#so i like to make masks right? it's a fun time

[dollyichi]

STAR PLAYER’S TYPE : ITOSHI RIN . . . m—dni. / f ! reader / mentions of wounds / marking / somno / university au [ you’re part of the school’s paper club ! ] / your relationship is a mess / not proofread

itoshi rin, university heartthrob, was asked by the school paper about his type. “this is for our sports segment! please help us out.”

he clicks his teeth, “what? my goals aren’t interesting enough for you?”

“no- no! it’s just a little profile we’re making for the whole team.” the poor writer was clearly intimidated, but he asks the question again.

uninterested and snarky he’d say “a girl with a cut on her lip from biting down so hard.”

“huh?” was all they thought. the journalist is really confused. what exactly is he talking about? “that’s… oddly specific but isn’t that a bit sadistic?”

“i like details.” and he couldn’t help but grin at your perfect timing. you’re wearing his hoodie and a mask. taking photos of the other players on the field during their practice.

he calls for you to come closer, having a hand out for you. you take it, letting the camera rest on the straps around your wrist. you’re startled when rin pulls you closer. a hand on your waist. “see this?” he says while pulling down your mask.

you wince, the mask slightly hitting your lips. and there on display, was your bottom lip with a cut that bled slightly from the contact.

“oh my god y/n? are you alright what happened?” the removal of your mask further showed the dark circles under your eyes.

you look exhausted.

“i bit it too hard.” you say pulling up the mask to hide it back. clearing your throat and licking the wound to ease the pain. rin was grinning to himself and the poor writer just didn’t know what was going on he was just given a list of questions to fill, but he’s witnessing… some sort of tension?

how’d you even get close to him?

“wait till you see once i pull down her hood.” you shriek and leave immediately, running away. “well that’s my cue to leave.”

“itoshi wait! a-are you sure you want this on the school paper?”

“does it look like i give a fuck?” he glares at them before chasing after you with his backpack in one hand.

the next day you decided not to wear the mask since it healed a bit better. placing the newly developed photos on the desk in your club room. “woah y/n what happened to your lip?” your president asks.

you sigh, “i bit too hard.” before the president could even ask you why, the conversation shifts.

“really?” the main editor chuckles. “then apparently you’re rin’s type.”

“ha? what the fuck are you-“ they hand you the newly printed out issue. in a big bold font that says ‘star player itoshi rin’s type!’ and you had to squint to see the answer. causing your hands to tremble while you gave it back to them. “hah…” was all you could say, before you sunk on your seat.

“i guess i need another mask.”

bonus: early morning fun <3

“mmph! fuck r-rin…” it was too early for this. you ended up falling asleep when rin invited you over to hang out. you didn’t expect to be woken up with him fucking you—not that you mind, but you weren’t a morning person to begin with.

your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. it was just too much. your back was against his chest as you lay on your side. his right hand on your waist to hold your body while he thrusted deeper into you.

you didn’t know what you would call this relationship. sometimes he’d be cold, sometimes he’d be playful, sometimes he’d be so nice that you could melt. and then you’d fuck, no matter what.

sometimes you hoped he would just admit it. sometimes you hoped this relationship actually was ‘something.’

then he’s back at it again, it was just too early. your voice was already hoarse from last night. and for sure the neighbors would all be awake.

he couldn’t help it though. waking up to you snuggled up to him so close, touched that you let him hold you all night. and then he’s see your thighs together, how there were visible marks that he left from last night.

it caused shivers down his spine that forced his body to move on his own against the pretty, defenseless you.

rin’s got your arms pinned towards him. you couldn’t move, couldn’t escape, letting him fuck you more relentlessly. you tried your best not to let even a whimper out. with the little self awareness you still have, all you could do was bite down on your bottom lip. hard enough to draw blood.

broken mewls and suppressed moans just kept him going, thrusting faster and faster. “a bit more…” he whispers, kissing at the back of your neck.

when it was over he turns you on your back, immediately seeing the mark on your lips. “you bit down again.” rin pouts before kissing the corners of his mouth.

you chuckle. “got nothing to shut me up.”

“just bite me instead of hurting yourself.”

he helps you to the bathroom so you could get ready for classes. “are you a monster or something? what the hell…” you say, tilting your head from side to side. the marks he left on you on full display. rin says nothing, holding you close. softly running his fingers on the marks on your neck. “i don’t have my concealer.” you groan. rin had his eyes on you the entire time through the mirror while you’re mentally panicking. you’re just hoping it wouldn’t be too hot outside to wear a hoodie.

you turn around to face him, asking if you could borrow one his jackets until you looked down deadpanned.

“you’re hard again.”

do not copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost my works

note : i need more of this au. school photographer reader who’s always forced to take the photos of her university’s center forward because he make sure he grabs her attention… oh!!!

[sosa2imagines]

Let us be there for you...

Warning- Angst, insecurity, introvert, self doubts, fluff. Disclaimer- @mrvl-addict finally got all four parts ready for you fic idea.

You’ve been a part of the Avengers for a few weeks now, and on the outside, you’re everything you’re expected to be confident, outgoing, always ready with a joke, never shy to dive into conversation. You make people laugh, you keep things light, you engage in every mission and meeting with the kind of energy that makes you look like you belong.

On the inside, however, you’re terrified. Terrified of being found out. Terrified of not being good enough. On the inside, you’re the opposite of everything you try to portray.  What the Avengers see, it’s all just a disguise. You put on a mask, a persona to cover up the real you.

You’ve spent your whole life like this. Putting on this persona in order to feel accepted, to feel wanted. To feel like you belong somewhere. You don’t actually know how to truly be yourself. Being yourself got you bullied, being yourself got you hurt. So you’ve learned to rely on masks.

Every moment spent around people leaves you drained. The constant performance of being the ‘fun one’, the ‘social butterfly’, is exhausting. You’d much rather find a quiet corner to recharge, but you don’t want to be seen as weak, or worse, lonely. So, you push through, hoping no one will notice that you’re barely keeping it together.

Except Steve and Bucky do notice.

It’s a typical afternoon in the Tower. Everyone’s just wrapped up training, lounging around in the common area to catch their breath.

Tony’s in the middle of telling some absurd story about his latest tech malfunction on a mission, his voice animated as usual. You’re on the couch, laughing along, making jokes, throwing in a few quips of your own. After all, you don’t want to be left out.

But as you laugh, you feel a familiar weight at the back of your mind. Steve and Bucky are both watching you from the corner of the room. You glance over, and for a moment, it feels like they’re seeing right through you.

Steve turns to Bucky, his voice low, but not low enough that you can’t hear. “She’s been acting like this a lot lately. It’s like she’s trying too hard to stay in the center of things.”

Bucky doesn’t respond immediately, but his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s weighing his words. “Yeah. I don’t know… she’s doing it, but I don’t think she’s really there.”

You can feel your heart rate quicken, and you’re not sure why it stings. You’re just trying to keep up the persona, to keep everyone happy, make it look easy. And yet, somehow, they see right through it. Before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, trying to brush off their observation with a grin, moving towards them, “What? What are you both talking about? I’m having a blast, really!”

There’s a brief pause. Steve’s expression softens, and it’s almost too much, the way he looks at you, like he’s reading your every thought. He smiles gently, but there’s an undercurrent of concern. “Of course you are,” he says, his voice warm. “But you don’t have to always be on for us, you know? You don’t have to prove anything.”

You blink, taken aback. For a split second, you feel a wave of embarrassment. It’s like they’ve peeled back the layers, and you’re exposed. You try to laugh it off, but your voice is a little quieter. “No, really, I’m fine. I’m just… just trying to keep things light, you know?”

Bucky, sitting across the room, looks at you with a careful expression. “You don’t have to do that with us, doll…” he says, his tone calm and surprisingly gentle. “We’re not gonna judge you for not being on all the time. If you need a break, or if you just want to…  we’re okay with that.”

His words hit you in a way you didn’t expect. It’s not the typical ‘you’re part of the team’ pep talk. It’s something different, something that feels like permission to be yourself, no masks. You feel a rush of gratitude, but also an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. You force a smile, but it’s a little shaky this time.

“I… didn’t mean to put on an act or anything,” you say quickly, suddenly feeling the need to clarify. “I just don’t want to be a drag, you know? I guess I’ve just gotten used to being the one who keeps the mood up.”

Steve’s eyes meet yours, and there’s no judgment there, just understanding. He leans forward slightly, his voice quiet but sincere. “We all have our moments. You don’t always have to be the one holding it together. It’s okay to lean on us.”

Bucky’s nod is almost imperceptible, but you catch it. He doesn’t say anything more, but the look on his face is one of quiet reassurance. He doesn’t expect anything from you, not the way you’ve been expecting from yourself.

You sit back on the couch, feeling a little out of place. For a moment, there’s silence. Then Tony, oblivious to the shift in the room, starts talking again, and you’re grateful for the distraction.

Later that evening, after everyone has gone to bed, you find yourself standing in front of one of the massive windows in the Tower, looking out at the city. The lights are peaceful, calming, and for once, you don’t feel the need to pretend. You’re just… you.

Footsteps sound behind you, and before you can react, Steve’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Hey, you okay?”

You don’t turn around right away, but the warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You inhale slowly, then speak softly, your words almost a whisper. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

There’s a pause, and then Steve steps closer. “You don’t have to pretend with us, you know. We’re not gonna expect you to be this... bubbly, confident person all the time.”

You swallow, feeling a flush creep up your neck. It’s embarrassing, this sudden exposure of everything you’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. You turn to face him, and the words catch in your throat for a moment. “I guess… I guess I just don’t know how to be anything else sometimes.”

Steve’s expression softens, his eyes kind. “You don’t have to be anything else. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough for us.”

Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway, quiet but steady. “You’re part of the team. That means we’re here for the quiet moments, too. You don’t have to go through everything on your own.”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. There’s a weight in your chest that’s easing, bit by bit. It’s strange to feel like you don’t have to keep up the act anymore. Like, for once, it’s okay to just be.

“Let us be there for you…doll.”

“Thanks,” you say, and this time, you mean it. “I’ll try to remember that.”

There’s a long moment of quiet, and for the first time since joining, you don’t feel like you have to be anyone other than yourself. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a step toward something better.

Part 2-

Taglist- @imyourbratzdoll @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

@differenttyphoonwerewolf @vicmc624 @thezombieprostitute @nekoannie-chan

@mrvl-addict @mercurial-chuckles

@emerald-writes @caplanbuckybarnes

@redbloodedgurl @cjand10 @chemtrails-club @slutforchrisjamalevans @gracescor3

@ghostlythinggoingaround @princezzjasmine @3xclusivemariii @ephemeral-oasis @zuri-767-666

@geeky-politics-46 @dexter99 @calwitch

@caplanreblogsfics @winterslove1917

@pono-pura-vida @renegadesgirl1991 @iwudbutnah @ghalouha @sebastians-love @saranghaey @greatmistakes @baw1066

@bucks-babe @lolzies123r @kandis-mom @purplecolordeer @avioletkurt

@unaxv @pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss

[makeyoumine69]

Patrick Bateman being a perfect switch | NSFW HEADCANON

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x gn!Reader; 

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: SMUT🪓

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST];

𝐀/𝐍: I know that sub!Patrick headcanon won in the poll I made, but since it was a pretty close one, I decided to write this! Probably I'll write sub!Patrick headcanon too, same goes for dom!Patrick, hehe. Have fun and I hope you like it!

Even though this man always wore an emotionless mask, there were many different faces underneath—you just had to know how to unravel them. And once you discovered the other side of his personality, the one that longed not to be in control but to be controlled, nothing would ever be the same. 

One day you would let him dominate you, but another day you would shamelessly ride his face, making sure he felt the weight of your body, every snap of your hips as you literally abused his mouth; his chin glistening with your cum mingling with his saliva as Patrick feasted on you like a man starved for ages.

When you accidentally brushed your finger along his puckered hole while giving him head and he literally melted from the unexpected but exciting touch, moaning something incoherent, but as soon as you stopped moving, the man literally gasped in despair, pressing his hips against your hand. "You seem to like this too much...am I right, my sweet boy?" You would ask, your eyes locked on his foggy ones, while your other hand was still pumping him in a steady rhythm, driving him crazy. "Yes...fuck..." Patrick's low whisper would be the only thing that mattered at that moment, along with the red tint that covered his cheeks. Jesus Christ, he looked so fucking hot.

This man didn't even have to do anything extraordinary, just exploring his real desires was enough to make everything hotter, steamier, more intimate. At one point you thought you shared a brain cell because Patrick could understand you without words. If you wanted to be dominated, ruined, reduced to fucking atoms—he would just give it to you. No matter where you were at that moment, Bateman would make sure your mind was free of all thoughts except the ones of his dick sliding in and out of you as he fucked you from behind, folding your arms behind your back and using them as leverage.

There was nothing wrong with giving each other what you both craved.

That single phrase that caused the fall, the words that brought you both to the point of no return, and when Bateman finally unraveled completely and allowed you to peg him, you hugged him from behind, spooning almost gently as you pressed your hips against him, brushing against his ear and whispering to him, almost like a mantra, to remember that moment—the moment when he finally trusted someone as much as he trusted himself. At first Patrick tried to be quiet, unsure if he could really be vocal, considering it wasn't exactly masculine, but as you began to stroke his throbbing cock, still moving inside his tensed body, he finally let go; his raspy, almost pleading moans echoing off the walls of his bedroom, and you thought it was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard.

And you would never betray his trust because you cherished it like a treasure. 

Every time Bateman let you cross that line, you would make sure he got what he wanted, making him cum hard on his expensive sheets, milking his dick with your hand and stimulating his prostate at the same time. And then the two of you would share a lusty, hard kiss that would leave you both breathless, but still wanting more. Cleaning your fingers, you would let him taste himself before you changed positions.

Now you were on your back, spread out on the pillows, watching him trace his large palms over your torso, then go lower until you whimpered in need, arching your back as a huge implication for him to continue. And when his lips touched your most sensitive spot, you wanted nothing more than to fucking claw at his scalp and rub against his perfect face.

"Mmhm...you're so fucking perfect," you blurted out with your eyes closed, tingling your fingers with his messy, slightly wet hair. "I want you to...fuck me..."

Without words, Patrick would turn you over and make you get on your knees while he sat on his heels, giving himself a few lazy strokes even though he was already so hard again. Sucking on your neck, he would slowly bury himself inside you, his hands like tight ropes trapping your body attached to his, you would squirm like a caged bird if he didn't hold you like this, but this man knew you too perfectly.

"Tell me…tell me you love my dick," Bateman's request sounded so desperate, almost pathetic. But you didn't answer right away, just giggled in response, encouraging him to fuck you even harder. "Tell me, you slut..."

"And if I don't," you retorted cheekily, looking at him with your half-open eyes. "Would you kill me?"

Although you knew it would definitely get under his skin, his pretense of indifference to your jabs turned you on even more. The slap of his hand on your ass, the tugging on your hair—everything he did to make you surrender and submit was too much, too cute. Eventually you would play along and whimper, moan for him, praise his huge cock and tell him that no one ever fucked you better than him. 

But you would never admit that he fucked better than you, not when you had him writhing and begging for you. Hell, no. The power dynamic in your relationship was always shifting, the rain of power belonged to no one, because somehow the two of you found the perfect balance.

And you wouldn't give it up for anything else. Never.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

[tinytime10]

I have more head cannons for warriors. Also thank you to everyone who voted on my, (What is the next story I write) vote. “Left in the cold.” is almost done. I'm just finishing up the editing. I should be able to post it soon but for now have some more head cannons centered specifically around the hylein body, and habits that manifest in a physical sense.

All right let's talk ears, Warriors have very expressive ears when he's relaxed and comfortable around the chain. He's very good at stopping his ears from portraying his true emotions when he's around the people he's trying to lie to.

Warriors will rub his ears when he's nervous or upset as a way to calm himself down. It's just one of his ways of self-soothing. Parents will rub their young children's ear to get them to stop crying because it feels good and comforting. So Warriors will do it with a mask when he is having nightmares or otherwise upset. Zelda will kiss the back of Warriors’s ear as a show of affection. Warriors loves it. He also finds the fact that time will kind of nibble at melon's ears and a playful affectionate way super adorable 

I think that the Hylian body is way tougher than the human one. You know how humans have like three layers of skin highlyans have eight. Their bones are just a lot more tough. They have better hearing and night vision but the sense of smell and touch is about the same. 

All of the links share the habit of messing with the back of their hair when they are nervous or embarrassed. I just find it hilarious that literally all of them do it.

 Just like myself, Warriors will comfort himself by hugging his middle. He absolutely hates other people touching his sides or his waste. But he'll hug his middle because it makes him feel more secure. During the war he wrapped his waist tightly with bandages, because that pressure feels comforting. After the war he wears a corset for medical reasons, that was actually a thing way back when. The Physicians made him one after the war to help with his injuries. He just kind of wears it all the time under his clothing. Cuz it's really easy to stealth the corset when his uniform is already so baggy.

 Speaking of uniforms, he is walking around in about 30 lb worth of chainmail. He has like 8 layers. an undershirt and trousers, a gambeson, chainmail, the Green Heroes Tunic, his armor, and his scarf. One side effect of all of these layers is the way they fall, he has extremely feminine hips because he cinches his belt so tight and his hip bones stick out so much anyway because he's so thin. The way the chainmail lays smooths out his figure, giving him extremely feminine hips.

 On that note he mastered that Mom hip carry. You know what I mean, where Mom will just stick out one hip a little further and rest the baby on it. He would carry Mask around all day, going about his duties in the war camp. Mask either loved it or hated it depending on the day. He frequently was made fun of by his own soldiers and a lot by his commanding officers.  He was called a Teen Mom for years he leaned into the title as a joke and it weirdly stuck, to the point where mask and tune would accidentally call him mom on occasion. Time will make a lot of jokes about Warriors being the mom friend during the linked universe adventure. He'll just start acting like the whole chain are his rowdy sons.

Warriors would never undress in front of any one of the chain for a very long time. Long after his facade cracked he still refused to let them see him even take his gloves off. He was fine with everyone else but not himself. At one point he is injured very badly and is unconscious. To Times utter consternation and aggressive objections, Twilight and Sky make the decision to leap over that boundary they know he has and undress him to get to his wound and save his life. When he wakes up shirtless and bound in bandages, the rest of his brothers have a lot of concerned questions. His brothers are smart enough to know what scars were earned from battle and what scars were done by his own hand.

 He has to explain his bad habits, and promise that he's getting better and not hurting himself very much anymore. Of course his brothers are horrified and heartbroken that the perfect captain they'd all grown to love had such terrible scars on his arms  and his chest there are scratch marks on his sides that only some of the older members of the chain recognized as being done by Hylian nails not the claws of monsters. Cia left her marks on him and Sky tried to ask about them but Time shot him down quicker than Warriors could.

 Another discovery they made that day was that Warriors has two tattoos. One, an eating disorder progress tattoo  and One he shares with time. He, Masks and Tune got matching tattoos at the end of the war. Wind is too young to have his, but he is the one who designed it during the war. It is a sword stabbed into the waves of the ocean, around the hill is tied a ribbon with the Kokiri symbol. A design meant to incorporate all three of the war brothers. 

Before the war the captain was a wild child, Impa punished him severely because that seemed to be the only way he would listen. There is a patch on his upper arm that is a mess of perfectly lined up scars overlapping years of punishment. It was a comin military punishment for drinking, 2 small cuts to the arm, not meant to really do any real damage just enough to hurt. Every time he drinks on duty he adds to that number of scars. Which is far too many to count by the time he joins the chain. 

Warriors is extremely suicidal at the beginning of LU. Even though he tries to hide it from his brothers, his sense of humor is extremely dark and twisted. Time and strangely enough Legends are the only ones who seem to really understand his darker humor. he makes jokes about suicide or self-harm a lot. They thought it was just jokes so when his brother's saw the scars themselves, they knew a lot of the methods he'd used against himself by that point, just from the jokes he'd made.

 Four Will aggressively braid comb and demand they wash their hair and bodies frequently see the last  repost for better clarification on why. He does this with the whole chain except for Warriors. Four is understanding about the fact that Warriors hates having his hair touched by other people. So Four takes meticulous care of Warriors’s gear. He’ll ask to oil and maintain Warriors’s weapons for him. He will service his shield and armor because if the captain takes care of himself so meticulously, Four will do the same for his gear, as a way of showing his friendship and care.

 All right, that's everything I can think of now. Thank you to the like two or three people who actually care. Us Warriors fans are starved for content. My fellow Hyrule Warriors fans I bring sustenance.

[adrixivy]

PeteI definitely does Insta live. Like we know he did a vlog during the deleted scenes and it was him partying with random people on a rooftop. And he taped his phone to his chest because he’s a highschooler who loves to D.I.Y and makes his own stuff (mainly because he’s broke) and he can’t swing with one arm so taped to the chest it is

He definitely has an Instagram account (ThatFunnyFriendlyNeighbourhoodWebslinger) where he goes live for a while as he swings through New York and basically talks to himself cuz he can’t see the comments. People who usually tune in simply listen to him ramble about basically anything because he makes it sound hilarious or he’ll talk about something that happened off camera and complain in the most unserious way people find him funny.

Peter after being run over by a flock of birds and he was blinded and slammed against a signboard: Like damn, no ‘sorry’?? I was minding my own business too!

Peter rambling about something he thought about randomly in class earlier: Guys, if I stole a helmet from one of Mr Stark’s suits, do you think he would notice it? I don’t know if I can say this but he has plenty of suits. I feel like if I took one of his helmets and change the protocol, hell maybe even add a mustache, his sleep deprived ass wouldn’t notice. Oh my god, imagine what I can do with his nano tech suit! I could change-

Peter gets a call from Tony and an “Oh snap!” was last heard from the live before it ended. He picks up the face time call to see an offended Tony deflecting everything he said on his live because he was also listening in and Tony was pointing at the camera as he kept going on and on about Peter not allowed anywhere near his suits anymore and maybe even the lab which Tony was obviously joking and Peter took it seriously that even with the mask on, Tony could see his upset face with his moving lenses and sad puppy noises. Tony obviously makes up for it by letting him input his own stuff into one of his old suits

There are times also where his live suddenly cuts off with a yelp or a scream because he just encountered thugs and they started coming at him that he has to immediately hide his phone as he does not need a broken phone right now, therefore ending the stream.

Peter halfway through a complaint: Then they were like, you should bring your own paper if you can bring a pen. Woman, I simply wanted to leave a note so that-*gunshots sounds in the background* OH SHOOT! *live ends*

Other than simply listening into his live, some of his fans makes compilation of certain moments in his lives.

‘Spidey’s complaints compilation’

‘Spidey’s funny rambles’

‘Spidey’s perfect cut-off screams’

And Peter watches every single one of them, always laughing his ass off as he recalls the day. He always liked the videos and sometimes leave comments too. He watches them with the team sometimes and they all have fun watching him, especially the parts where he plans to do his own adjustments to Tony’s stuff which makes the older man raise a brow at his kid who was claiming that he was joking then(He was not joking)

Oh and I forget to add, he always has a few hundred thousand people listening in because at most, he does lives two times a week only. His highest view count was a million people and he honestly panicked

[dead-dolphins]

I'm always in when it comes to Taylor Swift, so please tell us what fic you imagined!

Pd: your mind is something amazing to me, like, how can you create fics plots so quickly? that's the mind of an artist there!

Oh my gosh, I love it so much when someone supports my chaotic, nonsensical ideas! Honestly, it feels so good to just have someone to bounce these wild thoughts off. And thank you for calling me an artist! I don’t usually think of myself as one, but hey, I’ll take the compliment, it’s really sweet of you to say that.

So, what I was trying to say earlier is that the song Cowboy Like Me makes me think about these two fascinating characters, artists in their own right, but more like tricksters or con artists, really. They have this uncanny ability to make people fall head over heels for them, but it’s all part of the game. They use their charm to get what they want, whether that’s money, gifts, or just the thrill of pulling the strings. But then, the twist is that they try to play that same game with each other and end up falling for real. They both get caught in their own trap, which I think is just chef’s kiss 👌🏼 for the story I have in mind.

Here’s what I’m picturing: It’s the 1920s, right? The peak of glitz and glam, with jazz music spilling out of speakeasies and fashion that’s daring and carefree. I was thinking it would be set somewhere impossibly elegant, like the French Riviera or Monaco, those dreamy places where the rich and fabulous went to play. Mikasa would be this stunning flapper, effortlessly stylish and oozing confidence, the kind of woman who walks into a room and has everyone’s attention without even trying. Meanwhile, Eren would be the male equivalent of a flapper, if that’s even a thing, suave, sharp, and so dangerously charming that people (women) can’t help but fall under his spell.

Both of them are hustlers at heart. They’ve learned how to play the game, how to make people fall for them and, in the process, loosen their purse strings. They’ve each perfected the art of seduction, not because they’re romantics, but because it’s a way of surviving, thriving even, in a world where money equals power. Love? That’s a weakness neither of them has time for.

The story kicks off in this ridiculously extravagant hotel, all marble floors and glittering chandeliers, where the elite are hosting some grand affair. Mikasa and Eren are both there as the “plus ones” of two very wealthy patrons, essentially escorts, but in that subtle, 1920s way where it’s all about appearances. They notice each other almost immediately. Maybe it’s a glance across the ballroom or an accidental brush past each other, but there’s this instant connection. Not love at first sight, though, it’s more like they recognise each other. Like, “Ah, here’s someone who knows the same game I’m playing.”

That’s when the fun starts. They begin this cat-and-mouse game, trying to outdo each other. Mikasa might flirt her way into stealing a target Eren was working on, just to prove she can, while Eren might turn the tables and sabotage one of her schemes with an infuriating grin. They’re constantly trying to one-up each other, and the tension between them is just electric.

But here’s where it gets interesting, they can’t stop thinking about each other. At first, it’s curiosity. Who is this person who’s as clever and sharp as I am? Then it’s attraction, though neither of them would ever admit it. They’re both too guarded, too used to seeing love as a tool or a weapon, to recognize that what they’re feeling is different.

The story builds with these playful, charged interactions. Maybe they share a dance at one of the hotel’s grand parties, where they both drop their masks for just a moment, caught up in the music and the closeness. Or maybe there’s a quieter scene, where they find themselves alone after a successful scheme, and the conversation turns unexpectedly real. They start to see beyond the game, catching glimpses of the person underneath the charm.

And the ending? It’s not a dramatic declaration or a perfect happy ending, it’s more like this subtle, bittersweet realization. They’ve been playing with each other all along, testing and teasing, but somewhere along the way, they stopped pretending. They actually fell for each other. It’s a little bit of a “whoops, we’re in love now” moment.

What do you think, Anon? I even have the name for this LOL “Gardens of Babylon” named in the song!

[writingfics-passingtime]

Look at you superpowering your way through that fic. I haven’t had time to read in sooo long but I’m definitely going to put some aside to read OTR parts 2 & 3 as I adored part 1. Anyway, here’s my prompt for the song request! The song is Hey Girl by Stephen Sanchez (my little sister’s wedding song apparently, though she’s also said that about a hundred other songs lol), & the character is Andrew’s Spiderman. Have fun!

Head in the Clouds

This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: Hey Girl - Stephen Sanchez

Pairing: Peter Parker x female reader

Word Count: ~2000

CW: mentions of crime and death

Note: Cas, do forgive me for the fact that this took nearly two years. I hope it was at least a little bit worth the wait. Thank you for sharing this song with me, it is so sweet and tender and this idea flowed out of me. Hope you like it!

The subway car hummed with the rhythm of its own chaotic life. Peter sat slouched against the seat, his head low, the rim of his hood shadowing his face.

He didn’t want to see the city today.

Didn’t want to see the ghosts that lingered in the faces of strangers, or worse, the ones that followed him like a haunting memory. The night before replayed in loops that wouldn’t stop. The mugging. The panic. The older woman he couldn’t save.

He curled his fingers into fists inside his jacket pockets, the faint tremor in them making him nauseous. Every sound - the faint screech of the rails, the muffled conversations, the hiss of air brakes - rubbed raw against his frayed nerves.

Then you stepped onto the train.

Peter didn’t look up at first. He was too lost in the cavern of his thoughts. But something shifted in the air - subtle, like the faintest hint of a spring breeze brushing through a winter morning. A quiet presence, steady, unassuming. You sat across from him, balancing a sketchbook on your lap, pencil already in hand. He caught a glimpse of your headphones, wires trailing into the folds of your coat. Whatever you were listening to must’ve been good, because your lips tilted faintly upward, your expression soft and serene.

For a while, he didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare look too long, didn’t dare make himself known. But his gaze kept drifting toward you, a fragile kind of curiosity building in his chest. You weren’t just sitting there, zoning out like everyone else. You were drawing.

Peter watched the way your pencil glided across the page, your hand light but sure, creating shapes and shadows that looked effortless. You tilted your head, studying someone across the car - a man in a rumpled suit who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Peter saw the way you captured him on the page, not cruelly, not mockingly, but with a surprising kind of reverence. You made him look… important. Worthwhile. Seen.

His chest tightened. How long had it been since he’d felt like that?

The train jostled, and you didn’t even flinch. Your hand adjusted, your lines precise. You worked quietly, invisibly to everyone else, but not to him. Peter watched the way your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the way your lips twitched when you got a line just right. There was something almost magical about it - the way you turned the mundane into something remarkable.

The man you sketched got off at the next stop, and Peter thought maybe that would be it. Maybe you’d close the book and tuck it away. But you didn’t. Your gaze wandered briefly, settling somewhere near him, though not directly on him. He held his breath as you started to draw again.

Was it him?

Peter’s heart thudded. He resisted the urge to pull his hood tighter, to shrink into himself. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, letting the rattle of the subway mask the sound of his shallow breathing. He dared a glance down at your page. The lines were faint but unmistakable - long limbs, slouched shoulders, a figure weighed down by invisible burdens. You captured him, but not the way he saw himself. You didn’t draw the guilt, the failures, the shame. You didn’t draw Spider-Man. You drew Peter Parker - someone who was tired, yes, but still human. Still real.

Something inside him cracked.

Weeks and months passed, and Peter found himself noticing you more and more. He couldn’t explain it. The way you seemed to bring light to such an ordinary space felt like a balm to his fractured world.

if he was really lucky, he’d end up in the same train car as you once a week.

Still, every morning, he looked for you, his chest tightening each time he spotted your familiar frame, your sketchbook in hand. Sometimes, he’d catch glimpses of your work - portraits of subway performers, a mother holding her baby, a tired worker slumped against a pole. Every face told a story. Every face mattered.

One morning, Peter’s resolve crumbled entirely. He hadn’t slept. The weight of his failures clung to him like a second skin. He barely managed to drag himself onto the train, collapsing into a seat near the door. He pulled his hood low, resting his elbows on his knees, his head hanging in defeat. The last thing he wanted was to be seen.

But then you sat down next to him.

Peter froze. He didn’t dare turn his head, didn’t dare look at you directly. But he could feel you there, close enough that the faint smell of your shampoo reached him - a hint of something floral and clean. Your sketchbook was open again, your pencil moving with quiet purpose.

This time, he couldn’t resist. He risked a glance from the corner of his eye. You weren’t looking at him - your gaze was focused on a mother and her young son sitting a few seats away. The boy was clutching a balloon, his wide eyes full of wonder as he chattered about something Peter couldn’t hear. You smiled faintly as you worked, capturing the scene with the same delicate care as always.

Peter’s chest ached. How did you do it? How did you see the world this way, even when it was so often cruel and unforgiving? How did you find beauty in the cracks and crevices, in the quiet, unremarkable moments no one else noticed?

The train lurched, and your pencil slipped. You frowned, erasing the errant line with quick efficiency before continuing. Peter almost smiled at your determination. For the first time in days, the heaviness in his chest lifted, if only slightly.

And then, as if sensing his gaze, you turned. Your eyes met his, and Peter’s breath caught.

You didn’t say anything - your headphones still nestled in your ears - but your expression softened, your head tilting slightly in silent acknowledgment. Peter felt a lump rise in his throat. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled up inside him. Instead, he gave you the faintest of nods.

You smiled, small but genuine, and turned back to your sketchbook. Peter let out a breath he’d been carefully holding. The train rattled on, the city blurring past the windows, but for once, he didn’t feel lost in the noise.

He watched you sketch, the quiet rhythm of your pencil grounding him, reminding him that there was still beauty in the world. Still hope.

Still something worth fighting for.

The next time Peter saw you, something was wrong.

The train doors slid open, their mechanical groan pulling him out of his thoughts. He glanced up instinctively, eyes scanning the platform. And then there you were - only you weren’t quite you.

Your usual energy, that quiet, creative spark that seemed to light up the gray monotony of the subway, was missing. You stepped onto the train slowly, your shoulders slightly hunched. No sketchbook was tucked under your arm. No pencil rested behind your ear. Your hands clutched the straps of your bag, gripping them tightly as though they might anchor you to something solid.

Peter sat a few seats away, unnoticed. At first, he wasn’t sure it was really you. The vibrance he had grown accustomed to - seeing you sketch, lips sometimes moving faintly to the rhythm of your music - was gone. You sat down heavily, not directly across from him this time, but on the opposite side, a few spaces to his left, staring down at your lap.

You fiddled absently with your bag’s straps, the leather creaking under your restless fingers. The movement was almost hypnotic. You were present but not here, your gaze vacant and distant. Your headphones were in, the faintest buzz of music leaking out, but whatever song you were listening to clearly wasn’t helping.

Peter’s chest tightened. Seeing you like this felt like seeing a bird with its wings clipped, something small and free now tethered to the ground. He’d never spoken to you, but in the months he’d spent in your presence, you’d become a quiet constant, a beacon of life in his otherwise heavy days. You made the world look softer. Brighter. Now, you looked like the light inside you had been dimmed.

He couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t just sit there.

Peter’s fingers twitched against his thighs. What could he do? He wasn’t sure what had happened to you - whether it was something big, or just the weight of a bad day. But the thought of you sitting there, carrying whatever invisible burden had settled on your shoulders, made him ache in a way he didn’t quite understand.

His eyes dropped to his backpack, slumped against his feet. An idea - reckless, impulsive - began to form. Slowly, as inconspicuously as he could manage, he unzipped the bag and rifled through it.

Books. Notes. Crumpled papers. Pens. He didn’t have much to work with, but he didn’t need much.

He found a scrap of paper tucked between the pages of his physics textbook - half an old assignment, blank on the back - and a cheap blue pen that was on the verge of running dry. He hesitated, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You hadn’t moved. Your hands still toyed with the straps of your bag.

Peter straightened in his seat and pressed the paper against his knee, clicking the pen. His heart thudded as he bent over the makeshift canvas.

He wasn’t an artist. Not like you. His lines were awkward, shaky. The pen smudged slightly, leaving faint streaks on the page. But he kept going. He drew the way your hair framed your face, the slight downward tilt of your head, the way your hands gripped your bag. He tried to capture the quiet sadness in your posture without letting it define you, the same way you’d drawn others with tenderness and care.

It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even close to good. But it was something.

The train slowed, brakes screeching as it approached his stop. Peter hurried to finish, his fingers trembling slightly as he folded the paper in half. He shoved the pen back into his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder, standing as the train lurched to a halt.

His eyes flicked to you one last time. You still hadn’t looked up.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

As he stepped toward the doors, he passed your seat, hesitating for only a fraction of a second. Then he dropped the folded paper into your lap, the motion quick and deliberate, a secret passed between strangers.

You startled, your fingers freezing mid-fidget. Your gaze lifted briefly, confusion flickering across your face as you looked at him. But Peter didn’t stop. He kept walking, his heart pounding in his ears.

The doors slid open, and he stepped out onto the platform.

He didn’t look back.

Inside the train, you blinked, staring down at the folded paper in your lap. For a moment, you weren’t sure what to make of it. You glanced toward the doors, catching a glimpse of the guy in the hood as he disappeared into the crowd.

Curiosity tugged at you. Slowly, you unfolded the paper.

The drawing stared back at you - a clumsy but earnest portrait of yourself, captured in pen on a crumpled scrap of paper. The lines were uneven, the proportions a little off, but there was something in the image that stopped you cold.

The figure in the drawing looked… real. Recognizable. But there was more to it than that. He hadn’t just drawn you - he’d seen you. Even in the shaky lines and imperfect strokes, there was care. There was tenderness.

There was hope.

You pressed your lips together, your vision blurring slightly as your grip tightened on the page.

For the first time that day, something inside you felt lighter.

On the platform, Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, walking briskly toward the stairs. He didn’t know if you’d unfold the paper. He didn’t know if it would mean anything to you.

But he hoped it did.

And for the first time in a long while, Peter felt like maybe, just maybe, he’d done something right.

[ace-sailor-uranus]

NO WHY DOES MY ART HAVE TO HAVE SYMBOLISM IN THERAPY

[luck-of-the-drawings]

HOW DO YA LIKE THAT DARK DOG??

BEEN REAL ENAMORED BY THE 'SORRY' BOYS AND THEIR ODD ESCAPADES LATELY. I THINK THEY COULD DO A LOT OF GOOD THINGS WITH THREE GALLONS OF 'FAKE' BLOOD.

[cloudd-nyne]

Bleh.

[goldensunset]

took a break from dying badly in unova (gen 5) to go and die badly in unova (gen 9)

[princekirijo]

Istg I actually need to sit down and write a proper bio for Riku because even I get confused af as to what his personality is sometimes.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

a decade later sure i'll put it into Text Post "tumblr user claims: plausibly may feasibly" form, starting with these classic screenshots i still have saved

this being dialogue from 2015's always watching: a marble hornets story, which is like hey this is a pretty well produced indie venture & you can sure like sit through it even if you then never watch it again b/c it's still kind of overly on the beaten path & "i'm not sure this choice is justified in much of anything" (see: bizarrely omnipresent thread of a love triangle just to be There; typical Mental Patient(tm) Harbinger; several real marked More Is Less instances arguably) that is still a better time than other random horror material i've seen & hated vs. only mostly been underwhelmed by but in an Overall Shrug way alone. yeah imdb's 4.7 out of 10 seems fair enough if you consider like 5 stars truly middle of the road solid if forgettable vs that anything < 7 stars is for [Bad!] or whatever

anyways the main character is named milo & indeed the creator(s) / actors / writers troy joseph & tim were involved in the production at all: tim at least by being the first step in doug jones's casting by reaching out directly (online), but troy & joseph also via Some writing, like in that slender game sequel also: not the Primary creators / writers, but still officially involved in the creative process at all. & i knew of them & they knew of me by this time & in a [source: dude just trust me] style of way, i, a tumblr user, am like "i think milo alwayswatching Could be named after me, milo unproduciblesmackdown. lol." b/c also like yeah i can take it on the chin if it's a coincidence, which is also likely. great name & it's just not being used enough in fictional & nonfictional people's names. you might also be aware that some role in tribetweIve is named milo (maybe the main guy. i never watched it) so you might also speculate it's named after that guy, which seems plausible also, But: afaik there are no other similar plausible shoutouts at all, to that series or to emh which was just as majorly like One Of Those 3 Biggest Online Series. may or may not add a grain of salt to take it with. like my own "of course, there's a grain of salt in 'milo just like me milo, and Uncoincidentally?' b/c how wouldn't there be. a name people have"

the dude just trust me argument: distilling it down to "i went to their first convention & then the same one the next year, & in these experiences i Know they knew of me from that + also online, where people knew my name was milo as well" and "it seems feasible enough it's an easter egg Not Coincidence that i first knew this character's name happened to also be milo b/c someone who experienced a clip sent me an ask about it, so they assumed it was a possible actual connection too lol." and, of course, it might be a fun coincidence after all. but i'm still like "yeah no it Could be a funny little shoutout to me specifically for real" and mean it and, again, i can endure it if i'm completely wrong. b/c who could care, and also b/c it's so funny that the character is a guy who basically just is like "i am going to have a bad attitude. b/c of the insistent tiresome love triangle thing. well now I'm insistently tiresome" and fucking everything up but like, sure. exasperating epic fail protagonists

the only relevance i think it has besides "to me, b/c i can go haha yeah. that might be like: just like me!!" is that it's Also plausible b/c yeah marble hornets Is the kind of series that might go "this could be an easter egg about some queer autistic tumblr user we know about" lmao, its Inherent Queerness both re: the material and in the creators' knowledge like yep that's how our Appreciators skew! like it's low stakes to be like [lol, Me. perhaps] b/c it's obviously of zero importance like it adds no info, i'm just some rando queer fan from back in the day, but it's this potential Fun Fact that's funny to know & it's about "yeah like they knew i was trans back then too & that it was like, amidst the MH Fans, like nobody's cishet man (shaggy rogers voice)" Gay Rights!

[lecliss]

Wait while I'm here lemme say something that's been on my mind for like 2 weeks at least. So, Yahiko was alive when Obito first came to Ame and talked to Nagato. The canonical ages of Obito and Nagato in shippuden are 31 and 35 respectively. So the ame orphans are all 4 years older than Obito. Considering Yahiko died at 15, the oldest Obito could be when meeting Nagato is..... 11. When did Obito have his death scare and meet Madara before leaving for Ame??? When he was 13. Sooooo... unless I somehow got something wrong, and please correct me if I did, Kishimoto is once again a hack fraud.

[ziracona]

Telltale Batman was right. Catwoman and Two-Face is an incredibly underutilized dynamic. In this essay I

[luxrayz64]

I saw a post a while back responding to criticism of botw as being "a good game but not a good zelda game", and they responded with how the Zelda Formula was getting tired and stale and botw was a response to that, that it was meant to harken back to the original zelda game where it just drops you in and it makes you find everything on yr own. which like is fine and good and all but. you do know that the original zelda had 8 full unique (as unique as they could be on the nes) dungeons right. the original zelda game had dungeon items. they didn't need to take out one of zeldas defining gameplay aspects and replace it with the fundamentally inferior shrines and divine beasts. you can make a game non linear and refresh its gameplay without taking out one of the series' strongest aspects.