#this fic probably appeals to one person only (me)

[ghoul-slime]

Confectionery

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2,087

Pairing: Aether/Dew/Swiss

Tags: threesome, ghouls in heat, armpit fetish, sweaty ghouls, fingering, implied dp, squirting, little bit of foot licking, poly ghouls

Summary:

When Dew goes into heat, it draws every ghoul in the abbey out. The sweet, heady scent of the small fire ghoul’s arousal calls to them, drives them tense and hungry, sniffing around the band ghoul quarters in hopes of getting their claws into his desperate, willing flesh.

When Dew goes into heat, he’s greedy. He wants whoever he can get, however he can get them, as many times as they’ll give it to him. But as much as all the other ghouls want a taste of him, and as happy as Dew is to give it to them, they almost never get there in time.

When Dew goes into heat, Aether and Swiss are always the first to claim him.

or read on tumblr here:

When Dew goes into heat, it draws every ghoul in the abbey out. The sweet, heady scent of the small fire ghoul’s arousal calls to them, drives them tense and hungry, sniffing around the band ghoul quarters in hopes of getting their claws into his desperate, willing flesh. 

When Dew goes into heat, he’s greedy. He wants whoever he can get, however he can get them, as many times as they’ll give it to him. But as much as all the other ghouls want a taste of him, and as happy as Dew is to give it to them, they almost never get there in time. 

When Dew goes into heat, Aether and Swiss are always the first to claim him.

Already high off the smell of him, the two ghouls stalk down the hall towards Dew’s room. In a moment’s time they’re mindlessly hungry, moving forward on instinct and with one purpose. Salivating and ravenous for it. Claws flexing and sharp, white fangs glistening with drool, they converge at Dew’s door to claim their prize.

Inside they find Dew laid out on the bed completely bare and waiting for whoever finds him first. He plays with himself while he waits, patience growing thinner by the minute, a sheen of sweat glistening across every inch of his heated skin. 

Dew’s scent hits them like a wall, thick and cloying, smelling of sweet cinnamon sugar with a hint of smoky ash. All under ridden by the unmistakable smell of sweat and slick. Of sex. 

Dew’s eyes are clouded and unfocused as he ruts his hips up into the air, spreads his thighs in invitation to the two hungry ghouls hastily tearing at their own clothing and stalking up to his bedside.They descend at the same time, sinking to the bed and flanking Dew, who arches his back off the sheets with a whine, writhing with need at the feel of the two bigger ghouls pressing themselves against him.

Swiss and Aether are all over him in an instant. Big, strong hands feeling their way across the warm expanse of Dew’s flushed skin. Soft flesh, pink and plush, warm with want. So sensitive and inviting.

Aether skims his hands up Dew’s torso, across his flat little chest, smoothing wide palms and calloused fingertips across his nipples, sensitive and rosy, stiff little peaks threaded through with shiny silver rings. He brings one hand up to Dew’s neck, curling his fingers around his throat, not pressing or squeezing but feeling. Feeling his steady, beating pulse thudding with anticipation. Feeling the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows thickly. Aether presses his nose into Dew’s temple and inhales, groaning at the changing scent of him, Dew’s arousal kicking up into high gear, growing sweeter and more intoxicating by the second.

Swiss trails his hands down Dew’s belly, spreading thick fingers to grasp at bony little hips, pinning his writhing frame to the sheets, pressing bruises into fair skin, sharp nails leaving angry, red indents into supple flesh. Across from Aether, he inhales too, growling deep in his chest at the smell of Dew’s heat. He presses his face into Dew’s temple, nosing along his hairline as he breathes him in deep enough to taste the arousal on his tongue.

Dew tips his head back, giving the two larger ghouls more access to the expanse of his throat. Swiss licks a long, wet stripe up the side of Dew’s neck, pausing to suck a bruise into the skin, drawing a needy whine from his lips. Aether noses his way down the side of Dew’s face, breathing heavily until he’s sucking the lobe of Dew’s ear into his mouth, licking wet and messy around the shell of his ear, chasing the scent and taste of him.

Pressed between the two larger ghouls, Dew can feel his body heating up. The more Aether and Swiss grind against him, suck and lick at his flesh, paw at his body with greedy hands, the more Dew’s body responds to the attention. Scent kicking up high as he sweats, as beads of pre bubble up from the wet slit of his hard little cock, as slick starts to dribble from between his cheeks. The smell of him, desperate for cock, body begging to be fucked and filled, to be claimed, drives Swiss and Aether out of their minds.

Dew smells so fucking good it’s all they can do to chase down the source of that intoxicating scent. They roam his body with their mouths, panting and snuffing across Dew’s skin. Swiss presses his face to the crown of Dew’s head, burying his nose into fine, silky blond hair. Aether moves south, planting a trail of wet kisses and licks across his body as he crawls down between Dew’s legs, burying his nose into the thatch of soft blond hair above the base of his cock. 

Swiss follows not long after, licking and nipping at Dew’s chest, then his thigh, and down his calf until he stops where Aether has his legs held up and spread apart. He licks a wet stripe up the flat of Dew’s raised foot, reveling in the sound the little ghoul makes. At how he throws his head back and cries out at the sensation, toes curling and calf muscles flexing at the tickle of Swiss’ tongue pressed against the sole of his foot.

But Swiss and Aether are greedy too, and they want more. They push and pull Dew between them, pinning his arms above his head in a mirror image of each other. Aether dips his head, pressing his nose into Dew’s exposed armpit and inhales, eyes rolling back and groaning at how good, how sweet, how concentrated Dew’s arousal is from this angle.

Swiss follows suit, nosing into Dew’s other armpit, pressing his nose into heated skin lightly damp with sweat. It smells so good. Like Dew amped up to a thousand. It’s syrupy-sweet and rich, but there’s more to it. Swiss inhales, breathes it in through his nose and out through his mouth, tasting the depth of Dew’s scent. He finds warm cinnamon and smoky campfire, and beneath that, hints of toasted sugar and honey. It’s Dew, and the smell of it goes straight to his cock. He inhales again, but this time he’s driven by the need to taste. 

Swiss presses his face into Dew’s armpit, ravenous for it, dragging the flat of his tongue up the expanse of it, drawing a sharp cry from Dew. He licks again, tracing his tongue through the fine hair at the concave of Dew’s pit, tasting the sweet scent of Dew’s heat and a tantalizing hint of sweat. He presses nose into the skin and laps at him, reveling in the way Dew squirms, at how he humps his hips into the air as Swiss works him up with his tongue.

Aether licks at him in a mirror image of Swiss, one big hand wrapped around a delicate wrist, holding Dew’s arm above his head and against the pillows. The more he licks the sweeter he tastes, the higher pitched and more desperate his breathy little cries become. The more Dew wriggles and writhes, flexes the muscles of his stomach, spreads his thighs and curls his toes.

Dew could cum like this, with Swiss and Aether licking into him this way, holding him open and exposed, wet, greedy tongues probing and tasting him in a way more intimate than if they were licking him out between his quivering thighs. His cock kicks out a blurb of pre and he feels another wave of slick dribble out between his cheeks, pooling wet and cool beneath his ass on the sheets.

He whines for it, begging wordlessly for more. His heat is driving his need to be filled up and taken apart. He groans again, long and drawn out. It echoes off the walls of his bedroom, demanding and impatient. It momentarily gets the attention of Swiss and Aether, who pull away long enough to lock eyes with each other over the heaving expanse of Dew’s skinny little chest. 

Together they trail their hands down Dew’s belly. 

Swiss stops to curl a hand around Dew’s straining cock while Aether slips his middle finger between Dew’s cheeks, gathering slick and pushing inside with ease. Dew arches off the bed, and Swiss and Aether turn their attention back to the task at hand. Licking at every inch of exposed flesh they can get their mouths on. Nipping at Dew’s chest, laving at his pierced nipples, snuffing their noses into his armpits, sucking bruises into his neck.

Aether ruts his cock into Dew’s side as he fingers him. Dew is so wet between his legs that his slick flows past Aether’s finger, pooling in his palm and dribbling down to the bedsheets. Dew keens as Aether pushes back in deep and wiggles his finger, wet sounds filling the room as Aether pets the deepest parts of him from the inside.

Swiss relinquishes his grip on Dew’s cock to join Aether between his legs. Trailing the tip one finger around Dew’s rim, stretched around where Aether is buried inside him. Feeling the pool of slick and the way Dew’s puffy little hole winks and flutters around Aether’s finger. He bites down on one of Dew’s nipples as he breaches him with the tip of his finger, sliding in alongside Aether already working in and out of him. Dew howls with pleasure, arching his back and curling his toes, doing his best to grind his hips down onto the two fingers stretching him open. His cock kicks out another blurb of precum onto his stomach as Swiss pushes inside to the last knuckle, until he and Aether are sunk into him as far as they can go.

Swiss catches sight of Aether across from him, eyes squeezed shut, red faced and sweating, drooling into the crevice of Dew’s armpit as he grinds his hips against his writhing body. Swiss groans at the sight and pulls back out, feeling the wet slip of his finger alongside Aether’s before he’s pushing it back in, sliding in and out, back and forth, in tandem with Aether’s rapid pace.

Inside, Dew is wet, hot, and tight. Slick walls spasming and clenching against the intrusion of the two larger ghoul’s thick fingers inside him. Dew relishes in the feeling of being pressed between them, of being spread open and stretched, pulled and prodded at, at the feeling of sharp fangs and wet mouths across the expanse of his skin. The way they both hump and rut against him, the heat of them driving his own body temperature up even higher. The sensations are almost too much, but his lust-addled brain still screams out for more, desperate to be claimed by the two ghouls working his body.

Aether and Swiss push in at the same time and Dew cums with a shout, eyes rolling back and body spasming. His vision goes fuzzy around the edges as he cums hard, painting his belly with ropes of white and squirting out a stream of slick as his muscles clamp down around the fingers still inside him.

Dew heaves in lungfuls of air, vision clearing as he feels Swiss and Aether draw out of him, leaving his hole empty and dripping. He groans at the loss, sweaty and panting between the two larger ghouls still flanking him. His orgasm took the edge off, but he’s still hot and aching to be fucked, the smell and feel of the two larger ghouls driving his heat into full force. 

He wants more than just their fingers filling him up.

He whines for it until he feels his body being lifted off the soaked sheets, until he’s being pushed and pulled and lifted as Swiss and Aether rearrange themselves on the bed, facing each other and sandwiching Dew’s spent, sweaty body between them. Dew’s head lolls back against Swiss’ shoulder as they push themselves together, as Aether grasps his own cock together with Swiss’ in one big fist. Aether pants into his ear and Swiss mouths at his neck, tonguing at his pulsepoint and worrying the skin with his fangs while they rearrange his legs and spread his ass. Together he and Aether ease him down until he’s hovering just above them, feeling the wet, sticky heads of their cocks kissing his rim.

When they start to push up inside him, Dew throws his head back and wails.

[neil-neil-orange-peel]

I was thinking to myself recently how wild it would be if this fandom was big enough to do a kinktober. Alas...

[marvelmaniac715]

I probably shouldn’t write for Doctor Who, because this is an overplayed trope, but here’s what I want for a potential multi-season companion. Her name is Callie (short for Calypso, which means ‘she who conceals’ but that’s just a coincidence…) and, personality-wise, she’s practically a stereotypical companion at first. Smart, witty, cheerful, reacts to the TARDIS with a typical “it’s bigger on the inside” but when she says it it’s almost like she’s making fun of the past companions. Her eyes are similar to Clara Oswald’s, she has blonde curls like River Song, which she keeps in two plaits like Yasmin Khan, she smiles like Rose Tyler, and the Doctor has an overwhelming sense of deja vu. She’s not much of a hugger, which the Doctor respects, but the one time she does hug him after a particularly emotional moment, he swears he can hear two heartbeats. That’s not the only thing - her eyes seem kind, but if you really look into them, there’s an iciness there. She’ll often smile to herself, like she’s laughing at a private in joke. She’ll often make herself a soup which smells just like a soup that can only be made with ingredients native to Gallifrey, and during her adventures with the Doctor things go wrong more often. She’ll push the Doctor to be more selfish because “you can’t save everyone”, and she won’t tell him much about her childhood. But then, one day, Callie starts acting even more odd. She responds to a question with “I’ve mastered it”, and the Doctor discovers that her ringtone is Saxon’s theme from when he was Prime Minister (“I was just a kid when Saxon became Prime Minister, that tune’s really nostalgic for me…”), then the truth comes out - Callie never existed; she is in fact the Doctor’s best enemy the Master (but you probably already knew that 😅). Her motivations are quite similar to Missy’s - she wanted her friend back, so she managed to make her newest regeneration a combination of every woman that the Doctor’s loved, and has drawn upon her knowledge of what the Doctor finds most appealing in a friend/romantic partner. When he tries to push her away, she gives him a look of mock-confusion and asks:

“What’s wrong, Doctor? I thought you were going to show me the universe?…”

Edit: I’ve started writing a fic about it :D:

[chronicbeans]

Nurse's Office

Needed to write a platonic Alastor x Nurse Reader Angst fic after I saw that fight between him and Adam like holy hell.

TW: Injuries and Blood, Medical Tools/Procedures, Anxiety/Slight Panic, Spiraling Mental Health

So... When you got started at the Hazbin Hotel, you didn't expect to be a nurse there. Sure, you have the skills, but you usually don't have a nurse working a hotel. Now, though, you completely understand why they'd want to hire you for that, and not the room service position you applied for. Over the little time you've been here, you've seen more injuries that you could've ever imagined at a single hotel, with so few guests.

After the fight with the angels, though? You have been working on overdrive. You've had to patch everyone up, and you can't even find Alastor. You keep doing a head count after every person you treat, seeing if you can find him, but he doesn't show up. Your anxiety only gets worse once you check on Vaggie, the last person you had to help, and he still didn't make an appearance.

You don't want to assume the worst, though, so you grab some medical supplies, put them into a bag, then head out into the debris. He has to be somewhere. Even if he's not alive, he still deserves to be found. He also couldn't have gotten far! Yeah, he kind of... disappeared at one point...? You didn't get a good look, but he did disappear from your sight. But you don't suspect he'd have went far from the hotel while injured. Just far enough to be safe. That's what you hope, at least...

You continue wandering around for a few hours, your legs feeling exhausted after a while. Climbing over all the rubble, breathing in some of the settling dust, and straining your eyes to see up ahead is tiring... that, and you keep scraping your hands and knees on the sharp rocks and broken concrete. The most disheartening part, though, is that you still haven't seen him... Then, you spot it.

A tiny little splatter of blood.

Then, another splatter nearby...

And another...

Yes, a trail! You don't know who it's going to lead to, but you can see some lights in the distance. It at least leads somewhere. You quickly begin to follow it, seeing the red light get brighter and brighter. The radio tower comes into view. You know that it has to be Alastor, at this point. Why hadn't you thought of it sooner? You climb down the rubble, beginning to make your way over to the ruined tower ahead of you.

As you get close to the bottom hatch, you hear some footsteps against the floor. Immediately, you knock on the hatch, making your presence known. "Alastor! It's (Y/N)! I'm coming in there! If you're on the door, you better get off. Don't even try to stop me from getting in, either, because I'll climb through one of the windows if I have to." You pause, hearing the footsteps stop for a moment. After a few seconds, you crawl into the radio tower.

The place is a mess, to say the least... which, you expected. You stand up, then immediately scan the room for Alastor. It's a bit dark, and knowing him, he's probably going to try to hide, somehow. He hates being seen as weak, and from all the blood you've seen so far, he's gotten injured. Badly.

"Alastor? I know you're in here. I heard you walking." You walk around the room, checking every corner. Then, you notice an oddly moving shadow, alongside a puddle of blood. You walk over to it, frowning. "I know you're there. Come on. I'm here to help." You sigh as the shadow makes a little grunt noise, much like a deer would. You then cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at it. Looks like you'll have to appeal to his ego a little.

"How do you think people would feel if you, the great Radio Demon, died here alone in the shambles of his radio tower?" The shadow grows quiet as you say this, and before you know it, Alastor appears before you. He looks terrible, holding his stomach with one arm and the broken remains of his microphone in his other hand. You take a step towards him, but he backs away a bit.

"I'm fine, dear... It's nothing I can't handle. Just give me some time to regain my energy, then I-" You shake your head instantly, gesturing to his wound. "No, Alastor! Look at you. You almost died! Sure, maybe you can regenerate, I don't know... but I spent an hour or so looking for you, with the sole intention of helping you! I didn't come here for you to tell me "No, I don't need help, even though I'm severely wounded"! I came here to assist you."

You watch his eyes widen, his already strained grin becoming even more strained. His ears then pull back, the look in his eyes becoming more distressed. He mutters something, before nodding. Then, he leans against the wall, before slowly easing himself to the floor. "Fine, dear. If you truly came all this way, I guess it would be rude if I said no to your help." You are a bit shocked he gave up so easily, as well as how uneasy he looks. You decide to just help him, though.

You crouch next to him, taking out your medical tools from your bag. "You're definitely going to need stitches... my healing magic can only do so much, but it should work better if I close the wound first." You smile gently, before you point to him. "Though, I'm going to have to, at least, unbutton your shirt and coat to do so. Are you comfortable with that? I know you are very iffy about being touched..."

Alastor then begins to show more visible signs of discomfort, his eyebrows furrowing, and a slight static hum droning from somewhere nearby. You pick up on it, beginning to think aloud. "I can try to find some way to maneuver around the fabric, instead, since it was cut open-" "No. No. I trust you, dear." You blink a few times, wondering why he is acting so oddly. "Are you sure...?" "Yes, dear. I know you well enough to trust you." He then pauses, before quickly adding "You're a medical professional, after all. You've probably seen more than an upper torso, before. I trust you to not be a degenerate."

You simply chuckle, nodding. "You better! I'd say we're good friends, after all." You then quickly unbutton the clothing, before grabbing some sterile gloves and disinfectant. As you put the gloves on, you hear him mutter something, once again. Then, when you grab a set of tweezers and a cotton ball, he makes an odd comment. "We're great friends, yes...? If I told you a secret, you'd keep it, right?" You nod as you pick the cotton ball up with the needle, cover it in disinfectant, then begin to disinfectant the wound. "Yeah. You can tell me. It'll probably keep you distracted from any pain you feel, too."

Instead of a hiss of pain, the static noise grows loud for a moment. Then, it quiets down a bit as he talks. "I'm not entirely sure if you know this, already, but I made a deal... My soul is owned by someone else. I regret it more than anything..." You let out a little hum, your expression changing to one of shock. You grab the suture needle, as well as some thread. "Why are you telling me this?"

"(Y/N), my dear... I trust you more than many others. I've seen you working in that nurse's office of yours. You care more than the average sinner about others. Almost to a hilarious degree. I can imagine you patching up a soldier on one side of a battle and sending them out, then immediately do the same with someone from their enemy's side." He then laughs, before coughing a bit. "You care... but don't care when it comes to the right things to interest me. I trust you to not care about this, even if it means you'll keep secrets from me."

You nod, before gently smiling. "I'll keep it a secret... I know others could hold this against you and use it for an advantage. So, I won't say a word. Plus, you're right. I'm a bit of a chaotic middle ground. I don't like taking sides." You then get the needle into position, beginning to actually sew him up. "So, tell me... Is there anything else you're anxious about?"

His ears flick, the static growing once more. Then, it dies down again. "I don't want to be remembered as an altruist... I don't want to be seen as someone who had died for that hotel and his friends. I know that there's probably some people there who believe I died... and knowing Vox, he probably found some way to watch what happened. That man is practically obsessed with me, after all, dear!" He laughs, again, causing you to have to pause your suturing. After a few seconds, he begins coughing more. He sounds genuinely upset, despite his laughing.

"Why wouldn't you like that?" Alastor seems to disregard your question, instead beginning to talk about his deal once more. "There has to be an exit to that deal... a loophole. Something so I can get out of it..." You begin to continue, almost done with your work. "Are you sure...? What was it?" "I'm sure, and it's private matters."

You finish up, thing up the last suture's knot. Then, you take off your gloves, putting on a fresh pair, and grab the bandages. "... Alastor, are you alright...?" He looks to you, his eyes wide. "Why are you asking...? I am perfectly fine. Not a problem here. After I get free from my deal, I'll be-"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Alastor... you're frowning."

Alastor seems to grab at his cheeks for a moment, an odd, anxious grimace spreading across his face. Then, he begins forcing another grin. His tone is a lot more frantic, as if he has begun to spiral. Or, perhaps, just begun to outwardly express that he's spiraling. "I wasn't frowning. I am fine, dear." "You're not fine... but, if you say so, Alastor. I won't push the topic." You bandage his wound, before sighing. "Okay, so... This magic works oddly. You'll be-"

Before you can finish, he begins standing up. "Hey, wait-" He, holds a hand up, shushing you. Then, he points to himself. "I'll take care of the rest. You should handle your own wounds, dear. Don't think I haven't noticed your scrapes and cuts. You look like you've ran through a thornbush on your way over here." He begins buttoning up his shirt and coat, and you're shocked to see it repairing itself as he does so. Clearly, while your friend's power is limited, he's hiding more secrets than you expected...

"Fine... You better not leave me here by myself as I do so, though." You go from a crouching position, to a sitting one, as you clean off your tiny cuts. You hear him go quiet, for a moment, but can't see his expression due to your focus now being on yourself. After a few moments, though, you hear him chuckle.

For the first time, you hear his voice clearly, with no radio waves obscuring it. "Of course, dear. I never would dream of that. The others, though? Maybe..."

[mystic-writings]

sneak out | jess mariano

PAIRING — jess mariano x fem!gilmore!reader SUMMARY — minutes into your mother’s dinner party, jess suggests you sneak out through your bedroom window - and you can’t help but agree WARNINGS — fluff, jess and reader being ‘troubled’ teens, a bit of angst, reader venting WORD COUNT — 2,322 NOTES — the idea of lorelai having a teen that was just like her is so appealing to me idk why - also would you believe me if i told you i listened to yung gravy while writing the majority of this fic

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You weren’t sure which was worse - the dinner your mother was hosting, or the idea that you now had to put up with a whole night of Luke’s strange nephew, whom you’d never met before.

Of course, you loved your family to pieces, and you loved Sookie and Jackson; hell, sometimes you looked at Luke as more of a father than you did your actual dad, but having everyone together for what you knew would be at least a three course meal, under one roof, with Luke’s mysterious nephew from New York, just felt draining.

So, to preserve what little social battery you had left for the day, you decided to spend the time between school and dinner in your room upstairs with a good book and a cd playing from the player that sat on your dresser at a low volume. You had to change the cd twice, first from one of your mothers Bangles cds to a Smiths one, but just as you were enjoying the beginning of David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust album (and nearly finishing up your book), did you hear the clanging of pots and pans from downstairs, as well as Sookie and Jackson’s lighthearted bickering.

You managed to bury yourself back into your book, one leg crossed loosely over the other outstretched one as you half-sat, half-laid on your bed, being mindful of your shoes so as to not get any dirt on your covers.

From downstairs, Jess was wandering around the Gilmore home as everyone else did whatever they were doing in the kitchen, internally monologuing and half-mocking their decor. He’d met Rory already, and she seemed like a nice enough girl. Enjoyed books. But he had yet to meet the third and final Gilmore girl, who so far had only been mentioned. However, as Jess scanned the various photographs on the mantle, he could hear the faint guitar of Suffragette City emanating from somewhere upstairs.

After peeking down the hallway to make sure no one was watching, Jess smirked and snuck up the stairs, into what was surely off-limits territory for someone like him. Still, he took the stairs two at a time and stealthily, managing to avoid all the places that would creak in a house like this one, despite never stepping foot inside beforehand. He followed the music down the hall, past some more paintings and pictures, to another bedroom. The door was open, and he was able to take a look inside. Posters covered most of the wall, leaving little space to show off the paint beneath them. Bookshelves occupied the wall right beside the door, and similarly to Rory’s room, they looked stuffed to the brim with books.

On the bed, facing him, was the person he assumed to be the final Gilmore girl - Rory’s twin sister. He watched intently, scanning every feature of your focused face as you scanned the final pages of the book you were reading. How your brow furrowed, eyes locked on the ink before you. The way the foot that hung off the edge of the bed was moving to the beat of the song.

Once Jess had decided that he’d been watching you long enough to constitute stalking, and how that was probably extremely creepy, he nudged the door open with a creak and stepped inside, clearing his throat and pulling his lips into a slight smirk. “Hey there, Ziggy.”

At first, you thought that your mother was finally calling you down to dinner, until you heard the unusually male - and entirely unfamiliar - voice come from the body in your doorway. Tucking a receipt into your book to mark your place, you glared over at the boy standing in your room with his hands behind his back, smugness rolling off of him in waves as he admired your room.

“You’re Jess, aren’t you.” Your flat tone seemed to amuse him.

“How nice, you already know my name. I’m flattered.”

You watched him as he walked around your room, over to the window where your desk was, trying to figure him out as he peeled back your curtains. “It’s impossible to not know someone’s name in this town, even someone who’s only been here for 28 hours.”

He chuckled. “Nice one, Ziggy. Now tell me, why aren’t you downstairs with the rest of the freakshow? I mean, they are your family, after all, aren’t they?”

You pretended to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “Sorry to break it to you, Mariano, but I’ve been banned from the freakshow. Apparently having apathy toward any sort of Gilmore humour is forbidden, and they’ve locked me away forever.”

“Aw, so sorry to hear that.” Jess mocked, placing a hand over his heart with an exaggerated pout. “I can’t believe they shunned such a ray of sunshine.” He smirked at your rolled eyes. “No, really, you must be a real treat at parties.”

“Quit it, Mariano. Is there a reason you came up here or did you just want to cause enough trouble to get kicked out of our beloved Stars Hollow? Because if so, you came to the right girl.”

Jess’ brow quirked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you heaved a dramatic sigh, slipping off your bed to walk over to Jess. “But it’s like… 9pm on a Wednesday. In Stars Hollow. Even if I wanted to cause trouble, and I don’t, because I did enough of that at school today, there’s nothing to do. Everyone’s asleep, and I’m pretty sure our 24-hour mini-mart closed like, half an hour ago.”

Now it was Jess’ turn to roll his eyes. “Your sister said that already. Is there seriously nothing to do here?”

“Nope.” You shrugged, just as a thought came to mind. “Well… there is one thing…” Jess’ eyebrows raised at the prospect of having something fun to do, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s not anything revolutionary, you know.”

“Still, give me something, anything, to get us out of here, Ziggy. I’m begging you. I’m being suffocated by the stale air of suburban life.”

You nodded, tapping your fingers on your thigh. “Fine, I’ll tell you. But you gotta do one thing for me.”

“What is it? I’ll do anything, I swear.”

“Stop calling me Ziggy.” You said. “It’s a stupid nickname, and although I admire the fact that you listen to David Bowie enough to come up with a nickname like that one, I hate it. Call me by my actual name.”

“Well I would, if I knew it.”

“My mother never told you my name?” You asked with a raised brow. “She never shuts up about me and Rory, I’m surprised you never caught it.”

“Apparently, I didn’t. It seems she likes talking about Rory more.” Jess shrugged. “At least, around me she does.” He barely caught the slight sag of your shoulders, the drop in your demeanour, before you picked it back up and smiled.

“Well, Jess. I’m Y/n. Y/n Gilmore.” After a pause, you looked around and snagged a sweater from the chair in the corner of your room. “Now, if you’ll follow me, let’s go have as much fun as we’re able to in Stars Hollow at night.”

Jess waited impatiently behind you as you unlatched the window by your desk and pushed it up, slipping through and holding it open for him. As he clamoured out, you grabbed the rock underneath the window and placed it on the windowsill, lowering the window so you’d still be able to get back in later.

You could still hear the tail end of the album playing as Jess looked around.

“How are we supposed to get down?”

“The trellis, obviously.” You said, carefully making your way across the porch’s roof to the trellis right next to the kitchen window. “Just don’t make much noise, this thing is right next to the kitchen’s window and if we get caught we’re screwed. Follow my lead, and run when you hit the ground, got it?”

“Got it.”

Scaling down the trellis was basically second nature to you, but you made sure to look up every once in a while to make sure Jess was doing okay. He seemed to be, which comforted you somehow. You waited at the bottom for him, making sure to stay out of view of the window to the kitchen and the edge of the porch, which were on either side of the trellis, and could possibly get both you and Jess grounded.

When he landed, he looked at you, and a dish clattered in the kitchen. You both snapped to the window, then back to each other. On instinct, you took his hand and ran toward the woods.

“Where the hell are we going?!” Jess whisper-shouted.

“Relax!” You whisper-shouted back, slowing to a stop as soon as you were hidden in the tree line. “We’re not going into the woods, dumbass. What do you think would’ve happened if we waltzed out in the open in front of the living room window?”

Jess only sighed and nodded, letting go of your hand. He let you lead him through the trees, keeping the light of the house close to you, walking around the garage and past all the cars, waiting until Babette’s house was out of sight until you stepped back onto the road.

The walk was calm and quiet, crickets and the breeze occupying you instead of chatter. After a while, when you were beginning to reach the town centre, Jess spoke up. “So, what now?”

You shrugged. “Not sure. Usually I head to the lake, bring a book, or a cd player and some headphones. I don’t normally bring people with me, you know?”

Jess nodded, lips slightly pursed. The walk continued through the town, passing by shop after shop, all of them closed for the night. You had to admit, you weren’t used to taking walks like these, out in the open. Normally you’d find whichever path kept you out of the possible sight of the townspeople, a habit you developed after Taylor snitched on you to your mother after he caught you walking to the lake by the Inn when you were 12. Still, it was nice, and even if you were caught, you somehow didn’t seem to mind it.

As the buildings were fading again and you knew you were approaching the lake, you checked your watch. 9:27pm. You sighed, and Jess looked at you. Dropping your arm, you shook your head. “Almost 9:30. They definitely have to know something’s up at home. Probably sending out a search party by now.” You told him, before shrugging. “Or, you know, miraculously, they forgot we existed and are eating Sookie’s delicious no-allergen, fourteen course meal as we speak.”

Jess scoffed. “Yeah, right. Luke might not care that much, but Lorelai? She seems like the world’s most protective parent.”

“She is.” You confirmed, sitting on your usual bench, eyes following Jess as he sat next to you. “Trust me, I love her to death, but it gets annoying sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, at least you have a protective mom.” Jess’ hands gripped the edge of the bench, his body hunched forward, making him look small, ready to run at a moment’s notice. “Mine decided I wasn’t worth the effort. Shipped me off to this… circus show without so much as a ‘sayonara, kid.’ You’re lucky.”

You frowned. Everyone knew within the hour of him arriving in Stars Hollow that Jess was a troubled kid, but even troubled kids deserved parents that cared. He was right, though, you were lucky. It just didn’t feel like it.

“I know I’m lucky, Jess, but it’s not all rainbows for me, you know.”

“Oh yeah? How?” He scoffed. “You have the perfect life, Y/n. A mom that cares, a great twin sister - hell, even Luke sings your praises.”

“Luke sings?”

Jess rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s not like that all the time, Jess.” You sighed. “My ‘great’ twin sister is, apparently, so great that she has all eyes on her at all times. My grandparents are always so proud of her for being so smart and planning this amazing, expensive, studious future - they’re planning on funding it, too, from the sounds of things. I just want to live, you know?” You kicked a rock with your shoe, avoiding Jess’ concerned gaze.

“And my mother seems more concerned about her wellbeing than mine, closer to her than to me. But somehow she wonders why I’m the troubled one. I mean, I act out, I barely go to that stupid prep school because it’s so suffocating, and I got an eyebrow piercing without permission instead of taking a calculus test last month, which I’m just getting out of that punishment. Everyone’s so focused on Rory and how seemingly great she is, I don’t even remember the last time I was appreciated for anything. And don’t even get me started on my dad.”

“Sounds like these freaks don’t know a good person when they see one.” Jess told you. “You seem chill. Adventurous, too. But just because you aren’t appreciated doesn’t mean you aren’t good enough.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “You too, Jess.” The world quieted around you for a moment, stars shining off the rippling waters of the lake. “But we don’t need to be good enough for them. Just good enough for us.”

He smiled, nodding once at you. Again, you appreciated the silence with him, watching the water or the sky. It wouldn’t be long until Luke and your mother found you both, you with your head on his shoulder and one knee bent to your chest, laughing quietly at a joke he told as you continued to get to know one another. But that was later. For now, you simply sat and watched the water, wishing the moment could last for the rest of your lives.

permanent taglist: @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @mazerunnerrose @theboldandthebootyful @miraclesoflove @queen-asteria04 @heliads

jess mariano taglist: open!

taglist form is in my navigation!

[slytherinshua]

CHERRY BOWS

genre. fluff. cheol as a dad. warnings. toddler/parent stuff. cheol gets jelly. pairing. husband!scoups x wife!reader. wc. 1k. request. request by @blue-jisungs: you asked for soft hours n i shall give!! it’s been in my mind for a hot while actually but i’m too busy rn to do it myself… and you’re the perfect person bc U MADE ME THINK IF TJAT 🫵🫵 jealous dad seungcheol :( ofc he loves u n ur kid but give him some attention too smh >:T and requested by anon: i love your svt as dads!! they’re all so cute and i’d like to request one for cheol! a/n. i love love love dad cheol omg :( my second dad fic for him hehe <3 hes so girl dad coded and SOOOOO ADORABLE SKDJKS I LOVE HIM!!!!

“You ate without me…?” Cheol’s sleepy mumble was the first thing you heard from him. He had tiredly trudged downstairs when he had woken up and you weren’t next to him in the bed. It was already a bad start to the day when that happened, and he was frowning and pouting and generally sulking about it by the time he found you.

He wrapped his arms around you from the back, trapping you in the middle of the living room so you couldn’t continue without giving him the attention he needed. You smiled at his clinginess and deep raspy morning voice, but scoffed at how baby-like he was in the morning. Sometimes he acted even more like a child than your actual child. 

Eunha was your now 2 year old daughter. She was adored by everyone and constantly doted on. She could be a handful at times, but only because she had started to take after your bossiness and knew exactly how to appeal to Seungcheol. If she ever wanted something, all she had to do was look at them with those big boba eyes that she got from him, and he’d be folding.

He loved her more than anything. Probably even more than you, but you were okay with it. It warmed your heart how much he cared for his daughter. He’d die for her in a heartbeat without a second of hesitation. You were learning more and more every day the love a father could hold for his children. You had expected this attitude when you married him, of course. Because you knew him and you knew how caring he was. He was so filled with love for people and the world, and you were so lucky to have him.

Starting a family had always been a dream for both of you, and Eunha’s birth had been your biggest blessing. It was challenging to take care of a toddler, but you and Cheol always did your best.

Eunha was happily playing with her toy dolls after eating breakfast— the entire living room spread with her mess. It was always a constant of cleaning her toys in the evening just for her to make a new mess the next day, but you didn’t mind. It was worth it to see her so happy, and though it could be stressful to have a messy space sometimes, her happy giggles made up for it.

“Were you playing dolls with her without me as well?” Cheol asked, the pout he was wearing somehow finding its way into his tone. You giggled and he squeezed you tighter out of jealousy. He didn’t want to admit that he missed your attention being only on him, but it was true. 

You were getting up earlier to feed Eunha and play with her in the morning. The sleepy morning cuddles that Cheol looked forward to every time he fell asleep next to you were becoming rarer and rarer and he felt bitter about the change. It just wasn’t the same with Eunha. It wasn’t worse, it was definitely better in most aspects, but the free time that he had enjoyed before was being sucked away by the little child.

“She wanted me to be the doctor.” You told him, explaining the dynamics of Eunha’s favourite game. She would be the mother to her little baby doll, and either Cheol or you would usually be the doctor.

“The bed was so cold without you…” He murmured, pushing his cheek against your neck. His skin was warm against yours and you leaned into him more, savouring the feeling.

“I’m sorry. You know that Eunha likes to get up early…” You whispered.

“She should’ve woken me up instead of you. Aren’t you tired?” 

“A bit. Eating breakfast with her was nice, though. She insisted on having strawberries with her yogurt since she had seen me eat it like that once.” You smiled. Seungcheol pouted.

“I thought I was her favourite…” He was mostly joking, of course, but slightly hurt. He had always been susceptible to jealousy. Maybe he was a little too greedy— he loved watching you and Eunha spend time together, but he also hated being left out.

Your little moment of warm embrace was interrupted after 2 minutes, a giggly Eunha running up and clinging to her father’s leg. She babbled something about her doll and wanting to get ice cream later today, which you were sure Seungcheol would indulge her in. He spoiled her too much.

You were happy to see your husband’s pout lift up into the sweetest of grins. He picked up Eunha, holding her so that she was resting on his hip. He kept one arm around you; almost if you would run away and leave him if he didn’t. Which was probably partially true since you hadn’t cleaned up from breakfast yet.

“Give daddy a kiss?” Cheol asked Eunha, giggles ensuing amongst both of them. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek cutely and you smiled. Now that Seungcheol was awake as well, the two would be inseparable for the rest of the day— especially since Cheol didn’t have any work to get to.

The morning happily proceeded with a small second breakfast and playtime. Now that your husband was being included in every activity, he was all smiles and giggles. He liked being the centre of attention; you had discovered that fact throughout the years. He was the happiest man in the world when he knew he was making his daughter happy.

Her happiness always came first, even when it relied on Seungcheol’s hair being tied up in pigtails with little cherry-coloured bows because Eunha wanted to play hairdresser. You were almost envious of how cute he looked in them. It was impossible not to love everything that Cheol did.

Along with the bows came matching sweaters with a cherry pattern for father and daughter. One look at the two and you could easily declare them the two cutest human beings in the entire world.

↳ svt taglist: @kangtaehyunzzz,, @yeonjuns-redhair,, @ddeonudepressions,, @hannahsophie0103,, @skz-minchan-enthusiast,, @shuabby1994,, @icyminghao,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @edensgardenn,, @wonwooz1,, @cyberpunksunwoo,, @cienlvrs,, @amara-mars

[emeraldstorms]

Born Again Trailer and Foggy

Under the cut, I will be addressing rumors, leaks and (potential) spoilers for Daredevil: Born Again.

I have been doom-posting about Foggy’s fate in DDBA as much as the next person. If he dies, I will curse everyone involved. delete my NMCU based fics and art and demand nobody talk to me about the MCU ever again.

But for now? The trailer actually gave me hope. And I wonder why so few fans seem to see this? I wasn’t the only one to notice, of course, but the pessimistic posts didn’t cease and I see few who talk about the scene in question.

So, I will talk about why I think Foggy lives/has a fake death after all. Bear with me.

Let’s start with the scene itself. (The screen in the trailer captures more, but everything relevant is visible in my gif)

First: the stretcher. I think the person on it, that’s Foggy. 

Yes, it’s far away and zooming in you can’t make out a face. But hair and clothes match, in my opinion. I know an Elden Henson superfan and she is also convinced it’s Elden as Foggy. Looking closely, I think you can see the pattern of his scarf.

The head piece of the stretcher is lifted. For a dead body it would be flat and he most likely would be covered with a sheet. Or they would have put him in a body bag.

But I admit, it’s hard to see and the stretcher argument may not appeal to everyone. lol

So moving on to “Foggy’s Bloody Spot”. From the leaks we know roundabout where Foggy lies after getting shot

In the helmet fall scene, that should be here. 

For one, Foggy isn’t here. I don’t think ambulance crews would move dead bodies on a crime scene. They’d leave them in place for the police investigation. But since the ambulance isn’t done yet, the police haven’t even started investigating. Some say, the falling helmet hides Foggy’s body, but… why? Why would he be there?

For two, the stuff left behind. Yes, that is a lot of blood. But also what looks like wound dressing, bandages etc. Someone tried to stop the bleeding and it wasn’t a passerby with makeshift tools. This looks like medical supplies. So at least one paramedic thought Foggy was worth spending time and resources on. Which probably means he was alive when they arrived on scene and someone tended to him. At the site of a mass-shooting that has to mean something. You know, triage- wise. Paramedics have no time for dead people when many others are injured.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he survives. But I think it debunks the rumor that he died on scene while Matt was fighting Bullseye. Because then he would still be lying there. 

And if he makes into the ambulance or even the hospital, a fake out is possible. If he is close by, Matt couldn’t be fooled, but out of Matt’s hearing range, they can in theory do a switch.

But then what line was crossed??? 😱

Oh, of course, the “line”. Before the scene with the falling helmet is shown, Fisk asks Matt why he stopped being a vigilante and Matt answers “A line was crossed”. Many, many people interpreted this line crossing as Foggy being killed.

But to me that makes no sense at all. Criminals like Bullseye always cross lines. That’s Matt’s problem with them and the reason he does fight them, not a reason to stop fighting them. 

However, of himself Matt expects to stay on the right side of the line. So I think he isn’t a vigilante anymore because he did something that crossed a line. Especially since Fisk answers “It’s hard to come to terms with our violent nature. Hating the power it has over us.” That only makes sense when Matt’s “violent nature” is responsible for whatever he is referring to.

Which is why I don’t believe the line that was crossed is what Bullseye did to Foggy but what Matt did to Bullseye.

So yeah, new hope for Foggy.

If you read this far, thanks for indulging me in my rambling.

[urfavoritemistake]

fiddleford mcgucket and things that go bump in the night

i understand why people like to explore scenarios in art/fic where fiddleford is aware of bill and has face-offs with him while he's in ford's body, or he works with stanley to try and get ford back post-portal incident, but to me personally? nothing beats the canon scenario where he is left entirely in the dark. because it's so horrifying.

you know the principle of horror that the monster is much scarier when it stays in the shadows than when it's revealed, usually towards the end of a story, because until then, it's left to the depths of your imagination to fill in the blanks? fiddleford chooses to not investigate those shadows, and even further enshrouds what he fears in darkness, because he's too scared of what he might uncover. he's the child who refuses to check for the monster under the bed and instead stays awake all night under the covers frozen in terror. that's the appeal of his character to me.

canonically, he doesn't know bill or stan exist. because ford refused to even trust his best friend with the knowledge of his muse, or anything about his past, even the fact that he has a twin. he actively hides childhood photos of him and stan from fiddleford. presumably, in college he kept all their conversations strictly to their interests and passions.

can you blame fiddleford for becoming infatuated with the guy? a talented, bright, yet mysterious individual. he probably longed to slowly break down those walls and gain his trust, learn more about this man who has made an effort to be unknowable. happily offered up stories of his own life back in tennessee, his family and aspirations, and prayed one day ford would do a little of the same. but he respected him too much to pry.

and then, when they reunite, he slowly notices his dear friend acts a little Off sometimes. unnatural. but how well does he really know him anyway? surely he speculates about the life ford is hiding from him, people he may be talking to, mental afflictions he may have, but he can't pin down anything due to how left in the dark he is, and his own fear of asking too many questions and overstepping boundaries. so he can only suspect. ultimately all he knows is there is some sort of evil afoot, and the machine him and ford are building will bring it about. all he has to go off of is his calculations and a vague dread.

until he starts making the choice to forget, which may be a little easier since there's already so much he knows he doesn't know. what's the harm in losing a bit more, especially stuff that is causing him pain?

and so he starts to lose his mind in turn, and he can feel it as it's happening. he knows he can't trust his deteriorating memories. but he can't stop because of the mechanisms of addiction.

and maybe one day, before everything is entirely gone, he's made aware that stanford pines, his ex-friend, has converted his lab into a tourist attraction. not one fiddleford can afford to attend with his increasing reliance on dumpster diving and beggaring to get by, mind you. but perhaps he gets a glance at the proprietor, this man claiming to be stanford pines, and feels that old sense of wrongness in his gut.

he's pretty sure that's ford's face, but something's off about it. and his hands. something's wrong with his hands. didn't ford have something with his hands? fiddleford didn't notice it at first in college until ford pointed it out because he's mighty insecure about it, but he's forgotten what it was. but honestly, how much of his own fragmented memories can he even trust?

he feels a shiver down his spine. perhaps it's best to forget about stanford pines altogether.

[mochinomnoms]

*slides in* PTM!Silver you say? Please elaborate! I love Silver. He's so handsome! And his arms! The sprites don't do him justice, and i will forever be bitter about it. And they way his face can go from j gentle smile to his intense angry face. I feel like his mind would be mostly sweet daydreams. Hanging out in the woods with his head in your lap. Maybe even dancing in the forest surrounded by his animal friend (like in sleeping beauty when Aurora met Prince Philip) Or! Since he mentions that the Prefect might have some talent with swords. He daydreams about showing them the basics. Hands lingering on theirs while they grip their sword. helping them correct their form as an excuse to hold them close! He has such a serious face. But he fantasized cute little outings.

Any lewed thoughts, I think, would be more like wet(day) dreams. Maybe you were taking a nap with him, and He's was just dozing off thinking how pretty you were. How nice your voice sounds. It's soothing to him. And the way you just sighed and stretched. Now, his mind is else where.

He thinks how beautiful you'd be while he gently rocks into you. Would you stroke his hair like when he naps on your lap? Would you sigh and groan like when you woke up from a nap together? Would you kiss him when youre close to your release and tighten your legs around his waist when he cums in you- he snaps awake. He shouldn't be having such thoughts to his Lord's friend. To His friend. That would be disrespectful. While he was in turmoil beside you, you are desperately trying to face away from him and hope he doesn't see your flustered face. I'm sorry I forgot how obsessed i am with Silver >~<

Refering to this post

I didn't have too much interest in Silver when I started writing PTM, so while he was one of the last options for the fic (mostly because he fit the personality of the manga lead I took inspiration from) I kinda tossed him out right away cause Jade was more appealing and funnier.

I think if I had written it with Silver, your thoughts here would probably match up! He is a lot softer to me so i would imagine his thoughts would be soft when about you as well. I think the drama/conflict in this would be very different though! In Jade's case, it's such a remarkable difference between his personality and thoughts that it sends you into a loop! It's embarrassing (and flattering, though you won't admit it)! So you don't want to address that, and deny it, which only makes Jade want to chase you more!

In Silver's case, since PTM would be the next school year, the conflict comes from Silver not wanting to confess to his Lord's friend, someone the prince holds near and dear. What if he confesses and you reject him and distance yourself from him, will you distance yourself from the others as well, from Malleus? It's a bit irrational, he has to admit, but you are a kind and silly human who won the affections of the Briar Prince, and he is just a knight. What if Malleus were to invite you to his court? If you were to become a noble or diplomate or something similar for Malleus, you couldn't possibly be seen with some knight, can you?

Overall, I think Silver's version of PTM would've been a lot more angsty than Jade's, which does have it's own appeal!

[lestappenforever]

Lestappen fic - Ice cream shop owner!Charles AU

I don't typically get excited by AU ideas for Lestappen because Lestappen in canonverse is so appealing to me in and of itself. But, while AO3 was down yesterday, @thearchercore received and answered a whole bunch of asks from lovely anons about a Lestappen AU fic where Charles owns an ice cream shop (as inspired by the news that the man is actually going to open an ice cream shop in Milan.) And, well, for the first time ever, I got excited about a Lestappen AU. So, I wrote something.

This is, obviously, dedicated to the incredible @thearchercore, a true pillar of the Lestappen community, and to each and every anon who has sent in asks about this AU. And because this was entirely inspired by people on Tumblr, you can read the whole fic in this post. ❤️

---

Max realizes that he has probably let this whole thing go too far. Way too far. 

What had started as a chance encounter after the Monza Grand Prix, where Max had gone on a drive and ended up in a small, lovely ice cream shop - LEC - in Milan that served the most delicious vanilla ice cream Max had ever tasted, had spiraled and developed into what was now practically a weekly occurrence. Every chance he got, when the race calendar, his PR and training schedule would allow it, Max would fly to Milan, spending ridiculous amounts of money and contributing an unnecessary amount to further pollute the environment, just to go back to that ice cream shop.

And yes, although the vanilla ice cream was divine, that's not the real reason Max kept coming back. 

No, the real cause of his travels was the ridiculously beautiful shop owner, with the fluffy brown hair, the captivating green eyes Max kind of wanted to drown himself in, and dimples that Max saw every single night when he closed his eyes. And what’s more, the shop owner — Charles — didn't even seem to like Max, because the Monégasque was a die-hard Ferrari fan and he seemed to have made it his personal mission to put all the blame of Ferrari’s lack of success for the past fifteen years on Max. Even if Max hadn’t been in F1 for the entirety of those fifteen years.

Not that he was surprised, really. The passion of the Tifosi did, on more than one occasion, seem to seriously impact their sense of logic and capability of rational thinking. 

And apparently, the beauty, sass and stubbornness of the shop owner did the exact same thing to Max's. 

The irony of that is not lost on him.

The fact that the two of them had discovered they were on the same page about the superior ice cream flavor the first time Max had been in that ice cream shop — “vanilla is my favorite” Max had said at exactly the same time Charles had said “vanilla is the only right choice” — had not been enough to endear him to Charles. His allegiance with Ferrari and Max currently on yet another dominating winning spree with Red Bull was too strong. (Even if there had been the flicker of something in those green eyes when Charles had learned that he and Max were on the same page about vanilla ice cream.)

After yet another failed attempt at charming Charles a few weeks ago, Max had gotten so desperate that he had genuinely started considering a move to Ferrari, even starting to subtly ask around about the possibility, Red Bull’s superior car and strategies be damned. But then word had reached GP and his race engineer had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be moving to Ferrari to impress ‘some ice cream guy in Milan’. Which Max had taken offense to, because Charles was not just ‘some ice cream guy in Milan’, thank you very much.

(Max really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut around GP.)

So yes, his obsession with the ice cream shop and its owner has gone way too far. And yet, on a warm August afternoon, Max finds himself walking back into that ice cream shop. 

Summer break has finally arrived, and Max had genuinely considered renting an apartment in Milan for the next three weeks so he wouldn't have to fly back and forth so much. But then he had come to the conclusion that that would be excessive. 

(Because flying back and forth between Monaco and Milan definitely wasn’t excessive. No, sir.)

Charles is there when Max walks in, as he is every single time Max walks in. The guy never seems to leave his beloved ice cream shop, and Max finds himself wondering if the other man gets enough sleep. Or if he even goes home to sleep, or if he has a bed set up in the back somewhere so he never has to waste time going back and forth between the ice cream shop and his home. 

He may not know Charles all that well, despite seeing him regularly for the past few months, but he does know that the man must have an incredible work ethic. 

The little bell above the door announces his arrival, and Charles looks up from behind the counter. For a brief second, Max is sure he sees a flash of excitement cross those gorgeous features, but the Monégasque quickly schools his expression into one of exasperation and indignation, complete with an overly dramatic eye roll. 

“No Red Bull Racing team members allowed,” Charles tells him with a huff, as he puts a brand-new tub of chocolate ice cream in the display freezer. 

Max snorts as he walks towards the counter. He had expected a frosty — pun intended — reception following Ferrari’s double DNF in the last race before the summer break, so Charles’ grumpy demeanor doesn’t deter him.  

“Hello to you too, Charles,” the Dutchman sing-songs, ignoring the way a couple of teenage girls at a table by the window gape at him. “Let me guess, Ferrari’s double DNF in Belgium was somehow my fault?”

Charles meets his gaze and narrows his eyes. He points an ice cream scoop at him. “I am not sure how, but yes.” He waggles the scoop accusingly. 

It’s Max’s turn to roll his eyes. “Right, because the two of them crashing into each other in turn two, while in P8 and P9 respectively, while I was at the very front definitely had something to do with me?”

“Obviously,” Charles confirms with a sniff. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Max laughs, shaking his head in a manner that can only be described as fond. He comes to a halt in front of the cash register at the counter, and waits for Charles to ask him what he wants. 

But Charles never does; instead busies himself with rearranging the different bowls of topping on top of the display freezer, wiping down the counter, and restocking the ice cream cones, all the while completely ignoring Max’s presence. Or general existence, even.

Eventually, Max runs out of patience.

“I’d like three scoops of vanilla ice cream, please.”

Charles doesn’t even stop what he’s doing. Doesn’t even look at him. “We’re all out of vanilla.”

Max stares. At Charles, then at the almost full tub of vanilla, with its little sign labeling it as vanilla sticking out of the fluffy ice cream. 

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Charles, I can see the vanilla ice cream. It’s right there,” Max insists, pointing at the flavor through the display glass. As if Charles isn’t completely aware of its existence, as if he’s not just being a little shit and punishing Max for something that isn’t even remotely his fault. 

Charles pauses in his bustling to look at Max. Then, he follows the length of Max’s arm to where his finger is pointing directly at the vanilla. His gaze returns to Max’s eyes as he says, deadpan: “That is only a display ice cream.”

Max blinks repeatedly.

“A display ice cream?” he echoes incredulously. 

“Yes,” Charles confirms, raising his chin. “It’s only for display, it is not to be served.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, it’s like this,” the Monégasque says, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. 

Max doesn’t know if he wants to smack him or kiss him. 

(That’s a lie, he knows damn well that he wants to kiss that smug look right off of Charles’ stupidly beautiful face.)

“Fine,” the Dutchman sighs, moving his finger slightly to the right. “Then I would like three scoops of the chocolate.”

“I’m sorry, but that is also only a display ice cream,” Charles tells him with a completely straight face. 

“You’re not serious.”

Charles raises one full eyebrow. “Does it look like I’m joking?” he asks.

And, well, Max has to admit that it absolutely does not. 

He stands there in silence for a while, wondering why the hell this infuriating man has been the object of his deepest desires for the past few months. Wonders why Charles’ face is the only thing he sees when he closes his eyes to sleep at night, and why he is the one person that keeps appearing in the majority of his dreams. Wonders why, when his mind wanders as he has a secure grip around himself in bed, it keeps wandering to the mental images of what Charles would look like, feel like, sound like if he was there with Max, when all Charles seems to want to do is get under Max’s skin and infuriate him in ways and for reasons Max hadn’t even known he could let himself be infuriated. 

Oh, who is he kidding? Those reasons, coupled with Charles’ overall appearance and being, are exactly why his mind never seems to tire of Charles whatever-the-fuck-his-middle-name-is Leclerc, and only him. 

Max has always been a sucker for challenges. And Charles is definitely a challenge. 

Had Charles been an F1 driver instead of the owner of an ice cream shop, Max just knows their on-track battles would have been epic. Their rivalry would have been one for the ages; their names and lives so intertwined that people could not have mentioned one without also mentioning the other. Because Max is sure that Charles’ passion, his stubbornness and his outright refusal to give in to anything or anyone would have translated into a fierce, unyielding, unapologetic driver. 

Forcing himself out of his reverie, Max gives a quick shake of his head to clear is racing mind. Then, he fixes Charles with a hard stare. 

“Let me guess, these are all ‘display ice creams’?” he asks, gesturing with a hand at the numerous tubs of flavors in the display freezer. 

“Of course not,” Charles scoffs, as if that’s the most ridiculous statement that has been made in the ice cream shop in the past few minutes. “That would be a horrible way to run a business. We have one flavor that is not only for display.”

Max is almost afraid to ask, but he does anyway. “Which is?”

Charles doesn’t answer the question with words, just points to the bottom tub at the far left. The little sign reads ‘Mint chip’.

“Who the fuck eats mint chip ice cream?” Max asks, scrunching up his nose in disgust. “That’s like eating toothpaste.”

For the first time since Max stepped through the door, Charles smiles. A beautiful, self-satisfied, mischievous smile that does things to Max’s body, mind and soul. It makes his heart rate pick up and his skin tingle with an excitement he has no business feeling. 

Pathetic. He’s absolutely pathetic. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Max. That's all I have to offer today.”

And Max, proving just how completely gone he is on this ridiculous man, lets out a long, tired sigh. 

“Three scoops of mint chip, please,” he requests in a voice that is completely resigned. 

Charles’ face lights up like a fucking Christmas tree, and he scurries to get one of the small glass bowls reserved for customers who want to eat their ice cream in the shop, not even needing to ask if that’s what Max is planning to do, or if he wants his ice cream in a cone. And although Charles is doing his damnedest to make Max believe that his general existence on this earth is causing Charles physical pain and emotional turmoil, the fact that Charles remembers his preference doesn’t go unnoticed by Max. 

He won’t even entertain the idea that Charles might just be adamant on making Max sit in his shop and eat his mint chip ice cream so Charles can watch him suffer with every spoonful. 

Charles is generous with the scoops — incredibly so — and Max is sure those three scoops he requested actually equal the size of at least six regular-sized scoops. He realizes that he probably should have asked for one scoop instead of three. He watches as Charles sticks a spoon in the ice cream and places the bowl on the counter in front of Max with the biggest grin on his face.

“It’s on the house,” Charles tells him, probably just to further add to Max’s suffering. 

The Dutchman eyes the bowl of ice cream warily, quietly cursing it and himself, before picking it up with a hesitating hand. Charles watches him expectantly the entire time as Max makes his way to a small table in one corner of the shop. Behind him, a small child, probably around five or six, had entered the shop with his mother while Max was waiting for Charles to finish scooping, and Max hears the boy ask for two scoops of strawberry ice cream. And Charles — the fucking asshole — makes a point out of saying ‘coming right up’ in both Italian and English just to fuck with Max some more.

Max takes a seat with his back to the window so he can face Charles. Because if nothing else, he’s not going to let Charles win.

The first spoonful really does taste like toothpaste with a hint of chocolate, and it’s an awful combination. It takes every ounce of willpower Max has not to let the disgust he’s feeling show on his face. He lets the ice cream melt in his mouth for a long moment, before swallowing the disgusting liquidized ice cream, all the while maintaining a completely unaffected expression. 

Charles watches him eat the entire bowl of ice cream, and Max never breaks eye contact. With every expressionless swallow, Max can see the thinly veiled disappointment on Charles’ face and the satisfaction he gets from that is enough to motivate him to finish every single bite. He even makes a point out of scraping the melted remains of the ice cream from the sides of the bowl, scooping it up into a mint green coloured soup in his spoon, and eating it. He even briefly considers licking the bowl clean just to get a rise out of Charles, but the Monégasque turns away from him with a huff before he can put his plan into action.

Which, thank fuck, because Max is starting to feel a bit sick from the ridiculous amount of toothpaste-flavored ice cream he has just consumed out of spite and spite alone. He pushes the bowl forward and away from himself on the table with a frown.

Charles goes back to ignoring his presence for the next fifteen minutes, and Max waits. Just because he can — just because he knows this wasn’t the outcome Charles had expected and he wants to revel in the satisfaction of finally getting under Charles’ skin for once for a little while longer. 

Eventually, Charles comes to collect his empty bowl and gives Max a disapproving glare. 

“Well? How was it?”

And Max, unable to resist, gives Charles his biggest, brightest smile. “It was delicious, thank you.”

If looks could kill, Max would have been dead. Then, Charles turns on his heels and walks away with Max’s empty bowl and spoon. 

Taking the win, Max gets to his feet and waits for Charles to look over at him from behind the counter. When he does, he gives the other man a wave. “See you tomorrow, Charles.”

“You’re not coming back tomorrow!” Charles shoots back.

“Oh, but I am,” Max counters. It sounds like a promise, and it is. 

As he walks out of the ice cream shop, feeling Charles’ gaze boring into the back of his head as he does, Max pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts looking up hotels in the area with available rooms.

***

Max stays in Milan for two weeks, and he goes to Charles’ ice cream shop every single day. 

Every day, Charles tells him the only flavor he can serve him is mint chip. By day three, Max has stopped trying to argue with him. By day five, Max orders vanilla and Charles responds with ‘three scoops of mint chip coming up’. And every day, Max sits at his little table by the window to eat his ice cream while Charles stands behind the counter, watching him eat the entire time. 

Every. Single. Day. 

And every single day, Max can see Charles’ resolve crumbling, little by little, convincing him that his tragic efforts are not in complete vain. They might be mostly in vain, but Max is in far too deep at this point to care.

On the eighth day, Max stays until closing and Charles spends the majority of his free moments actually hanging around Max’s table and engaging him in conversation. It's a step in the right direction, even if Charles does end up kicking the Dutchman out when he has to count the register.

And on the eleventh day, as Max is about to leave after finishing yet another disgusting, massive portion of mint chip ice cream, Charles finds himself looking at the blond from behind the counter, watching as Max smiles down at his phone. Those piercing blue eyes are crinkling in delight, causing adorable smile lines to appear at their corners, his full, inviting lips stretching to expose his straight, white teeth. A wave of something — jealousy, Charles would define it as if he wasn’t a pigheaded dick when it comes to four-time F1 World Champion Max Emilian Verstappen — washes over him at the thought of whatever or whoever it is that puts that smile on Max's face. 

It makes the Monégasque realize that all of his attempts over the past few months to convince himself that he doesn’t find Max attractive or charming as hell, and that he definitely doesn’t want to find out whether Max likes vanilla in bed, too, have been for naught. 

And so, with an overwhelming feeling that he's losing a battle he's been fighting for months, Charles throws away the paper towel he had been using to dry his hands and resigns himself to his fate. Because sometimes, perseverence needs to be rewarded.

And he's not just referring to Max's.

“You can take me out to dinner tonight,” he tells Max, and it sounds like the statement pains him. Which it kind of does.

Max stops dead, one hand on the door handle, half-turned to face Charles. The look on his face is one of utter surprise.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds so fucking hopeful that it should probably make Charles change his mind. But instead, it makes him want to close up the shop immediately and let Max take him out to dinner right fucking now.

Which is pathetic, really. But then again, so is the way Charles has been waking up every day hoping Max Verstappen would walk through the door of his ice cream shop for the past few months.

But, having no intention of showing his hand, Charles maintains a stoic expression as he nods. 

“Pick me up here at nine.”

Max's smile is so wide that Charles wonders if it makes his cheeks hurt. He also wonders if said cheeks will feel as warm to the touch as they look.

“Okay,” Max says, still smiling. “Then I'll see you again at nine.”

And with that, Max turns, pulls the door open, and walks out of the shop. 

When Charles can only just see the back of the Dutchman through the window, he sees Max stopping briefly on the sidewalk and pumping his fist in the air in the same celebratory manner Charles has seen after so many victorious races over the years.

He looks ridiculous, and Charles might just be falling a little bit in love with him.

Charles doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

***

It turns out that Max's preferences in bed are far more adventurous than his taste in ice cream.

Which turns out to be yet another thing they're on the same page about.

[salty-ironstrange-shipper]

Hi. I saw this post asking for a fic that changed one's brain chemistry. Now there are a lot of fics I like; over 2000 bookmarked on ao3. And a lot of fics I love; I have 400+ of those fics tagged 'fave'. Of those 400, there are only around two dozen I would say legitimately changed me as a person. 1% changed the way I saw relationships and the world, changed the way I read and write. And I couldn't narrow it down to one - or ten - and didn't want to dump in OP's tags. So have this list of fics that permanently changed who I am as a person.

Warning: I love long fics, and some of these are the same specific tropes that I love or that really affect me personally (ex. arranged marriage). Expect angst, and especially angst with a happy ending. That said these fics are all objectively amazing.

(sorry to people who don't like long fics, but we are simply not the same. and that's OK.)

listed in order of fandom, then length.

Banshee In A Well - 43k, complete, DC, Tim Drake. Childhood trauma, childhood trauma, came back wrong/can't stop coming back! Tim is a little FREAK and I luv him.

straight on 'til morning - 102k, complete, DC, timkon/Kon-El. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly.

variations on a theme - 5k, complete, MCU, ironstrange. This is one of the fics that made me truly love ironstrange. Stephen sees through millions of possibilities and in doing so, falls in love with Tony. Evocative, beautiful, succinct.

The Art of Losing - 33k, complete, Red White and Royal Blue, firstprince. This fic made me cry. This fic BROKE MY HEART. And I WENT BACK TO IT. Multiple times! This is a breakup fic that breaks you down then puts you back together. You will come out different, and only you can say if it's for the worse or the better.

With so much of my heart (that none is left to protest) - 65k, complete, Red White and Royal Blue, firstprince. There are so many firstprince fics that essentially translate the events of the book into a different setting. And I love all of them. (My own fic, then fucking have me, also does this, self plug self plug self plug). I had to narrow this selection down to just one, and this is probably my absolute favorite.

You Don't Have To (Say Yes) - 192k, complete, Star Trek, spirk/Jim Kirk. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly (yeah, again).

THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS - 262k, complete, Star Trek, spirk. Star Trek arranged marriage epistolary fic. I read this 4 years ago, and I STILL think of a line from this fic constantly (we're aligned, we're aligned, we're aligned). If you don't read anything else for the rest of your life, read this.

DON'T THE WAVES PULL THE SAND? DON'T THE MOON PULL THE TIDES? - 58k, complete, Star Wars, finnpoe. I don't even go here. And yet. And yet. This is within the niche genre that for some reason appeals to me specifically, of characters having a LOT of feelings about sex and dealing with it poorly (yeah, AGAIN).

Not Part of the Plan - SERIES, 8 works, 337k, complete. Supernatural, destiel. This is an arranged marriage fic au series, that started with a oneshot pwp, and somehow grew into a sprawling, world and character building EPIC. And that to me is always a marker of quality. You KNOW it's good if the author couldn't stop themselves.

wander your own land - 379k, incomplete, Yellowjackets, shaunajackie and others. I told you I like long fics. Girl survival situationships, cannibalism, jealousy, cabin fever, hallucinations, trying to keep a fucking baby alive in some of the worst possible circumstances.

Infinite Variations of a Summer Day - 76k, complete, X-Men, Pietro Maximoff. I love Pietro, he is one of my favorite characters of all time, and this is such a great character fic. See Pietro slowly driven insane in a time loop that examines his relationships with himself, his team, his family, and his powers.

drop your own recs in the notes. and if you have any suggestions for griddlehark/the locked tomb, pLEA- *gunshots*

[pulisicsgirl]

gonna be the death of me - mason mount

summary: as his publicist, Y/N is willing to do whatever Mason needs to make him comfortable at his latest sponsored photoshoot

pairing: Mason Mount x publicist!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: no established relationship, suggestive language, sexual tension(??), they're both down so badly for each other it's insane

requested: no

notes: surprise!!! I think I speak for all of us when I say we were caught completely off-guard by Mason's new Nike ad... 🫣 But anyway, I was inspired by it to write out a blurb or two, but this one just kept going and it turned into a full-length fic 🤭 So... enjoy?? Also, I couldn't pick only one picture for this fic so please enjoy both of these

As a publicist, there was nothing unusual about you attending an event with one of your clients. Especially when it was for a sponsored ad that you’d had a large part in organizing. But something about this one felt different—a nervous, fluttery feeling in your chest as you walked in the front doors.

Maybe it was the fact that it was Mason, a client of yours that you maybe fancied just a teeny tiny little bit, no matter how hard you tried to convince others that it wasn’t the case.

Or maybe it was the fact that the partnership you had organized for him involved him modeling in nothing but his underwear.

Yeah, it was probably that.

In an effort to remain professional, you had done everything in your power to remain cool and collected that day. You had waited for Mason to arrive, meeting him at the doors before the two of you strolled into the building to determine what needed to be done and where he needed to go.

If Mason was honest with himself, he felt like he was a bit out of his depth with this photoshoot. He had never even been someone to parade himself around topless, let alone in only some tight-fitting underwear.

He had agreed to the shoot months ago, when things hadn’t been going so well for him. He had been struggling with his transfer to a new team and thought that maybe trying something new was just what he needed to snap him out of it. Unfortunately, it had taken quite some time to iron out the details, and now Mason’s nerves were getting the best of him.

So when one of the staff involved in the Nike shoot had approached him, a bottle of body oil in her hands, his stomach sunk to his feet. He only half listened as she explained that it would make the shots look more appealing.

“We understand that this can be a bit uncomfortable, so if you’d like to have someone from your team that you’re more familiar with help you apply it, that would be completely fine. If not, one of the stylists can assist you.” She gestured toward the team of people who had put a few light touches of makeup on his face just about 20 minutes ago.

The Nike team had been nothing but wonderful and accommodating with Mason the entire day, and he really appreciated the effort they had put into making him feel comfortable. He was momentarily relived by the alternative he had been offered, but the relief was short-lived when he realized that the only person on his “team” was you.

The staff member guided him to a cozy dressing room just off the hallway from the main area and explained that he could change and leave his things in this room until the photoshoot was over. There were a few sets of the underwear that he would be modeling laid out for him and a robe hanging to the left of the door.

Mason changed and spent the entire time trying to convince himself to just have one of the Nike staff help him. He didn’t want to make things weird. Part of him did want you to rub your hands all over his body, but he didn’t want the first time you did it to be for something like this.

No matter how much Mason tried to muster up the courage, he just couldn’t shake the way that the idea of a complete stranger oiling him up just compounded the nerves he was feeling, to the point that it made him feel sort of sick.

So minutes later, he was approaching you, body covered by the robe that they had provided for him. You noticed, as he shuffled in your direction, that he was fiddling with his fingers, a nervous habit of his. That, combined with the sheepish look he gave you as he stopped at your side, confirmed that he was feeling a bit anxious.

“Hey, Mase. You doing okay?”

Mason had to ignore the way his heart fluttered at both the nickname and the expression of concern on your face.

“Um, yeah, I-“ he started, stumbling over his words a bit. “If I’m honest, I’m pissing myself at the moment.”

Your eyebrows drew together in sympathy, knowing how difficult it must be to be paraded around like this.

“You’re going to do amazing, okay?” you smiled at him, and he only nodded in response. As he shifted back and forth on his feet, you knew there was something else on his mind.

“Um, could you… could you actually do something for me?”

“Anything, Mase. What do you need?”

Having worked with numerous high-profile clients, you learned that when a client asked for something, the answer was always “yes” and if it was something you couldn’t do… well you needed to figure out how to do it anyway. But Mason had never been one to give you much trouble. He had always been extremely kind and considerate of you.

“This is, um… well it’s a bit strange, and if you want to say no that’s completely fine, but,” he paused, taking a brief glance up at your face before he spoke quickly so he didn’t chicken out. “They gave me this oil I need to put over my chest and back and everything and they said I could have someone from my team apply it so it would be someone I’m comfortable with.”

He took another short pause as he tried to gauge your reaction. Your heart skipped a beat as you realized what he was saying. He must have noticed the slight falter in your expression.

His team… you’re his entire team today. He means you.

“If you don’t want to, it’s completely okay. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t—”

“Mason, it’s okay,” you rested your hand on his shoulder to reassure him. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, still feeling a bit hesitant. “I would really appreciate it. I’m just… I’m feeling a bit nervous about the whole thing, and I’m not overly fond of the idea of a stranger putting their hands all over my body.”

But you are fond of the idea of me putting my hands all over your body?

You mentally slapped yourself, trying to rid your mind of the filthy thoughts that were running through it.

“Don’t worry about it, Mason,” you smiled at him reassuringly, masking the way that your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your throat. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”

That was absolutely not what you were there for.

So that was how you found yourself following Mason into the dressing room that Nike had set up for him.

You couldn’t help the little flutter in your heart as you noticed that, rather than leaving them on the floor, he had neatly folded his clothes in a pile and placed them on a table in the corner of the room. You weren’t sure why that small detail affected you the way that it did.

Mason untied the belt of the robe, slipping it from his shoulders and tossing it over the back of the chair. You cast your eyes to the floor, suddenly feeling flustered at the sight of his nearly naked body, covered by only a tight-fitting pair of boxer briefs that left very little to the imagination.

It blew your mind that anyone who looked like he did could be feeling nervous or insecure about showing himself off. But Mason was merely human, after all, like anyone else.

You did your best to be as calm and causal about the situation as you possibly could. Mason approached the large vanity in the room, pointing you to the bottle of oil he had been instructed to apply to his body sitting on the counter in front of the mirror. You unscrewed the cap, placing a bit in your hand and telling Mason that you would start with his back.

You figured starting there would give you a moment to collect yourself before you had to look at him, face-to-face.

You rubbed the small amount of oil between your palms to warm it before placing them flat over Mason’s back and the touch of his skin on yours felt like an electric shock. You didn’t miss the way that the muscles in his back tensed slightly when you first touched him.

You spread the oil over the soft skin, from his shoulders, down to his waist. As you rubbed it into his lower back, you couldn’t help but admire how the underwear he was modeling hugged his bum.

No! Stop! Get it together, Y/N!

You tried to force yourself to think of anything else—anything other than Mason and his bum and the fact that you were oiling up his naked back.

You began analyzing the kind of oil they were using for the shoot (you had to come up with something, right?). It was sort of light and didn’t make his skin look greasy, like a swimsuit model or anything. It more so had the appearance like he had done a light workout and worked up a thin layer of sweat.

I can think of a few activities we could do to work up a sweat…

You shook your head, trying to snap yourself out of whatever this effect was that Mason was having on you.

Deciding that his back was finished, you stepped around to Mason’s front, pouring a bit more of the oil into your palms and running your hands over his arms.

Then, the only bit left to do was the bit that you didn’t know if you would survive… his chest and stomach.

You discreetly tried to take a deep breath, biting the inside of your cheek as you started at the top of his shoulders, brushing your hands over his collarbones before your hands drifted lower. You felt the heat rushing into your cheeks.

Mason prayed silently that you couldn’t feel the way his heart was hammering in his chest as your palms smoothed over his skin. He felt like every inch of him was on fire as you touched him in a way that was more intimate than you ever had before.

But as he tried to focus on anything other than how much you were putting him on edge, Mason glanced down to your face and realized he wasn’t alone in how he felt.

He watched as your cheeks burned bright red and you refused to look even remotely close to his face. He felt suddenly a bit lighter at the realization that you were just as tense as he was.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one that was nervous here,” he mumbled quietly, attempting to break the tension in the room.

He could tell you were fighting the grin that took over your face almost immediately. “Oh shut up, you,” you tried to keep up appearances, but it fell flat and Mason could read you easily. You both giggled softly.

You finished up the last bit of his torso, smoothing your hands down his sides, over his Champions League tattoo that you tried to admire without him noticing, and across his tummy. You noted the tiny mole on the upper part of his stomach, swiping a finger over it as you brushed the last bit of oil onto him.

You took one step back from him. “Alright, I think that should do it,” you spoke as you tried to wipe at an itch on your face with the back of your hand.

Mason noticed a shining spot of oil that you left behind. He stepped forward, nearly closing the gap between you as he lifted a hand, wiping it off of the tip of your nose with his thumb.

You gazed up at his face, unable to get away with just gluing your eyes to his torso the way you had been before. The look in his eyes was unreadable as he dropped his hand from your mouth to your jaw, just slightly pulling your lower lip down with his thumb, watching your reaction closely.

The tension between the two of you could’ve been cut by a knife. You felt as though you had stopped breathing as the you stood there, neither daring to make a single sound. Your eyes darted around his face, taking in all of the features you had never noticed before. His hand continued caressing your jaw as you held your hands cautiously on either side of him, afraid to make more of a mess with your oil-covered hands.

Abrupt knocking on the door of the dressing room caused you both to jump, snapping out of the sort of trance you had been in.

“We’re ready for you in 5!” a voice shouted from the other side of the door.

Both of you took a step back from each other, suddenly aware of how close you had been standing. Mason cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck as he tried to gather himself.

“Will you be alright?” you asked, remembering how nervous he had been feeling just a few minutes ago.

“Y-Yeah, I-“ he hesitated for a moment. “Yeah,” he repeated, this time a little more certain.

Seeing how flustered you had been at seeing him the moment he had taken off the robe and how you had blushed at your fingers touched his skin had been the confidence boost he needed to be a little more sure of himself. Seeing the way that you had reacted to him made him feel ready to go out and do the photoshoot.

You watched a soft smile pass over his face, and you wondered what could possibly be going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“Alright,” you giggled at his expression, now seeming much lighter than he had before. “I guess you should head on out. I’ll clean up here and then I’ll be right there.”

Mason nodded, slipping the robe back over his shoulders before he turned to walk out of the room.

With the sudden boost of confidence, he spun on his heel, dipping his head to place a quick kiss on your cheek, and then he was out the door before you had the chance to react.

Your eyes went wide as you took a moment to process everything that had just happened. When you turned to the vanity to begin tidying up, you caught sight of your beet red cheeks. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath as the biggest grin took over your face.

This boy was certainly going to be the death of you…

tag list:@landoslover @thoseboysinblue @lovelynikol16 @swimmingismywholelife @masonsrem @bracedes @neverinadream @lizzypotter14 @notsoattractivearenti @chilwellspulisic @mm-vii @10vnderhaze

[questionablemorally]

Sebagni hcs that nobody asked for but I will provide:

Sebastian probably fell first, though Agni fell harder

At first noticing his… strangely more intense feelings towards Agni, Seb tried to ignore it best he could. This could be seen as weak, something demons are NOT, clearly. Eventually, he comes to terms with it and doesn’t think of it as a weakness as much anymore (in his mind it doesn’t stop him from performing his duties, so it shouldn’t matter)

When Agni realised he’d fallen in love, he basically cried for 3 hours straight out of happiness, and immediately went to tell his prince on how best to confess

Agni is the only human that Seb decently enjoys cooking with, everyone else he’ll push out to have the space to himself (cough cough Bard)

When Agni sees Seb having a particularly rough day, he’ll give him a thoughtful gift or combine the efforts of the servants to give him a break from chores… even if just for an evening

Seb doesn’t fluster easily at all, but Agni’s sweet/soft, out of the blue comments just don’t mix with his demon brain used to hardcore flirting, so he trips over his words or has to look away… small things, but big for him (the servants, especially, have never seen him act like that)

As soon as Soma heard of Agni’s affection towards Sebastian, he was obnoxious about it. Trying to be sneaky by leaving them alone as often as possible, or talking loudly about how amazing Agni is whenever Seb is nearby, or almost confessing to Seb for Agni… needless to say, he’s over the moon about it and is very intense

On the other hand, Ciel hardly noticed until Seb almost missed an order from him while engaged in conversation with Agni, and then he loved to tease him about it. Anything used to embarrass or gain the upper hand on Seb is useful, in his mind, so he uses it to his advantage to practically blackmail the demon occasionally (not that he needs to, he just enjoys it, and Seb goes along with it to please him)

Marriage isn’t something that really appeals to Seb all that much, but Agni sometimes mentions wanting to get married in passing, and Seb would bring him the universe on a plate if he asked, so he wouldn’t mind so long as it made Agni happy… besides the ‘eternal bond’ thing sounds somewhat nice

Sebastian likes his personal space, so it’s a huge sign of trust for him to let someone into his space willingly or see him in a vulnerable way. He appreciates Agni’s respect for boundaries, and so Agni is one of the few people he actually lets be in his personal space and/or see him vulnerably

Classic Sun/Moon dynamic in my opinion

They definitely share recipes from English/Indian cuisine with each other, and Seb sometimes makes Agni some of his comfort foods as a gift

I love the idea that Seb brings little shiny things he finds to the people he loves the most, so when Agni keeps finding coins and other random trinkets in his room…

If you want more please lmk! I try to keep them within character (to a degree, obviously it’s unlikely any of these would happen) and if you have any requests for other ships for me to do, lmk too. (Also I WILL write a sebagni fic… at some point)

[lemoncrushh]

This is why I haven't been writing...

This got long, but I had to say it.

The lack of feedback has always been something writers struggle with, at least in the ten years I've been on tumblr. It's nothing new. But it feels like instead of improving, it's gotten even worse.

Years ago, I had a long-time mutual bash me for complaining about it, calling me entitled. I was upset about it then, but here's the thing...I am entitled. And so is every other writer on here. We are all entitled to a little feedback and interaction. That's what we're here for.

I understand the drought we're in without any new Harry content. But I would think that would bring even more readers. Instead, it's crickets. There are a handful of popular writers on here who constantly receive asks and get interaction, and I am in no way saying they don't deserve it. They absolutely do. But the rest of us do too.

Writing fanfiction is not a job. We do this shit for free. But it's still as time-consuming as a real job. And to only get likes with very few random reblogs here and there is very disheartening. We are content creators. I understand tumblr may not be like other apps and websites, but it's still content. And likes here mean nothing. It's not like on tikok or instagram where the algorithm somehow keeps track of likes. On tumblr it doesn't mean shit. Your like is not going to make my post show up on someone else's dash. The only way to get content shared on this app is to actually SHARE IT. That's what the reblog button is for.

Imagine how a content creator on any other platform would feel if they got no feedback. If nobody was interacting with them, they would probably get their feelings hurt and eventually pack it in. That is now I feel now. Tbh, I can't believe I've been here this long. If this were a job or a relationship, and I was telling someone else about how long I've been doing this with little to no reciprocation...they would shake their heads at me and tell me I was a fucking fool and I needed to get out of this situation.

Am I getting on my high horse? Damn right I am. I have been biting my tongue for far too long. I have made so many excuses over the years...that fic was too personal and didn't appeal to the mass audience, that fic was an AU and not everyone likes AUs, that fic was too long and most tumblr readers don't read chaptered fics, that fic had such-and-such trope that readers don't like, there are too many writers here now, nobody reads that kind of fic anymore they only want smut, that fic was too smutty, you're just too old and nobody likes you anymore...yes I've told myself all of it. And maybe I'll never really know why you guys don't like my fics or why you won't interact with me. All I know is I'm sick of trying.

I had - and actually still HAVE - loads of ideas for Harry fics. I am honestly so sad that I may never write them. But I just can't bring myself to get motivated and excited to write something when nobody gives a damn.

This definitely turned into a rant, but it's how I feel. I used to really like it on here, but that joy is long gone. Things really changed after the pandemic, and the newer fans don't seem to use tumblr the way we used to - and the older fans like me have mostly left or only pop in sporadically when something happens.

I was never here for likes. I'm bored just scrolling through pictures. Fandom to me was all about interaction and about finding people who loved the thing you loved. Nobody here gives a shit anymore.

I love Harry Styles. And tbh I still love fanfiction. I'm not deleting my blog because I deleted my heart-attack-harry one I'd had for years back in 2021, and I regretted it. This one will remain. And I'll still pop in now and then to read. But my heart is just not in the writing anymore.

Court

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Having the statue scene be what caused Adrien to fall in love with Marinette feel like one of many spite moves from Astruc. Like once again, he saw how much people hated that scene but instead of addressing the criticisms he instead just point blank tries to force us to like the scene.

I'd go with arrogance over spite. I don't know much about the man, but the quotes I've seen and my limited knowledge of the industry are why my standard take is that he and the writing staff are genuinely trying to tell a good story. While we think they're failing at it, they don't. They think it's good. You're not going to sway me to their point of view, but I do understand how they could get into that mindset.

It's incredibly rare to get professional writers who want to punish the audience. It's incredibly common to get writers who are so far up their own ass that they think they shit gold and anyone who disagrees is just a hater who can't understand their vision. While that viewpoint isn't ideal, it's not a terrible trait for a creative. You're unlikely to succeed in a creative field if you can't get into some version of that mindset.

Speaking as a writer, if you want to succeed in a creative field, then you do genuinely need to be your own biggest fan and learn to ignore criticism. Not because you're above criticism, but because:

Issue 1: A lot of people struggle with the difference between personal taste and actual flaws, leading to some really shitty "criticism". That doesn't mean that it's bad to talk about a thing in terms of personal taste, it just means that your criticisms maybe be highly subjective opinions and not objective flaws that the creator needs to know about. It's why things like book reviews are for the audience and not the author. I know people who have found great reads based on negative reviews because those reviews talked about the book in question in an objective enough way for those people to realize it had things that they loved. That means that those were excellent reviews, they let people know if they'd like the book or not, which is what a review is meant to do! It also means that the reviews were pretty worthless to the authors because there was nothing that needed changing. It was all a matter of personal taste.

Issue 2: Taking point one a step further: more objective, "good" criticism isn't necessarily valuable to a creator. Sometimes creators are willing to include "flaws" because their creation doesn't fit their vision without those "flaws". Creators can get away with that because different audiences will care about different things and you're never going to be able to appeal to everyone. This is not the greatest example, but I think it gets my point across, so I'll use it here anyway. As someone who prefers reasonably healthy couples, if I were to read a story with an awful romance, then I'd probably hate it and have very clear, logical reasons why. But if the author is totally aware that the couple is awful and needed them to be such for the story they wanted to tell? Then my critique has no value to them. It's why good critique is so hard to get and give. Good critique is not about shaping a story into what you'd call good, it's about shaping the story the writer wants to tell into its best form. It's super hard, but also fun and a good learning experience.

Issue 3: A lot of criticism is highly situational and public feedback will only ever come after a work is done and available to the public. That makes it questionable how much value you'd get from reading feedback at that point. For an ongoing work where only a part is done, you might get something useful, but for a finished one? It's questionable if there's any point in reading negative comments. For example, I've received unsolicited critical feedback on fics that are several years old. I have no idea what the goal of those comments is. Even if I agree with them, I'm not going to rewrite the fic for them. I even asked one of them what their goal was and they couldn't tell me. They just wanted me to know and the button said "comments" not "positive comments."

Issue 4: You're never going to be perfect, so even a great work will have flaws, but it's unhealthy to dwell on them. Listening to a thousand people point out what you got wrong is not going to help anyone improve. That's why good creatives are open to feedback, but they tend to have a select group that they go to for feedback during the creative process. They then ignore most other feedback. In most cases, that is the healthy way to approach the creative process. It's why I don't agree with those who complain about someone blocking critics on twitter. Block and move on isn't just advice for the plebs. Successful creatives are allowed to prioritize their mental health, too.

Of course, there is a double edged sword in action here. Because creatives need to be their own fans and develop that ability to ignore criticism, they are always at risk of forming echo chambers that lead them to create lesser works because everyone in their core team thinks the same way they do. They may not even have a core team! It takes a lot of humility and luck to find people who give you good feedback.

The echo chamber issue is especially true when creatives are successful as it's hard to want to change when you're making money off of whatever crap you put out. Once you reach a certain level of success, there will be a whole lot less push back on your terrible ideas. If it's going to make money either way, then why worry if it's total crap? (This is a major problem in the publishing industry, btw. People with large social media followings can get a book deal with relative ease and publish almost anything they want because the publisher knows it will sell and it's not their name that's going to be looked down on.)

Generally speaking, this is what I think happened with Miraculous. The show is incredibly successful so there's no reason to listen to criticism or expand the creative team. Until the show stops making money, it doesn't matter how bad it is, so there's no reason for the writers to question if they've become blind to their own flaws. And by the time the show goes too far and stops making money? It will probably be too late to fix the problems so the show will just die. That's just how this trend works.

In summary, I would not be shocked if the writers genuinely think they're writing wonderful stories and that the critics just can't see it because we're the spiteful ones, not them. People can develop really weird standards for what is good, especially when they're immersed in the industry. For example, it's not like Disney wanted to ruin the Star Wars brand or have their 100th anniversary film - Wish - be universally panned. Studios want to make money. Writers want to tell stories people like. Spite it's rarely the answer when they fail to do those things.

The one caveat I will give to the above is if you're referring to the kind of spiteful arrogance where someone creates a thing, people criticize said thing, and so the person makes more of said thing in retaliation because that's 100% spite. But it's not the kind of spite where they're making a thing bad on purpose. It's them saying, "no, this was good and I'm gonna make more of it because you're wrong and I'm right." People do that shit all the time and, once again, it's not an inherently bad thing. Like all emotions, spite is a neutral force and a powerful motivator. It can lead to great things and terrible things. I can think of spite projects that were wildly successful and spite projects that totally flopped. (Relevant Tumblr post)

If that's the argument you're making when you say "spite", then I could totally see the statue scene choice happening because the writers heard people dunking on it and they went, "No, you're wrong, that scene was awesome! In fact, to show you how awesome, we're going to have that be when Adrien's crush started!" Spite? Yes. Ruining the show on purpose to get back at haters? No.

[fluffyfantasticducky]

The Pride of a God

☆ Pairing: Loki x Reader ☆ Synopsis: You had a had a hard day. And Loki who has a deep understanding of the love of his life... And he worries dearly, but he knows exactly how to cheer you up. has always been able to gloat on his perceptiveness, but can he really figure out that a certain mortal corresponds his feelings when he thinks nobody could feel that way about him? ☆ Word Count: 2,908 ☆ Notes: This is my little birthday gift to this blog. I haven't posted often in a while given my schedule being packed and a rough deppresive episode (which is what started the idea for this fic), so I think a little drabble is a good way to try writing again. ☆ Warnings: Short, a nerd's (me) self-indulgence so it's probably cheesy and more meant to appeal to my personal taste like my spots and stuff.

Loki was a proud god. Perhaps too proud. It often was his downfall. It was partially the reason why he wanted the throne of Asgard. It was what made him butt heads with his brother. It was what so many times got him trouble.

But now on Earth he learned to take pride in different things.

He took pride in becoming and Avenger. He took pride on earning back Thor’s trust. He took huge pride whenever he rescued a civilian and got a token of gratitude, like a hug or a smile or a little Midgardian item, he may have kept a little damaged ragged doll named “Anne” a little girl gave him after he rescued her dad from a terrorist group that had her father kept as a hostage. He took pride in learning how to make flowers grow, it had started as a therapy, but nowadays it was something he did with his own hands and effort.

But most of it all, Loki felt proud of being yours. Oh, you were an exquisite and rare jewel, despite being so seemingly ordinary. But, poor souls who were foolish to not look beneath your gorgeous surface.

No one in all his over millennia of existence had anyone made him so nervous and yet so at ease. You were funny, kind, patient with him, a bit of what mortals called “a weirdo” but most of it all, you were crazy about him. And he took an immense pride of seeing how well he knew you.

He knew your birthday, and had memorized half of your family tree and could already write a biography of you. He knew your favorite color and the best tones of it, as well as your favorite fashion style. Loki had made a list of your favorite artists, movies and shows. He was so aware of your love languages that they came as naturally as breathing to him. He knew what kind of jokes made you laugh and which ones made you groan and roll your eyes. And he was learning about what you do for a living, not only about the people of your work-place and schedule, but also about how you did what you did.

Not everything was nice though, he also knew exactly what was going on through your head whenever you were upset, the signs and possible reasons. And today was one of your bad days.

He could tell the second you walked in. Usually, you arrived at your little apartment and jumped to his arms with joy. Or even call for him with a tired yet loving tone. But today was one of those days were you didn’t make a single sound but the door creaking, you went straight to the bedroom.

The first time you were like this Loki panicked, SURELY he had done something rude to upset you. He picked up a bouquet, chocolates, a stuffed animal and gave you a long-winded speech of how he was a fool, but he never intended to hurt you.

Not once had he been so relieved to see you confused. You just had a rough day and didn’t want to risk taking it out on him.

Since then, you had a ritual together. When Loki heard the door locking and did not hear your lovely voice calling out his name he knew. He set the tea kettle, picked your favorite flavor and made you some of those instant noodles you liked—despite his attempts to convince you that they were better things to eat, not that he actually knew how to cook them on his own—he picked up a little extra snack as dessert. He poured the tea on two mugs with extra honey, and he set everything on a tray of food and made his way to your shared bedroom.

He knocked gently on the door, and opened it, placing the try of food on the night table and getting into bed, scooping you in his arms, rubbing circles across your back. Loki a shocking as it may seem, was warm. Cozy, even. He smiled as he felt the tension and stiffness on your body slowly fade away as he comforted you.

“Tea, my love?” he asked, you shook your head. “Are you sure? I made the mix you like.”

“With honey?”

“Yes, with extra honey, it’d be a shame if you didn’t drink it while it’s hot…”

“Okay” you mumbled, reaching for your mug, and he grinned triumphantly as he saw the knot between your eyebrows come undone to the taste. “It’s sweet…”

“I know you like sweets…” he smiled softly and kissed the top of your head.

“Yeah, that’s why I like you so much…” you mumbled, nuzzling your face into his chest.

He stifled a soft laugh, squirming a bit under you.

“D-Dahaharling!” he laughed softly and covered his mouth. “S-Stohohop it!”

You let out a little laugh and stayed still. Loki felt a mix of pride and relief as he heard you as you finally laughed. He loved knowing you felt better, and he loved it even more when it was because of him.

“Oh love,” he cupped your cheek. “How lovely is that little grin of yours.”

“Thanks… sorry for being difficult” you apologized with a kiss on his jaw and smiled at him.

“You don’t take it out on me, do you?” he asked with a smile. “I have no reason to complain, we’re a couple, love. I remember a pretty little someone that very smartly once said that part of our job is taking care of each other when we’re low.”

“Yeah…” you smiled. “Still… I really appreciate all of this… It means a lot to me.”

Loki’s heart swelled with pride. You always said the right thing to stroke his ego, he wasn’t completely sure if you were doing it on purpose. It was something too perfectly on point to feel as natural as it did. But here he was.

You made his heart do summersaults inside his chest, cheesy as it sounded. You just made him happy like that.

“I’m glad to be of service” he responded lovingly as he kissed your lips. “But… you know, darling… I know something else that always cheers you up.”

“Hm?” you asked, spacing out for a moment. But the look on Loki’s face made his intentions extremely clear. “Oh— Oh, um…”

Contrary to popular belief, Loki was a very kind lover. Even on his most needy, bratty, moody and irrational moments Loki always put your comfort first. And he worked really hard to learn to communicate his needs. But he was still the God of Mischief. He loved wreaking havoc, it was like an itch he just needed to scratch. But he hated seeing you upset, and he knew you didn’t approve certain pranks of his.

But there was tickling. You didn’t mind that, and he loved making you laugh. If anything, tickling was a secret love language between the two of you. You were both overly touchy-feely with each other, especially when the two of you were alone. Long story short, tickling between the two of you came as natural as breathing. To the point where Loki was comfortable to be the one on the receiving end.

“What do you say, love?” he smiled.

“Um, y-yeah…” I muttered timidly. “B-But… maybe w-we could do g-gentle tickling.”

Loki smiled brightly.

“Gentle tickling sounds wonderful. C’mere, gorgeous” he smiled sweetly, opening his arms for you to cuddle.

Oh, how his heart soared when you’d dive in for a bear hug. Your strength wasn’t compared to an Asgardian, but he adored it when you squeezed him tight in your arms.

“Ready?” he asked, softly.

“Ehehehe y-yehehehes” you giggled and snuffled him.

Loki gently grabbed your hands, guiding your arms upwards.

“L-Loki…” you looked at him sheepishly.

“It’s alright, love” he whispered, a smooth undertone of flirtatiousness in his voice. “I’ll make it better, you can just relax… let me take care of everything…”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead and his hand landed on your sides, making you shiver and causing your hands to shot down to wrap around yourself and you rolled over, exposing your side now covered by your side.

“You always react so beautifully.” He smiled and gently wiggled his fingers against your skin. “Laugh for me… let all your worries melt away under my fingers.”

He went for a spot not many knew of, his finger pressed against the small of your back making you squeak and arch away from his fingertips.

“Ahahaha! H-Hey!” you giggled.

“Oh, sorry, did that do something?” he asked in feigned innocence.

“Y-You know whahat that does!” you scolded him, your nose scrunched up involuntarily like it did every time he messed with you, in a way, assuring him you weren’t really angry and it was all part of the game.

“I suppose I do” he admitted. “Doesn’t mean that’ll make it any easier for you.”

His fingers danced across your back, up and down your spine, tracing the shape of your shoulder blades, the dancing of his fingers could almost be compared to that of an ice skater. That is until he reached that deadly ticklish spot on the back of your ribs. He had you in stiches right away.

“Nahahahaha! D-Don’t d-do that!” you whined as you rolled back to laying on your back.

“Do what?” he asked innocently, stopping for just a second, looking at you like a lovestruck fool.

He was just getting started and your cheeks already had that lovely color on them.

“I… Ihihi am not falling for the oldest trick in the book” you huffed.

“Mm, it’s a shame” Loki sighed dramatically. “No matter, I wasn’t planning on stopping soon anyway.”

And with that he went back to focus on the task at hand.

Shivers went down your spine. Loki had a talent to make you feel better, his touch was always was what you needed, from silly and playful to gentle and soothing… not that the latter tickled any less. He was an expert at making you laugh, it was just a matter of knowing how much each time.

“Ehehehe…!” you giggled. “Heeheehee! L-Loki, hehehehahahaha!”

Lok’s fingers traveled up your ribs, poking between the crevices, gently kneading to make you hiccup, using his thumbs to tickle the front of your ribs, massaging with his thumbs in little devious fingers.

“Nahahahaha! T-That tickles! Hahahahaha!” you laughed.

“Oh, really? I wouldn’t have guessed me tickling you would, in fact, tickle you” he hummed, grabbing your hands, pulling them above your head.

“N-No! L-Loki!” you whined, knowing exactly where it was going.

Loki raised a finger and placed it by your hip, drawing his finger upwards against your side and towards your armpit.

“Nohohohoho! Lohohohoki!” you begged between laughs.

And just when he was going to your worst spot, his fingers traveled down back to your hips. But instead of giving you mercy, his finger gently caressed across your belly, spiraling, drawing circles and circles down your navel.

“Hehehehehe! Hahaha! Oh gahahahaha!” you guffawed. “S-Stop, stohohohop!”

He smiled in satisfaction. He took inmense pride in knowing all your tickle spots like the back of his hand. He knew which spot to touch and how to touch it to make you squeal. From a light caress along your spine, to kneading your ribs, gently scratching against… well, he should be getting to that right away, or he’d exhaust you before he could go for that little spot.

As his fingers continued his travel towards your other side, going upwards as he had done previous… except this time, he did go for the kill… sort of.

“EEEK! Hahahahaha! No pleahahahase! Hehe! Hic! Hahahaha!” you laughed when his finger wiggling against your armpit, gently scratching the ticklish skin. Such a little spot could cause so much laughter. “Not thehehehere! Not there!”

You kicked your legs around the air. It was maddening, but for a weird reason. Loki could be devastating when it came to tickling. A “you’ll be sore from laughing, dizzy and so worn out you won’t be able to move” type of devastating. But these nights he was gentle, soft… too soft. It was embarrassing how delicately he tickled you.

But the worst spot was still the worst spot. It will always make you come undone in a laughing fit, no matter how careful and softly you tickle it.

“Loki! Hahahaha!” you laughed. “Hahahaha! Stahahahap! Hahaha! No!”

Your hands went to your wrists, giggling like a dork. But he wasn’t to be stopped by a human worn down for giggling. He leaned down, and started peppering down to kiss your cheek, before his lips traveled down your neck, which only added to the tickling sensation.

“AIIIEEE! Lohohohoki!” you cackled. “Please! Plehehehease!”

Loki laughed along with you, his lips along your neck while his fingers sent ticklish shocks through your body.

“Nahahahaha! Cut it out, you jeheheherk!” you scolded him through his fit of laughter.

“Hehehe! You’re a delight” he smiled. “I could play with you all day long.”

“No” God, pleahahase no!”

“No? Darling, I highly doubt you’re in a position to make that call” he grinned, despite feeling a bit of guilt deep down, you were growing tired.

“Hahahaha!” you laughed, before letting out a wheeze. “Ohoho my god! Lohohohoki, thahahat’s not fair!”

“Mischief isn’t fair, darling” he whispered, but his hands slowed down until his hands came to a full stop, giving you a chance to catch your breath.

You smiled tiredly, your chest heaving, mixed with a few residual laughs. You were exhausted, but your chest was lighter. Loki’s tickly attack had the effect he hoped.

“Oh, is it, my love?” he smiled, “I am simply providing you a service, what do you humans call it, therapy? Mm, yes, I think that was it. Think of it as therapeutic tickling.”

“Loki…!” you blushed, covering your face with your hands.

Loki didn’t like it when you covered your face. Loki was a deadly tease, so an overdramatic reaction was always on cue, cute, but he didn’t like not seeing his lover’s face. He could take any punishment or torture, just so you wouldn’t deprive him of looking at you.

He gently grabbed your hands, pulling them away from your face and towards his lips, giving them a kiss.

“You’re a menace, you’ll be the death of me one day.” You joked softly.

“Don’t say that my love… All I want is to give you is joy, pleasure, peace of mind and heart…” he said, almost begging you for the chance. “Tonight… You don’t have to worry about anything else… I will scare away all your woes, replacing your distress with bouts of laughter…”

He sounded desperate, needy. More needy than usual.

“What’s wrong, my prince?” you asked, reaching to cup his cheek, gently stroking your thumb along his skin. “You aren’t acting like yourself.”

“I… it.. well… I don’t… like seeing you upset.” Loki looked down in shame. “Do not misunderstand me, I adore taking care of you like this! But… it’s so frustrating to see you arrive upset, and being powerless to prevent it. I worship you, you are perfection incarnate, and it kills me to think people don’t treat you like you deserve.”

It shouldn’t be surprising that Loki had such dramatic declarations. His theatricals were one of the main reasons to love him, after all. But it still was moving, because for the God of Lies, he was very honest with you, exaggerated, maybe, but it came from the heart.

“Baby… life can’t be always easy, sometimes I’ll have rough days.” You smiled, reaching your hand to scratch his scalp, helping him relax. “Maybe I’ll disagree with someone, and at some point there might be a time when I have to face an injustice…”

“I fail to see how that’s supposed to ease my nerves” Loki grumbled.

“That’s just a normal life” you laughed softly. “Life has highs and lows, and I’m blessed with a great high point whenever I arrive at home, no one else gets to have you. Who else gets to kiss the God of Mischief every night?”

“Mmm, I suppose that’s true…” he smiled cheekily. “Still… I worry…”

“Love, as much as I’d love to stay here with you all day, if you don’t let anything bad happen to me, nothing will happen to me ever.” You spoke, lovingly but solemnly, a deliciously intriguing mixture. “But I’m grateful to have such a kind man looking after me, just… I don’t need a hero, I just need you.”

“I always will look after you” he nodded. “Even if I can’t protect you from everything. I’ll be here for you, just like you are for me.”

“And I always be here for you too” you smiled back at him.

“I couldn’t wish for anything or anyone better to happen to me” he sighed, pulling your body against him. “You are a blessing.”

“Who would have thought the God of Mischief was such a cheesy guy?” you teased him.

“Ohoho? Is that so?” he purred. “Mmm… you know what will happen to you here in our little home?”

“W-What?” you gulped, already having a good idea of where that tone was leading to.

“A night full of laughter” he grinned, his fingers traveling to your body, making sure to draw every single laugh from you.

MASTERPOST