#knowing how to approach him in which situations

[yasministration]

tie a tie - mattheo riddle

wanna bet au summary: after six years of going to beauxbatons, you have never once had to wear a tie in your life, which brings you to an unfortunate situation on your first day at hogwarts. luckily, mattheo offers his help. wc: 0.7k

The silky tie in your hands felt soft, but the article of clothing was unfamiliar to you as it glided through your fingers. The mirror presented you in a different light than ever before, now wearing a skirt and a crisp white button up shirt. The uniform felt so… waitressy and borderline unflattering — nothing like the elegant long blue dress you wore back at beauxbatons, suiting everyone's body type. You sighed; at least the ugly shirt somehow flattered your shape, cinching your waist.

The uniform didn’t bother you too much though, especially not when you had a soft jumper to cozy up in on colder days. But there was one problem, especially because Pansy had already gone down to the common room while you finished getting ready. You didn’t know how to tie a tie.

You’ve never had to do so before in your life, but still, it made you feel incompetent. Sighing, you brushed your hair over your shoulder and secured your bag on it, the tie clutched in your hand as you descended down the stairs to the common room. You were glad to know that you weren’t the last one downstairs – Draco was still nowhere in sight.

Eyes lifted up at the sound of your short heels clacking on the marble floor, and you smiled shyly at the sight of your four new friends’s eyes glued to you. You approached Mattheo, who was the only person standing up, shifting your weight from foot to foot. His eyes were immediately attracted to the collar of your shirt, noticing the absence of your tie.

“Um, I don’t know how to tie a tie.” You told him quietly, feeling your cheeks go hot. Mattheo’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he only nodded his head, offering you a comforting smile. He opened his hand, and you placed the tie in his palm, swallowing thickly.

“We’ve got to head down to breakfast in a couple of minutes,” He started, snaking his hand between your neck and strands of hair to sling the tie underneath your collar. “But I’ll teach you how to do it yourself this afternoon.”

You nodded, keeping your eyes on Mattheo’s face as his nimble fingers worked at your tie. Your heartbeat raced at the close proximity to the boy, so close you could hear his quiet breathing. He lifted the knot upwards until it rested in the right position, then patted his hands down on your shoulders, smoothing your shirt down. Mattheo’s eyes finally met yours, and he noticed the shy expression on your face. “You’ll be fine. Hogwarts isn’t all that scary. Other than Professor McGonagall.”

“Okay, let’s head down?” You turned around to face Blaise, noticing how both Pansy and Theo stood up at his words. From the corner of your eye, you spotted Draco entering the common room at an unhurried pace. Pansy stepped towards you, and you smiled kindly as she scanned your appearance quickly. She nodded, bringing two hands up to straighten your collar. Dropping her hands, she offered you an arm. You grinned, hooking an arm through hers and letting her lead you out of the common room.

Mattheo watched as you walked away, clearing his throat when Theo clapped a hand on his shoulder, a teasing smirk on his face. “Alright, Riddle. No denying anything anymore.”

Mattheo huffed, tugging at the sleeves of his jumper. “Shut up.” Blaise rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips tugged upwards into a smile anyway. When Draco caught up to him, leaning into Blaise’s side and asking “Did I just witness Mattheo doing up her tie?”, the boy nodded, unable to help a teasing chuckle from escape.

Feeling the eyes of his friends on him, Mattheo turned his head back to glance at Draco and Mattheo. Draco waved at his friend enthusiastically, and Mattheo raised a finger to flip him off. It was left unsaid between the friend group that Mattheo had already shown you a softness that he never displayed around anyone but his closest friends – his family. But when they entered the Great Hall and Mattheo immediately beelined to take a seat next to you, causing Daphne to glance at him confusedly, they knew many more people than just the friend group would notice a change in Mattheo’s behaviour.

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[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · REMOTE CONTROL · : ˚✦

pairing ☆ bruce wayne x fem!reader x hal jordan

word count ☆ 3.1K

summary ☆ another gala, another time where you and hal are having fun watching bruce fold

warnings ☆ mdni, established relationship, throuple, lots of teasing, buttplug, denial of orgasm, subby!bruce

a/n ☆ more of these three, bc i love their dynamic and i love sub!bruce

main masterlist | letterboxd

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The thing about Bruce Wayne is that he’s been trained to endure worse.

He’s taken beatings that shattered ribs. He’s survived hypothermia in the Alps. He once stared down an alien warlord with nothing but a grappling hook and pure spite. So really, objectively speaking, sitting through a fancy gala with a buttplug inside him should be easy.

Except it’s you and Hal doing the tormenting.

And that makes it impossible.

By the time the silent auction starts, Bruce is a masterpiece of restraint. Hands folded. Face composed. Not a hair out of place. He even manages a tight smile for the camera when the photographer strolls past. But you can see the cracks spiderwebbing beneath the surface.

The control was a simple button that you could twist through all six levels. You and Hal took turns with it, whispering back and forth about when to stop and when to level up while leaning against the marble bar, sipping champagne.

Bruce hasn’t twitched. Not a single flinch. Not even when Hal flicked it to level three just as he was shaking the mayor’s hand. You admire his restraint. Really, you do. But Hal’s getting impatient.

"You are staring," you say to Hal, watching him toy with the control, which was currently off. He flicked it up several levels again.

Bruce’s jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and for the briefest second, his posture shudders. Barely noticeable. But you see it. Hal sees it.

And then Bruce lifts his glass, cool and composed, and keeps talking to the CEO of Gotham Mutual like he doesn’t have a toy pulsing deep inside him in a rhythm you’ve both pre-programmed to increase slowly over the course of the evening.

You slide up beside Hal at the bar. “That’s three. His hands are shaking.”

Hal hums. “Think he’ll excuse himself before dinner?”

You grin. “Not if he wants to win.”

“Oh, he’s so stubborn.”

“That’s how he ended up in this situation.” You let Hal slide a hand around your waist, and you take the remote from his hand, clicking it once.

Bruce stumbles. It’s so minor. A half-step. Like someone caught his heel. But you see his hand tighten on the edge of the table. You see the way his jaw clenches, his breath catches. The man across from him blinks. “Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce clears his throat, voice flawless. “Apologies. Old sports injury.”

Hal snorts.

“Should we give him a break?” you ask, sweetly.

Hal leans closer, voice low in your ear. “Do you want to?”

You glance at Bruce again, his neck flushed just barely pink, his brow damp despite the air conditioning. He’s clenching his fists at his sides now, posture military-straight, holding it all together like his pride is the only thing keeping him upright.

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

You both dial it up again.

Bruce is in hell. You can see it in the way he’s standing, shoulders too straight, spine locked, sweat beading at his temple now. He’s still talking, still giving that tight-lipped Brucie smile, but his hand is white-knuckled on the glass stem, and he hasn’t touched his food since the appetizers.

The best part?

He can’t come.

Not like this. Not from the plug alone. It’s been teasing him all night, and you know the edge is eating him alive, because every step sends a shiver through him, and the pressure of the plug is relentless, just enough friction to ruin him, but not enough to push him over.

He’s trapped.

At one point, during a lull between speeches, Bruce actually dares to approach the bar. His voice is hoarse. His tie is crooked. His composure is hanging on by threads.

You smile at him sweetly. “How are you holding up, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce glares. Quiet. Dangerous. Desperate. “I’m going to end you.”

Hal sips his drink, completely unbothered. “God, I hope so.”

You flick the remote again, one last time. Bruce’s knees buckle. You catch him before anyone sees. Smooth. Seamless.

“Careful,” you murmur in his ear. “You wouldn’t want to make a scene.”

“Off,” he hisses.

You and Hal share a look. Then you comply. Just like that. The buzz cuts out. Bruce sags gutted against the bar, panting quietly, sweat glistening at his temple.

✶✶✶

Bruce survives dinner.

Barely.

You and Hal are seated at either side of him. Perfectly behaved, perfectly polished, dressed to kill. You make light conversation with the tech sector execs at your table. Hal charms everyone with that disarming smile, twirling his wine glass like he doesn't have a secret weapon tucked under his sleeve. Bruce, in the middle, says almost nothing.

Which is rich, considering he usually owns these things.

Tonight, he's a man stretched to the edge. The plug's been off since that brief little collapse at the bar, but you left it in. Of course you did. A constant reminder. Pressure building with every shift of his hips, every time his thighs clench under the tablecloth.

And no one else could know that you have him all wrecked just with a shift of a button. 

The mayor is seated four chairs away, babbling about infrastructure. Some billionaire heir from Metropolis is bragging about his yacht. Bruce stares at his untouched entrée like it personally insulted his family legacy.

Hal leans in during dessert. His hand slides under the table, not touching Bruce yet, just resting near his thigh.

"I'm bored," he murmurs to Bruce, voice low enough that only you hear. "Should we play a game?"

Bruce doesn't look at him. But you see the corner of his mouth twitch. His hands are white-knuckled around his napkin.

You smile and lift your wine. "Level one?"

Hal shrugs, easy and wicked. "Just a little hello."

He flicks the remote on under the table.

There's a delay of maybe a second and a half.

Then Bruce inhales. Short. Sharp. Barely noticeable, except you know him too well. He doesn't twitch. Doesn't move. Just closes his eyes for one moment longer than necessary, then opens them again, perfectly blank.

Hal grins.

"Jesus," he mutters. "He's really trying."

You rest your chin in your hand. "Oh, he'll make it through."

Hal hums. "Maybe."

And dials it to level two. Bruce flinches. Only barely. A tiny shift under the table. His leg knocks lightly against yours, involuntary, and he swallows hard before reaching for his glass.

"Careful," you whisper. "Don't choke in front of the Wayne Foundation board."

His eyes cut toward you, dark and murderous. Hal's hand rests lightly on his knee now, just resting, like it isn't a threat. "One more?"

You feign innocence. "I mean, it's just level three."

Bruce shakes his head. "Don't."

But you do. The buzz kicks higher, smoother now, but stronger, and you see it hit him like a body blow. His chest tightens. His knuckles go white again. His spine is still so straight it's a miracle he hasn't snapped something.

You can see the sweat beading at his temple again. And he still doesn't stop you. He could say the word he could grab your wrist, he could give you the look. But he doesn't.

Hal leans in, whispering just behind Bruce's ear. "You're such a fucking masochist."

Bruce exhales through his nose. "You have no idea what I'm going to do to you both."

You trail a finger up the side of your wine glass. "You've been saying that for hours."

"Empty threats are kinda pathetic for a big man like you, Brucie," Hal adds, sipping lightly his champagne glass.

Bruce doesn't answer. He can't. His tongue is pressed to the roof of his mouth, jaw tight, every ounce of energy focused on not reacting. Not groaning, not twitching, not showing a single sign that he's seconds away from falling apart.

Which is, of course, what makes it so delicious.

You glance around the table. No one's watching too closely. No one ever does. Bruce Wayne is always a little aloof, a little brooding, everyone assumes it's just his eccentric billionaire shtick. Not that he's currently being edged mercilessly by his partners under a table dressed in white linen and crystal centerpieces.

Your heel grazes the side of his shoe, slow and deliberate. His hand jolts under the table, a soft twitch. But still, still, he doesn't break.

"Four?" Hal's voice is low, almost bored. But you know better. He's already turning the dial with one hand, spinning it between his fingers like he's toying with fate.

You don't answer at first. You just give a slow shake of your head, lips curled at the edges.

"Not yet," you murmur. "We'll burn him out too fast."

"Please."

Bruce's voice comes like a crack in stone. Barely above a whisper. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't look at Hal. Just stares straight ahead at the untouched dessert plate in front of him like if he focuses hard enough on the sugared lemon tart, he'll survive the next sixty seconds.

"Please, not now."

That was new tonight.

You and Hal both pause. Share a glance.

"Oh?" Hal hums, cocking his head. "Begging already?"

"I said not now," Bruce grits out. "Wait until the car."

His hand digs harder into his thigh. A faint tremble runs up his wrist. You're sure he doesn't realize he's squeezing hard enough to leave bruises.

"Why?" you ask, resting your elbow lightly on the edge of the table. You keep your tone airy. Unbothered. "Think you'll lose it in front of the table? You know you can't."

He still doesn't look at you. But his mouth presses into a line. There's sweat darkening the collar of his shirt now, just a hint where the silk clings to his neck.

Hal's hand drops under the table. His thumb skims just above Bruce's knee, light as breath, circling lazy patterns that are anything but comforting.

"We could be nice," Hal offers. "Turn it off. Let you breathe."

You smile, wicked and soft. Your hand slides under the tablecloth, fingertips brushing Bruce's wrist, light, almost affectionate. He jerks beneath your touch.

"Or," you murmur, leaning close, voice wrapped in velvet, "we could see how long you last at level four without coming."

His eyes finally snap to yours. Desperate. He's been holding everything together for too many hours. His breathing's gone shallow. Fast.

And then, so quietly you're not sure even Hal hears it, he says:

"Do it."

Hal freezes. Blinks.

"...What?"

Bruce doesn't repeat himself. Doesn't need to. He just stares forward again, jaw set like he's about to take a punch. Like he's ready for war. Or worse, ready for surrender.

Your fingers close gently over the dial in Hal's hand.

And you turn it.

The buzz kicks in like thunder. Heavy. Deep. A low, pulsing rumble that you know is pushing into him like a wave breaking against the shore, over and over and over. It's the setting you designed to ruin him slowly. To keep him poised at the edge without giving him a single inch of control.

Bruce shudders.

Not violently, but it rolls through his whole body. His eyes squeeze shut for a single heartbeat, his shoulders curl forward just slightly before he snaps back up. Spine straight. Arms tight. Every muscle screaming with restraint.

You and Hal both go still, watching him unravel with the poise of a man trained in pain and discipline. But no combat simulation ever prepared him for this. For you. For this game.

He's breathing through his nose now, slow and precise. Hal leans a little closer, voice low, smooth like smoke. "Still with us, Bruce?"

A pause.

Then, barely audible: "Yes."

"Good boy," you whisper.

Bruce's jaw flexes. His eyes flick to yours and away again, like looking at you too long might make him lose whatever fragile grip on sanity he's got left.

Hal's fingers trace slow circles just above Bruce's knee again, nothing overt, nothing someone across the table could notice, but you feel Bruce's thigh jump under the touch. His grip on his napkin has left a tear in the fabric.

You can see it now: how close he is. The blood-flush in his cheeks, the tightness in his shoulders, the way he's stopped blinking as often. Like he's afraid even that might undo him.

And the plug? Still humming.

Still eating away at his defenses.

Still denying him.

The host is thanking donors now. People applaud, some stand for speeches. Bruce stands too, a split-second late. You see the tremor in his knees, the way he plants his feet like he's bracing against a storm.

His voice is barely a rasp when he leans in and says, "You'll clean the mess if I lose it here."

You grin. "You won't."

Hal looks like Christmas came early. "But wouldn't that be fun?"

The tension in Bruce's neck is a symphony. He's gone too quiet again. You know the signs. His body's buzzing, wired tight as a bowstring. He needs relief, and he's not getting it. He's not allowed to get it. That's the game.

Someone approaches to say hello, some councilman with a plastic smile, and Bruce responds automatically, shaking hands, nodding, murmuring pleasantries. But his tone's gone brittle. Off. Just enough to make the man glance once, confused, before walking away.

And the second he does?

Bruce collapses back into his seat like it was holding him up the whole time. You kill the buzz. His exhale is ragged. A sheen of sweat clings to his skin, gleaming along his hairline. Hal reaches up to brush a damp lock back from Bruce's forehead. The tenderness in the gesture is almost obscene compared to what you're doing to him.

"You're doing so well," Hal murmurs.

Bruce glares. But it's a hollow threat. He's trembling now, inside and out. You lean closer, whispering against his ear: "You'll make it to the car. And you'll thank us for waiting."

His laugh is wrecked. Just a breath. No humor, all pain. But he doesn't argue.

✶✶✶

He climbs into the back seat without a word, body stiff with tension. Hal slides in beside him. You follow last, closing the door softly behind you. Silence. The windows tint. The divider hums up. Privacy mode: engaged.

And then, Bruce exhales. Not a sigh. A collapse.

His body folds forward, elbows on his knees, his hands braced against his thighs like the only thing stopping him from hitting the floor is muscle memory. He's panting, quietly, but openly now. His tie's a mess, his shirt is sticking to him in patches, and when you touch his shoulder, he flinches.

"Take it out," he whispers, voice wrecked.

You smile.

"No."

He lifts his head slowly, and for the first time tonight, really looks at you. That furious heat is still there, but behind it is something molten. Something desperate.

"Please," he rasps. "I need—"

You cut him off with a kiss to the corner of his jaw. "You're going to come like this," you murmur. "Without us even touching you. And you're going to thank us for it."

He grits his teeth. His whole body trembles.

"You're both insane."

Hal's already turning the dial.

Level five.

The reaction is immediate.

Bruce bucks forward with a sound that's not even a moan, it's a choked sob, buried in the crook of his arm. One hand slams into the door panel, the other fists tight in Hal's thigh like he can hold himself together through sheer force of contact.

The plug vibrates deeper now, perfectly timed pulses like thunder beneath skin, relentless and invasive and cruelly precise. You know what that rhythm does to him. How it pushes him just close enough to the edge, but not over. Not yet.

You move closer.

One knee on the leather, then the other. You straddle him without waiting for permission, not that he's in any place to stop you. His head falls back against the seat, jaw clenched, mouth parted.

You cup his face in both hands. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

He looks at you like he's drowning.

"Come for us, Bruce," you whisper.

His whole body tightens.

And then—finally—he does.

It's not graceful. It's not silent. It's devastating. A full-body collapse as the plug milks the orgasm out of him in long, trembling waves, his hips stuttering against the seat, his hands clawing at anything he can reach: your waist, Hal's arm, the door.

He buries his face in your shoulder, gasping against your skin like he's surfacing from deep underwater.

You hold him through it. Let him shatter.

And when it's over, when he's slumped back, spent and wrecked and still trembling, you press a kiss to his temple.

"There he is," you whisper.

Hal’s fingers card gently through Bruce’s hair, slow and reverent, as if soothing a creature fresh from battle. Bruce doesn’t flinch this time, he just breathes. Shallow. Fragile. Every inch of him sings with aftermath.

“You did so good,” Hal murmurs, soft enough to be sacred. “Held yourself together the whole night. Like a fucking champ.”

Bruce lets out something between a laugh and a sob. It shakes through his chest but dies quick. His throat’s too raw for sound.

You shift in closer, your hand running up under his damp shirt, tracing the slick curve of his back, grounding him. “You were perfect,” you whisper against his ear. “Every second. You took everything we gave you.”

Bruce closes his eyes. His head tips toward your shoulder again like he’s too tired to hold it up anymore. His hand stays fisted in Hal’s jacket, but looser now. Clinging more than anchoring.

Hal brushes the sweat from his temple again, thumb slow across his hairline. “And that little ‘please’? That was new,” he teases gently, like it's a reward, not a jab. “God, that was hot.”

Bruce doesn’t argue. He can’t. He’s melted into the seat now, a wrecked monument to control undone. The buzz of the plug’s long gone, powered down once his orgasm hit, but the aftershocks are still rippling through him in the smallest of ways: the flex of a thigh muscle, the twitch of a hand, the faintest tremor in his breath.

You reach between his legs now, not to tease, not to press, but to finally, finally undo the plug. Slow. Gentle. Careful.

He winces, even as he exhales, some impossible blend of pain and relief that bleeds into a soft moan.

“Shh,” you murmur. “It’s out. That’s it. All done, baby.”

Hal is already pulling a handkerchief from his jacket, dabbing sweat from Bruce’s face and throat with a gentleness that belies his usual cocky edge. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow,” he says, smiling crookedly. “Might not be able to sit through any meetings.”

“Good,” Bruce mutters, hoarse.

You laugh quietly and kiss his shoulder. “You earned the day off, tough guy.”

He slumps further into the seat, your hand at his chest now, just feeling the beat of his heart as it starts to slow. Hal’s still running fingers through his hair, and for the first time since the gala started, Bruce doesn’t look like he’s holding anything back.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

That makes him open his eyes. He looks at you. Then at Hal.

And he says, soft but clear:

“Thank you.”

You kiss him. Not hard, not greedy. Just soft. Reverent. Then Hal leans in too, his lips brushing Bruce’s jaw, trailing lower to kiss the hollow of his throat. Bruce doesn’t stop either of you. He just breathes. And lets you hold him.

The car hums down the road. The city lights blur past the tinted windows. And in the soft dark, cocooned in leather and warmth and praise, Bruce Wayne rests for the first time all night—safe, spent, and worshipped.

[werezmastarbucks]

we've been thinking about kanazawa

yoongi x reader oneshot (pls don't ask for chapter 2, it was an improv because i was in a hospital yesterday due to my old age back pain)

summary: Yoongi is hard to pin down. You do it with kindness, laughter, maturity and a Filthy Frank t-shirt.

word count: 3568

warnings: i know nothing about the city but my bestie is going to Japan soon so i got inspired. yoongi's pov 100%

music: afraid to forget by hammock

When Yoongi wants to be alone, he wants to be absolutely, totally alone.

He wants to pretend to be someone else; not out of hatred for any aspect of his life, but out of curiosity. He wonders what it feels like to be a seagull sitting on a wire and watching the Little Kyoto change day and night.

When he meets you during his short and intentionally lonesome holiday, he finds his settled design - unsettled.

It is perhaps the most daring thing he does in a great while: he approaches someone on the street. He doesn't do "meeting new people". People are a mass around him, every day, with only a few discernible faces that he wants in constant rotation; he has learnt to filter them otherwise. But when he's on incognito holiday, he switches that function off, and starts seeing humans clearer, like they are warm. Like they are reachable. Like he can afford it.

He doesn't want to approach at first; he doesn't do that. It takes all the nerves pulling him in his feet to do it at last. Something about the way you put your hands on your hips with empty anger. Something about the way your hair is put back with a huge neon-green claw non-neatly. Something about the way you dressed. The way your face expresses the sincere struggle between frustration and genuine kindness. Yoongi likes kind people, he only gravitates towards kind people, and he himself is among kind people. He has experienced enough spite to get tired of the unkind ones. It's kindness, and the total lack of stiffness that radiates from you, that makes his hand pull down his face mask and put his palm on top of his head, adjusting the hood.

He approaches, wondering sharply whether he is about to step into absurd comedy territory, when your eyes light up with instant recognition. But you don't say anything, you watch him in a way that tells him you suddenly have hope in the very specific linguistic aspect. You light up because you know he can resolve it.

He's been listening to you trying to explain to the supermarket security guy that the bike isn't stolen; that the bike renting app is all in Japanese and doesn't have the English version, and that you simply don't know how to unlock it anymore. The bike is in the limbo. You are in trouble. The security guy doesn't speak any English, but all Japanese, and Yoongi becomes the hesitant golden middle in between you. He has: a little English, a little Japanese, and a little bit of faith in you once your eyebrows go up - wooooow it's him! - and then down - anyway, where were we?

He helps shoo the overly alert guy away and notices: the sunset is coming. You keep your hands on your hips, and he notices also: you are in pain.

Yoongi hates the situations where funny circumstances suck him into a vortex of consequences. A minute ago he wanted to help out a fellow tourist, and now he is taking you to the hospital you've been looking for blindly, like a kitten. You make him laugh with your dry resignation. That's the second thing, after kindness: you are softly done with everything. The back is killing you. The evening Kanazawa sky, preparing to paint itself pink, is mesmerizing you. The flip-flop on your foot keeps catching tiny stones. It's so gently funny, how you left your airbnb, and rented a bike, and cycled here in flip-flops, cursing under your breath, because you sprained a muscle while pulling your suitcase up the street.

Yoongi asks himself why. Why he takes you to the hospital on foot, which is twenty minutes away. Like a bad archer, you shot a bit off. Why he accepts one earbud when you offer and say that's the only gratitude you can think of as of now. Why he keeps the mask under his chin even though people pass by. Why he shows you how to get into the ER and then, lingers instead of going where he had been going. Which was - supermarket. He simply needed some tuna.

There are so many people in the ER that Yoongi takes you outside, and you sit on the bench next to the building, and watch the clouds slowly turn pink, and then you point and say:

"Pink".

Thanks, I see it too, he says. The clouds have been curved into smiles by relentless wind of the daytime, the wind that tore off all leaves from several trees nearby his rented apartment.

Yoongi stops asking himself, he starts listening. How he is actually curious about that backache of yours. How he admires the combo of house sweatpants and sunset-like pink t-shirt with the badly plastered Filthy Frank print on it. How he can't stop giggling because suddenly he is light-headed; must be the fresh sea air, he thinks. Closeness to the sea always makes him just a little bit drunk, because he is so used to sitting his ass for weeks in the stuffy rooms.

He is a tiny two-footed human, he realizes, with awe, as the arrow of pink strikes across the sky, and you both lift your heads to watch the plane fly away, leaving the burning tail. He is a human who is having a good evening, not just that: you insisted at this time of day, listening to slow ambient is a must. And everything about music enthralls Yoongi to no end. He clutches on it: why evening? Why at sunset? What emotion does it evoke? Through music, Yoongi still learns about other people, those, who are, and always will be out of scope of his attention.

He doesn't do "meeting new people", and it doesn't feel like what he's doing. What it feels like, is the bench under him, painted black. The summer wind, incredibly warm, against his wrists. The perfume he recognizes, coming in scattered waves from you. You didn't bother to dress up in order to go to a hospital, but you wore fragrance. What's happening is, he is having a full, unmeaningless conversation with another human, and he likes your voice.

You say you know things about space. He says he knows things about Earth. It matches in a weird, harmonizing way. He uses the phrase 'Earth nerd' to beat down on himself a little, recalling how he has about ten closest people in his life, and all ten of them constantly call him an annoying know-it-all. He asks you childish questions before he can stop his mouth, and after a while he stops caring about how childish they are. You still haven't dropped the bomb. You still speak to him as if he is just that: a human. You rub your back from time to time and talk about the texture of the cloud that looks like chopped pork. How it reminds you of the biggest disappointment of growing up:

"I was the maddest when I finally realized clouds aren't bouncy castles, and I will never be able to climb on them".

"How old were you?"

"Six".

He asks you about your favourite space object, and you don't laugh. You say it's Titan.

"Because it's a fine reminder nothing is perfect".

Nothing, and no one, is.

You are pinching the paper queue number in your fingers. He tells you that you have pretty hands before he registers what he is doing. He asks to touch the texture of the nails.

Talking helps you relieve pain. It doesn't feel like falling in love. It feels like speaking to a friend.

He notices you try not to tell him things about himself, but you can't hold back from one meaningful thought nagging on you.

"Are you really the person who wrote SUGA's Interlude?"

"Mm, partially", he says, and you look at him the same way as you were just watching the pink skies.

Yoongi has heard a lot of good things about himself. He's heard a lot of praise. He's got a lot of physical manifestations of this praise in the form of awards that brought home the idea that he does have something of essence to say. He's felt a lot of admiring stares and he's heard a lot of awkward gasps. But for some reason he suddenly feels so very proud about a song from forever ago that wasn't even on his album. When you say it's one of the best songs I've heard, ever, as in, in all my life, you say it in such a way that makes him feel big. Oh, so that was the whole point. A Yoongi from ten years ago, a very different Yoongi, suddenly wakes up from the depths of his skull, and makes him feel big, and light, like the whole sky.

When the dark falls, Yoongi takes you inside, still under the very genuine guise of helping out a fellow tourist. He wanted to feel like one. He feels that's a part of it. What's a solitary trip without unwillingly getting himself into someone else's situation like this? He keeps looking at you. What a different life has filled your mouth with all those curious words. The way you hold your back is different. The way you put your feet on the floor is different. The way you look around with your eyes wide-wide open, is different. It's not just "i have to hide and you don't". It's, he knows, pure, foreign enjoyment of collision.

It is a collision. You collide elbows when you sit down in the waiting area. You collide glances. You point to the TV on the wall:

"Look at this. They are playing Prometheus!"

He's seen that movie. It was an okay movie. He reads it off your face as you watch.

And when your number is called, you hiss because you don't want to skip it. And after you've been assessed by a nurse and given a painkiller, he retells you the scenes you've missed, and says, yeah. Let's finish it. Yoongi goes to the vending machine, because it's been four hours since he wanted some tuna, and buys all the little packages with crisps, crackers, candy and nuts, and a couple of lemonades.

You stay in the midnight-empty ER waiting room, two foreigners in flip-flops and dressed like you live polar opposite lives. And watch the movie at such low volume that every word you utter steals a full scene. Yoongi doesn't care about the movie. It's the familiar joy of something favourite, wrapped in an alien package of a stranger's perception. He thinks: you have tricked him. You have let him come close because you know him. You have let him take you to the hospital because you are deluded into trusting him. You are sharing hospital snacks with him, speaking about the film, and not explaining certain parts of it, because you feel like he is not a stranger to you.

That is Yoongi's loneliness that he was trying to escape by going to Japan alone.

That is his caution of people who greet him like they know him and his mama.

That is why he doesn't do "meeting new people".

Somehow you make it work because you keep talking about your things. Your gaze slides off his face once you finish your thought. You look at him like you know him. Not like you own him.

And when the movie finally ends, and a nurse leaves the room for the third time to give you both a questioning look, he thinks, fuck it, I'm in.

You walk through the night city and smell jasmine bushes. He tells you about the sea. You tell him about one time you think you saw Aldebaran in Greece. He tells you about a monument in the East part of the city. You tell him about The Southern Cross. He notes that you just miss Greece. And you say you miss it every time you're near sea. Like it imprinted you. Like it stole your heart. Like the Aegean sea filled your bones with salt and made them heavier.

Yoongi's stomach gulps, and he asks if you are hungry. You say yes. It's one past midnight, and he takes you, leading you again, through the sleeping back neighbourhoods, into an empty little sushi place, where the old owners don't know his face, but for some reason know Otsukare.

You chuckle-gasp at him when he starts chewing ice. He feels the need to defend the habit. You ask if it hurts his teeth.

Yoongi doesn't think of himself as cold, but often he has to be, with people. He doesn't like the whole 'she looked at me i looked at her' thing. That's the Yoongi from ten years ago: angry, aimless, but also vulnerable like an open wound and ready for someone's gaze to pierce him straight through the bones.

The way you use your chopsticks summons that Yoongi back.

It is the most foolish thing he does in a great while: it feels safe, like being inside a dark clam shell, shut tightly.

He lets that Yoongi get aroused when he takes you home. Lets him take the wheel and berate himself to his face about how cowardly, detached he's become to humans around.

He leans towards you in the dark and he knows you will kiss him back. For once, he wants to use it for himself.

He isn't in love. He thinks it's kinda funny, and is glad you can't read his mind. But he is instead grateful. Because you let him stroke his savior-helper ego. Because you didn't laugh at the space questions he asked to let you talk. Because you didn't make him feel famous. But instead made him feel seen.

When he fucks you, he notices the way your hands slide through his hair, like you're slightly distracted. He knows you are having a one on one with your old version, as well, and lets you carry it. He knows you're an adult, and it makes him feel so warm, because one more thing that radiates from you - something he loves very much - is maturity. He fucks you carefully, moving his hips smoothly, in missionary, because he doesn't want to hurt your back further. And it still feels good.

In the morning he is woken up by the warm, furious gust of air through the open window, and for a moment he thinks he is inside a summer-set cartoon.

He leans against you and sniffs your hair like a maniac while you're asleep, and then crawls out of bed to get his phone.

He has promised to meet some friends today - yeah, yeah, on his solitary trip. It's always like that. I am invisible. I am not here. Yeah, sure, let's meet, I won't ask how you know.

But for today, he apologizes and says he needs a raincheck.

He looks around the room, trying to see if things feel different in daylight. And all he gathers is the smell of your hair. Shade of your skin. He has been very lucky indeed; one thing Yoongi's never been is stupid and ungrateful. But life is just a tiny bit more full-blooded now that he has allowed himself this. This stupid thing. This dangerous thing. He giggles on the inside when he thinks to himself that he won't even talk to you about an NDA. He feels deliriously like gambling. He feels like making a mistake, it's almost self-harm. He looks at the stretchmarks on your thigh: recalls how they feel against the tips of his fingers. Tiger stripes.

He lingers.

He lingers, lingers, he stays.

You make him breakfast with rice and tuna he never got. He asks to play him any music of your choice, and you say you recently assembled a new playlist, because, crisis. Yoongi assembles your bright spots instead: kind, funny. Basic but underrated. Space nerd. Music feeler. Little grump. You play the array of songs that, you say, are masterpieces. Yoongi's understanding of a masterpiece is honed, foolproof and confident, and yet he hears the songs he doesn't know. It's the supernova of new sound. He shakes himself out of it, slaps the Yoongi from ten years ago on the back of his head: you gotta retreat back. There are millions upon millions of songs in existence: of course there are some he hasn't heard.

He leaves soon, because you have a tour at two-thirty in the afternoon. He puts the hood on and the mask, getting into the taxi. He says:

"Do you want to go to the sea?"

When Yoongi is alone, he wants to taste loneliness in its essence. He feels like a car is too encapsulating, so on solo holidays, he rents a bike.

He watches your eyes grow with fear when you see a motorcycle, and a helmet in his hands.

From then on, he lets himself enjoy the fling. He holds you by the waist. He squeezes his eyes shut when he laughs. He opens his ears up and unzips his mind: sure, go on. He wants to hear everything. Everything about your ex, who got you into Japanese music and then cheated, leaving you Minako Yoshida and an iPad. Who cares. He keeps quiet and listens to you spill important and non-important stuff, enjoying the sound of your voice, because none of this will matter. That's the joy of adulthood. He almost roars with happiness when he realizes he managed to jerk off the maximum of this small vacation. You don't ask to take pictures with him and protest when he tries to take pictures of you, for you. He texts Jimin about this because it's real, even if it's not, and he likes sharing with people who are dear to him.

Yoongi is so un-used to occasional hookups and flings, he forgets that he is the only weirdo like that in his own surrounding. He realizes he has been clutching his own life with whitening knuckles. He's been so passionate about his job that it became a habit. He's been so aloof and superior that the muscles of his back are iron-tense, commotion of the world becoming monochrome due to his tunnel-vision. He's been so concentrated to be right by himself, chasing that 'married to his job' status, out of fear of getting distrcated from that love. And now, as he is breathing in the sea, touching another human, he realizes his instincts had gone dry.

In order to write real music, he needs something to write about.

He says,

"I am not looking for a relationship. But..."

He wants to say this should go on for as long as the both of you are in the same city. He knows another sushi place. And another crowdless shore, and a picturesque road that is unpredictable enough that it will make you clutch his sides with triple force. You interrupt him:

"Me neither. I don't think I can handle you long-term".

And then you finally laugh. And it feels like you're laughing at him.

Yoongi isn't scared of you imprinting on him. Together with pink! skies, and crunch of a shrimp shell, and the Japanese City Pop. For once, he admits to himself something he's been gaslighting the Yoongi from ten years ago about: he was also bold, and risky. He welcomes those associations. The cirrus clouds. Filthy Frank. Back pain. Saturn's biggest moon. Rubber top on the fingernails. They are full-blood. You are full-blood, living, happy and you taste like sweet macadamia. Undateable, detached, superior Yoongi, soft like clam on the inside, is shy about his belly until he sees how hard he makes you cum when you lie on your back, your hair spread on the pillow, your pretty hands hurting his forearms.

When you both say goodbye, Yoongi returns to his lucky, amazing, wonderful life of music, friendship, fascinating business and stage.

You return - he doesn't know what to. Maybe to the stars. Maybe to the pulsars. Maybe you amalgamate with the pink-spear chemtrails and fly away not to a foreign country, but to another planet, because, he feels, you're a little bit done with this one.

No, he knows you're just a human, of course. In fact, one of those he has to filter out every day.

He forgets you have his number, and it never bothers him. No scandal follows; no news erupt. He doesn't get a call from his manager. He gambled right into the sea water, and he won. In case of a person like Yoongi winning means complete, total, blissful silence.

In this silence, he continues his life.

Until he realizes he keeps remembering the way he sounded when you made him laugh. How wide he had to open his mouth to let all that laughter out. How familiar and tired he felt when you told him you're one of those Ghibli Studio freaks. He keeps remembering the way you looked at him: at first, on the periphery of his mind, and then, when he catches those sneaky thoughts, he realizes they are way bigger than they seem.

The way you looked at him: like you know him, and accept this knowledge.

Like he is just another passerby who just so happens to be your soulmate. Naive, deep eyes full of light. So many people have seen him? It's his job, to be seen. So many pairs of eyes. But Yoongi finds it ridiculous. Nobody has ever looked at him the way you did.

He keeps thinking about your hand passing him the bowl of rice and tuna. Thumb on the inside, touching the food. He keeps scrolling through the ambient playlist you shared with him, and finds the track to which you both watched the sky go dark at the hospital, and it shakes him to the core for some reason: afraid to forget by Hammock.

Yoongi and Yoongi from ten years ago look at each other in silence.

Oh do you remember the feeling when we ate takoyaki Pringles at the hospital and shushed each other to hear Prometheus on the TV on the wall?

Oh do you remember how funny it was when she tripped on the stone beach and hopped on one foot?

Oh you do remember holding her in our arms.

Oh do you remember the seagulls soaring in the sky, screaming with their sea-salt voices, spreading their wings against the endless clouds?

Yoongi doesn't do "meeting new people", and it's not what happened. He didn't meet a new person. He met you.

Yoongi fuses back into one, dropping all cautious nonsense, feeling fine, defined thread connecting him to you in the simplest way possible. He is grateful you never named the type of gaze you looked at him with. Because now he can name it himself.

He remembers he has your number, at least the number you used in Japan. And he hopes it still works. He goes to the window, where dirty Seoul air makes Namsan Tower burn yellow, and takes the picture of the sky.

And sends you the picture, showing that sunsets are beautiful here, too.

You respond,

"Pink! Like your gums".

He is smiling.

perma tag: @n33mesis , @ryryvna , @mar-lo-pap

[osarina]

fun fact about pmreader verse, reader and itou edition: so as you guys know, reader spent 2 years in kyoto away from yokohama. she came back during the dragon’s head conflict & that was approx 3 months so she never really had time to immerse herself/learn the politics of the yokohama/tokyo area more intimately yet. immediately after the end of the dragon’s head conflict (approx 2 weeks, right after itou joined the mafia), i hc that an event takes place where the port mafia, sun & steel, and a few other organizations & gov officials are in attendance of. mori set it up as a test for our girl because he wants to see how she’ll adapt when thrown into this political sphere so suddenly & without preparation.

she did not do as well as you would expect. LOL. she has never been in a situation like this before. up in kyoto, her mentor introduced her to all of the major figures, so her ability was at work with them to ease her in even when she was alone. she never had to worry about that awkward phase people not knowing who she is & not under the effects of her ability.

none of these people here have any idea who she is, and they’re wary of her because the only thing they do know is she’s connected to mori, which they obviously find as a bad sign 💀 for the first half of the event, she’s struggling to figure out to approach this because when she tries to talk to someone, they evade her. and she’s getting increasingly more stressed because she knows mori is watching and testing her.

anyway, it’s not dazai or chuuya who comes to her rescue. it’s itou. he’s sees her uncomfortable and lingering on the outskirts of the room, unsure of what to do, and IMMEDIATELY starts making moves to help set her up. he gets the music going for a dance where you switch partners & then goes over to her and asks her to dance with him. she dances with him for a bit before switching partners & it gets her set up because it’s easy to talk to people that you’re dancing with obviously & easier for her ability to do its thing, and that sets her up for the rest of the night. but he has always been looking out for her from day one ☹️

also it’s part of the reason why dazai is so jealous of him & hates him cuz he saw them dancing and was like . what .

[lilspacewolfie]

Blood || V x gn!reader

Content: 1.1k words, softness, mostly SFW, some suggestive language near the end, blood-drinking, softness, creature! V is such a sweetheart, inspired by this post by my dearest @sakuraspoke🖤

On the night of Beltane, shrouded in the safety of the sprawling forest, you wait for him. 

The moon hangs in the void above you, bright and amber like a candle flame. It winks through the trees when they’re disturbed by the soft summer breeze, which is all too stifling given the time of evening. 

In the distance, you can smell the smoke of the spring bonfires, hear the distant roar of drunken revelries in full swing. Even though you’re so far from the safety of the Ministry's walls, you are entirely relaxed where you rest, curled against the trunk of a broad tree on a bed of moss and forest mulch. 

Nothing will harm you here. Not the mischievous fae or frightful forest fiends, nor the doe that you hear fleeing far away. 

Soon, the forest falls deathly quiet. A stillness creeps like a fog through the shadows. You know it’s not an unusual occurrence when a predator enters the territory, and you cannot help how your heart picks up in speed, pulsing with anticipation in your throat.  

The being that stalks his way to you would never hurt anything, most certainly never you. You know his heart, his soul, and it is pure and kind. Your darling monster, your beast that bays for your blood and yours alone; that wants nothing else than to feed, feel, and fuck you until you reek of his obsessions. 

You see his eyes first in the shadows, like twin moons that drift silently through the blackness towards you, closer and closer, moving unnaturally—too tall, too bright to be human. They quickly shrink as he draws nearer. It does thrill you, just a little, to catch glimpses of him completely untethered from reality. 

When you spy the glint of his metal mask catching in the amber moon, you smile, knowing he can see. You open your arms to welcome him in when he steps into the little clearing, reaching for him. 

It is by no means bright enough for you to take in the full beauty of him, but you have seen him a hundred times in a hundred situations to know that he is a sightly creature. 

Most importantly, he is yours.  

You offer your wrist, beckoning him like the siren you are to his senses. He approaches you with dog-like loyalty, falling to his knees before you and captures your face as he kisses you. He tastes of wine and honey when you kiss him, heady and hot, a sweet tang you will never tire of. His lips are soft and taste of honey and wine as his whimpered words of praise and thanks, pressing sacred vows into your skin as though he worships a God. He wants to drown in you, you know it, feel it, smothered by your scent and bathed in the sweet ruby essence of your life that you offer him so freely. 

“Grazie, cuore mio,” he all but sobs, your heart aching. “My darling. Il mio amore prezioso…”

He nips a trail down your throat, and you tip your head to allow him access. You can’t help but moan when his teeth are so close to your flesh, when he nuzzles his face into your lovely throat and marks you with his paint. 

He will bite and feed on your essence before the night is over, but never from your neck. Never from such a fragile place. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt you. 

You note the tension that clenches through him when his lips skim your thrumming pulse, a trap yet to snap closed, and you’re caught in the snare of his gentle grasp. You soothe him, sliding your fingers up the satin that clothes his chest, anchoring them in his hair and playing with the coils of silk. 

“It’s ok,” you tell him, kissing his temple. 

V trembles, his bare hands curl at the hem of your shirt to tug it down so that he may paint every precious inch of skin with his love. He is hot-bodied and warm, bending over you, fingers shifting to claws as they clutch at the temple that is your physical form. You arch so beautifully for him, a wildflower stretching to the sun, letting yourself be gathered in the cocoon of his arms. 

“Let me, please. Please,” he implores you, begs and despairs that you might revoke this most precious privilege.  

You never would, he knows that, but you know he fears it like he does the daylight. 

You smile at him and nod, comfortable in his lap as his long fingers cradle your wrist. He brings it to his face, and when his fangs finally pierce your skin in a swift pinch, you know you will never be free of him. Bliss floods through you like warm saline, hot and bright, and you shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin. 

He is so sweet as he drinks deeply from you, like a docile pup, watching your face with dark, drowsy eyes from beneath the shadows of his mask. Can he feel your love? Can he taste it in your blood? You always did wonder. 

The glow within his pupils is softer, more smouldering embers than a fire's flame. You know that expression well. It is the one you see when you make love, tangled together in sated bliss, and he stares at you in the silence like he cannot believe you’re real, that you’re his. 

He whimpers then, soft-faced as he draws his maw from your wrist, leaving a black stamp and red smears. He kisses your flesh, lapping at the puncture wounds in the hopes of soothing the sting. Your head is light, your body floating as you pet his jaw, noting his hardening cock digging into the back of your thighs as he buries his face in your chest. You both go slack, sinking to the forest floor together. 

He will be pliant for a while, and you are content to hold him in silence until both your needs become too great to ignore. You wrap his curls around your fingers as his hot breath tickles your skin. He sighs and purrs happily, the remaining tension rung out of him like a soaked rag.  

He thanks you again, over and over, in mumbled, half-coherent words. 

“Thank you. I love you. Mio amore. Grazie, cuore mio…”

Though lightheaded and a tad dazed, you laugh warmly and hush him with a kiss to the crown of his head. 

Closing your eyes against the humid breeze, you lay your head back against the moss, dozing with a smile on your face.

masterlist ⛧ Ao3

[peachyjinx]

LYHOM: Ch 5: A Mistake

Summary: Charlotte confronts Loki about the grade on her paper. Loki deals with his new feelings. W/C 3k

Warnings: 18+! Degrading language, angsty masturbation 😉

Masterlist / Ao3

An “F”. What the actual fuck. 

Professor Laufeyson’s words– something about ancient Asgardian customs– floated past her ears without registering, her mind too occupied with the red F blazing like a brand on the paper she couldn’t stop looking at. She’d never gotten an F before. Never. A swell of emotion began to build in her throat, a threat of tears brewing.  

Charlotte forced her gaze upward. Professor Laufeyson stood at the front of the room engrossed in his own story, explaining rules of the Asgardian court, a reverent smile on his gorgeous face. Charlotte felt the anger building. 

The F was a mistake. It had to be. She’d spent too many hours on that paper, combing through every resource she could find. She’d even managed to cite two obscure dissertations she’d found buried in the library database.

After he had returned their papers, the remainder of the class felt like forever. Charlotte gave up any pretense of taking notes, as an internal war began to build around how to speak to him about this after class. She desperately wanted to rage and scream at him. Conceding to the reality of the situation– that she needed to get this conversation right, and not risk her future– she swallowed the rage and tears. 

Instead, she began mentally rehearsing what she would say to Professor Laufeyson after class. She’d be calm. Professional. She’d appeal to his sense of fairness and academic integrity. Surely he would see reason. 

The lecture concluded and her teacher dismissed the class with a thoughtful smile and sat at his desk, gathering his work. A loose curl fell slightly over his forehead in an effortlessly elegant disarray. Damn him, why did he always have to look so amazing? Couldn’t he have an “off day” so she wouldn’t be distracted while she confronted him?

 “What’s the matter with you?,” Ryan whispered, looking at Charlotte with concern as he pointed to her leg, which she had been bouncing anxiously. 

 “Huh?,” she realized, surprised by her own fidgeting. She forced her leg to still, though her fingers began their own dance, tapping out a silent melody of anxiety upon her desk.

“Oh… um… so I’m going to talk to Professor Laufeyson about this ‘F’ after class,” she murmured, noting the professor’s fleeting glance in their direction.

“Are you nuts?,” he asked, shaking his head as he stuffed his laptop into his expensive leather bag.

“What do you mean?”

“Seriously? He’s an asshole,” Ryan said, his voice gaining volume as more students filtered out of the room. “And do you want ‘F’s for the rest of the semester? It’ll totally bring down your GPA!”

Charlotte winced at his increasing volume, glancing nervously toward the front of the room as she gathered her things. “Keep your voice down,” she hissed.

“I’m just saying,” Ryan continued, only marginally quieter, “the guy has a reputation. Three complaints to the department head last semester alone. He made my friend’s sister cry during an office hours appointment.”

“Well, it was a great paper and I think if I approach this maturely-”

“Oh, and tell him he’s wrong?” Ryan snorted, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The classroom had nearly emptied now.

“No, just…” Charlotte hesitated, a flicker of doubt clouding her judgement  for just a moment. But Charlotte was not one to back down– not when it came to her passion, her future. “...I don’t know, plead my case or something. Prove to him I really care– maybe he won’t be such an asshole?”

Ryan’s laugh was sharp and disbelieving. “Right, because the god of mischief is known for his compassion and understanding.”

“This is important to me, Ryan,” Charlotte insisted, her voice quieter but firm. “I’ve never gotten an F in my entire college career. Not once. And I’m not about to start now, especially not when I know this paper deserved at least a B.”

“Well, that’s a dumb idea, but you do you, I guess,” Ryan shrugged as he stood up from his desk. His expression softened slightly as he looked down at her, his brown eyes warm despite his dismissive words. “Good luck!” he added with a playful salute before walking out of the room.

Charlotte stood, feeling wobbly as she mentally prepared to confront Professor Laufesyson. “An entitled prince,” she reminded herself, trying to strip the man before her of the power he wielded with a stroke of his pen. And former god. An incredibly sexy former god. 

Stop that. 

Charlotte took a deep breath. It was now or never. She needed to be firm yet fair, to present her case with clarity and conviction.

Just be calm, collected– and don’t show that he’s getting to me. 

Loki watched Charlotte approach his desk, noting the tension in her shoulders, the determined set of her jaw. Her normal cheerful demeanour had been replaced by something else, and he felt a small thrill of anticipation.

“Professor Laufeyson,” Charlotte said, her voice firm but obviously nervous. “I need to speak with you about my grade.”

“Miss Baker,” he replied, allowing a small smile to play at the corners of his mouth. “I had a feeling I'd be seeing you today.” He leaned back in his chair, curious to see how this was going to play out. 

 “I don’t deserve to fail, and I think you know that.” She placed the paper down on the desk in front of him, her hand betraying a slight tremor despite the strength in her voice. “This was a good– no, great– paper.”

Loki regarded her with calculated indifference, allowing the silence to stretch between them for a moment. Power, after all, often resided in the spaces between words. “Hmm,” he finally murmured, glancing at the paper without picking it up, “and why do you think this paper does not deserve a failing grade?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively simple yet layered with challenge. He watched the emotions play across her face– indignation, frustration, determination. A charge of energy propelled through his veins, anticipating a battle.

“You know my paper was better than everyone else’s!,” Charlotte asserted, her voice rising slightly. 

Loki raised an eyebrow, his interest genuinely piqued now. “And why do you think that?” he asked, his voice cooling several degrees. “Do you think you’re special? Better than everyone else in the class?,” he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk as he looked up at her. 

“I–no–I just–,” she faltered. “I put everything into that paper.” The admission seemed to cost her something, a vulnerability she hadn’t intended to reveal. 

“Next time, do better,” he replied dismissively. 

“Is this because of what I said in the coffee shop?” The question burst from her lips, her eyes widening slightly as if surprised by her own boldness.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” Loki lied smoothly, his face a perfect mask of polite confusion covering the fact that he was really enjoying this.

The lie hit its mark. Charlotte’s expression transformed, indignation flaring into something hotter, more dangerous. “Oh, I bet you do!!” she exclaimed, her voice raised. “And that’s why you’re being such an asshole! You just can’t stand that I talked to you like a normal human!!”

“Professor, I did extra research and you still failed me!” Charlotte continued, her words tumbling out faster now. “This is bullshit– you are wrong, and you KNOW IT!,” she pointed towards his chest aggressively.

Loki felt a wicked smile begin to curl at his lips. She really had an awful temper. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, marking seconds that stretched like minutes. His eyes narrowed as his gaze sharpened, focused entirely on the flushed, defiant woman before him. He rose from his chair, a slow and deliberate movement that emphasized his height, displaying the way he towered over her smaller frame. 

But something unexpected happened as he stood to his full height, looking down at Charlotte with her eyes bright with righteous fury, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath. A surge of arousal, sudden and unwelcome, coursed through his body.

Norns how he wanted to bend her over this desk and fuck her. The conflict within him mounted rapidly, a war between physical desire and professional obligation.

“You are on dangerous ground, Miss Baker,” his voice unwittingly lowered, to his dismay.

“I know this is just a game to you, but this is my career. My livelihood. You can’t do this to people. I studied my ass off, like I’ve done for my entire college career. I work hard, Professor,” her expression changed, sadder now. 

A weight settled in his chest, cooling the heat of his lust. Behind the anger in Charlotte’s eyes, he saw something that struck an unexpected chord within him– the desperate need to be seen, to be acknowledged. Guilt began to creep into his mind, the reality of the situation in front of him revealing that he’d gone too far. 

A regretful sigh escaped, as he slowly walked around the desk towards Charlotte. This was a mistake, he shouldn’t have done this.

“Perhaps I was unjust,” he admitted quietly, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. 

Charlotte’s expression changed, clearly startled by his sudden shift. The fire in her eyes didn’t dim, but confusion joined it, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Sit, Miss Baker,” he gestured to the nearest chair in front of him.

Sitting on the edge of his desk, he folded his arms and stretched his legs out in front of himself, ignoring the growing heat inside of him– he needed to be professional, act like the teacher he was expected to be. He caught Charlotte stealing a glance at his poised figure, her eyes tracing the line from his impeccably polished shoes up to his face.

“There are times that I forget that some of you students care, and that these grades may actually be important. I suggest that the two of us move on from how we initially met. It’s not doing either of us any favors. I will review your paper again with a different perspective,” he said calmly.

Charlotte said nothing, only looked into his eyes with an intensity he tried to ignore.

“In the future, I expect you to temper your rage, and attempt a less combative attitude in my classroom. That means no more calling me an asshole,” he smirked with familiarity.

“Yes, Professor,” Charlotte replied, glancing down at the desk top, obviously embarrassed by her behavior. 

“Truce?,” she asked playfully as she looked back into his eyes, warmth replacing her rage.

“Truce,” Loki replied, suppressing the carnal feelings that were brewing again.

He stood back up, walking back towards his bag as he prepared to leave. “Good afternoon, Miss Baker,” he dismissed her.

“Good afternoon, Professor. Thank you,” she smiled at him sincerely, and made her way out of the classroom. 

Loki swiftly walked through his foyer, and with a practiced flick, his keys spiraled through the air, landing with a clink on the mahogany side table. He had spent his whole drive home thinking about Charlotte. Here she was again, invading his thoughts with her beautiful eyes and that infuriating habit of challenging him when no one else dared. His guilt over their confrontation gnawed at him, but it paled in comparison to the more insistent throbbing in his pants. He was so hard. 

The house was silent around him, and he could almost hear the blood pulsing in his veins, each heartbeat punctuating the thoughts of her that danced provocatively through his thoughts. 

He quickly made his way to his bedroom, unbuckling his pants as he walked into the shadows. The dim light offered a sanctuary, and he relished in the darkness consuming his view. He laid down on his large bed with determination to relieve this pressure, this lewd ache that was inside of him.

She didn’t back down. She stood up to him and called him names in his classroom. She was fiery, and he liked it. While at first she merely irritated him, he now felt his whole body alight with something new, a flame ignited where only embers had smoldered for far too long. The way she had bent over and pointed her finger at him angrily had caused an involuntary shudder through him, and a wave of arousal he hadn’t expected.

“Once,” he whispered into the darkness, a promise or a plea, he wasn’t certain, as he released his pulsing cock from its confines, the cool air of the room kissing his heated skin. His hand appeared pale against his flushed girth, the head engorged and glistening, begging for attention. His thumb moved in slow, deliberate circles over the swollen tip, causing his hips to buck with each touch, and a moan slipped out as he gave in to his own desperation.

Would it be so bad if he slept with her? 

You can’t fuck the students. They explicitly told you that when you were in training. 

Loki chuckled to himself as his length throbbed, the rebellion itself an aphrodisiac. Of course he’d be attracted to a student.This was simultaneously the best and worst thing that could happen. A temptation, a change in this monotonous life. The hunger within him stirred, a restless beast prowling the confines of his soul. It was desire, pure and unadulterated, mingled with the tang of danger. 

Oh this is bad, he thought to himself as he spit in his hand, smothering his cock in it while he rhythmically pumped himself. His eyes closed as he thought about Charlotte.

She wanted him– he could smell it on her during their confrontation. The heady scent of her arousal that lingered was etched in his memory, driving his urge to fuck. 

If they were to get caught, he could be fired. His cock twitched again at the thrill of a secret affair. That could be so fun. 

Loki’s mind flashed with images of how he’d make her suck his cock in his office. She’d beg to choke on him while he pulled her hair and cursed above her. The very idea made his heart pound faster with a feral excitement. The vision crystalized in his mind’s eye– Charlotte on her knees, her pouty pink lips wrapped around him…

His breathing grew more labored as his hand worked faster, the wet sounds of his self-pleasure obscenely loud in the quiet bedroom. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, dampening the roots of his silken hair. His body heat was trapped in his Armani suit, the temperature around him seeming to rise every minute. 

Loki’s eyes screwed tighter, his mental visions of the ways he’d want to fuck Charlotte vibrant in his mind. Gripping his free hand in his expensive sheets, he lost himself to his lurid fantasy, panting like a wild beast. 

He would show his student who’s in charge, and she would comply. She’d beg him to tell her what to do. She could be his secret plaything. No one would know. The power he would have over her aroused Loki in ways that hadn’t been felt in a long time. She was so defiant, and he wanted to fuck that out of her. A challenge. 

The idea of her, so strong-willed and resistant, bending to his command stirred something inside of him. “You’ll learn,” he puffed through gritted teeth, “what it means to yield.”

Loki’s hand moved faster now, his control beginning to slip as his pleasure mounted. The tight coil in his abdomen wound even tighter, while his cock throbbed in his hand, hot and heavy and demanding. 

Loki thought of fucking her on his office desk, her clothes ripped from her body as he pounded into her from above. She’d cry out in ecstasy as he plunged himself fiercely inside of her. Her legs would wrap around him, pulling him deeper in her tight cunt, craving every hot inch of him as he claimed her with each forceful thrust. She would no longer be just a defiant student who challenged him; she’d be his vessel of pleasure, begging for release, begging for him. She’d scream his name like a little whore just for him. 

“You’ll take what I give you…”, he growled to himself in the dark, his thighs tensing. His abs clenched as his hips bucked in time with the pumping of his thick cock, swollen and seeping precum, desperate for release. The pressure began to build as his balls tightened, and he knew he was going to come soon. 

Loki’s breath came in short, sharp pants now, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat droplets gathered in the hollow of his throat before sliding down his clothed chest. His hand moved faster, the rhythm becoming erratic as his control slipped away. Every muscle in his body seemed to contract at once, poised for the moment of release as his back arched. His cock throbbed painfully in his hand, so engorged and sensitive that each stroke was both pleasure and torment.

And he would come all over her– coat her in his seed. His warm cum would drip all over her naked body as she panted and begged him for more. She’d be marked as his. Only for him to fuck and take his frustrations out on whenever he wanted. 

In the fog of pleasure, he felt every synapse in his body fire at once. Loki’s body went rigid, his hand tightening around his cock in a punishing grip as a sudden eruption of pleasure burst throughout his body. A feral groan ripped through his chest as he felt a powerful orgasm rip through him. 

"FUUCK–," he gasped, surprised at how quickly he came. 

With each new spasm, another surge of cum burst from him, dripping down his tense hand. He rode the crest of his orgasm with wild abandon, milking the pulses for every last drop until the desire faded to a lingering, throbbing ache. 

Loki was left panting, chest heaving as he tried to suck air back into his lungs. For several seconds, he simply laid there– spent, sticky, and gloriously empty, his hand still loosely wrapped around the softening length of his cock. 

As his breathing slowed, he looked down at the cum splattered on his finely tailored clothes. He’d made a mess of himself. 

His eyes closed as he laid there for a few moments, curious to see if his cravings had been satisfied. Even in his afterglow, he still wanted her. Craved to defile her. 

This is definitely not ideal, he thought to himself. 

For the first time in what felt like ages, the former god of mischief felt a flutter of a spark. Excitement. Danger. The thrill of the forbidden sent a shiver down his spine, and he couldn’t help but entertain the thought: is this what his restlessness craved? 

-> Chapter 6 - Jul 18

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[yisony07]

Ready to Shoot

Based on an idea by @magnadefendor.

Thanks to @maskgreenface94 for the masked edited pic.

Life for him was interesting, like an expression of how hedonistic human nature can be. Known as Mark Overgood, he made adult videos and was highly admired, receiving tons of hot and horny messages on all his social media accounts. He liked reading them, and often got hard afterward. Mark liked his lifestyle: meeting hot men, having sex in all kinds of ways, and getting paid for it. What more could he ask for?

In fact, that same afternoon, he was setting up a set in his house because he would have a big shoot with a friend he knew from the media that night, in just a couple of hours. Mark lived alone in his apartment, and there was a room he used specifically for filming. He was there now, adjusting more lights so everything would be clear.

"Done," he said, his soft, masculine voice, satisfied with how everything had turned out.

Then, he heard a loud knock on the door, and he couldn't help but jump.

“Who could it be?” he wondered, and looked at his watch. His partner had probably arrived earlier than usual or it was someone from the production company, since Mark wasn't expecting anyone until later.

Anyway, he left the set and went to the door.

Mark opened the door and found no one there. He looked around, down the hallway, and he was just as desolate, from his door to the elevator. It was a strange situation: Had he hallucinated the knock?

“No, your senses are more than fine, Mark… they're over good,” he joked and chuckled. He dismissed the idea that anyone was there, but as he was turning around, he looked down and found a small box on the carpet.

“Huh? Who left this package here?” he asked, picking up the box, “and without even saying hello?”

Mark carried the box inside and, after closing the door, noticed a letter taped to the package that read: “To Mark O. G.*

Mark placed the package on the nearest table and opened the letter addressed to him. The text was short, with rather questionable handwriting, but legible nonetheless:

“This is a special gift for the greatest porn star in the world. It will bring you your desires when you wear it, trust me! I hope you'll enjoy it ❤️” – Anonymous.

“Aww, thanks, why so shy, anonymous person?” Mark said with a hint of excitement and went to the box to open it, not noticing her smile. However, when he did, he pulled out an old, green wooden mask with three holes that gave the illusion of an expressionless face.

His smile vanished in seconds. “Wow… Why would that anonymous give me this?” Mark asked as he examined it. “It looks really strange.”

He walked to the set with the mask in hand, and when he arrived, he threw it on one of the seats and continued fine-tuning the details to make the room perfect.

"Well... It seems the only thing left to fix is ​​myself..." Mark said, reaching up to sniff his armpit. "Airsh... I should take a bath, although I know someone who would love to..." he added, licking his lips.

But despite this, he went to take a shower. Mark didn't know how long it had taken, but the sky had already turned violet by the time he emerged, dressed in a tank top and shorts, an outfit that highlighted his hairy, toned body, the star of so many scenes in which he showed off his skills.

He returned to the set and didn't notice anything else to fix. Mark was about to leave when he saw the mask he had left on the seat. Since he had nothing else to do, he walked over and picked it up.

“My greatest desires, huh?” A mocking chuckle escaped his lips. “I doubt it…”

Even so, and more to kill time, he approached the nearest mirror with the mask in his hand and, naively, placed it on his face…

“What the…?!” he exclaimed, pulling the mask away from his face as quickly as he could. He was stunned, still trying to regulate his breathing. Mark wasn't sure what had happened… Had the mask tried to suck his face in?

Mark looked back at the mask and noticed a faint green glow running across the wooden surface.

That glow seemed to dazzle him, as his dark eyes turned green for a moment, and he stared at the mask, as if it were the only thing that mattered. Any thoughts of getting away from it seemed to vanish. A shiver ran down his spine, reaching his pants and crotch, which seemed increasingly uncomfortable due to the lack of space.

Mark then brought the mask closer and closer to his face, until...

SMACK!!

Once the wood of the mask made contact with his skin, it clung to his face and began to stretch and extend like a living mass, growing tentacles to cover his head.

Slowly, the mask's tentacles covered his ears, his long, silky hair, and soon his entire head. Mark tried in vain to remove the mask, but it slipped through his fingers, and he only managed to make scratches, which shone green.

The mask pressed ever tighter against his skull, trying to fit as closely as possible to his facial features. Mark felt the pain and grabbed his head, thrashing and screaming to try to relieve the sensation. But then, the mask's grip became more bearable, less painful, more... arousing. His moans of pain turned into moans of pleasure, and heat filled his entire body, so he let go of the mask, let himself be carried away by the pleasure, and moved one of his hands to his chest and abs, and the other to his throbbing cock, beginning to rub it.

Then, the mask jerked from left to right, and Mark spun into a small twister. As he spun, he let out several moans that the noise of the wind couldn't drown out.

In seconds, the twister spun around the room until it stopped, revealing a burly figure with a green face and a killer body. He approached the mirror and, with a mischievous smile, exclaimed:

“OH YEAH, I LOOK SMOKIN’N’FRESH…!”

At that moment, the masked man heard the doorbell ring.

“NOW IT'S TIME FOR ME TO DO THAT SHOOT WITH MY ‘SEX’ PARTNER.”

He began to spin like a tornado, went to the door, sucked in his partner and the rest of the team, and carried them to the creature he had prepared. When he stopped, he was already naked, his big throbbing cock pointing toward his partner in bed.

“IT'S SHOWTIME, BABY… ACTION!!”

The End.

[newbieschaos]

A Bit Of A Push

Description: In which Anakin can’t help but want to assist in getting his Master closer to another Jedi. Whether he asked for it or not.

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Jedi!Reader

Warnings: None

Authors Note: This is my first time posting here so please be kinda. I’m incredibly new at how everything works. So any feedback, suggestions, or comments are appreciated. Also if any warnings were missed please let me know.

Next Parts: Part II Part III

You walked through the temple fixing your Jedi robes to look presentable once more. Everyone knew that one class with the younglings could truly drain even the strongest Jedi. Their high energy and excitement for the force created chaos throughout the room.

This often leads to their teachers searching for another to handle the situation. Something only a select amount would willingly do. However, it had to be done and only so many Masters would accept the role. Something you often ended up doing.

Finding your way to the gardens for a much-needed meditation session. You hear the call of your name. You turn to see both Padawan and Master come towards you. Immediately leading to a smile to cross your face.

Over the years you had become somewhat close to the duo. Specifically, Anakin who often leaned on you when it came to his overwhelming emotions. You noticed quickly that due to his age and situation. he desperately desired an adult to create comfort and assist him in understanding his new life. While allowing the majority of it to be handled by his Master. Every once in a while you’d end up assisting lightly not wanting to overstep.

You always had a dislike towards the Jedi Council's view of attachments. While understanding the rule you couldn’t help but also acknowledge how it was contradicting. Which was only proven to you through the struggles of Anakin and other Jedi.

However even with this assistance you never had moments to talk much with the boys' Master alone. Lately, you noticed in moments that you’d be talking to Anakin. Obi-Wan would often walk away or avoid conversation entirely. Sure he’d hold a basic conversation as a Master’s but once the cordial part was over. He was gone.

While you didn’t like to admit it, you often worried he held something against you, possibly disliking you, which was not only unfortunate due to your close connection to his Padawan but also because of your liking towards the man.

You continued to smile as they approached and you walked towards them to meet in the middle. “Greetings Anakin, Master Kenobi.” They both reciprocated the greeting. Anakin jumped at the opportunity to hear a story “I was wondering how the class went with the younglings. I never get to hear much of what happens no matter how much I encourage my Master to help.” You smile at the curious boy.

“As always the younglings are quite the energetic bunch. Once again there was a bit of a situation with the training lightsabers. However, nothing they couldn’t handle.” You noticed Anakin begin to look at his Comm and his surroundings. You became confused as you noticed his actions.

“Apologies Masters. I remembered I had to discuss something with Master Yoda. If you’ll excuse me-.” Obi-Wan grabs his padawan before he walks away. “You never mentioned such a thing will you need me in attendance as well. After all, as your Master, I am always willing to assist.” Anakin looks down and pulls his arm away.

“Actually Master this is a rather private discussion. Nothing you need to be worried about. However, I will have to miss your meditation session and tea.” He seems to pause and think “Since I’m missing out. Why don’t you go with Master (Y/N)?” You noticed Master Kenobi’s face drop as he realized the invitations his Padawan created.

“Oh I would never want to intrude on Master (Y/N)’s time after all I’m sure there’s much to do-.” You turn towards him “Actually I was just headed to the Gardens to meditate I wouldn’t mind joining you. Especially if there’s tea.” You paused concerned he didn’t want to be around you. Clearly, he had some sort of need to avoid you. So he likely wouldn’t like this. “Unless it would be a problem of course. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

He quickly denied “Of course you wouldn’t be imposing at all. I wouldn’t mind if you joined at all.” You smiled happy he didn’t hold something against you. “Perfect well then we’ll allow you to head to where you need to Anakin. I hope that everything is alright.” You put a comforting hand on Anakin’s shoulder before walking away with Obi-Wan.

Unbeknownst to you both Padawan and Master turn to look at each other. One with a rather large smile whilst giving a thumbs up. While the other stares daggers into his Padawan unable to stop his ears from slightly turning red.

[interclover]

(NO SPOILERS PLEASE) Behold! My tpot 19 bingo, filled with my predictions! I'll go over some of them in detail under the cut :p

My elimination predictions are grassy and tennis ball, due to them having less screentime than their teammates. Besides, on TB's case, his team is filled with other popular contestants, whom we didn't get much screentime of in previous seasons. Sadly, I think tb's the most likely to go, since he still has bfdia 😔 hopefully I'm wrong

I do think the bfb contestants are going to appear... dunno how, but they can't just. Make an entire episode dedicated towards them and say "it's going to lead to tpot 19!" Maybe they just make a small cameo when x goes to check out what's going on with Taco, idk

The merge!!! A team will be hitting 3 members, and it seems to me a bit unfair to keep competing with just. 3 people. So yeah.

It's gonna be the end of the world (tpot 15) all over again. This leads up to my following point:

The world's fate will rest on Pencil's shoulders. One has basically set up the latest TPOT episodes to just get her to sign a deal: she's lost everyone, she's forced to co-exist with the creature that made her lose many years of her life, and she doesn't wanna lose over him this time; which causes her team to dislike her for her actions. I do think she'll get some development, after the scene with pen in tpot 17: maybe she'll thank Donut for being there for her, or she'll start to get along more with the rest of cloudyay. Despite that, I can see the deal going both ways: she might agree to it if it means having freesmart back (bc there's no way she's willing to give them up so easily for the despairing situation she's in rn) or she might decline, taking into consideration Pen's words. It's a tricky yet interesting scenario... I'm looking forward to it.

Two will have to get out of bed if they want to protect the cast. I think all of the contestants (including the eliminated ones, who will most likely break out of the elimination space given their lack of energy to keep it shut for much longer) will try to cheer them up, in a similar way Gelatin did with Four. They'll remind them that they have to fight if they don't want to keep losing more people, and, that if they want to get Gaty back, everyone will have to do their bit - including Two themself.

While I believe it's a bit early in the season to pit Two and One against each other, a sacrifice will be needed to quell the rift. I doubt One will want to approach a target other than Pencil (who she believes is practically guaranteed) to sign her deal, given the altered state she's in. She doesn't have the patience to keep up her cool and calculated facade for much longer. Therefore, there has to be another way to close the rift (then again, it's still too early in the season to let everyone. Die. And put the task of saving the world in idk the equation playground gang), and I think it'll be through a sacrifice. Perhaps black hole could try to absorb all of the rift's energy, or pencil will trade her life for closing the rift. Or maybe it could even be Pin/Tree's token! Who knows. That's why tpot 19 will be scary as fuck.

Either way, they can't keep going with the secret of the token for much longer. It's bound to be revealed in this episode.

In my opinion, we'll be getting some algebralien lore. Whether it is how Six was able to find the equation playground gang, or One's backstory, we will be getting some explanations on what happened to them.

I feel like Donut will talk about One with Fanny, GB and TB. I don't think he'll be careless enough to spill the tea to everyone, so he'll choose the most appropriate people to talk to about his experiences. After all, he's not bound by One's deal.

I FORGOT TO PUT IT HERE BUT WE MIGHT KNOW WHAT THE DEALS ENTAIL,,, it seems like an appropriate moment to find out! With the end of the world, one failed deal and whatever :p

I don't think we'll see leafy. Rather than that, firey n 8ball will make their way to the hotel. Maybe, they'll find everyone there, and vow to take down One to find out the whereabouts of all the kidnapped contestants.

Yeah, I do think One will reveal herself to the larger cast. She's not in the right mindset to keep herself in the shadows any longer. I'm sure she'll make her presence known this episode.

That's all!!! Yapping over :3 I'd love to hear your thoughts as well,,, IM SUPER SCARED AAAJAUSHDJJS PLEASE LET MY GIRL BOOK BE SAFE. TAGGY AND TB AS WELL I LOVE THEM :(

[cypresswood3]

would arthur be a genuinely good parent to faroe if she lived. would she get enough attention from him. would he be emotionally intelligent enough. how would his relationship with daniel affect her. arthur doesn't even have much of an example of do-s and don't-s from his own parents.

[donghuamuqing]

Being an older sibling is the hardest thing anyone can do

[so-called-quail]

'Trapped in the end!' said Sam bitterly, his anger rising again above weariness and despair. 'Gnats in a net. May the curse of Faramir bite that Gollum and bite him quick!' 'That would not help us now,' said Frodo.

Sword in hand Sam went after him. For the moment he had forgotten everything else but the red fury in his brain and the desire to kill Gollum. But before he could overtake him, Gollum was gone. Then as the dark hole stood before him and the stench came out to meet him, like a clap of thunder the thought of Frodo and the monster smote upon Sam's mind.

Now he tried to find strength to tear himself away and go on a lonely journey – for vengeance. If once he could go, his anger would bear him down all the roads of the world, pursuing, until he had him at last: Gollum. Then Gollum would die in a corner. But that was not what he had set out to do. It would not be worth while to leave his master for that. It would not bring him back. Nothing would.

Sam and vengeance in today's entry

[gwynbleiddyn]

ive always said my da4 protag would be rion's son because i enjoy the poorly thought out decisions i make on dragon age time

but at best, with a little tweaking and finagling, he'd only be 20 and i sure as hell wasn't a coherent human being at 20

[arolesbianism]

I Really need to properly draw Christopher at some point but everytime I want to I just look at her in game sprite and weep for her truest form has already been achieved. What's even the point. This is her in the flesh.

[mostly-imagines]

Careless Accidents

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you get hurt and jason’s pissed

warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard

You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.

You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.

Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.

“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly. 

“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did. 

“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”

“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing. 

“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”

She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.

Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.

What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear. 

What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.

Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.

“Are you okay?” she signs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it. 

You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern. 

“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.

“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.

Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”

Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”

Dick paled. 

“No.”

Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”

“No.”

You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.  

“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes, 

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”

⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️

[livinghalfway]

Please let me do my job

Danny somehow manages to get a job working as a server during a gala event. The uniform sucks, but he wasn’t about to complain when he was desperate for any job right now. He had to flee from Amity after his parents discovered that he was Phantom with almost nothing, but the clothes on his back. So the uniform was definitely worth it with how much he was getting paid. 

What wasn’t worth it though was the amount of rich fruitloops that have approached him. Everytime he turned around someone was there and wanted to ask him questions. Asking things like why he was dressed as a server, and calling him by the name of Tim. It wasn't hard to figure out that everyone thought he was Tim Drake-Wayne. 

He knows that the Waynes are known for black hair and blue eyes, but for him to be getting this much attention for it is just getting ridiculous at this point. Danny would have just brushed it under the rug as it being a rich people are just weird thing. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Dick Grayson, the oldest Wayne child, had grabbed him coming out of the kitchen and into a secluded area. 

“Tim, what are you doing; why are you dressed as a server? Everyone here knows your face, now is not the time to be going undercover!” Dick whispers while looking for anyone that might be watching them. “Go change back into your normal clothes. Well talk about whatever this is back in the cave ok?” 

The fact that Tim Drake goes undercover was probably not something Danny was supposed to know. Also, did he say cave? As in the Bat-Cave? A rock settles in Danny stomach as he realizes that the Wayne's are the bats. Which is definitely not something he should know.

Before Danny can think of anything to say that will get him out of this situation without any problems a voice is already calling out, "Dick! What are you doing back here?"

The owner of the voice is of course none other than Tim Drake himself. This wasn’t going to end well Danny thought to himself as he watch Dick looked between himself and Tim.

How did this become his life.