#the struggle i had coloring this god i still hate it

[trendingdrama]

When I've had a rough day, but have no one to rant to,I take Line Two. Why? This line is a loop,so it goes around Seoul. Time passes by quickly when I watch people.I remain in the subway until sundown. Then in between Dangsan and Hapjeong Stations,I get to see the best sunset in Seoul. The sunset helps me forget how awful of a day I had. It just makes me want to go home.

QUEEN OF TEARS 눈물의 여왕 (2024)

[thehmn]

I’m currently listening to Maren Uthaug’s book 11% about a world where most men have died. I should probably wait until I’ve finished the book but I’m so fascinated by the world building.

As of now it’s still unclear why the men died but when the story takes place there’s a mix of older women who fucking hates men and young women who have only met drugged up men at “breeding centers” and imagine “males” as violent boogeymen but otherwise don’t really care and just want to live in the new seemingly perfect society their grandmothers fought for. The only people who still fight for men’s rights are witches who believe masculine energies are as natural and Of Nature as feminine energies, but even they sound more like animal rights activists, standing outside breeding centers with signs every Friday. Their most provocative sign is a picture of a man with Human written on it.

Christianity has been completely transformed and is now run by priests (they don’t call themselves priestess) who can only hold ceremonies when they have their periods and snakes are their most sacred symbol because they gave knowledge to Eva and God is called The Mother.

Trans men exist but are referred to as Man Women and they all seem to be sex workers who have functional silicone penises, though I’m not far enough into the story to know if they have other jobs. They generally also still have breasts because working as a wet nurse is another source of income for them. Testosterone treatments is not an option because it would make them too masculine and dangerous to be allowed into society but they all have male names and everyone use male pronouns for them.

A really fascinating aspect of the world is how people want to get rid of the old “patriarchal architecture” of straight lines and boxes but refuse to tear it down with machines, instead insisting on letting Mother Nature reclaim it. Only Rat Girls are actively trying to destroy the old buildings by releasing hoards of rats into them and planting bamboo to break up the concrete. New buildings have round shapes and are build in ways that make them blend in with cultivated nature and inside they’re painting in beautiful colors with no hard edges. They sound a lot like colorful hobbit homes. Also, locks are considered uncivilized and of a time when violent men roamed the earth and made life unsafe so nothing, from front doors to bathrooms, have locks. For a while after most men died women would go for Night Walks to relish in the fact that they no longer had to be afraid, though they liked to visit the witches at night because it felt a little spooky, which the witches thought was good fun.

The story is naturally about a middle aged witch who is hiding a young boy illegally and gets milk from one of the trans men in the red district while also sleeping with a Christian priest who struggles with her sacred job because her periods are irregular.

I’ll come back with follow up thoughts once I’ve finished it. Unlike what you might think, Maren Uthau isn’t a scary man hater. I’ve listened to most of her other books and this isn’t a recurring trope so clearly she has something to say specifically with this story and it’s rated pretty highly by both male and female readers. I think I’m in for quite the ride.

[luvjunie]

— headcanons. what life is like for miles!42

a/n: i honestly didn’t mean for these to get so angsty oopsies!! i kept adding on so they’re also very lengthy wc: 1,751

contains: mentions of grief

Everyone thinks he’s rude and impossible to approach—but that’s a common misconception. In reality, he’s actually quite shy and simply prefers to keep to himself. His quiet nature often causes him to come off ill-mannered, which is completely unintentional on his end and partially the fault of those who assume what he’s like instead of actually getting to know him.

He used to be open to making friends and spending time with peers, but after everyone found out his dad died— which was impossible to prevent considering the man who used to drive him to school now had a giant mural made in his honor— he began receiving a ridiculous amount of pitied stares in the halls, began hearing hushed whispers about how hard things must be for him at home now. And even though they were, he hated that he was being treated differently by those he once kept close to him, like a charity case. As if he were fragile and would break— like he often did when he was alone.

His old friends were supposed to be his distraction, something to take his mind off how he now had to grow up faster than he’d liked. Something to remind him that his trauma hadn’t aged him as much as he feared; that he truly was still a kid at heart. But instead, they served as a constant reminder of the worst thing he’d ever had to live through— skated around him like he’d blow up the second they said the wrong thing; responded with heartfelt condolences instead of laughing with him whenever he’d tell a funny story about his dad. So eventually, he drifted away from them and began keeping to himself all together.

Don’t put him in a box because of his prowler side hustle, this boy is smart as hell!! Especially with one parent now being gone and his mom struggling to pay the bills? He takes his academics very seriously, he has no choice. He has to get it out the mud somehow and he doesn’t have the privilege of skipping classes as much as 1610-miles does. He’s working two years above his grade level in AP Calculus and AP physics, and has been accused of cheating on his tests a couple times due to how fast he completes them, as well as the fact that he has never once asked a question from the seat he chose in the back of the room.

It’s not something anyone would expect, but he enjoys baking a lot and he’s damn good at it too. When he was younger, he’d spent one summer with his Mamá Lena (Rio’s mother), who had him in the kitchen helping her cook and bake almost everyday and it just stuck. It’s a secret talent of his that never really comes up in conversation, and that you wouldn’t know about unless you’ve seen him doing it. His banana bread muffins using a recipe he took months to perfect taste like the gods themselves made them, and he’ll slip one into his mom’s work lunch whenever he makes them because he knows they’re her favorite.

He’s a lover boy at heart, if you were to look into his playlist, the songs you’d find in there probably wouldn’t be what you’d expect. Listens to bobby bland, which was heavily influenced by his uncle, old school rap, and he really likes love songs from the 90s because they make him feel calm, and allow him to imagine what his life would be like if he could have something like what they’re singing about. He’s terrified he’ll never be able to experience that due to his inability to open up to others. And often, he doesn’t even try to express the emotions that are tough to swallow, a firm believer in the saying that ‘once you’re down, it’s hard to get back up.’

Keeps his room pretty clean. It’s probably the one and only thing he has control over in his life, a constant for him. His room is his safe-haven so he treats it as such. It’s basically the same as 1610’s, just with a more matured look, a lot less color and less expression. He unfortunately lost that spark for a lot of his interests, so you won’t see more than a small punching bag, some boxing gloves hanging from the doorknob and few stragglers in the form of posters he didn’t feel like taking down.

He doesn’t like to argue, at all. He hates fighting with anyone he loves and he’s very quick to forgive them or squash the disagreement all together now that his dad is no longer here. When Jeff died, they were still on rocky terms from their previous dispute and even while years have passed, Miles still has yet to forgive himself for that. So now, he usually lets bygones be bygones, and never lets a conversation end on a bad note.

Continued growing his hair out once he realized it was a way for him to bond and spend more time with his mom. Within the little availability they do have, between her working doubles at the hospital, him being pulled in every direction now that he’s the ‘man of the house’—uncle Aaron’s words— and having to do things he’s not proud of to assist her while still going to school during the day, they make the time. Miles only gets it braided by her, and he enjoys the talks they have when he’s sat on the floor between her legs with his back to her. And when she’s done, regardless of how ridiculously embarrassing it is, and how he’s now over a head taller than her, he always lets her pinch his cheeks and call him her ‘handsome little man’. He hasn’t looked at a pair of hair shears since.

On that note, he is very, very defensive when it comes to his mother. Miles is not the kind to go around beating people up just for kicks; mostly because he’s not that kind of person, but also because even if he wanted to— he can’t.

In preparation for stepping into the prowler role Uncle Aaron put Miles into boxing/m.m.a classes when he turned fourteen, and he took to the skill very quickly. So well, in fact, that his hands can now technically be considered deadly weapons in the eye of the law due to his extensive training— which means he could get slapped with a ridiculous assault charge that would have him doing some time in a juvenile correction facility over a simple fist fight. (if he’s not masked as the prowler obviously).

But, some kid in his history class thought it’d be funny to make a slick comment about how Mrs. Morales was ‘single’ and ‘up for grabs’ now that his dad had passed, and the situation ended with Miles suspended for a week after he’d basically thrown his desk over to get to the kid, his knuckles bruised, and a tirade of complaints from the boy’s mother about his now-rearranged nose. However, after hearing the disgusting comment he had made about Miles’ mom, she was kind enough to not press charges and forced her son to apologize to the both of them.

That woman is his saving grace, literally. She stepped up in ways he didn’t even know were possible after his dad died, barely taking time for herself to grieve because she wanted to make sure her little boy didn’t fall apart. He doesn’t let anyone disrespect her and that’s always made known by him. He’s a mama’s boy.

They kind of have a titfortat thing going on, him and his mom. Like how she always stops in to ask him how his day was, if school is going well or if he needs anything, even if the time isn’t ideal and she’s talking to a sleepy Miles at 1am in the morning who can barely keep his eyes open. Or how his uniform is always freshly ironed and laid out for him in the morning, regardless of how exhausted she is and how badly she wants to crawl into bed after her shift. Or how when he’s sick, she’ll drive all the way across town to one of the only fresh markets that sells yuca root and white yautia so she can make him sancocho (a traditional puerto rican dish). It’s the one thing she knows always makes him feel better.

And Miles does nice things for her, too. Like draping a blanket over her sleeping form when she dozes off on the couch in front of the TV. Or making sure her phone is plugged in, so her alarm goes off in the morning, because sometimes she knocks out before she can bring herself to do it. He even goes as far as to secretly slip some extra cash he’s made from a recent job into the ‘RENT’ jar she keeps on her dresser— dropping a hundred in every now and then when she’s not there to see him do it. She’s never once asked him for help, but the one time he took it upon himself to offer it, he was shot down in seconds, and was made to promise her that he wouldn’t worry about it ever again. Her exact words being “You’re too young to worry about something like this mijo, okay? You take all the money you make from your after school job, every single penny, and you save it. Mama’s got this.”

But sometimes, she doesn’t. And Miles knows that she wants to be strong for him. For them. But it takes two, he knows that as well, so he helps out anyway.

And with prayers that they’re not short— Rio counts everything in the rent jar towards the end of the month, and a string of celebratory whoops and hollers will always sound from her room when she realizes they surprisingly have some extra cash that’ll allow her to take some days off and relax for once, and maybe even do something fun together. He’ll listen from his room with a knowing smile, more than happy to let his contributions remain undisclosed to affirm her efforts of providing for them the best she can. With her energy so depleted from how demanding her job is, she’s never suspected it was him discreetly assisting, and chalked it up to her forgetting how much she’d mindlessly dropped in there after each paycheck.

[futureplayboibunnie]

It’s canonically Miguel’s birthday soooo….a fluffy/cute/ lil steamy drabble? yes pls.

-

It was late, you and Miguel were both a little tipsy from the wine you plied each other with, but the night was starless, the fire was roaring, the city lights were gleaming and it was Miguel's birthday.

Miguel always hated his birthday. It was an unpleasant reminder of the years before him and the unforetold future ahead of him- all in all, it was an unsettling and borderline depressing experience, it was clear that everyone around him was viscerally aware of that. Even when he was in the warm blanketed safety of his own home, with the woman he wanted to spend his life with, it was still a struggle for him to not hate the predicament he put himself in. Your head rested on his lap while he was sat on the couch like a normal careless couple would do, your fingers stroked against him tenderly, normally, like it was second instinct but from this angle, you could tell his mind was wandering, twinges of apprehension and sullenness tweaked at his face so faintly, you almost didn't notice

“What's going on up there?” You said with a strained soft breath, your eyes flickered to his, the flames licking at the fireplace illuminated the deep crimson of his eyes. He looked so beautiful and you hated that he barely recognized it. Even now when he stroked your hand with his thumb, the familiar heat he ignited when you first wanted him crept its way back to you all this time.

“Nothing mi amor, let me just be here with you.”Miguel pursed his lips as he so obviously tried to dismiss the situation, he snapped his stare awayfrom yours. Your mind drew to a blank, unsure of what to even say after that but then you remembered, you didn'teven give him his gift yet. You shot up and Miguel instantly raised an eyebrow, watching you hurry away out of the room.

It was only a couple of seconds before you came back with a wrapped box with a cute little bow, a card, and a bouquet of roses.

“Oh my god.” Miguel said mildly but you could tell he was trying to stifle a giggle. He gave you a cute little defeated scoff and got up and came to you, slightly amused by this cute display you provided. He couldn't help but sigh dryly, he pondered you for a second, he had never felt so...appreciated. His heart fluttered in his chest at the realization. His eyes darted to the flowers and he chuckled and then looked back at you with a quiet playfulness.

“You bought me flowers.” He said flatly and smirked, you shoved the flowers in his face aggressive for him to smell them.

“You always buy me them, why can't I buy you some? What? Don't like 'em? Here sniff 'em.” You teased with a pretty smile and Miguel spluttered as he shoved them away

“Alright baby, I got it, I got it.” He protested playfully through short laughs, his smile was gorgeous and you were gawking at him like a lovesick fool.

“Open the card.” You say softly, handing him it, you flash him a flirty look, fluttering lashes sly smile and all. He quirked an eyebrow at yourlittle shift in tone and expression- he always hyper-analyzed you, and every single move you made, he he enjoyed it thoroughly. Even after all this time, he was still crazy about you, your tease, your ability to make him wonder. Miguel opened the card, intrigued by your boldness.

Happy birthday mi amor.

You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You are the most incredible man I've ever known. I'm the luckiest girl in the world to get to be with you, care for you, love you.

This is your day. I want this all to be about you. I'll let you do anything you want to me, anything, fuck me any way you like. I'm yours. All yours. Tonight and forever.

All my love

Miguel's gaze softened when he read the sweet words, you knew exactly what to say to make him melt in your hands, he glanced up at you and your cheeks colored with a heated blush, a suggestive smirk playing at your lips. You were acting coy as if you weren't aware of what you had written just for him. Even when you were trying to be sincerely romantic, you couldn't help but slip how much you loved his cock.

“Dirty girl.” He said with a crooked smile, biting his lip, gaping into that gorgeous face he's been fascinated by since he met you. “God I love you.” He muttered when he cradled your face in has hands.

“Open it.” You handed him his little wrapped box, your eyes brightened as he took it and unwrapped it.

It was a box. With a few things stuffed inside of it.

There were many cute knicknacks inside of it: a frame with you and Miguel absolutely drunk off your tits at a party that you can’t even remember, Peter took that amusingly hideous photo and he wouldn’t let either of you forget it so instead you thought to embrace it. Funnily enough, you bought him a nail file for his talons with his name engraved on it and you just shrugged with a smug face and said it was when he was in the need for self care. Miguel scoffed dryly, you were enjoying himself. You also got him a real gold ring with his spider emblem engraved on it. He felt very appreciated indeed.

But what really caught his attention was the less wholesome side of it.

You gave him your tiny lacy panties that you knew he loved.

Nipple clamps? Really? Oh my God.

And then he came across it, the multiple polaroids of you naked for the camera. All for him. All his. You looked heavenly.

“Hmmm.” He hummed apppreciatively. Completely enjoying what he was looking at, your body was made for him, you looked adorable.

“You like it?” You ask sincerely but you always had that stupid, smug smirk on your face.

“Of course I do.” He chuckled before grabbing you, letting the box drop to the floor and picking you up off the ground, holding you as he nuzzled into your neck, you yelped in surprise but that soon melted into a soft breath as you inhaled his scent.

Miguel settled you down, his hands still wrapped around your waist, your fingers found hospice in his hair, you tucked a few loose tufts behind his ear.

“I love you, you know that cariño?” He muttered. “I’m not good at stuff like this, I hate my birthday…but you make me feel worthy of it.” His voice was barely audible but you were so close you could hear every syllable.

“I love you too….” You said before planting a soft chaste kiss on his lips. Miguel’s hand went to your hair, your soft pecks turning into deep, heady kisses. “Let me take care of you.” Your breathing become shallow as his hand gripped the back of your neck.

“I want slow.” He slurred against your already wine soaked lips, you always taste so sweet for him, sometimes he wanted to rub you down in honey or something other and just spend his night licking it off you. He’d consider that a beautiful way to die happy. “Want it slow.”

“Take me to bed.” You whispered, your voice gentle and thick all at once. Miguel tiptoed you to your room, he wanted to rip off that smug smirk off of your lips. But in the meantime, he wanted to make love to your body.

[himehomu]

With Walpurgisnacht Rising coming in 2024, I want to talk about something that has been bothering me since Rebellion. It was never the “plot twist” of Homura separating Madoka from her godhood nor her taking those godlike powers for herself thus becoming the devil. It was always people's reactions to Homura doing this and the way they based her entire character around this specific moment that really rubbed me the wrong way. Saying she's a selfish monster who's trapping Madoka in a fake world for her own personal gain or that she's taking Madoka's agency away from her and making decisions for her that directly rebel against what Madoka wants... And, to that, I just want to know.... do literally any of you know what Madoka actually wants or are you just basing her character around her sacrifice?

Yes, it was for the benefit of all Magical Girls and yes it freed them from their cycle of selling their souls in the name of hope just to die at the hands of their own grief and despair, but Madoka didn't plan to abruptly cease to exist at the cost of it?? She didn't want to be stuck between life and death only existing as a deity meant to eradicate Witches for all of time. Madoka wished to erase Witches before they are born from the past, present, and future. Going back years upon years in time, destroying Witches and mercy killing Magical Girls; fighting forever, past and future, for all time. Ceasing to exist as an individual, only able to materialize and interact with someone when they're dying of grief and sadness and pain; relieving them of that pain so that their last moments won't be in agony, so they can die in peace, but there's none of that for Madoka. There's no death, no closure, no release, no freedom from this hell of being a weapon and nothing more.

But, Madoka would never voice these struggles and frustrations. Because Madoka isn't that kind of girl. She's the kind of girl who shoves all of her problems down and bases all of her self worth on how much she can do for others, how happy she can make others, and how useful she can be. She forces a smile and masks her pain because she doesn't want to burden anyone with her problems. She puts herself down constantly, risking her life trying to help others because she cares so little for herself. Without being useful, she believes her life has no value. And Homura knows this. Because Homura knows her. I feel like most people take Madoka's bright pink colors and smile at face value and don't realize she's chronically depressed. That's why in the first timeline, she and Homura naturally got along so well: they were both girls who hated themselves and based their self worth on how they made others around them feel, both self-loathing girls who deem themselves worthless if they're not useful in some way. Madoka was just better at hiding it than Homura was. And she still is by the 100th loop.

But, in Rebellion, when her memories of being a god are taken away from her, and she's given a hypothetical scenario of her fate, she says "wow that sounds awful and scary and lonely and I would never do something like that." The Flower Field scene is one of the most brilliant and misunderstood scenes in all of anime. Majority still to this day argue that, since Madoka doesn't have her memories, her words hold little to no weight, and Homura is simply hearing what she wants to hear. So, naturally, they disregard what Madoka is saying, assuming it's just Homura being selfish. And that's where they mess up. Because, the fact that Madoka doesn't have her memories here is the whole point! Homura is already well-aware that if Madoka had her memories, her self loathing would result in her caring so little for herself that she sacrifices herself every time which is why immediately after Madoka's words, she assures Madoka that she is indeed "strong enough to make that decision." Homura just wanted to confirm if Madoka would still miss her life pre-godhood in spite of that, which she outright says she does.

There are also arguments that Homura was somehow influencing Madoka in the labyrinth aside from just not remembering becoming a god, but Shinbou already stated in an interview that this wasn't the case, and that these were Madoka's honest words. In fact, Madoka's true feelings regarding her godhood are revealed for the first time within the lyrics of Madoka's character song (sung by her VA Aoi Yuuki) that played as the ep 1-2 ED titled “Mata Ashita”. The song is about Madoka post-series which consists of Madoka wandering around aimlessly, quietly observing as humanity resumes without her, lamenting on the life she lost after becoming a god and wishing she could have been more honest about her feelings to Homura in ep 12, asking her to realize she's lonely.

[I'm pretending that I'm used to being alone, but I'm not really that strong.

The scenery is the same as always, the city is the same as always.

Even though I think everything will stay unchanged.

I still feel like I'm the only one who's tiny. Instead of "See you later."

I should've said, "I'll stay for a little longer."

I wanted and hoped that you would realize it.

But with the words "See you later,"

I lie to myself again.

And hide my true feelings beneath my usual smile. Saying, "See you later," I wave my hand.

Cracking a smile, yet I'm feeling lonely.

The truth is, I still have more to talk about.

But even my voice saying, "See you later"

is so near yet far from you that it can't reach you.

So let me say this like I always do, just once more: "See you tomorrow"]

This is definitive proof that even BEFORE Rebellion, this was already confirmed to be Madoka's true feelings.

The second time Madoka's true feelings post-godhood are adressed is via Madoka and Homura's concept movie quotes explaining that the God (Madoka) is clearly suffering in her “heaven”, which is more like a prison of isolation. The lizard girl (Homura) takes pity on her and separates her humanity from her godhood, thus making her human once more. Here are also some direct quotes from Magia Record which provides even more context for what Madokami is experiencing:

All of this, with the addition of Madoka's words in the Flower Field scene being confirmed to be her real and honest feelings, puts the whole “pulling madokami down from heaven” scene into a different perspective. Considering the entire reason why Madoka even became powerful enough to become God in the first place was because Homura's 100+ time loops linked multiple parallel universes together with Madoka at their center, and it's confirmed Madoka was suffering as a god, I would think people would be happy to see Homura reverting Madoka back to a human being and rewriting the entire universe to be a world where Madoka is happy and free, surrounded by her friends and family???

The fact that Homura's love for Madoka was so strong throughout 12 years of 100+ time loops, it turned Madoka into a goddess but when Homura was able to see just how isolating and lonely godhood was for her, she took her godlike powers for herself because she loved her and was willing to take on the exhaustion and isolation of immortality as the devil to spare her of anymore pain and sadness. Homura freed Madoka from a nonexistential purgatory prison and a decade later she's still demonized for it, how insane is that??

[eat-limes-bitches]

I Will Always Come When You Call

PAIRING: Female Reader x FATWS Bucky Barnes

SUMMARY:  When reader accidentally calls Bucky, he comes running to find out what’s wrong.

WARNINGS: ANGST, mentions of depression, fluff

Word Count: 1168

A/N: I disappeared from posting because, well, I had no will to write, I was in a rut. This is purely self soothing at this point because this is what I need right now. I promise that I have updates for the series soon, I just needed this first. 

Enjoy!! <3

Dividers by Rookthorne

It was the same feeling, day in, day out, the constant numbing sadness for a loss that never happened. The monsters that emerged from the deepest parts of her mind and wrapped her consciousness in toxic thoughts. People always said the same things, “Get some air, it won’t do you any good being cooped up.” “Take a break, you’re just burnt out from working too hard.” That was her problem, she wasn’t working. She couldn’t. It's hard to do anything when you barely have the will to get out of bed, let alone work. She stared at the glowing numbers from the clock on her nightstand, indicating she was, once again, still awake at an unreasonable hour. She glanced at the dark screen of her phone that was resting on the bed next to her. Why was it there again? Oh, right. She was gonna call him. The corner of her lips twitched upwards at the thought. Bucky had always been there, they had been there for each other. After everything that they went through together, with Thanos, the Flag Smashers, his amends, they were together through it all and now that everything had calmed down, she was struggling to stay afloat. Unlocking her phone, her thumb hovered over the call button. What was she gonna say? “Hey Buck, I know it's 2:30 in the morning and nothing is wrong but I need you.” She shook her head. It was stupid, if either of them were to call the other at this time it should be him. She had no reason and no explanation as to why she was feeling this way. 

Letting out a groan she leaned back and thumped her head against the headboard closing her eyes as she sunk a little deeper into her mind. “Doll? Are you ok?” Her eyes snapped open and down to her phone. Shit, she accidentally hit the dial. “Y/N are you ok? You’re worrying me sweets.” She shook her head slightly, “Yeah, sorry Buck.” She quickly hung up, cutting off whatever it was that Bucky was about to say, and throwing her phone to the other side of the bed. She hated feeling like this, this hopelessness that seemed to seep in through every pore on her skin and settle deep within her bones, like how a chill sets in after getting caught in the pouring rain. She was so deep within her mind that she didn’t notice the man that entered her flat. She didn’t hear him calling out to her and asking her where she was. Eventually the door to her bedroom opened, causing her to snap out of her trance in alarm, only to relax again when she saw Bucky standing there with a worried look on his face. 

“God, there you are. You scared me to death, sweets.” He murmured as he crossed the room to sit next to her on the bed. She stared at him with a puzzled expression on her face, tracing her eyes across his features. His hair was messy, shoes missing, probably at the front door, dressed in a pair of sweats and a dark blue t-shirt that highlighted to worried look in his eyes. She continued to stare for a moment before she finally spoke, “You came..” Bucky blinked, confusion coloring his features as he replied, “Of course I did, you called.” She froze at his words, surprise seeping into her eyes as she looked at him, trying to decide if he was serious when he broke the silence, “What’s going on, darling?” She shook her head, looking away from him, “I- I honestly don’t know, and that’s the problem.” She melted as he placed an arm around her, pulled her into his side, a gentle sign for her to continue. “It’s just- god I’m not okay.” She leaned to rest her head against his shoulder as she struggled to find the words, “I.. I’m just not myself. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth, I can’t sleep at night, not because I’m not tired, no, I’m exhausted. It’s like I’m too tired to sleep. Everything is too much and not enough at the same time. I’m spiraling, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you why.” Once she finished, Bucky let out a sigh and pulled her further into his embrace, as if holding her would shield her mind from the toxic thoughts that tried to take her from him. “Doll, you should have told me sooner.” He scolded softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She shrugged, “I didn’t want to worry or bother you. You’ve come so far in your own healing that I didn’t want to drag you down with me.”

 Bucky shook his head, “Y/N, look at me.” He placed hid flesh hand under her chin to raise her gaze so that she was looking at him, “You mean the whole fucking world to me, do you know that?” She tried to look away as color flooded her cheeks but he wasn’t having it, “I think of you every day. You’re my first thought when I wake up and the last one before I try to go to sleep. I want to help you, and before you even start with the whole, ‘you don’t have to help me’ bullshit, I want to help you.” He paused, moving the hand under her chin to thread his fingers through her hair as he looked over her weary face. “You don’t have to do this all on your own, my love, let me help.” 

His words were a soft gentle caress against the opened wounds on her soul, something she didn’t realize she needed until she had a taste of it, and with the sugary sweet words filling the holes, the negative began to suffocate, trying desperately to escape but when entrapped in his honey coated words, they just died out. She nodded her head before she spoke, “Ok…ok.” “What do you need darling, not tomorrow, not in an hour, right now, what do you need?” Bucky asked. She traced the intricate lines on his vibranium hand that was situated around her middle before she spoke, “Can you just, hold me? Just for a little bit? I haven’t been able to sleep well for three day a-” Bucky cut her off by pulling her to lie down with him, tucking her head into his chest before reaching over and turning off the lamp on the nightstand. He wrapped his arms back around her and pressed kisses along her hairline until he reached her ear where he whispered, “Get some sleep sweets. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Wrapped up in Bucky’s warmth it wasn’t long before her eyes began to grow heavy, still she managed to move her head back to look over Bucky’s face as she whispered, “I still can’t believe you came.” Bucky leaned forward pressing his forehead against hers replying quietly, “I will always come when you call.”

[slayfics]

ive been thinking about a comfort story but instead of katsuki comforting the reader, she comforts him after a long day or struggling with something ❤️

You comfort Katsuki.

1k words

You prepared for an angry Katsuki to burst through the door any moment now. The new hero rankings had come out this afternoon and he had dropped rank, again.

It didn’t take much for you to imagine why. The week before the rankings Katsuki got rushed by reporters. Fresh out of a fight with a villain, adrenaline pumping, they spat out questions pushing for answers.

All the questions they knew would push The Great Lord Explosion Murder God Dynamite’s buttons.

“Dynamite, did you know it was the anniversary of the day you were attacked by the sludge villain?”

“Dynamite, how does it feel being behind Endeavor’s son in the hero charts?”

“Dynamite, can you make a statement about the damage you did to the city in your last fight?”

The list of draining questions went on, all captured on video, as Katsuki quickly lost his cool. Blurting out some colorful words for the reports to, not so politely fuck off.

You heard the keys in the latch and braced yourself for the sight of the angry blond. Yet, such a sight never came, instead, you met with a sight that was much more concerning.

Slumped shoulders, flat affect, vacant gaze. Katsuki sat on the couch silently working at taking off his boots. Not a word spoken to you. No sign of anger.

“Hey,” you greeted, testing the waters with him.

“Hey,” he mumbled without looking up as he tossed his boots aside. Head leaned back against the couch he closed his eyes.

"You want to talk about it?" you asked softly.

Katsuki inhaled sharply and shook his head no without opening his eyes. It was unusual to see him so defeated. Typical fiery ambition completely extinguished, lacking the energy to even be upset, he just sat.

You knew all too well how to extinguish the burning rage inside him, but this? This was new ground.

Your momentary paralysis gave Katsuki exactly what he needed. Space and quiet to just be. Slowly he opened up.

"You think it's because of how I responded to those damn reporters?" He asked.

"Possibly," you hummed. "You're human though Katsuki, all those pestering questions would have got under anyone's skin.

"Yeah but," he sighed before continuing. "You saw all the articles and viral edits. They didn't show the whole video, just the part of me losing my shit. A big majority of people think I blew up at some civilian reporters for no fucking reason," Katsuki huffed. "I don't give a damn about that though; people can think whatever the fuck they want... I'm I don't know," Katsuki paused and you gave him the air to finish processing his thought. "I'm fucking disappointed. All that damn therapy I went through- to still get so pissed at some dumb reporters, I should be way past that now. I'm still losing my temper like a goddamn child," he groaned, the displeasure in his voice weighing heavy.

"Katsuki," you cooed and moved closer to him bringing him into an embrace. Katsuki didn't fight you he welcomed your affection, finding solace from leaning into you. Head resting on your chest you combed your fingers through his hair. "Success isn't linear, and one mistake doesn't erase everything you've accomplished and worked for. It's a minor setback. It's tough but, it's nothing you can't come back on top of," you comforted him squeezing him with one arm and messaging his scalp with the other. Katsuki hummed into your chest taking in your words. You always knew what to say.

"I just fucking hate that I gave those reporters exactly what they wanted. They wanted me to blow up, gives them a good damn news story. Fucking vultures," he scowled.

"Mhm," you nodded. "You did, and you can't change that, but you can change how you're going to react moving forward because we know they aren't going to stop. Especially now that they've seen the effect they've had," you spoke problem-solving with him.

"Tch- yeah. I don't know what the fuck to do though. Walking away has been my go-to when I feel myself about to explode, but- in situations like that I'm rushed and cornered. Can't let out an explosion to fly away either because I'll hurt the fuckers. What's worse is I'm still workin' and trying to get back to the cops and agency to report what the fuck happened with the villain," he replied.

"Maybe you could say that... I'm working please move... or I'm working and cannot accept questions...," You suggested.

"Ha- I don't know about the please but... that's not such a bad idea... I'm goddamn working can't talk idiots," Katsuki huffed then relaxed more into your chest.

You giggled, "That does sound more authentic to Dynamite."

Katsuki nuzzled into your chest, his breaths becoming deeper, and the tension in his shoulders he had been carrying around all day finally easing up. "I shoulda called you right when I found out," he murmured.

"You know I'm always here whenever you're ready to talk... about anything," you answered. "I'm sorry I didn't call right away... sometimes I'm not sure when you need your space to process."

"You ain't got to apologize... I know my temperament isn't the easiest to read," he noted.

"I wouldn't have you any other way," you teased, pulling him up to press a kiss on his nose.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, "Cut that cheesy crap out," he complained the tips of his ears burning hot. "Besides, I still got dirt and shit all over me."

"I don't care," you remarked, giving him another kiss on his cheek.

Katsuki shifted in one swift motion pinning you down on the couch, "I said cut it out brat," he smirked, taking in the sight of you beneath him. "Why don't you come get cleaned up with me instead," he offered.

An offer you happily accepted.

sinners: @queenpiranhadon @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @fiannee @i-heart-carlisle @derangedmango @matchat3a @bakugouswaif @reneinii @zanarkandskylines @pastelbakugou @abadbitchblogs @deluluforcarlos55 @b134ch-m4h-ey3z @pinkpurpledreams @that-one-fangirl69

[zoropookie]

HOW HATERS ARE BORN (HHAB)

♡ chapter sixteen — doxxing is okay sometimes 💋

The entire drive back to your house, Scaramouche wondered why he was always put into compromising situations. It wasn't the late hour, or the otherwise deserted roads other than the usual few vehicles being dime a dozen.

No...it was that he was chauffeuring the only person he didn't want to be within a ten foot pole radius from. Softly, your laughter was still emitting from your lips as your head lolled back and forth.

His eyebrows knitted together in frustration, grip tightening on the steering wheel. He was annoyed, but knowing this was the quietest that he'll ever see you was more comforting than not being perceived.

Texts from his phone illuminating a section under his arm as his eyes kept flicking back and forth, he knew it was Ei bothering him again. Her poking and prodding the gnawing that he always felt being around her.

Pulling into your driveway, he brought his car in enough to quickly get you out. Tohma quickly headed into eye view to hurry towards the other side of the door. "Thank you so much. I don't know what I'd do if they weren't able to get home."

He sighed in response, turning off the engine. "Is that all?"

"Yeah...(Y/N)?" Tohma paused, his gaze lingered on you. "They're completely out."

"Keen observation." Scaramouche sarcastically quipped.

Tohma looked at the other before hesitantly rounding you up, careful not to jostle you as he helped your limp body out of the car. Your body soon enough became less languid, eyes slowly opening.

You mumbled something unintelligible in response, your words slurred. "Scaramouche," You made out, blinking blearily before you felt a certain rage overcome your body again. "Where is he?!"

Your steps were unsteady as you leaned against Tohma for leverage, but you were also thrashing to turn and find the person you were screaming at through Twitter earlier.

"(Y/N)...take it easy-!" His words were drowned out by your fervent rage, your gaze was wild as you scanned the surroundings, only to see the very person you were talking about.

"YOU." Your voice rose to a shout, staggering towards him. "Had some nerve coming to my house!" You shouted, tears welling in your eyes as your vision went in and out, "My friends hate me because of you! I will fucking see to it that you are destroyed by my very hands!" You screamed, causing Tohma to panic.

"I'm really sorry! Thank you...again-! (Y/N), please stop." Tohma struggled out. He felt like he was on the verge of a brain aneurysm any second now.

He lunged towards you to hold you back from attacking Scaramouche, but as soon as you did that, you were about to speak again. And then you regurgitated, your body convulsed until you were retching violently, doubling over.

"Oh my god," Tohma mouthed silently, his body frozen.

It was a sight to behold - Scaramouche's dark clothes were colored in a murky brown shade of vomit. But instead of what Tohma thought he was going to do, it was the complete opposite. He didn't recoil in horror, he didn't scream or curse, he simply just stood there, expression unreadable.

He was probably so pissed off that he forgot that he was initially having a horrible day.

"Okay! Okay!!" Tohma said in between two deep breaths, holding you in between his arms even tighter despite your struggling. "Scaramouche. Please let me help you clean up before you leave."

“No.” He replied with a sudden urgency that seethed through his teeth, flicking some of the chunks of sick off of his fingers. “Absolutely not. I’m going home.”

“I’m saying this with all due respect despite everything you’ve done. You can’t go home looking like that, I won’t let you.”

previous ♡ masterlist ♡ next

YOU ARE on your way to being one of the hottest streamer in your nation at the moment, racking a monthly average of 10 million viewers, but something specific bothers you about it. you know that a lot of people hate you, but there's this one account. one account that's been following you since the early days of your career. they leave a flood of rude comments in your stream, your moderators banned each account they made, but they keep making more. you are at the end of your tether. but you are yet to find out that this persistent cockroach is none other than your friend's friend (and the only other streamer that's bigger than you), scaramouche.

taglist ♡ @thystarsshine @veekoko @gumickajolli @simonisferal @kamiboo @justpeachyteastea @feiherp @pinkismyfavcolor @aether-darling @melpomenelurks @keiiqq @mine-lu @featuredtofu @danhenglovebot @k4zushi @kyon-cherri @1lellykins @iiinaurate @quacking-simp @auroratumbles @kookiibun @ulquiorraswife @pichulakkjkk @simplysm1le @h3xi2g0n3 @alatusorrow @scaranthropy @mellowberrie @magica-ren @vernith @kabukipookie @bananasquash @suqarlaced @dellalyra @lightyagamifan @yourfavoritefreakyhan @heartsforseo @yomishen @pwushizz @swivy123 @strxwberryfetish @ibyobi @ashfrommars4 @chemiru @ainnofinway @agaygothicmushroom @levianamor (bold users means i'm having trouble tagging you)

[miniversse]

⭑ “snowbound” pt. 2 ⭑

╰┈➤ OTHER PARTS

⭑ bang chan x female reader

⭑ content includes: drunk sex, established relationship, non-idol chan, non-idol reader, work relationship, mentions of (lip) bleeding, use of pet names (baby, babe, channie), releasing, oral (f receiving)

⭑ note: one of my shorter builds up but i advise you to read through it! i’m planning to make one final part to this series and move on. lmk want you think!

⭑ minors dni

⭑——————————————————⭑

you wiggle closer to him, smelling the soft smell of his shampoo overridden with his enticing cologne. your lips follow the scent, and end up landing on his warm neck. he raises his head, giving you more to work with. his hand was settled on your back, bringing you closer and closer till you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

your mouth seemed to be the star of the show now, but that might change with the amount of emotions passing through your body. chan seemed to be going through the same thing. one minute he’d be resting his hand on your ass, locking lips with you. and one minute he zones out, staring into the crackling fire. you’re confidence led you to a good place so far, so you’ll keep the show up.

“if we were to fuck now, it would be our first intimate act. how do you feel about this?” you smile, tucking strands of hair behind his ear and looking deep into his eyes trying to fish for feelings, emotions, love, hate, hesitation but his eyes never spoke as loud as his actions. chan has always been the colder one in your workplace. always keeping to himself and getting his work done with exceeding performance. he never attended work parties or any party, really. it seemed like his life was black and white, but you brought color to it.

“i feel like i need to fuck you now. god your making my body tense with all these looks you’ve been giving me. get up.”

you oblige, struggling to stand still with how dizzy you began to get. chan knocked you out of it and grabbed your hand to pull you into his bedroom. the door slams behind you and you too, get slammed onto the door. his right hand squeezed the back of your neck and his left hand rested just under your ass. his kisses intensified, biting your lower lip and sucking at it till it bled. he licks the blood of your lip and continues to penetrate your lips with his, tongue intertwining and licking the inside of your mouth. he slightly moves away to catch his breath, and his warm breath runs through your body.

“you feel better when your mine”

the hand supporting your neck slides down to your back and he pulls you into his body.

“say it, say your mine baby”

“i’m yours chan, a-all yours”

your clothes laid on the warm floor, and chan had his hands on your neck and back again, pushing your body backwards onto the bed while exchanging sloppy tongues and bites. his hands guarded both sides of your head as his lean body lingered over you. you both reeked of soju, but what mattered when he was with you.

his finger separate your thighs once he notices the tension you tried to create to ease the pain. his face reaches down to look at your exposed sex, wet and ready for him. he traces kisses from your knee, down and into your thighs, and dangerously close to your folds. your body couldn’t handle his warm breath tickling you every second, and your legs begin to close in once his fingers guide their way to your folds. he tutted repetitively and raised his eyes to look at your flushed face, stretching your thighs wide open again.

you moaned ungodly things to him as he curls his finger- or fingers- inside of you, aiming perfectly for your good spot every time. the sounds of your wetness sloshing around with his long, slender fingers had you gripping the sheets and rolling your head back to avoid suffocating him with your thighs. his tongue takes charge and moves up to your clit and your breath begins to pick up its pace. you couldn’t control your legs anymore.

“baby you’re gonna kill me, literally kill me if you keep closing in on me”

“s-sorry channie, keep going. please”

his arms go from under your thighs and wrap them from the top, keeping you in his control. his tongue taps your bud again and let’s a string of his spit fall onto it, spreading it around with the pad of his thumb. your alarms begin to go off as your orgasm flows to and fro, waiting to crash at any minute.

“fu-ck chan, ‘m gonna come”

“come baby, let me taste your sweet cunt”

and with the last curl of his fingers inside you, you felt your cum drop down and onto chans fingers. he pulls them out and brings his face back up to yours, admiring your pink, flushed face and messy hair.

he hooks his fingers on your bottom teeth and you close on them as he pulls them out, letting you suck them clean. he goes back down to gather more of your creamy release and glides his fingers on his tongue, swallowing with his eyes closed.

your hands move to chans thick cock, stroking him slowly while straddling his thighs. he lets his mouth open slightly, helping him regulate his breathing. your lower body moves closer as he grabs your ass and guides you to his cock. you didn’t hesitate and wanted to let him fill you up, and be satisfied. it would be your first intimate session.

you slowly fall onto his dick, pressing your hands hard on his chest and letting your head fall down. collective grunts join the sound of the distant fire coming to a single flame. you pick up your pace and let yourself feel every vein inside of you. he would let his swollen tip leave your core, and come back into you. his whimpering quickened your pace and his eyes would stare into yours while you moved up and down him. you move your face down to meet his and let your lips linger over his slightly gaped ones, letting out small grunts. your kisses were interrupted to your heads being shot back as you neared your releases. you grabbed onto your breasts to avoid falling unstable. chans hands rested on top of yours as he moaned shamelessly.

“fuck shit fuck. oh my god”

his dick jerked inside of you, and you feel his warm release coat your insides. not too long after you came too, letting it drip out of your penetrated pussy. you let your body loose, and you fall onto chans chest, arms spread out onto the mattress.

chan cleaned up as you remained in a state of being half asleep half conscious. before your body gave in, his arm wrapped around your stomach and he played with your hair, humming your favorite song to you…

⭑ TO BE CONTINUED

⭑ TAG LIST (PM ME TO BE INCLUDED!)

@captainchrisstan

[lidiasloca]

more than this (azriel x reader)

summary: after Azriel and reader had a summer together, the last thing Az was expecting was to face her again. (angst).

previous chapter

chapter six

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

You close the door behind you, and the sound of it reverberates across the loud silence.

You eye Azriel; he’s standing very still, looking at you expectantly, as if anticipating the first blow to be yours.

But after a while, he seems to understand you are expecting him to talk first.

“Elain - she told you something,” he says but it sounds like a question.

At that, you feel your jaw clench, your whole face tensing into trying so hard to not let tears fall. He sees that, or at least his shadows do; running near his ear, whispering things you cannot hear, nor wish to hear.

He takes a cautious step towards you. You instantly take a step back. “Y/n,” he breathes as if in pain. “Please, let me explain.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “You won’t dare deny it, will you?” you say, mustering raw sarcasm in your tone to disguise your hurt. “You won’t have come all this way to deny it.” Too soon you feel tears running down your cheek. “Right?”

You hate it, and you hate yourself for being so weak. But above it, you hate him.

Selfish, manipulative, hurtful, lying Azriel.

Someone you wish you hadn’t met.

Someone you wish had only stayed as a summer memory.

Nonetheless, you find yourself waiting for his answer like a fool. Hoping you’re wrong, very wrong. 

But you are not; you’re sure of that when he avoids your eyes, when he clenches his fists.

“Well, it’s pretty secret, -you know Azriel-, but we… sort of have something.”

“For how long?”

 “Somewhere in May.”

You try to stop a sob, putting your hand over your mouth swiftly. Closing your eyes tightly, not bearing the sight of him.

“Y/n,” you hear him whisper even though your ears are ringing, blurring the exterior sounds. 

Then you feel his hands on your shoulders, and it brings you back to here, to now, to him. 

You open your teary eyes, meeting with his, noticing the lack of life in them. Nothing similar to their hazel color during the summer.

“Y/n.”

Another sob passes your lips. “You lied. To me, to her - Azriel, you lied.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says sounding desperate.

“Why did you have to lie? I tru - I trusted you. She trusted you!” You try to talk, to let him know how much you hate him, but the pressure in your throat is making it quite impossible. And you know the tears all over your face make you look pathetic. “She was telling me how you taught her training stuff. Gods. She told me about you as I was looking her - looking her dead in the eye knowing damn well what I had done. What you had done!”

“I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

“Stop saying that! You are not sorry at all; you don’t care at all. Not for me. I always was just a side ting. A toy. Never - never anything more to you. You have never cared.”

He moves his hand to your wet checks. “That’s not true. Y/n. That’s not true, I swear.”

I swear.

“You want me to believe you now? Really, Azriel?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” he replies, his eyes pleading. But you don’t buy it, not anymore. Especially not when his scarred fingers caress your face, coaxing you to calmness. “Stop lying! You were with her, you are still with her! You li-”

“I’m not with her anymore, Y/n,” he cuts you off. “And I’ve always cared for you. Always. So much that when I first met you - this past summer - I couldn’t stop myself.” You watch him struggle with words, trying to not duck his head at your glaring. “I had to know you. I had to. And after that night, I couldn’t keep myself away from you. I wanted to be with you all the time. And I knew if I only had that summer away, only that summer to be with you, I had to take the opportunity. And I selfishly did.”

You watch him incredulously, taking the words in.

“I’m so sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, Y/n, I swear. But when you came to the House of Wind - when I saw you again. Gods, I didn’t know what to do. I was so mad at myself - at the imminent consequences of my acts. And I - I hold that anger against you. And I’m so sorry; for that and for - for lying to you. I will be eternally sorry.”

It disgusts you; every single word he’s saying, the way he’s eyes scan your face, and especially, the way his hands cup your face. These same hands that weren’t meant to have touched you in the first place. It utterly disgusts you.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper angrily. His touch falters but doesn’t back up. “Don’t touch me with those han-” The shout dies in your throat at the instant realization of your words.

But it’s too late.

He removes his scarred hands and hides them behind his back. And though it’s not what you had meant; never had you been anything but adoring of every part of him, especially his hands. So his. Hands that held a story of him he had told you with trust and comfort. You cannot help but feel glad you are hurting him back.

Maybe you’re just as depraved as him. 

“Don’t hate me, Y/n. Please.”

He deserves it, you make yourself think.

You dry your tears with your sleeves quickly and make yourself say, ignoring his previous words, “You’ve already explained yourself; now, go.”

He moves again closer to you. “Please don’t-”

“Go, Azriel! Just go,” you cut him.

“Ple-”

“Azriel, get out. Or I will make Helion drag you out of the court.”

“I have more to say,” he mutters, his voice suddenly dangerous. You know the mention of Helion is the reason. 

“I do not care.”

His eyes close but he doesn’t accept defeat. Not at all. “Gods - what do you want me to say?!” Your mouth parts in surprise at the angry tone he uses. He has no right - absolutely no right - to be mad. “What the hell do I have to say exactly for you to forgive me?!”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice, Azriel. I said go!”

“No.” He replies. “Don’t push me away.” He takes your wrist softly, but you try to pull away, failing as he catches it again, this time more restraining. “Y/n, you don’t understand, I-”

Then silence.

“You what?”

“I still cannot bear not being near you. Y/n, I’ve tried, but since that day, at the House of Wind, where I got to be close to you again, alone in that room, something - I felt… alive, lighter. And I had missed you so much, I realized. I don’t want to miss you anymore.”

As more tears threaten to fall, you consider backing off yourself. Leaving the room before you humiliate yourself. 

This, this was all you had ever wanted to hear. 

But not now, not anymore.

“Get out,” you breathe, staring at his eyes.

He is too close.

“You don’t want to listen. You don’t want to hear the truth,” he says slowly as if he didn’t want the words to actually get out.

“You know nothing about truth.” You reply, still feeling his scarred hand on your wrist. 

Azriel sighs as if in exhaustion. “What I did was so wrong; I know, and I will never forgive myself for hurting you that way. But, please, Y/n, you know me, I’ve told you everything, you know my heart; let’s not - please don’t waste this that we have.”

He had sure as hell not told you everything.

You glare at him. “We have nothing, Azriel. You said it yourself; ‘only one summer, then, nothing’.”

“I was so wron-.”

“It was your rule,” you interrupt him.

“It was!” He shouts, which makes you take a step backward, having him follow you immediately, towering over you as his hands still hold yours. You feel trapped. “It was a stupid rule I made for myself, 'cause no matter how much I wanted you, it was Elain who was supposed my mate! The third sister - It was supposed to be her.” His eyes then open in shock. “It was supposed to…”

Your breathing stops as you feel your heart break.

Wholly break.

He never deemed it possible for you to be his mate next to the Archeron sister.

But sadness doesn’t have a chance next to the bizarre feeling within your soul. It snaps you back to reality.

Azriel… 

Your mate.

“Y/n,” he breathes

“Get out,” you whisper for the hundredth time.

“No, Y/n, please; don’t do this.”

“Get out, please,” you plead, trying to get rid of his hold on your wrist, but it only makes him hold you tighter, walk even closer to you, till you have to tilt your head at a hurtful angle. 

“Don’t you feel it as well?” he asks.

Your mate.

“Get out.”

“Gods - Y/n, do not do this,” he cries, his face holding more emotion than it ever had. “Don’t ignore this. Don’t turn from us.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “There is no us. No matter what we are - no matter whatever, you made your choices. Choices that’ll condition everything. Choices that make us nothing.”

You watch tears cascading down his cheeks as he moves his other hand to hold you as well.

“Let go, Azriel, you’re hurting me,” you mumble.

But he doesn't seem to hear your words, as if in a trance. “I- please.” More tears start to fall from his pained eyes.

“I will call Helion in, Azriel; get out.”

“Don’t do this. Gods - Y/n, we are mates! How can-”

“Let me go, you’re hurti-”

“- you shove me away?” he continues over your protests. “I understand you are mad at me. But please just take your time to think. Don’t - don’t decide now. Please, Y/n. Just don’t turn from us.”

“No, Azriel!” He finally pays you attention, now that you are truly shouting. “I don’t want anything to do with you; a hurtful liar who hurts me just because he can. Who makes his choices abusing his power over others. I don’t want anything with you. I never will with a male like you.” 

He holds your gaze, his touch faltering yet still too tight. More tears fall every time he blinks. 

So you decide you have to do it; you have to make the last blow.

You have to ensure he hates you as much as you want to hate him.

So you spare a last glance at his hands on your wrists and then look up to him. “Maybe you’re just like your father, after all.”

And the aftermath it’s just blurry and vague; a memory you’d be better off forgetting. How more tears rolled down his shocked face. How his eyes lost all life in them. How he immediately moved his hands away from you as if your skin burned him. How he lingered in front of you for some seconds before he had it in himself to turn to the door.

How he left.

-Characters by Sarah J. Maas

HEY! IF YOU LIKED THIS, YOU CAN CHECK OUT MY AZRIEL MASTERLIST HERE <3

well, the best defense is a good offense, ig. i literally have been listening to "if i were a boy" on repeat as I wrote this lol. oh, and i did told you i was inspired by august by taylor swift - so.

tag list:

@kalulakunundrum @bubybubsters @goradgirl @kennedy-brooke @going-through-shit @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @linoisqt @minakay @nastynesta @lockedinmytower @stargirl1714 @justagingerliving @marvelpotter @mommyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @mis-lil-red@whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog @e-dollly @emptyporsche

[charmandabear]

Office Hours - Chapter Two

Summary:

You really want to get Astarion back for making you feel so flustered, but as a result you find yourself in a bit of an uncomfortable position.

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 3.7k Tags/Warnings: unprotected p in v sex, under-the-desk blowjobs, semi-public sex, vampire bites, modern au, college/university au, urban fantasy, enemies to lovers, poor gale doesn't deserve this

Oh shit she's writing? I had like six other things planned but I can't keep away from this world. Once again thank you @zipzoomzaria for the beautiful screenshots and also the inspo for Professor Astarion, and @aw11tht33tha for the beta!

You don't need to have read part 1 for this part to make sense, but it does help.

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

Ever since you slept with Astarion - or, perhaps more accurately, he fucked you mercilessly over his desk - you haven't been able to get him out of your head. It's been a little embarrassing, frankly. Every time you pass him in the hallway, a single glance over those round wire frames has you suppressing the moan that bubbles in your throat. One whiff of his fragrance and your pussy clenches in a Pavlovian response.

You're standing in front of your mailbox in the main office, reading some memo from the chair about season selection for next year. It's always a tedious process where no one can agree and you somehow all end up with shows you hate.

You smell him before you hear him, and you can feel your ears grow hot. He comes up behind you, standing closer than is probably necessary, and reaches above you to empty his own mailbox.

“Pardon,” he says politely, but you feel like he’s going out of his way to brush against you. A shiver runs down your spine as he very gently grazes the back of your neck while shuffling through the papers. 

He turns and starts chatting amicably with Grace. How can he stay so cool when you're practically in shambles? You pretend that you're still reading the short memo just to collect yourself. When he finally leaves the main office, you manage to turn around and imitate some semblance of a normal person. Grace catches your eye and frowns.

“Are you feeling okay? You're looking a little flushed,” she asks, genuine concern coloring her voice. You twist your face into a smile, hoping that it reads like gratitude rather than annoyance.

“Yeah, I'm fine, thank you. Probably just a little dehydrated,” you say, putting a little extra rasp in your voice to sell your story.

“I’m about to leave for lunch, I can grab you something from the student union, if you're thirsty.” She smiles sweetly, fully unaware of the double entendre.

“I'm good, I have some water back in my office. I appreciate the offer, though.” The smile is now plastered to your face as you move to leave the office. You bump into Karlach while trying to make a hasty exit.

“Gods, soldier, you okay? You look like you just got out of a sauna.” She claps you on the shoulder and your knees buckle. The technical director had spent 10 years in the army, so you can't really fault her for the nickname, or the smack to the shoulder, for that matter.

“Just a little thirsty, is all,” you reply, continuing to scoot your way out of the office. 

“Yeah ya are!” She points two finger guns at you and flashes a big suggestive smile. You freeze for a half second, then realize she’s making a generic lewd joke and not pointedly calling you out for your current condition. You awkwardly finger gun back as you finally slip through the doorway and book it to your office.

You sit down at your desk and grab your water bottle, taking a long sip. It's unbelievable how much of a hold he has on you. What you wouldn't give to be able to fluster him as much as he does you. Have him struggle for words. Make him look like an idiot in front of your colleagues.

You think back to your bathtub fantasy from a few days ago. You could not have predicted the dynamic more incorrectly. You really thought that you'd be the one in control, that you could have him coming undone for you. The image of him whimpering beneath you still sets your heart racing, though it can't be further from the truth. Your breath hitches slightly as the scenario plays out vividly in your mind, like your own personal erotica.

“It must be rather exciting, whatever's got your blood going that way.” His sultry voice interrupts your debaucherous thoughts and you yelp in surprise. You glare at him leaning in the doorframe, hands in his pockets and collar casually unbuttoned, looking like an absolute treat. He chuckles and saunters into your office, settling into one of the chairs across from your desk and crossing his lithe legs. Despite your newfound attraction, he's still an arrogant little shit.

“I thought you couldn't come in uninvited,” you scowl, keeping your voice low for fear of someone overhearing.

“I don't recall being invited last time, but you didn't seem to mind,” he says with a laugh, and you squirm under his piercing red gaze. “Regardless, the rule only applies to homes, not individual rooms within a public university.”

Your frown deepens, unsure if he's being condescending or not.

“Is there something I can help you with, or are you just here to frustrate me?” You lean back in your chair and cross your arms, trying to imitate his casual authority. You're not terribly successful.

“You seem to be doing that perfectly well yourself, the way I could hear your arteries pumping from down the hall.” His smile widens, flashing just a hint of fang, and your resolve weakens. He stands and stretches his arms above his head, his shirt raising just enough for you to see a sliver of porcelain skin. You’re positive he’s just doing this to annoy you.

“Well, when you have a free moment, stop by my office, I have something to show you,” he drawls, an almost bored lilt coloring his tone. “And do try to keep that pulse of yours under control, it’s distracting to the point of vulgarity.” He glances at you over his glasses one more time before retreating into the hall again.

You cross your legs, trying to ease the ache between your thighs. He's absolutely insufferable. And he’s so much worse now that he knows he has this power over you.

You gather your materials for Voice and Speech, plotting ways to enact your revenge.

***

Against your better judgment, you find yourself walking toward Ancunín’s office after class. You take a moment before knocking on the door, smoothing down the front of your dress and tousling your hair to give it a little more volume.

Suddenly the door opens and Mol comes barrelling out in a huff.

“D’you believe this berk? Gettin’ on my tail for ‘academic integrity.’ Ain't nobody more integrous than me!” she grumbles, adjusting her bag angrily. She turns her heated gaze to you.

“Can you talk to your boyfriend and tell him to leave me alone?” she spits and you splutter involuntarily.

“Mol, we’re not–”

“Come off it, miss. Everyone sees the way you look at ‘im. Just work your magic so I can get back to gettin’ a college education.” And without another word, she's off. You blink, trying to make sense of what just happened. Are the students talking about the two of you?

Shaking your head, you knock on the door frame as you walk into his office. It's just as cozy as last time, warm light emanating from lamps in every corner to compensate for the blackout curtains over the windows. Honestly, how does anyone not know he's a vampire? You can almost hear his excuse, something about how “direct sunlight is ruinous to one’s skin.”

“Destroying students' lives by keeping them academically honest?” you smirk as you gently close the door behind you with your foot. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I swear, that girl is too clever for her own good. I'd almost respect it if she didn't get on my last nerve,” he sighs, putting his glasses back on and glancing up at you. His expression softens for a second before quickly shifting to mischievous. You slide over to him, leaning against the edge of his desk as you face him.

Any animosity you may have held dissolves as he looks up at you, his hand absentmindedly stroking your thigh just under the hem of your skirt. You shiver as you try to keep your voice steady.

“You said you had something to show me, professor?” You emphasize the title with the gusto of a young porn star. He smirks and pulls you down until you're straddling his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck and grind your hips into him, feeling the beginnings of an erection. He lets out a little puff of air that can almost be mistaken for a moan. He buries his face into your tits, running his nose along the neckline of your dress and slides his hands under your skirt to cup your ass. You breathe in sharply, your breasts rising to meet his lips.

Then a knock at the door.

You both freeze and stare at one another. You hear a muffled voice on the other side.

“Dr. Ancunín, do you have a minute? I have something extremely important to tell you,” Dr. Dekarios from the School of the Weave shouts through the door.

Astarion instinctually replies, “Just a minute!” and the two of you share a wordless exchange.

-What the fuck are you doing?

-I don't know, I panicked!

-What am I supposed to do?

-Hide, perhaps?

Without thinking you slide off his lap and under the desk. Just in time, too, as Dr. Dekarios doesn't wait for Astarion’s permission to open the door and waltz right in.

“Dr. Ancunín, thank goodness, I hope I'm not interrupting anything.” You can hear the Arcana History professor rush in and eagerly sit down in the red velvet lounge chairs across from Astarion’s desk. You groan internally as you realize that you might be stuck here for an unbearably long time.

“Actually, Dr. Dekarios, I was on my way out,” Astarion says as he starts to stand before quickly reversing that decision. You realize with a smug sense of satisfaction that he’s still slightly aroused.

“Completely understand, I'll keep this brief, then. So, the other day, you and I spoke of the use of bardic magic and its position amongst playwrights in Renaissance England.”

“Yes, I recall,” Astarion responds through gritted teeth. He sinks back down in his chair,  resigned to sitting through this conversation.

“And how it was common practice at the time to use magic from the college of swords as decreed by Elizabeth? Ben Jonson, Marlowe, Beaumont and Fletcher, they all used college of swords magic.” Dr. Dekarios’ voice increases in pitch with his excitement. You suppress a sigh, preparing yourself for a long wait in this cramped space. It’s not particularly comfortable, especially with trying to keep out of the way of Astarion’s long legs.

Although…

You might not have to keep out of the way. Maybe if you just… brushed your hand along his leg…

Astarion coughs to hide the sudden intake of breath your touch causes. He crosses his legs and you smile knowing it's to give himself a little reprieve. A feeling you know all too well.

“Yes,” Astarion says, his voice frustratingly steady, “I recall your enthusiasm in telling me this.”

You're trying to read his response. Is he into this? Is this a game he wants to play? You test your luck again, dragging your fingers up his thigh more deliberately. His leg quivers and he shifts his posture as the Arcana professor continues.

“Well, I had a thought. Consider this: Shakespeare brought about a major shift in how we think of the Western theatrical canon as it pertains to bard magic, correct?”

You scooch forward and press your tits into his knees that are now pinched tightly together. You slide your hands up his inner thighs, prying them apart slightly. You lean into his legs further as your hands continue their journey upward, squeezing as they get to the top of his thigh.

He kicks suddenly, a soft thump into the back of the desk. Is he telling you to stop? You pull back and glance up at him, the top of the desk obscuring most of his face. He's stiffly nodding along to Dekarios’ rambling.

“And remind me, what other major storytelling convention did Shakespeare also shift during this time?” You honestly can't tell if he’s actually asking, or giving Astarion a mini exam in his own specialty.

You wait for a response from him. He lets his thighs fall open and gently nudges your hip with the side of his shoe. No, his foot.

This mother fucker is playing footsie with you?

Oh he is definitely into your little game.

You push his legs open again, this time sliding your hands all the way up to his cock, and you feel it twitch beneath the wool of his pants. You gently stroke him and his hips give a subtle twist into you.

“I'm not sure–” Astarion begins, but stops short when his voice cracks. You nuzzle his bulge,  running your lips across it as it hardens. You slip a hand under him and give his balls a gentle squeeze. You can hear his breath stutter, but it's unlikely Dekarios can as he quickly answers his own question.

“The humors, correct? My understanding of non-magic literature isn't fully up to snuff, but I am correct in remembering this, yes?”

You lick a fat stripe across the fabric and you hear a metallic click above your head, like his watch just made sudden contact with the surface of the desk. You can imagine the veins in his hands bulging as he clasps them together tightly.

“Hm, no, ah yes, you are correct. Most English Renaissance playwrights understood characters as a balance or imbalance of the four humors.” Astarion manages to keep his voice relatively even, and you know you need to up your game. You reach up to undo his belt buckle as quietly and efficiently as possible. Luckily, you’re able to hide the noise within Dekarios’ exclamation.

“Yes! That's exactly what I was thinking! So, hear me out. What if these two shifts were related? In moving away from college of swords magic, Shakespeare felt less constrained by the four humors. Or perhaps the other way around?”

You reach into his pants and free his cock, now fully hard, and tease your fingers along his shaft. His hips buck a little more forcefully, as though controlling his movement is growing more difficult. You grip his pelvis tightly, holding it in place, and relishing the fact that you have the control for once. You flick the tip of your tongue across his slit and his hips twitch again under your hands.

“Could be…” is all Astarion can manage to reply. Hopefully at this point Dekarios is in a full-on oration and he won't need to contribute much, if at all.

You pop the head of his cock into your mouth, working the underside of it with your tongue. You clamp your arms down on his thighs, pulling them closer to you and pushing them into your tits. Your inner thighs grow damp as your own arousal quickens. You squirm as a miniscule moan works its way into your mouth. Not loud enough for anyone to hear, you hope, but you're certain that Astarion can feel the vibration because his hips jerk again. His torso and face above, or at least what you can see of it, gives little away.

“And this could even,” Dekarios continues, showing no sign of awareness of anything else happening in the room, “signal the shift into realism, could it not? Beginning with Shakespeare and culminating with Chekhov and Ibsen in the nineteenth century?”

You take in more of him, relaxing your tongue and letting him fill your mouth, discovering his taste. He almost lifts off his chair in his attempt to thrust into you, and you use it as a way to take him in deeper. Your jaw is beginning to ache with how slow you're going, but it's worth it to feel Astarion’s frustrated discomfort.

You can hear him take a slow breath before speaking again.

“You know who would absolutely love this discovery of yours?” His voice is low, smooth, as you bob your mouth on his cock. “Tav, the classical theatre professor. Her office is right down the hall.”

You choke and he deftly covers the sound of your gag with a cough.

“Bless you,” Dekarios says after a fraction of hesitation. He continues as though there was no interruption at all.

“Then I shall share my findings with her! Down the hall, you say?”

“Room 208.”

“Excellent!” Dekarios stands and you wrap your hand around the base of Astarion's shaft, letting some saliva dribble out of your mouth to lubricate it. You can hear the wizard quickly make his way out the door.

“Gale!” Astarion yelps as you twist your hand and swirl your tongue in tandem. He clears his throat and corrects his decorum. “Dr. Dekarios, the door, please.”

“Oh, of course! Apologies,” he says with slight chagrin, and then you hear the latch on the door click. Astarion rolls his chair back and grabs your hair, pulling you out from under the desk.

“You saucy little minx,” he growls and you stumble forward and into his lap, your lips crashing into his. He easily tears through your leggings and underwear, exposing your dripping cunt to the open air.

This man is wracking up quite the clothing bill.

He slides two fingers into you, roughly stretching you out and you groan into his ear. 

“You didn't seem to mind,” you manage to squeak out, repeating his words from earlier with significantly less dignity. You grind onto his fingers with his cock trapped between you, and your clit slides against his shaft. Another shuddering breath rockets through you as your whole body clenches around him.

He yanks his hand out of you and you whimper at the sudden emptiness, but you don't need to wait long for him to grab your waist and sink you down onto his cock. You can feel the skin toward your perineum tear slightly but the stinging pain is nothing compared to the delicious stretch that comes with him bottoming out. He shoves his fingers in your mouth and you arch your back into him, the taste of your own juices flooding your tongue.

He keeps his other hand firm on your lower back as he thrusts up into you. You cling onto his neck, pulling his mouth toward your breasts as they rise and fall with your stuttering breaths. He takes his hand away from your mouth and slides the hem of your dress all the way up to your chin. His lips latch on to your nipple poking through the soft cotton of your bra.

“Gods, fuck,” you groan as you continue to roll your hips into his, and he flicks his tongue against your tit. You push down even further onto him and pull the cup down, pushing your now bare breast into his teeth. His eyes flicker upward, glasses sliding down his nose slightly. You bounce harder on his cock and grip the back of his neck tightly.

“Fuck, please, bite me,” you whine, aching to feel every part of him in you. He doesn't need to be told twice and he sinks his fangs into the sensitive flesh around your nipple. You cry out but try to stifle the noise by pressing your open mouth into his hair. You can smell that citrusy fragrance he wears and your fingers claw into him.

He sucks your blood out from around your tit, and with every swallow he laps his tongue against you, over and over. You're certain his devil tongue will be your demise.

Your pace increases and it becomes harder to suppress your moans. You clamp your mouth shut and bury your face into his ear. He releases your breast and roughly kisses you to keep you quiet, the taste of iron filling your mouth.

You come with an explosive cry that gets swallowed into his kiss. As you're still riding the wave of your orgasm you can feel his, his hips rutting as his dick throbs with the pulse of his semen.

The two of you finally slow, the sticky mess between you squelching lewdly. You listen intently past the sound of your heavy breathing to try to hear any indication that someone overheard. When you deem it safe, you let out a sigh of relief that dissolves into giggles. He drops his forehead into your shoulder as the hem of your dress gets overtaken by gravity and slides down your front

You disentangle yourself from him, wincing slightly at the feeling of him sliding out of your sore pussy. You get a better look at him, your blood still smeared on his lips and chin, his now-flaccid dick slumped above his waistband. You're certain you can't look much better, dress rucked up around your waist, hair mussed and sticking every which way. 

You methodically put yourselves back together, Astarion stuffing his wet dick back into his pants, you straightening your dress and hair. You catch his gaze again and somehow he still manages to make you blush, his crimson eyes peering over his frames. He reaches out to tuck a wayward lock behind your ear.

“Maybe next time we’ll have sex in your office,” he chuckles. You swat his chest playfully only to find yourself drawn into him, not wanting to pull your hand away. It's strangely romantic, and if you were able to think clearly, his hands snaking around your waist might bother you. But your head is still spinning and your cunt is still throbbing with the aftershocks of your orgasm, and little could upset you right now.

That is, until the doorknob turns and Dekarios pops his head back in.

“Looks like she’s not–” His voice dies off quickly when he realizes what he's walked in on. He coughs, mumbles an incoherent apology, and backs out quickly.

“I swear to the gods I'm getting a scroll of arcane lock for that damn door,” he growls under his breath, and you lean your forehead against his chest in deflated embarrassment.

[kix-mm]

A once cruel god. G/t short story 1/??

Pt2

"Hey, where are you going? Don't leave! I was joking!" The god yelled as they watched the tiny human try to drag themselves in the opposite direction as fast as they could. Damn it, why did he have to do that?! Why did he have to ruin the moment?!

They quickly grabbed ahold of the human, trying to be ever so gentle and not harm them like they had done so carelessly before. They felt the human flinch and struggle, and their tears streamed down their cheeks endlessly while they repeat the same sentences over and over again.

"Please let me go, I've earned my freedom, I don't want to go back! Please, please, please!" They begged between sobs. It made the young God feel so uneasy now that he could understand the human language... this is what they had been saying all this time? He remembers laughing when hearing these silly little words, unaware of their meaning, and how cruel he used to play with the humans... this particular one somehow managed to survive. Despite the young gods' favoritism, he had made this little human life torture from a young age... the young God had fallen for this particular human, but it didn't mean that they had it any easier, they watched their own kind get crushed, tipped apart, eaten, and given false hope and promises... and on top of all that they had to pretend to be head over heals for the giant in order for their life to be safe, despite all the torture they endured...

The human was a frail figure, misting a lower arm and both their legs. These were the young gods' doings. There was no mistaking it...

"My flower..." the God spoke in a sad, soft voice, they watched the humans face drain of any color and their body begin so tremble uncontrollably, hearing that name again... that alone was enough to make the human have a panic attack. "No, no! No! Nonononono, you promised it was over! You promised I could go!" That was right. The young god didn't usually grace their "toys" with freedom when he got bored playing with them, but this human got a right to leave for exactly this reason... so that he could find them all these years later... and understand them... he had done so with several other humans, and all yielded the same results... horror, shock, begging, and even ending their own lives and those of their families in order to not have ANGYONE go through what they did...

"My flower.." he repeated again carefully. They wish they had bothered to learn the humans name before, and despite all that had happened he hated to admit how hid heart fluttered seeing this human again, even after all this torture, they were still so beautiful... the humans attempts to ruin their face had been for nothing, large gashes all over made them almost unrecognizable, yet they immediately began sobbing louder when they saw that distinctive pink hue on the gods cheeks. "I'm not your fucking flower!! I'm not! I'm not!!"

The harsh words made the God flinch. "Wait - wait, no- I, w-what do I call you? What is your name? I won't call you that ever again, please don't cry." they beg, that right, a God, begging a former human toy for something more comfortable to call them... that was almost impossible, only in a humans wildest dreams would they be treated like such...

The human went silent, expecting this to be some cruel trick for speaking so unfaithfully to an all mighty God... meanwhile, the young god sat in anticipation to hear anything that could resemble a name. Nothing, hours of silence went by without either saying anything at all, judt heavy breathing as a result of the humans panic attack.

The God eventually got tired of waiting and asked calmly again, "What is your name..?" To which the human flinched once more, was this a trick question? "F-flower, my lord..." they said with their head down. "No, I'm asking what your real name is, not the one I gave you..." the human kept their eyes glued to the palm of the gods hand. "I... I don't know my lord..." they lied, not wanting the God to tarnish their name by hearing them speak it. The young God frowned and tried to catch a glimpse of the humans eyes.

"You don't..? Do you even have a name?" The human never replied. "W-would you like a name?" He asks "I promise it'll be a nice one, then you won't be nameless anymore " they say with a hopeful smile.

The human feels sick to their stomach but nods slowly. "It would be an honor..." No, it wouldn't... it's a curse in disguise. If the human used the name the God gave him , then God would be able to locate him wherever he went... "What about Amber..? Do you like that name?". "It's a wonderful name, my lord..." they spoke while gritting their teeth. Amber was their name before they were reduced to a mere spoiled brats favorite toy. Now it feels like it's happening all over again, but the god is pretending to have sympathy... but the human knew what kind of a monster this god could be...

"Do you still remember my name?" The god asks softly. How could the human forget? They literally carved their name into the humans' skin. "V-Vic-" they got sick before they could properly pronounce his name, a sure-fire way to get yourself into a heap of trouble, "Amber" stared at the sick on the gods hand and quickly attempted to clean it with what little clothing thry had on thier body "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so ashamed, please forgive me-" they were cut off by them being carefully lifted into their other hand " the god looked concerned, "Are you okay? Don't be scared it's alright" they spoke in the most sincere voice, which only worried the human more, what would they be punished with?? What was he going to do with them??

[awearywritersworld]

Gojo Satoru x Reader summary: you and gojo have been more than friends for years, but when geto massacred all those civilians, it left him broken. years later, he finally realizes he needs to pick up the pieces. w/c: 2.1k warnings: smut, kinda angsty, but also fluffy, creampie, gojo being vulnerable, sex with feelings a/n: lovers to it's complicated to maybe we can fix things vibes, fem!reader, softdom!gojo, *NSFW under the cut* masterlist

A steady, slow percussion reaches Gojo’s ears as he stands outside your door late one evening. His hand rises to knock against the wood, though he wonders if you can even hear it over the music. Just as his knuckles are about to meet with the door once more, the melody grows quieter and he listens to your soft footsteps approach. When the door swings open, revealing you on the other side, the sight alone makes the ever-present burden on Gojo’s shoulders feel less crushing.

“What are you doing here?”

A dark shirt hangs loosely from his frame and your eyes trail down to his exposed collarbones before they dart back up to his face. He looks tired and worn, but so do you. 

“I just finished that mission, the special grade in Minato.” 

His words don’t necessarily answer your question, but you still move aside to let the man in. He notices the drink in your hand for the first time when you bring it to your lips and take a small sip.

Your relationship with Gojo is complicated, a fact that weighs heavily in your chest. It wasn't always this way. 

At first, it was simple. You’d never explicitly called yourself a couple, though your actions toward and feelings for one another were those of lovers. Your relationship was left undefined, sure, but never complicated. 

That was years ago, though--- before Geto massacred those civilians, before he tore his best friend's heart to pieces.

You alone had been there to see Gojo’s inevitable breakdown. You would never forget how his voice cracked as he cursed the cruel world and malevolent gods that presided over it. His hair had fallen over his eyes, but they were still shining brightly despite the tears that flooded them. 

Those memories, seared into your mind, make it hard to stay mad at him. Even though he disappears for days at a time and hides his feelings behind that cocky nonchalance... You remain by his side nonetheless.

As he steps past you and into the room, he squeezes your hip in greeting. The warm, dim lighting of the room brings him a small sense of ease, even as violent images from the mission wrack his mind. He moves toward your small kitchenette, making himself a drink to match your own. 

You watch as the amber-colored liquor pours over the ice and fills his cup, grimacing at the sight. You know he hates alcohol more than most things. “Minato was that bad, huh?"

He tilts his head back and lets the liquor run down his throat, trying and failing not to wince at the sensation. He wipes at his lips before nodding, “yes.” 

You sit down on the sofa and he grabs the bottle from the counter before joining you, sitting close enough that your thighs touch. He tops off both your drinks, then leans back, slings an arm around your shoulders, and relaxes into the cushions. You whisper your thanks. It's silent for a little while, save for the quiet music.

“I didn’t think saving people would be such a bloody endeavor," you begin. You're no stranger to the gory reality rattling around in his head at the moment. "Wanna talk about?"

He does and he doesn't spare you any of the details regarding his last 48 hours. Over the course of his recollection, you shift so that you're situated more snugly into his side, your fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt as you listen intently. He chokes up toward the end, struggling to recount the worst and final part.

You place your hand above his knee. "I'm sorry you couldn't save them, 'Ru. I know how impossible it is to endure, let alone talk about."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just presses his thigh into your touch. When he takes the last sip left in his glass, it doesn't sting as much now that he's reached the bottom.

“Well, I’ve got no secrets, baby.. Not with you, anyway. Just dirty shame.” 

Your features soften and you know the meaning behind his words doesn't pertain to cursed spirits alone.

"You should try to forgive yourself."

You look up at him to find that he's already peering down at you. He wants to tell you he can't ever possibly do that. There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't regret how he's treated you over the years.

"You're so pretty," he says instead.

You reach up to pull the blindfold from his eyes, which he lets you do without protest. The praise had made your stomach stir, but the intense look swimming in his irises increases it tenfold.

"So are you."

He leans over and places his empty cup on the table. The loss of contact almost makes you shiver, but it's only a moment before his warmth returns and he reaches up to caress your cheek.

He leans in, closing his eyes and brushing his nose against yours lovingly. When his lips find yours, they taste like whisky, but they're still impossibly sweet.

His movements are slow and deliberate, his hand creeping to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair in hopes of keeping you close. His other hand finds your waist, tugging you toward his lap.

You oblige, shifting to straddle him without breaking the kiss. Your hands rest on his chest, noting the way it rises and falls deeply beneath your palms. He pulls away ever so slightly.

"Tell me you're mine," he pleads desperately against your lips.

"Always have been, 'Ru," you answer honestly.

It makes his heart squeeze and he grabs your face with both hands, pulling it back so that he can really look at you.

"You're so sweet to me."

His tone takes you off guard and all you can do in response is press your lips against his once more. This time, however, it's more fervent--- sloppy, even--- as your hands grab at the other's clothing.

Quickly, you're both left only in your underwear and your now exposed skin is hot against his own. You can feel that he's hardened beneath you, so you press yourself against him and let out a small noise at the sensation.

He grabs your hips tightly and his cock begins to strain against his boxers. As you move, you can feel every ridge of it through the thin fabric.

"Off," you mutter, slipping a finger under his waistband and pulling at it.

He stands, easily supporting your combined weight, and lays you down on the couch. He clumsily slides the boxers down his thighs, his cock slapping against his stomach in the process. The sight of it has you rubbing your thighs together impatiently.

He kneels between your legs, pulling them apart, and pushes your panties to the side. A groan passes his lips in appreciation when he runs a finger up your slit, already slick for him.

He litters your thighs with kisses, moving along so slowly it makes your core begin to ache. By the time he reaches where you need him most, you're squirming under his hold.

His nose nudges your clit as he kisses you there and you exhale sharply.

"Satoru, please," you whine.

Unable to deny you, he hums and slips a finger inside, curling it up to hit that one spot he knows you like.

You clench around his finger, sending a shudder through both your bodies, and you mewl in a way that makes him realize how needy you are.

"N-No," you stammer, pushing his hand away despite the pleasure it was bringing you. A thin sheen of sweat has appeared on your forehead. "Need you inside."

Your plea makes his cock throb painfully and he wastes no time in positioning himself over top of you. He gently presses your thigh to your chest and enjoys one of his favorite views in the world. Lining himself up with your entrance, he rubs his head along your folds.

Leaning down to plant a kiss on your forehead, his lips linger there for a moment.

"Fuck, (y/n)," he murmurs in your ear just before pushing in.

A guttural moan escapes his throat when he first splits you open. Once he's filled you to the hilt, he stills, his fists clenching. He'll never tire of the way your warm, tight walls make him feel.

"I'm yours too, you know." He takes his first thrust and relishes in how your mouth falls open in response. "All yours."

Gojo picks up the pace and you grab at his back and bicep, leaving harsh red marks beneath your fingernails. You feel so full it's dizzying.

"Just like that," you encourage him.

He looks down to where you're connected. Everything about the moment is like a drug to him--- your pretty pussy clenching around him, your breathy moans in his ear, his skin flush against yours.

He reaches down to your clit, sliding it between his fingers and rubbing firm, steady circles there. His eyes shift to your face. "Look at me."

You listen obediently, your eyes growing hazy. His mirror your own, heavy-lidded with pleasure. He pushes your other thigh to your chest to match the first. "This feel good, baby?"

You nod up at him with parted lips and flushed cheeks. His mouth finds your neck, leaving a mix of messy kisses and bites from your shoulder up to your ear. "C'mon, cum for me. I know you're a good girl."

You whimper from the over stimulation and feel your core tighten, your thighs tensing. Your grip on his bicep strains and your eyes screw shut. He knows you're close.

"Tsk, tsk," he chides, "I said look at me, sweetheart."

"'M sorry," you cry softly as your eyes pop open.

He hums, a small smile on his face. His gaze is unyielding. Possessive, in a way.

There's a light feeling in the pit of your stomach. "Satoru-"

"I know, baby." His voice is honeyed, "go 'head."

At his words, you feel your climax roll through you, the powerful sensation reaching every single part of your body. Your legs tremble weakly and Gojo thinks the strangled sound you just made was delightful.

He's in heaven. Your pussy is pulsating around his cock and you're still holding his gaze, all fucked out and beautiful.

"You feel so fucking good," he growls.

His hips begin to snap against yours at an unforgiving pace, but his movements soon become irregular.

"Can I fill you up?" He's all but pleading with you.

"Please." He takes satisfaction in the fact that you sound just as desperate as he does.

His hand moves to grab your hip. His is grip painful but elicits a moan from you that pushes him over the edge.

Your name falls from his lips in the same way a sinner begs for heaven. His final strokes are sloppy, but he still nestles himself inside you as deeply as he can

Gojo lowers his face to yours and you kiss along his jawline, before leaving a love bite on his neck. You feel his cock twitch inside you one last time. He rests like that for a little while, but eventually finds the strength to push himself back up.

He's pleased when he takes in the harsh marks he's left on your skin, a reminder that you're his. You watch him intently and Gojo can't help himself--- he leans down to nip at the fragile skin of your collarbones just a little more.

Afterward, he shifts so that he's spooning you, even if the small couch offered little space. Burying his nose in your hair and closing his eyes, his arms tighten around you.

"I love you," he offers.

It's not like you'd never heard Gojo say that he loves you, it's just something you hear a lot less ever since Geto-

You try to shift your mind away from that, staying quiet for a moment. You feel your eyes sting and you will yourself to keep it together.

Turning toward him, he's softened enough that he falls out with the movement. His cum runs down the crease of your thigh and you're left feeling empty.

Propping yourself up, you lean down and press your lips to his forehead. Your eyes well up once more, but this time, you can't make the tears disappear.

"I love you," you finally whisper against his skin.

When you pull away, you know immediately that he's noticed your watery eyes. Loving him has been the hardest thing you've ever done.

He knows that.

Instead of saying anything (he was liable to ruin the moment were he to speak, he knows that too), he pulls you into his chest and strokes the back of your head soothingly.

There's that dirty shame.

But he'll try to forgive himself because it's what you asked. Because he has to fix things before he loses you, too.

[obaewankenobis]

born to die (pt 2) ; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair/reader (afab but pronouns not/rarely used, no use of y/n)

part one: found here

word count: 5.3k

summary: you and finnick both struggle with your feelings as the capitol's expectations aims to tear you apart.

warnings: typical hunger games warnings (violence, death, sex trafficking, etc). oral (f receiving), mentions of throwing up, sliiiight alcohol abuse, semi-public sex but not really, angst, but fluffy towards the end. the smut is very minimal in this one sorry guys </3 18+ only, minors dni!

How hard could it be, going back to hating someone? Apparently, it wasn’t as easy as flipping a switch like you’d originally thought. And apparently, it was even harder when you realized you never truly hated the person in the first place.

But that wouldn’t stop you from trying. No, you seemed to take every flutter of your heart and every catch of your breath as a challenge, furious your body was betraying you whenever you thought of him for too long.

It had been a week since you’d even seen a glimpse of Finnick, a week of remembering how gentle his lips felt against your neck, how perfectly they molded with your own. A week of being tortured by dreams of the firm grasp on your hips, of his fingers digging into your thighs and traveling up at a tantalizing pace. You’d dream of his mouth on the shell of your ear, his breath hot and warming your insides as your name escaped his lips in a beautiful melody reserved only for you.

And each morning you woke with a frustrated groan, your fingers splaying across the empty sheets beside you, reaching for him and feeling nothing. And each morning you would ignore the hurt rising in your throat upon the discovery of his absence, and redirect it into burning anger, until now, a week later, you were blazing with the fury of a thousand suns.

It was fine, I didn’t have time to sit in bed and worry about the likes of Finnick Odair. You tried (in vain) to convince yourself of this, having heard from somewhere you couldn’t remember that if you repeated something enough times with enough force, your brain would soon accept it as reality. Like reverse psychology, or whatever…

So far, that strategy wasn’t working, and you were growing desperate for release. You were so eager to get him off your mind you tried to act like it wasn’t the worst thing in the world when your services were requested by the son of some Capitol elite, because then you’d have someone else to channel your loathing into instead of Finnick, who didn’t quite deserve the anger he was currently being bombarded with in your mind.

It was some stupid Capitol party to celebrate 50 years of President Snow’s leadership. God, if you could choose something to celebrate, that would be below the very last thing on your list.

Immediately your skin began to crawl as you realized you were still the talk of the Capitol, having won your games so recently, and that you’d be put in another outfit so revealing, so you could be gawked at like a museum display.

Fuck this. If you had to be paraded around as a sex symbol for the Capitol, there was no way in hell you were doing it sober this time, escort or not.

You allowed your stylists to do what they pleased, yanking your hair and slicking it back so tightly you thought you’d be bald upon taking it out, sipping, or rather chugging, a bottle of expensive champagne you’d ordered just before they’d arrived.

Your face painted a pretty picture, the picture the Capitol wanted, coated with thick brushes of makeup to erase the tear stains permanently etched into your cheeks, lips brushed with a deep red color to cover up the dryness cracking them. Made completely out of pearls with heavier ropes placed strategically around your chest and hips, this dress was just as risque, if not more, than the one you’d worn last time.

While of course you hated how little the dress covered because it was gross and blatantly sexual, you hated even more how certain parts of your body were on display. The parts that made it obvious you had been reaping the benefits of the Capitol: your glossy hair, your radiant skin, the healthy amount of muscle and fat; they were all reminders that you were being pampered up here, enjoying Capitol delicacies, while the majority of Panem was on the brink of starvation.

Despite being from one of the wealthier Districts, you had noticed how the tributes from the other Districts were. How sallow their skin was, how their eyes appeared sunken into their skulls, how their bones were so brittle it took little effort to snap—

You downed another glass of champagne.

You hated it, you felt disgusting, but there was nothing you could say as a member of your prep team dotted tiny pearls in your hair to complete the outfit. It was all a facade, all something to squash your true feelings down and present you as somewhat of a robot, incapable of real human emotion.

That was the point, you realized. They didn’t view you as a person, they viewed you as a toy to be played with. At least the champagne seemed to be doing its job, you thought with a happy sigh as a numbing buzz overtook you, lowering your inhibitions. If only you could feel like this all the time, so relaxed and unguarded.

Your inability to sleep had only gotten worse in Finnick’s absence; he’d been there so soon after it’d all gone downhill that your mind had immediately gotten used to the feeling of having him beside you, comforting you. You’d take back every kiss, every bite, every moan you’d shared to have him back, dancing his fingers along your skin in soothing patterns.

“It’s time to go,” a girl from the prep team said quietly, yanking you out of your thoughts— what was her name? You were too tipsy to try and remember, so all you did was nod and follow her out the door. Some part of you, the emotional part that wouldn’t listen to the rest, wondered briefly if Finnick would be there as well.

The party was so much more fun this time. You were blushing at the flirtations thrown your way, giggling at every poorly made joke, and even trying to impersonate the distinct Capitol accent with your “date”. He was handsome, sure, but in a weird, i’m-from-the-capitol-so-i-have-pompoms-on-my-suit-and-wear-gold-lipstick kind of way, and you were certain had you stopped several glasses ago, you wouldn’t be finding his jokes half as funny. 

But the alternative was remembering at the end of the night, you’d be forced to go home and pretend it was Finnick’s hands roaming your body or pressing his lips against your own. You stumbled your way over to the table serving various kinds of alcohol, from fruity cocktails to straight liquor, and poured a generous amount into your already half-full cup. You were so focused on not spilling anything that you didn’t notice someone coming up behind you until two strong hands wrapped around your wrists, gently but firmly prying the bottle from your hand and setting your glass down on the table.

“Easy there, sweetheart. Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink tonight? I mean, I could see you stumbling around from across the room.”

Oh, fuck this, you would know that voice anywhere, though it had morphed into the seductive purr he put on whenever he was playing the role of the Capitol Darling. You whirled around and out of the cage of his arms, the backs of your thighs hitting the table behind you and letting out a yelp as your heels disagreed with the swiftness of your movements; You would’ve been on the ground had Finnick not steadied you with a hand curled around your waist. But you wouldn’t thank him for that. You wouldn’t admit how his innocent touch shot sparks through your body, and you certainly wouldn’t admit how gorgeous he looked.

Because fuck him for being dressed so much more modestly than you, and fuck him for looking so good in what his stylists had put him in — loose trousers and a simple white knit top with a deep vee stopping above his navel. The style of the shirt was something you would see around District 4, and his hair looked as if he’d just come from the ocean, with a salt kissed ruffle that messed with his waves and gave him a perfect disheveled look that would make you swoon, if you still cared about what he looked like.

Which you didn’t, because he’d made it perfectly clear the moment he’d left you last week that he didn’t care either.

He looked at you expectantly, raising an eyebrow and you realized you’d been caught staring, which only served to make you more furious. “You don’t need to babysit me,” you shrugged his hand off, “Just… leave me alone, Finnick.”

“I’m just looking out for you,” the amusement in his tone at your anger only made your blood boil.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you began, trying and failing to keep your voice from rising into a shrill whine, “I don’t want to see you! I want you to leave me alone and—”

“Can we talk?” He blurted out, his voice so timid it stopped you in your tracks. “You sound upset, and you’ve avoided me all week, after we...”

“Avoided you?” Your laugh was dry and humorless. “Are you serious? You left me, Finnick! I was doing you a favor!”

“By not talking to me? We finally— I finally think that maybe, maybe I wasn’t so crazy, that maybe you liked m—” His eyes widened and he realized he’d said too much, too loud, because people were starting to get irritated by the two of you blocking the liquor table. “Can you just come with me?” You stared back at him blankly, which only caused him to break out in a genuine grin. “Come on, don’t make me beg. Although if last time was any indication, I’m sure you’d like to see me on my—”

With a flustered shriek to cut him off, you grabbed his hand and tugged him into the most private space you could find, a small alcove in one of the many winding hallways of the mansion.

“Do you regret it?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth once he’s sure the two of you are alone. All playfulness has drained from his features, like the facade he’d been putting up can disappear now that he’s away from the prying eyes of the Capitol. You stared at him in disbelief, like what he’s said is crazy. He doesn’t give you the chance to respond before he continues. “Because I don’t. You needed me, and I…” He swallowed harshly, like what he was about to say next didn’t sit right in his throat, “I don’t want you to think that what we did changes anything.”

Despite knowing he meant well, those were precisely the words you didn’t want to hear. How could he not see how confusing it was? To say he didn’t regret it, but to also say it didn’t change anything, all in one sentence. 

“No, of course I don’t, that’s not…” I’ve dreamed of you far too often since I was fourteen, seemed like an inappropriate response, but you found yourself something entirely different. “Then why did you leave?”

You wanted to cringe at how small and pathetic you sounded asking such a question. Your gaze dropped to the floor, but it was too late, you couldn’t reach in the air and snatch the words back.

“You said you didn’t want it to mean anything. I was trying to make it easier for you.” He said that at the same time strong fingers grasped your chin, tender but with purpose, forcing you to meet his gaze. Just by looking at him straight on, you were frightened by the vulnerability you felt, like you’d been stripped raw of any protection you’d wrapped yourself in; no secrets could be kept now. And it didn’t help that you were so close you could count the individual eyelashes framing his eyes; the proximity made you quite flustered and incapable of forming coherent thoughts.

You were yet again consumed by neverending thoughts of Finnick Odair, thoughts that had been berating you all week in the back of your mind now coming to the forefront in full force.

How could you respond to that? It was you who’d asked for nothing more than a distraction, you who had made it clear sleeping together didn’t have to mean anything. But it wasn’t because you didn’t like him, oh no it was quite the opposite: you probably liked him a little too much to do anything casual with him. If you were to have Finnick more than once, you wanted all of him, not whatever bits and pieces he dangled in front of you. Because you didn’t know much, but you knew a few things.

One: You wanted to kiss him. Badly. 

Two: If you acted on that impulse, there was the chance you’d never get to tell him how you truly felt, and you’d be stuck in a painful purgatory of having parts of him but not all.

Finnick seemed to be warring his own internal battle as his eyes shot from your lips back up, and back down, and back up, until—

“Can we talk later?” You asked so suddenly, much to your own surprise as well as his. “I just… there’s not a lot of time here, and it’s not very private, and there are so many things I’d rather be doing…”

His gaze darkened at that, taking another step forward until your chest was flush against his, your back hitting the stone wall behind you. He dipped his head down to reply in a low voice that sent shivers up and down your spine, “Yeah? Care to tell me what you think is a better use of our time, sweetheart?”

“I’d rather show you.” This is a bad idea, the rational part of you screamed, and it was probably right. It was probably an awful, terrible, horrible, idea, but the moment his lips met yours, nothing else seemed to matter.

The way he kissed you needed to be studied, you thought. The way his nose nudged against yours and he quickly angled his head slightly more to the right until he fit just right against your profile. The way his hands immediately went to your waist, fingers finding their way under the many strings of pearls that dressed you, all so he could touch as much of you as possible. You were suddenly jealous of anyone who’d had the pleasure of being in your position before you, because how on Earth could the way you feel be shared by anyone? 

That thought only spurred on a newfound desire to make you different than everyone else, to make him feel the way you did, that no one else could even come close to the way he felt when he was with you.

His tongue glided along the seam of your lips, searching for permission as the two of you continued to trade kiss after bruising kiss. Each one shoved you further down a rabbit hole until you were certain there was no coming back from this, even if it went no further than kissing.

You broke away for a moment, not having the courage to look up, and moved your lips down to his neck, noticing with fleeting disappointment how the marks you’d made last week had faded from his skin.

His hands, which had remained innocently on your waist, were beginning to creep down to the (very short) hemline of your dress, fingers teasing their way past the heavy ropes of pearls that fell against your upper thigh. Your breath began to quicken at the reminder of what his fingers had done to you last time they were so close, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice the subtle clench of your thighs as his fingers continued their exploration.

Very unceremoniously he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you, and you immediately tried — in vain — to tug him back up to a standing position, your eyes darting wildly from one end of the long corridor to the other.

“Finnick, we can’t, there are people…”

“Do you trust me?” He asked suddenly. His pupils had been completely blown out, staring at you with such hunger you nodded your head immediately; whether you actually did or it was just your lust-addled brain you weren’t sure. “Then we’ll be fine. Just stay quiet for me, okay?”

“Okay—” you broke your promise as soon as his fingers tugged at the thin material of your panties, letting out a gasp when his mouth came in contact with what had been left uncovered.

The sensation of his hot breath on you left as quickly as it came, when Finnick quickly leaned back to fix you with a warning glance. “Shhh,” he reminded you before he returned to your core, throwing a leg over his shoulder and forcing you to brace yourself against the wall behind you to keep you upright. One hand shot to dig itself in the depths of his hair as he continued his ministrations with his tongue, the other clamping around your mouth and muffling the soft moans emitted from your lips.

Finnick seemed to be enjoying your struggle of keeping silent, each sound that passed too quietly from your lips only encouraging him to plunge his tongue further at a faster pace, his nose nudging your clit and only increasing your pleasure. 

It felt good because he knew what he was doing, sure, but it felt even better knowing it was his tongue licking you, his hands wandering around your legs, his body pressing you against the wall.

It made all the horrible fantasies that had haunted you this past week seem like nothing in comparison to the real thing, which was all you truly wanted. You just wanted him. Everywhere, all the time.

And not just in the position you two were in now, as euphoric as his tongue felt, flicking and sucking at your core. You wanted the other things too. You wanted to wake up in his arms, watching the sunlight spill in from the window and illuminate his tan skin and bronzy hair. You wanted to fall asleep curled into his side, knowing that while you were asleep, he would protect you.

Still worried someone would walk in on the two of you at any given moment, you tried not to allow yourself to look down at Finnick too much (or perhaps you were scared if you acknowledged it was Finnick pleasuring you, putting a face to all the emotions he was bringing to you, you would truly be a goner).

“You were driving me fucking crazy in this dress,” Your back automatically arched in search of his mouth as he removed it to speak, tugging at the strands of pearls doing a poor job of covering the curves of your body. “Fucking insane.”

“Finnick,” you breathed, almost crying out when he resumed his indulgence of you and added pressure to your clit with his thumb, the pressure coiled inside you rising to new heights. “You’re so good, so good—”

And just when everything was building, just when you were about to cry out to the sky, not caring if anyone saw, he stopped and quickly stood up.

“Hey—” you quickly realized this wasn’t a teasing pause, evident by the sound of your name echoing against the walls of the hallway.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his shirt, he fixed your underwear and shoved your dress back down all in one swift motion, just as your “date” turned the corner and walked — or rather stumbled — towards you. Oh, fuck.

With a wince, you took several steps away from Finnick, just in time for your lovely Capitol date to finally make his way to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close to him.

He was drunk, drunker than you had ever been (you were sure of that by how strongly he reeked of liquor), barely being able to stand even with leaning his full weight on you. “There you are, beautiful,” he slurred, his hand creeping from your shoulder downward. “Let’s get out of here.”

At least he (you didn’t remember his name) was so out of it he didn’t even seem to notice Finnick breathing heavily beside you, or the bulge in his pants that was poorly hidden by the dark color.

How could you go from feeling so euphoric to so repulsed, all in less than a minute? With a regretful glance in Finnick’s direction, you noticed how he stared right through you as if you weren’t even there. His jaw was clenched and his posture was rigid, but those were things only people who knew what he looked like relaxed would pick up on. To anyone passing by he looked unbothered, indifferent, as you were led away from him.

It was in the brief moment when his eye finally caught your own that the two of you hadn’t gotten to talking, and you had no idea where you stood with him. Would it be appropriate to just knock on his door the next day, or schedule a meeting through his Avox? Or was your interruption the universe’s way of telling you to stop pursuing it and leave him alone?

All those thoughts eddied from your mind the moment you stepped in the car that would escort you and your Capitol date home, when he decided then would be the best time to throw up, narrowly avoiding your pretty pearl shoes. With a little yelp of disgust, you jumped back, avoiding being caught as he continued to empty copious amounts of liquor that once resided in his stomach. 

Fuck my life, you thought with a groan as the smell invaded your senses, thankful that most of it had been done outside the car. With a wary glance his way you saw him leaning back against the window, clearly trying to recover from how much he’d drank throughout the night.

It wasn’t as bad as you thought it was going to be, only because he passed out before the two of you went any further than a sloppy kiss that made your stomach curl.

However wrong it seemed, you tried to imagine it was Finnick instead, but everything just felt off. This man’s hands were cold and rough against your skin, nothing like the steady, soft hands you were trying to imagine; his lips were wet and uncoordinated, unlike the delicate whispers of affection Finnick would bestow upon you in the form of warm, confident press of his lips against yours.

Yet again you felt slimy and used and disgusted, unwilling to even try to process what had just happened. So you did what any normal person would do in this situation: drink. While some part of your brain knew this was an unhealthy coping mechanism, the part of you that wanted to forget the night, forget your circumstances, won over, and soon you were tipsy enough and making your way up to the rooftop.

You let the ice of the wind hit you square in the face, hoping that if you withstood it enough, it would jar you out of the nightmare you were in. Time seemed to stretch and you were certain you’d been there all night, but in reality, judging by the lack of alcohol induced dizziness, it was probably an hour.

“Knew I’d find you here.” You knew who it was immediately, goosebumps rising on the back of your neck at the sound of his voice. “I thought I told you there was a forcefield already.”

The eeriest sense of deja vu overtook you, enough to rip you from your thoughts and turn around, trying to balance yourself by staring at the unmoving figure in front of you. 

“Hello to you too, Finnick,” you greeted in a flat tone, the mere sight of him draining whatever alcohol in your system remained. 

Your chest began to feel tight as you took in his appearance, your face flushing when he looked you up and down. He’d changed from his party attire into pajamas, and there was a tiredness to his eyes that made you blurt out, why are you still awake, at the same time he blurted out, have you been drinking?

“A little,” you admitted, and waited for him to answer yours.

There was a moment when the only sound was the faint blaring of car horns in the distance and the soft rumble of tires against pavement, city sounds that faded into nothing as the wind whistled in your ears. His gaze immediately shot to the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking at invisible pebbles by his feet. You suddenly felt embarrassed, because he’d probably had a much worse night than you had, and of course he couldn’t sleep because of that—

“I was waiting for you.” Oh. That was not what you were expecting, and clearly, it showed in your face because he rushed to continue, thinking he’d said something wrong, “I just… we never got to finishing our conversation earlier, and didn’t know if you were safe, and I know how hard it can be to fall asleep after…”

You walked over to him until you were inches apart, tilting your head ever so slightly in an attempt to catch his eye, which had returned to the floor.

“Can you look at me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper as your hand reached out, wanting to press against the planes of his chest and feel him, but refraining. Your hands simply hovered in the air, a mark of uncertainty, until Finnick made his decision. In a quick motion he’d reached out, wrapping his hand around yours and tugging it until you made contact with his chest, relishing in the security it brought you. The way you could feel his heartbeat, a steady beat of absolute certainty, that reminded you he was here, and he was real. His hand remained over yours, too, like he too sought comfort in the physicality of your hand.

“Last week…” he begins, and all you want to do is cut him off with a kiss, tell him you don’t care if he left, that he’s here now and that’s all that matters. But you don’t; you let him continue, and pretty quickly you’re grateful for that decision. “I lied. After you said it didn’t mean anything, I said okay,” he paused, like what he was about to say next was lodged in his throat, “But it’s not okay, not really. I… I want it to mean something.”

“Finnick, you know I—” You began softly, so softly, but he pressed on.

“No, please just… let me say this, okay?” He tightened his grip on your hand like he was worried you’d heard enough and would leave him. All you could do was nod silently, urging him to continue. “You mean more to me than I let on— so much more. I can’t pretend like this past week hasn’t killed me. I just… I needed you to know that—”

“Finnick,” you tried, but he couldn’t stop talking, like he wasn’t getting his point across.

“And I know it’s complicated—”

“Finnick,” you said again, a little louder and more earnest, but still, he continued.

“—and I don’t want you to think you’re obligated to feel the same—”

His lips, warm and soft and right, met yours as you cut him off with a kiss. It took less than a fraction of a second before he reciprocated, surging forward and wrapping his arms around your waist to tug you closer. Your hands found their place interlocked behind his neck, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck reminding you that it was him.

You kissed him with such fervor you thought your lips would fall right off, desperately trying to convey every unspoken word in your mind; Every point of tension between the two of you melted completely until you pulled back, breathless. 

“I’ve been a liar, too,” was the first thing that came out of your mouth, so quietly he was sure he’d misheard you. “It meant so much to me, Finnick, I… I just didn’t know what to do with all of it, I guess.”

His lips were swollen and red, and his eyes were glassy as he gazed down at you; every time his chest heaved it brushed yours. “I want you,” he breathed out, and while at first you thought it might be something purely carnal, he quickly corrected himself, “I always… I’ve always… tried to ignore it, but now I can’t…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right words, the right way to express himself without fucking up. “I can’t ignore it. I want to fix this, fix us, I want…”

You’d rarely seen him like this; struggling to say the right thing. Normally the words flowed through the air smoothly like a summer breeze, his point sliding across so easily, like honey. So to see him stumbling over his words, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, you tried to urge him to continue.

“I think about you,” he confessed abruptly. “All the time, it drives me crazy. I want to be with you, all the time.”

And you wanted that, too. You wanted to do stupid, mundane tasks with him. You wanted to do things like dry the dishes as he washed them, like argue over whose turn it was to take out the trash, like wake up and brush your teeth side by side, grinning at each other in the mirror.

So you said it as simply as you could. “Me too.”

The grin you broke out into was so wide your cheeks would soon start hurting, but you didn’t care. The elation in your chest was blooming, expanding until the warmth of it reached all the way to your fingertips, your toes, the top of your head. Every part of you felt giddy, like a schoolgirl who’d just had her first kiss on the playground.

This time, it was he who kissed you, capturing your lips with his own with such intensity you gasped. Kissing him now felt like something entirely different, like your entire world had been gray, and his lips on yours opened you up to a vibrant array of colors that nearly blinded you.

Your hands found their way back to behind his neck, his hands finding purchase on your hips and drawing you closer, wanting to feel every inch after being deprived of all of you for so long. It wasn’t just your body you were giving him this time, but your heart as well.

Before you knew it, he’d hoisted you up and you immediately wrapped your legs around his torso, craving the surface of his body just as he was with you. The kisses continued, though never going any further as he walked back to his room — thankfully he was on the top floor, making the journey quite quick. Your back hit the mattress as he continued his kisses, moving his way down and giving special attention to the spots he knew you loved on your neck, your shoulder, behind your ear.

“I don’t— I don’t want to do anything tonight,” he finally pulled back. “I just want to be with you.”

You nodded almost instantly, happy to just be with him, the kissing slowing down as the two of you grew more tired. He must’ve thought you were asleep when he called your name softly and received no response. You were in a haze of in between, too tired to respond but aware enough to know what he was doing as his fingers ghosted over your back and began to draw again. 

Finally, before sleep came crashing down on him, his fingers said what his mouth could not: I love you.

And when you blinked your eyes open the next morning you were face to face with a sleeping Finnick — he’d stayed this time.

Your lips brushed his cheek ever so lightly as you whispered it back.

a/n: thank you guys so much for waiting!! i wrote this instead of studying for my finals cause i'm silly like that. anyways i reallyyyy struggled w this one and wasn't sure where i wanted this story to go. i thought it was an okay conclusion but lmk if you guys want more! feel free to send in any requests you might have, i write for mostttt of the hunger games characters (especially finnick <3)!

tag: @justtrying2getby , @tqmqkii , @s-j320 , @imaegonstargaryenswife0 , @s-trawberryv-eins , @ruxjules

[cowgurrrl]

It Ain't Me Babe

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: A holiday present from me to you ❣️

Summary: Ellie’s first art club meeting [2.8k]

Warnings: creative insecurity, mentions of financial instability, teacher things, Ellie talking about Sarah, more flirty flirt, I think that’s it??

Nothing has ever been as annoying or guilt-inducing as an unfinished piece of art. Sure, every artist— no matter the medium— has felt like an uncreative, unoriginal hack, but it still feels just as new as it did the first time. Moonlight streams through your window as you glare at the canvas, hoping for an idea or stroke of genius. It's late. You should be in bed, especially since it's a Sunday night and you spent your weekend working at the bar down the street. But you're holding a paintbrush between stained fingers and praying for a miracle. It's been eight months since you last sold a piece for a whopping $200, chump change when it comes to living in Austin these days. Even with two jobs and doing commission work, you're living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that's why it's so hard to create? That has to be the reason. You don't remember it being this hard when you were younger.

Creating art was the only thing that brought you solace during your teenage years. It didn't matter if it was drawing, pottery, painting, sculpting. All that mattered was that you were doing it and you were good. You won awards, scholarships, and attention. Your art teacher, Ms. Henry, was a godsend. Grey-haired, glasses-wearing, colorful Ms. Henry glided through lessons and projects like it was second nature. She always had pencils in her hair, a mug in her hands, and a kind word on her lips when you entered her classroom. She's the one who pushed you to go to your artsy liberal arts college full of people richer and better than you. Even with her love and support, you struggled and almost dropped out after that first semester. 

"There's always someone better," she told you when you ended up crying across from her in a coffee shop. "But there's nobody in the world who can make what you will because there is and never will be another you. I mean, God, what a gift. I'd hate to see you waste it." That sobered you enough to keep going and eventually pursue a teaching certification. Ms. Henry has since retired to the Pacific Northwest with her wife, Mable, and sends you a postcard every once in a while because she believes smartphones will be the downfall of civilization. After so many years in education, you're ready to agree with her. 

You sigh, feeling your motivation fluttering away with your breath, and plop your paintbrush down in the cup engraved with the words "DO NOT DRINK" in bold. The canvas doesn't look like much of anything right now— just a mass of colors and shapes that could potentially pass as an abstract version of a landscape. It looks like the other painting you left at the school to work on when you have time. And the painting before that. And the one before that. You curse at exactly the same time your phone buzzes with a text. 

You awake?

You don't bother responding and go straight to FaceTiming her. She picks up on the second ring, her beautiful, round face greeting you with a smile. You met Andie during high school, and her effortlessly cool attitude and bulky violin kit quickly became a part of your heart. You two were inseparable all four years of high school, dividing your time between rehearsals and time spent in the studio, but college took you to art school and her to a prestigious orchestra program in Vienna. She's been there ever since graduation, playing for diplomats and royals alike, but she comes home for holidays, and you've been trying to save money to go see her. Being so far from her is hard, but you make it work. 

"Why are you awake?" You ask by way of a greeting, more than accustomed to your seven-hour time difference and her early riser habits. She laughs, and you hear a tea kettle whistle in the background. 

"Well, hello to you, too," she says. "I have rehearsals all day today, so I got an early start. Why are you awake?"

"I'm staring at my waking nightmare." 

"Oh, God, are you having another spiral?" 

"I'm a hack."

"You're an artist."

"I got rejected again this weekend," you say as if to prove your point, and she sucks her teeth. "They said my art didn't fit their vision for their exhibition, but to feel free and submit another time."

"Well, they must not know great art when they see it. There will be another exhibition and another chance for you to show off your amazing skills. And when you get accepted, which I know you will, I'll fly in, and we'll drink fancy champagne and talk shit the entire opening night." She says, and you sigh. Her persistent optimism is one of the things you love about her, but sometimes, all you want to do is sulk. 

"Or I could fly to you when your first composition gets performed, and we could do all those things in Austria instead of this shithole."

"Hey, some of us like that shithole."

"Some of us haven't lived in the shithole in ten years." 

"Touche," she concedes. "But I'm serious about what I said. You're a good artist, just going through a little bump in the road. One day, we'll be really sexy and successful, and we'll look back at this and laugh with our rich spouses while drinking expensive wine."

"One day," you say, smiling. "How are rehearsals going?" She groans at the question, and you laugh. Whenever you talk to her, she's working on a new show or with a new conductor and always has something to say. There are many things you could call your best friend, but lazy is not one of them.

"I feel like we're stuck on this one part, but the conductor won't listen to me. He says he knows better than I do, which might be true, but also, if he just listened to me, then we can move on. I don't know. I'm sure if I poke him enough, he'll have to listen to me."

"Sounds reasonable." 

"That's what I'm saying," she says as she shuffles her coffee mug and breakfast to her dining room table before checking the time. "It's midnight there. Don't you have school tomorrow?" She asks, and you sigh.

"And an early morning staff meeting and art club after school." 

"Sometimes, I worry about your mental health." She says, and you laugh a little too deliriously to prove her wrong. You stay up talking with her for a while before finally getting hit with a wave of fatigue and crashing into bed. 

The next day is not any less hectic than your weekend was. The staff meeting early in the morning is mind-numbing and completely unnecessary. The printer in the teacher's lounge breaks halfway through a heavy-duty print job, and you're left scrambling for new activities and lessons. Not only that, but your students were more out of control than usual, prompting a veteran teacher to come in and scold your class on your behalf. It would be kind if it didn't make you feel two inches tall and your students didn't look at you like you betrayed them. You spend your planning period indulging in the silence of your empty classroom and fighting off a migraine. 

The second the final bell sounds, your art club kids are knocking down your door, more than ready to work on their projects for the winter showcase. The winter showcase is hosted by a local art gallery that opens for submissions from students every fall. If a student's work is taken, it gets shown in the gallery, and they get entered into a prize to win money and a chance to paint a mural downtown. It's a big deal. So far, you haven't had a student win first place, but you've had them get very close. You always assure them you're proud of them no matter what, which is especially true when Ellie slinks into your classroom with a shy smile.

"Hey! We're just setting up supplies to work on stuff for the showcase. Do you have something to work on?" You ask, gesturing to the students working around the room in a buzz. 

"I think so. Are you gonna play music?" 

"Who do you think I am?" You make a face, and she laughs. "Why don't you find a spot and get comfortable while I queue up a playlist?" She hesitates for a second before she takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to approach another student to ask if she can sit with them. They start chatting easily, and her shoulders relax as she gets more and more comfortable with all the new people. You put on a random playlist and move around the room to answer any questions about colors or give an opinion when asked for one. Over the course of an hour, Ellie makes her own little group of friends, and they all talk as if they've known each other forever as they work. She seems so in her own element, and you can't fight the pride beaming in your chest. Okay, so maybe your job can be pretty cool sometimes. Not fame and fortune cool or traveling overseas cool, but cool nevertheless.

Students gradually start packing up their things and leaving when they get texts from impatient parents in the parking lot or close to dinner time, but Ellie stays behind, bobbing her head to a beat or bouncing her knee under the table. She's the only one left in the classroom when you start packing your stuff and preparing the room for the next day. "You've got a ride home, honey?" You ask, and she glances nervously between you and her phone.

"Yeah. My dad should be here soon." She says. 

"Alright, well, I've gotta lock up here, but I'll wait outside with you until he gets here."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"It'd make me feel better knowing you weren't left behind. Plus, I'm the adult responsible for you until he picks you up, so it's kinda illegal for me to just leave you here." You say, and she looks hesitant again but nods. Together, you walk out of the classroom and through the empty hallways until you get out to the scorching September afternoon. You stand outside in silence for a few seconds, taking in the sunset, before you turn to look at her.

"How'd you like the club?" You ask. 

"It was fun! I met lots of cool people."

"I told you, kid. You just needed to give it a chance."

"I know, I know," she rolls her eyes, and you smile. "Thank you for pushing me to go. I don't think I would've gone without you." She's so genuine and kind in her tone that it throws you off-kilter. You're used to being berated by students, staff, and parents. To be told you actually had an impact on someone is not commonplace, to say the least. 

"I'm sure you would've found your way there without me." 

"Maybe, but you helped me get there a lot sooner than I would've on my own." She says, and you take a deep breath. It feels nice to be acknowledged, especially after the day you've had, and Ellie seems to sense it. You're looking for something to say when she looks down at her shoes and kicks a stray rock. "Just take the compliment and move on. Don't make it a thing." 

"Alright." You say, laughing, and she cracks a smile, too. Traffic will be horrible on the way home, and you have nothing to eat for dinner, but it's okay. You did one good thing today. That's all you need. 

"Sorry, my dad is taking so long." She changes the subject, a touch of anxiety creeping in, and you shake your head. 

"Does he always work late?" You ask, and she shrugs.

"Sometimes. Dad and Uncle Tommy have been picking up jobs to send money to my sister in Boston. "

"What's in Boston for your sister?"

"Medical school. She's about to go into her internship at a hospital there."

"That's a big deal." You say, and she hums. 

"Yeah. She'll probably save the world or something one day." There's a hint of something nostalgic in her voice, and you decide to push just a little. 

"Do you miss her?"

"A lot," she says. "She's my best friend."

"She's lucky to have you." You say. She smiles but doesn't say anything. You want to ask more about her family, but a rickety, greenish pickup truck comes rumbling through the parking lot before you can. Ellie shifts her backpack on her shoulder as her dad and uncle come into view, and you smile at them. Joel, however, looks frantic. 

He's unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the driver's side door before the car can even finish moving. There's dirt on his pants and a little bit of a sunburn across his arms, the muscles straining across the black fabric. He politely pulls the ball cap off his head to reveal sweaty curls as he approaches you, jerking his head toward the truck at Ellie. "Why don't you wait in the truck with Uncle Tommy? He's got a snack for you." He says, and Ellie lights up at the mention of food. When you're alone, he tucks his hands in his pockets and gives you an apologetic look. 

"'M so sorry. We got caught up at work and lost track of time. It won't happen again." He says, wringing his hands like he's waiting to be scolded, but you wave him off. 

"It's okay. Things happen, and I'm just glad she's got someone picking her up." You say. 

"How'd she do today?"

"Really good. I think she fits right in."

"She make some friends?"

"I can't give away all my secrets. What else are y'all gonna talk about at the dinner table?" You tease. 

"I guess that's right," he says as he stares at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "Thanks for waitin' with her."

"It was my pleasure." You say. You stand awkwardly for a few seconds, rocking back and forth on your feet. His eyes are locked in yours, and there's a silent competition to see who's gonna blink first. "Well, I should let you get home. Have a good night." 

"Uh," he starts, stopping you before you can even fully take a step. "I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," you say a little too quickly, and he smirks. "I was very flattered. Besides, it's not the first time."

"Beautiful woman like you, I'm sure you've got 'em linin' the block for a chance with you." He says. You're dancing a delicate dance here. You're not not flirting, and you're not not interested in him, but if your principal finds out, it could cause a whole new world of problems. Still, it's nice to be wanted after so long of being on your own. You're not a saint, but you're also not doing anything inherently wrong, right?

"The teacher thing usually freaks 'em out before they can get very far."

"That's a damn shame." He's quick with it, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the line. A buzz in your bag reminds you of the time and why you're still at school, and you find your footing again. 

"Uh, I usually give out my contact information to the parents of my art club kids in case they need anything or need to contact me quickly. Since Ellie's an official part of that, I figured I should give you my phone number in case anything comes up. If that's alright?" You say, and he pulls his cracked phone from his back pocket. 

"Yeah, yeah. That's more than alright." He says, handing it to you to punch in your information. 

"It's for emergency purposes only."

"What d'you consider an emergency?"

"Mr. Miller-"

"Joel." He corrects, and you give him a look as you pass his phone back. 

"Don't abuse it. I'd hate to have to put you in a group chat with all the PTA moms."

"You're evil." He groans, and you laugh. Tommy, leaning over and honking the truck horn, interrupts your conversation, and he shoots daggers through the back window. 

"I'll see you next week, Joel." You say, dismissing him, and he hesitates for another second before nodding.

"See you next week." He says and turns on his heels to get back in his truck. You think you vaguely catch Joel scolding Tommy for being impatient, but you ignore his deep voice and the engine sputtering as you walk to your own car with a little more pep in your step than this morning.

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 (look at how many of you there are!)

[chaoticsoulsword]

*sigh*

Let's do this again.

The most harmful and irreparable damage the MCU has ever done is definitely Wanda's characterization and how the "fandom" perceives her even when non-cb readers migrate to the 616 side.

(This is screenshot depicting a fan reacting to Russell Dauterman's redesign of Lore, an evil Wanda variant who first debuted in 1993 in Scarlet Witch #1. She will return in the new Scarlet Witch series this year)

In addition to all the "she's always been white" constant, toxic and racist comments, which only reinforces their lack of ability to recognize issues such as colorism, Rromani representation (when they actually know the difference between Rromani and Romanian, that is) and straight-up whitewashing, they also fail to identify a most essential trait of her entire characterization: her desire to do good and become a symbol of heroism.

Wanda despises doing harm to others. Her first iteration is legitimately a depiction in which she and Pietro are being forced by Magneto to work for him and his brotherhood of evil mutants, all thanks to emotional manipulation. She never means to hurt the original X-Men except when Pietro is hurt and/or in danger. It's her protective side, not her "evil" side.

(Uncanny X-Men v1 #4; #11)

It's also fundamental to be aware that Wanda and Pietro come from a place where there's trauma for being abused by Magneto when it comes to their powers. This is why they are hesitant to join the Avengers, and yet their sense of responsibility is stronger.

(Avengers v1 #16)

Now, when it comes to Chthon, it's another rabbit hole of struggling with independence, power and agency. Being controlled by an evil force is as an old trope as any other in comic books. Still, I can't help but notice that her relationship with Chthon is never truly solved as other magic characters' issues, so why does it stick to Wanda the hardest?

Allow me illustrate with other examples:

1. Magik and the Darkchylde.

For those who don't know, the Darkchylde is "an evil side" of Illyana Rasputin, result of her captor and abuser's tampering with her soul.

The Darkchylde has several interpretations, from abuse to struggling with self-worth, and it has been established for decades as a side of Illyana that she despises, fears and suppresses.

(New Mutants v1 #71)

Illyana took years to make peace with her inner self and even had an arc to leave her reigning place of power in Limbo to Madelyne, another character who was villanized by the narrative for the very same reasons. Which begs the question.... why would a fan root for the Darkchylde to be her standard self when this is precisely what she hates the most? When it's precisely what causes her pain and leads her to a process of isolation and unhealthy behavior?

2. Doctor Strange and dark magic

Throughout sixty years of stories, there are a few moments in which the Sorcerer Supreme is faced with the old dilemma if he should use dark magic or not. And yet, from everything he went through, even in his darkest moments, he still chooses to do good. This is an intrinsic part of him. Yes, we've seen alternate evil iterations, but the main version is still a recognized, praised character for all the good deeds he performs on a daily basis.

(New Avengers v3 Annual #1)

3. Loki against fate

(Immortal Thor #2)

Loki's most recent and important journey throughout the years is precisely changing their fate, from the god of mischief and lies to the god of stories. They know they also have antagonistic roles to play as such, and yet they look forward to building a better relationship with Thor and the Asgardians. They're as complex as they come, but never back to their first and oldest iteration.

--

There are others, of course, like Nico Minoru and the Staff of One, Daimon Hellstrom and his will to deny his father's desires etc etc. I can even point a famous non-magical one: THE HULK. Yep, the guy who has spent his entire existence struggling with said dichotomy.

So you see, this is not a situation where "women can't be villains, god forbid women do anything" like some of them love to claim. You have Amora, Morgan Le Fey, Umar, even Lore now. The fact is, the MCU pushed the main version of its Wanda to be an irremediable character. Fans may or not defend her actions, but the truth is, they went too far for a role of opposition/antagonism justified by mental issues, which is yet another problematic, hellish rabbit role that we discussed so many times, over and over and over.

House of M is by itself such a harmful event in Wanda's entire characterization that, even now in the 616 universe, she still struggles to be (re)accepted by the hero community. She's still demonized by mutants, she's still depicted as mentally unstable.

(X-Men #7 - 2019)

Meanwhile, few writers are doing their hardest to give her some independence and agency (praised be Orlando and McKay). She has finally showcased her resolve to deal with Chthon by absorbing the Darkhold. She finally built a place to help people in a small community. She's an avenger yet again.

(Darkhold: Omega #1)

However, despite all that, she's still being patronized and lectured on (for instance, Agatha trying to take the Darkhold from her).

(Scarlet Witch v3 Annual #1)

The fact that she hasn't given up on the role of super hero only showcases how fundamental, intrinsic, unshakeable is her desire to do good. The fact that she's a nexus being and that the Scarlet Witch is a role passed down through generations are enough reasons to reiterate how important she is as a defender of the universe, same importance we often see in the role of the Sorcerer Supreme.

No fan has ever advocated for readers to be feared by a Sorcerer Supreme. Those are roles of heroes.

So yeah, "evil mother" and "serving cunt" will not do it for me. Because being evil means embracing everything Wanda hates the most and fights the hardest. So you come here and tell me that Wanda was supposed to be evil incarnate, to the point of comparing her to Voldemort, is plainly offensive and shows how little you understand her. You have other mothers to kneel to if you so desperately need one. Wanda is not one of them. Leave her alone.

TL;DR: Saying Wanda should be evil is stupid and harmful.