so Obi-Wan Kenobi gets to call himself a prince now when once, he'd called himself a padawan.

Once, even, he'd called himself Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan.

Anakin counts to five again and gathers up all the diplomatic words and scripts he's learned over the years. Then, he actually turns and faces Kenobi, and all of those words fly out of his mind.

Kenobi looks unfairly good in the ivory white of his outfit. The top half is mostly lace, which--isn't it cold in space? Isn't it cold on Stewjon?

He's wearing a small, ceremonial circlet atop his auburn hair, and the glinting gold of the crown offsets the white of his robes nicely. He just--

He looks so beautiful, even as he's lounging in the chair next to Anakin, eyes pinned on his face as if he'd wait all night just to hear him speak.

That sort of look is dangerous. Anakin knows that intimately well. That sort of attention...Anakin isn't built to withstand it for long. Not without succumbing to all and any of Kenobi's demands. He's sure he has a backbone, but it just melts when he's around Kenobi.

But not anymore. Anakin's twenty now, and he's going to be Knighted any day. He's above such weakness.

"I'm sixteen years your junior," Anakin bites out, hand becoming a fist in his lap. "Don't you think maybe it's a little inappropriate to be comm-messaging me without my master's approval?"

Despite the venom he tries to weave through what should be a cutting rebuke, Kenobi's eyebrows raise. He doesn't look ashamed nor does he look particularly discouraged. "After all the rest of the inappropriate things we've done together, darling, I'd think you'd overlook a comm-message."

Anakin's scowl grows exponentially, but Kenobi continues without pause, "Though if you'd like me to get your master's retroactive approval for every time we've interacted, I shall of course. Do you think he'd approve of your judicious but creative use of the Force when you used it to hold me up against the Senate Commons wall and kriff me silly before my meeting with the Chancellor, or should I leave that out?"

Anakin can feel his face flushing, and he's quick to stand, throwing his napkin onto his empty plate and striding away. He needs--he needs to be further away from Kenobi. He needs to not look at the man, not hear him. Then, he'll stop wanting him.

He must stop wanting him. It's ruining his life.

So of course Kenobi follows him because there's nothing he loves more than ruining Anakin, apparently. He's not even being subtle about it anymore, grabbing Anakin's wrist in plain view of all and sundry and using his grip to tug him out of the banquet hall and into an unused nook of space.

It's small enough that there's not much room to stand apart, but Kenobi at least makes the good faith attempt to drop Anakin's wrist and step away from him. In the Force, he feels strange. Worried, almost, which is not an emotion that Anakin has ever felt from Kenobi. Kenobi, who crafts an air of not caring about anything or anyone whenever Anakin and his master are near. Kenobi, who's purposefully disrespectful to Master Jinn, acts purposefully slow and air-headed and conceited.

He could have been one of the best of us, Jinn had told him once. It was the only time he'd ever talked about Kenobi. He made different choices, and I suppose he still blames me for them.

"Come now, Anakin, tell me what's wrong," Kenobi says, nudging at him almost clumsily in the Force. The touch startles Anakin. It's been twenty years or so since Obi-Wan left the Order. Or since Master Jinn refused to take him back as his padawan after a mission on a civil-war struck planet and Obi-Wan had had no choice but to leave the Order.

Jocasta Nu told him once: all stories have different endings and beginnings when the teller changes.

He thinks that's especially true when it comes to whatever tension exists between Kenobi and Qui-Gon. Though Anakin wasn't wise enough to keep himself out of it, he's certainly not stupid enough to shove his nose so forcefully into the middle of it.

"I've seen the way you've looked at me tonight when you think I'm not looking," Kenobi is saying, wheedling really, as his Force signature rubs even more insistently up against Anakin's, like a--like a loth cat winding around his ankles, searching for affection it knows it will be offered.

No. Not anymore.

"Enough," Anakin snaps, throwing up his highest shields and pushing away from Obi-Wan.

"Just tell me what I've done, darling," Kenobi says. Pleads, really. A part of Anakin thinks it's a very good look on him, and then hates himself for thinking it. Weak. Kenobi makes him weak. "It's not that you don't want me anymore, or you'd have spent less time gawping at me all night."

The words are cruel in their truthfulness and they hit unerringly at Anakin's shame, and so he's snarling back at him before he can stop himself: "Everyone was gawping at you, you're dressed like a schutta."

Kenobi doesn't look to be offended, which riles Anakin further.

But then--then the man steps closer and rests a hand on his chest. They're of a height now that Anakin's grown another two inches over the summer. Obi-Wan's eyes are right there. His lips, also.

"And yet who have I dragged off into a dark corner to ravish me?" Kenobi asks, voice pitched low and eyes blinking sultry blue at him from beneath his eyelashes.

"Yeah," Anakin bites, "only because even after twenty years you're still trying to get back at my master for throwing you out like trash. But the stupid thing is that he doesn't even think about you anymore."

The words hit the way Anakin had meant them to, but as he watches the way Obi-Wan's eyes shutter, the way his mouth tightens and the way he takes a step back and his hand coming up to hold his elbow, Anakin realizes that he didn't--he didn't realize what it would look like, to hurt Obi-Wan.

He hadn't realized Kenobi could be hurt, that Anakin had that sort of power.

And maybe he doesn't really, maybe this is just Anakin's master hurting Obi-Wan all over again, but it's still Anakin wielding the weapon. Anakin who was trusted enough that Obi-Wan did not see it coming.

"I see," Obi-Wan says, and Anakin can't hide his wince at the tone. He doesn't like that tone. Didn't realize how warmly Obi-Wan spoke to him until the chill set in.

But it's not as if what he said was wrong, Anakin tells himself. And it's not as if Obi-Wan's been fair to him either, using Anakin like that.

And--and sure, maybe when they first started...whatever this is--was--maybe Anakin had wanted to use Kenobi too. After all, he'd been eighteen and charged with guarding some rich senator at an event just like this one. And Padmé Amidala had been there, and Anakin had been so desperate for her attention that he'd thought--maybe if he could make her jealous by talking with Kenobi--

And talking had turned into kissing had turned into bedding, but it hadn't been about Kenobi, not really, not that first time. It'd been about Padmé and how much Anakin had wanted her to notice him, see him for the man he'd become.

And he's sure that Kenobi had bedded him with ulterior motives too--not to make Qui-Gon jealous, of course, which is a thought that Anakin doesn't even like to think about, honestly--but to make Qui-Gon upset. Master Jinn didn't like the slimmest reminders of his old apprentice. To find out that his old apprentice had bedded his new one...no, Master Jinn did not, in fact, appreciate that.

So they'd both had ulterior motives the first time they slept together, and they'd probably had them for a while after too. It was an arrangement. A casual affair.

Before Anakin had gone and developed feelings for Kenobi, of course.

And now it's not fair. None of it's fair, because Anakin's in love with him and Kenobi's still just sleeping with him for the sake of some bruised pride he's been nursing for twenty years and now Anakin's gone and hurt him, genuinely hurt him, and he doesn't feel the way the Chancellor had told him he'd feel when he told the prince where to shove it. He just feels awful, like he'd been hurt too.

"I apologize for wasting your time, Padawan Skywalker," Kenobi is saying when Anakin tunes back into his voice. His face is hidden behind a cool mask of untouchable indifference. His arm is still crossed in defense over his chest. "I was mistaken in the understanding we had between each other, and I have thus overstepped erroneously."

It's not fair, Anakin thinks wildly as Obi-Wan steps away from him like he's going to move out of the alcove altogether. It's not fair that Obi-Wan's apparently so good at the diplomatic script of the Jedi that he can fall back on it at any moment, even after all of these years, and it's Anakin who can apparently only ever use his words to hurt.

So Anakin doesn't use his words. It's instinct, probably the first one he ever learned, to reach out in the Force instead. Nudge their Force signatures closer together and drop his shields so he can feel--truly feel--the heat of Obi-Wan's presence in the Force entangled around his own.

It's easier after that to reach out his hand and catch Kenobi's wrist. Then it's easier than anything else to use that hold to push him up against the wall and bracket him in with his body to keep him there.

Kenobi doesn't fight against his touch, but he doesn't bloom under it either, the way Anakin's gotten used to him doing. He doesn't even look at him, keeps his eyes on the neck of Anakin's Jedi robes.

"No, I'm sorry," Anakin murmurs, squeezing Obi-Wan's captured wrist. "I didn't--I didn't mean that. Not at all."

"If you didn't mean it at all, you wouldn't have said it," Obi-Wan points out, which is...well, correct, technically, but Anakin doesn't like to hear it.

"I was just...someone told me that," Anakin admits. "And I--I mean, I know you and I know--what we have. And what it is. And I'm fine with that, I understand it. I just let it get to me, that maybe you only like me cause you're still out for revenge against my master. But, um."

Obi-Wan is looking at him now, something soft and quizzical and confused coloring his gaze.

"I thought I couldn't stand being nothing but revenge to you," Anakin makes himself say, even though his breath feels caught in his throat. Danger, danger. He is skirting too close to the truth. He is saying too much. But if he doesn't say anything, what then? "But that's not so bad, I guess. It's better than being nothing to you at all."

Which is a lesson that Anakin has just learned and is eager to never experience again. Even if it makes him pathetic and weak and spineless and some prince's playtoy, or whatever else the Chancellor had implied. He'd like to see the Chancellor stand up to Obi-Wan's dignified yet wounded eyes.

"Darling," Obi-Wan says, and for a moment his hand cups Anakin's face. It's just long enough of a touch that Anakin can't help but to lean into it with an exhale. "You've never been nothing to me."

Anakin gives into the urge to kiss him. It's a miracle that Obi-Wan lets him.

It's also nowhere near enough; Anakin is a greedy sort of man. He doesn't want nothing or a little more than nothing from Obi-Wan. He wants everything.

#asks #obikin #had the realization writing this (it is 2k)#that these are just like. fics. not prompt fill drabbles LMAO #obi-wan is going to fuck anakin senseless and then interrogate him on who exactly was telling him bad things about their relationship #like first of all whose business is that #second of all who is anakin trusting that much #third of all what do you mean it's the chancellor of the fucking republic #so im imagining qui-gon just point blank refuses to take obi-wan back after melida/daan #and so obi-wan does actually go back to melida/daan and stays there rebuilding for a bit #and then he runs into some stewjoni people and they're like whoa ho! are you part of the royal family?#and kenobi is like? i don't think so ?#and they're like no way youre the jedi one right wow thats great #and obi-wan is like no no no longer a jedi #and they're like oh! well wanna come to stewjon with us #and obi-wan is like. sure.#and so he goes lol #the only thing is that he really does refuse the title of 'knight' even tho he serves in the kingsguard for a bit #he has a complex about being a jedi knight or no knight at all #thankfully after a decade or so he decides to become a scoundrel instead #(a public figure so to speak)

76 notes · View notes