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wandasaura · 6 months

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GOLD THATS IN YOUR EYES

summary — you’ve known natasha romanoff since she first defected to shield, but it’s taken you years to realize that you’ve loved her since then too

warning(s) — fluff, mentions of the ohio mission, hurt/comfort

prompt — finding excuses to be alone with each other x noticing their individual quirks

song — mood ring by kira kosarin

🌞⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰🧺꒱ 🌷 ･ mommy maximoff ✧

Natasha Romanoff was not a very sociable person, in fact, she was quite the opposite. Most people would be surprised to learn that the infamous ex assassin was admittedly somewhat of an introverted homebody, preferring the chosen silence of isolation over bustling crowds where judgment ran wild. For a woman with such a bold way about her, she was admittedly rather soft. She was soft in the way she moved around the kitchen when nobody was around to watch her frolic through cabinets on the balls of her feet, arches deep and perfect, and heels exquisitely raised above the floorboards. She was soft in the way she spoke, too. Her words were always calculated, always direct, and blunt enough to be chalked up to dry humor, but if you listened closely, if you closed your eyes and let the weight of her spoken sentence weigh on your heart in the way she’d never intended for anybody to actually do, you’d notice the soft hitch to her tone that was endearingly Russian, and the way her nose twitched whenever she wasn’t sure how a comment would be received by the masses. Natasha Romanoff was a lot of things, but an arrogant agent was not one of them; not that she’d ever admit that.

You supposed that she felt a crippling need to assert herself as if she were in a position of calculated authority. Some could say that she was in a stance of power, having been deemed not only a level six agent but also an Avenger by time she was twenty-nine, yet even with the moniker of being the only reformed Black Widow to escape Dreykov’s grasp, Natasha was never the authoritarian she prided herself on being when others were around. Granted, you were never one to challenge the way she raised her chin when she was at the center of a room full of men, and you were never one to comment on how her shoulders squared defensively whenever someone took a step to close for comfort. She radiated confidence and certainty, but beneath all of the hurt that she had turned into defensiveness, she was merely a woman that had been wronged and burned by every bridge she’d ever dared to build. You saw her as such, she knew that you did, so maybe that was why she never tried to act that way with you. It was an unspoken mutual understanding that all bets were off when fate brought you two together.

Natasha Romanoff played a lot of games. She liked the challenge of breaking down her opponent before they had the chance to break her down themselves, but the second anyone got too close she pulled a mask over her features and her bleeding heart became a loaded gun. You’d never met someone so guarded in your life, and yet she placed all cards face up on the table whenever she got you alone. Natasha Romanoff was not the sick and twisted woman she allowed the general public to believe she was. She woke up screaming from nightmares bi-weekly, the rasp in her gravely tone not natural but consequential. She closed her eyes whenever she washed her hands in fear of the clear water becoming red with the blood of her innocent victims. She stepped only on the tiles that she knew were silent, scared to make ripples in the water and alert attention. People who didn’t know Natasha Romanoff would say she was something similar to the atrocities that occurred beneath the midnight sky, but you would say she was the shadow of sweet flowers that disappeared after sunset.

You noticed every miniscule detail there was to know about Natasha Romanoff, but you know that she noticed every detail about you as well. She noticed the way you avoid going out in the rain when it’s cold, and how none of your socks ever seem to match even on missions. She noticed how you migrate down to the kitchen in the ungodly hours of the morning just to bake pastries for the team to eat at breakfast, usually cinnamon rolls or blueberry muffins with a crumb coating that Wanda particularly is a fan of, but eventually, she’d unraveled that your little habit wasn’t merely because you wanted to be hospitable toward the people you fought alongside with when extraterrestrial disasters fell to earth, but rather because your mind needed something to focus on when the nightmares of human travesties became too paralyzing and suffocating to handle alone in the dark. The first time her attention to detail became apart was a gloomy day in November, the leaves not all fallen from trees but the air frigid enough to belong in a barren January day. At that point, you’d fallen into a routine of going out for a run through central park each morning, always returning with not only a coffee for yourself, but one for her as well, but with the downpour of raindrops the size of nickels, you’d chosen the lower level gym as your route that day. Natasha wasn’t much a fan of the rain, but she never minded freezing temperatures. She found you in the debriefing room that early afternoon, her hair sodden and crimped from pallets of rain that fell overhead, but in her hands were two cuts of still steaming coffee from your favorite little cafe. She’d tried to say that she was just in the area, but you knew that she had gone out of her way to assure that at least part of your morning remained unchanged throughout the storm.

Your relationship with Natasha had been an unspoken arrangement for as many months and years as you could remember, but recently things had changed. You’d always found yourself alone in a room, two friends existing within the same space naturally, but lately even that hadn’t felt so innocently charged, and you were as much at fault as Natasha was. The Russian lingered in the kitchen just to watch as you mixed together batter for muffins that Tony would eat half of, but you hung around in the lower level gym just to hand off a water bottle when she completed her workout. Any excuse either of you could grasp onto just to spend a few uninterrupted minutes together had been abused and properly overused, but there was no admission of feelings anywhere close to the tip of your tongue.

There were some days that passed, even now years later, where when you looked at her beneath the kitchen lights, or against the punching bags, you only ever saw the broken woman that Clint had brought in from the KGB. She’d been merely a shell of herself at that time, fiery red hair matted with knots and the blood of her targets, face smeared with dirt and gunpowder. You hadn’t been on base when she’d been dragged in wearing heavy metal shackles and dehumanizing cuffs, but Maria had filled you in on everything prevalent regarding Fury’s newest asset. It had taken you three weeks to run into her when you returned, traumatized from the loss of your team and spiraling into shallow thoughts of death and finality, but from the very first moment you’d never seen her as a threat, and she’d never seen you as the lucky survivor that walked away from a raid. Her eyes were soft, softer than the wings of a newly hatched butterfly, and when she stood beneath the sunlight on the deck of the helicarrier, accent thick and sweet like the spring breeze that carried pollen beneath its current, you’d seen the daintiest twinge of gold within the green of her eyes. Maybe it was at that moment that you’d known you wanted to spend your entire life at her side, or maybe that had come much later, but what you’d definitely realized in that first month of knowing her, was that she wasn’t as complete as she wanted everyone to assume she was. There was so much despair and longing beneath her mask of confidence and casualty, so many agonizing emotions that she’d never fully overcome. There were times where you wondered what could be missing from her life that even now, deemed a hero and residing amongst people that just wanted to do good by the world, but you always circled back to the heavy acknowledgement that aside from you and Clint, nobody truly knew Natasha Romanoff. She’d spent her entire life beneath the thumb of power hungry generals, and when she’d gotten a taste of freedom and self identification, she’d conformed to be the woman that everyone else wanted her to be.

Some days however, you saw someone entirely different beneath her eyes that still held specks of gold when the sun fell upon her the right way. You saw a woman that was confident albeit flawed, painfully witty although reserved enough to hide within the walls when she didn’t want to be seen fully. But sometimes when you looked at her, you saw a woman yearning to love in the fullest sense of the word, and that broke your heart the most. She had never been shown unconditional love, never been held softly yet tightly, never been allowed to love back. Natasha Romanoff had been taught that love was the greatest weakness any woman could surrender herself to, and yet she was finally at a point where she wanted to experience the tragedy of loving something temporary. Death was unavoidable, she’d learned that young, but love transpired through isolation even if it never felt entirely complete again. For the first time since you’d met Natasha, she wasn’t scared to submit herself to the experience of loving someone to a fault, even though it meant she could very well lose it all tomorrow. Even if it didn’t seem like it to others, you noticed the subtle ways that she made progress as the years progressed, and each time you looked at her and saw a willingness to explore emotions rather than suppress them, you wanted nothing more than to squeeze her tight and be the one to teach her how to love.

“Hi.” Your voice was soft, delicate as it filled the otherwise silent kitchen. You’d heard her sneak up behind you minutes ago, but only now did it feel like the right time to greet her. She was close, but too far, pressed against the island in the middle of the kitchen whilst you stood beside the sink, hands full of strawberries that Tony had asked you to turn into something delicious. You’d rolled your eyes at the billionaire who had made a habit of soliciting you for pastries, but here you found yourself in the kitchen anyways, trading hours of sleep for muffins that would be gone by the early afternoon. “Wanna help me?” You laid the freshly washed strawberries on a clean kitchen rag, falling into the process of patting them dry without much thought or intention. All of this came so naturally now; she came so naturally now.

“I, um, I could actually just go for a hug. If it’s not too much trouble for the busy, Chef.” Her voice was hoarse, scratchy and thick as it fell onto your ears. Without the running tap, you could hear the quiet hitch in her breathing, wheezing exhales falling out into the space between your warm and yearning bodies. Your eyebrows furrowed, hands abandoning the strawberries in an instance. In all the years that you had known Natasha Romanoff, in all the years that you had seen her in the aftermath of a nightmare, she had never asked for a hug. You could count on one hand the amount of times you’d ever hugged her, and they’d all been for your own selfish reasons. You spun around to face her, palms dragging across your pajama bottoms and riding the water that clung to your palms so you could embrace her fully.

You hadn’t spared her a single glance when she’d first entered, wanting to give her the chance and time to make herself known by her own judgment and comfortability, but now that your eyes traced the delicate shadows across her face, you could make out the unbridled tears brimming in her eyes. She was ghastly pale, a fitful sleep indicative by the deep bruising beneath her eyes. You’d never seen her so distressed, but for a single second you thought about how she’d chosen to seek you out instead of trailing down to the gym and bullying a punching bag like she’d gotten into the routine of doing.

“Can I touch you?” You asked carefully, not wanting to make any sudden movements and spook her back into her shell of isolation. This was progress, and selfishly you wanted any excuse to pull her in close and hold her tight. When she nodded, a weak and fragile incline of her head, you closed the gap between your bodies and melted into her chest. She held you protectively, like she’d needed to feel you to ensure that you were safe and real. A single hand reached up to cradle the back of your head, and her lips found a home on the crown of your head as she inhaled your scent deeply. “You know you can always ask for hugs. Not just because you had a nightmare, but whenever. I mean that.”

Natasha cleared her throat, though she simultaneously tightened her grip around your waist as if whatever she wanted to say would be enough to make you either run away or disappear entirely. You didn’t comment on it, letting her have the time she needed to get her thoughts in order. You grabbed onto her sleep shirt, tight fists bunching up the material and holding it possessively. Natasha felt the motions, felt the way the cotton shirt hugged her belly tighter now that most of the slack was taken up by your grip, and you smiled softly against her chest when you felt her breath out evenly. “Today’s the day we left Ohio.” She started, and immediately your head shot up to search her blue eyes. You’d heard little about Ohio, even littler about the little blonde haired sidekick Natasha found herself protecting for three years, but you knew that what had happened had ruined her. You knew that something as little as moving away was never as simple as it sounded for her. “It was spring break. I left without being able to tell anyone I wouldn’t be coming back. They- They ripped Yelena out of my arms. I– I will always come back for you. You’re the first place that has ever felt like home outside of Ohio. I just– I needed to tell you that I’ll always come back to you.”

“I will always come back for you.” You meant every word that you said, but you could see a cloud of disbelief hanging over Natasha’s gaze as she let your eyes meet again. There was something different about ehr now, something softer and smaller than you’d ever seen. It wasn’t unpleasant, but you couldn’t bear the thought of her so distraught, you especially couldn’t bear the thought of what she had looked like at only eleven. She’d been so young and the world had been so cruel, you just wanted her to know that she was loved, and she was cherished now. She wasn’t just another soldier anymore. “Nat, can I kiss you?”

She froze for a minute, arms slackening around your waist as she stared deep into your eyes, an onset of fresh tears threatening to fall from her own, but before you could withdraw your question, before you could backtrack and excuse your vulnerability as simply being exhaustion, she was pulling you impossibly close, settling both of her hands on your cheeks as she cupped your face and settled her forehead against yours. Her touch was familiar and foreign at the same time, a coming of age to all the daydreams you’d fallen into with her at the center of them all. You’d thought about this moment for months, thought about how her calloused palms would feel against every inch of your skin, her she was always cold but not uncomfortably so. Now, beneath the kitchen lights and her greenish-gold gaze, you realized that you’ve wanted her since the very first moment you met her. “I thought you’d never ask.” Her lips, still impressionable with sadness, curled upward into a smirk, but you didn’t waste a second to kiss it away and show her the truth about love and connection.

Natasha Romanoff had kissed more people then she could keep track of, but never had any of those intimate encounters come voluntarily. For so many years her life had been a means to the mission, but she was free now. Finally, she was entirely free. In so many ways, more than you could even contemplate, you were her first, and desperately you hoped that you would each be each other's last.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x avenger!reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff comfort #natasha romanoff fic #natasha romanoff oneshot #collection: spring fling

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cranberryjuice-posts · 7 months

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- possession -

Pairings - Clarisse La Rue x fem! Hekate! Reader

Synopsis- you sick of people underestimating your relationship with clarisse

Tw - slightly suggestive, not smutty just heavy make-out

An - im currently working on another clarisse request but I got this idea and had to write it

You were tired. You heard the rumors from people.

‘Why is Clarisse dating a Hekate Girl? She’s probably only staying with her to not get cursed’

‘A Hekate kid— really I hear that their creepy poor clarisse must be scared’

‘ I hear that the only reason clairsse is with her is to have better chance at winning at capture the flag’

All the rumors were starting to piss you off. You weren’t holding clarisse hostage, she definitely wasn’t scared and you weren’t threatening to curse your girlfriend.

“Common? really babe your seriously upset over those stupid rumors” clarisse laughed trying to dismiss your insecurity. Putting your shirt on you glared back at her, upset mainly because she ruined the intimate moment ignoring her frown at the lost of your in your bra.

“Yes I’m upset over them, you do realize it’s not as easy here for me then for you. You have the reputation of being an ares kid, and also to add your a cabin counselor.”

“And you have the reputation of being my girlfriend and a strong ass witch so I really don’t see what the problem is”

Going to standup clarisse grabbed your waist pulling you back down onto the bed. Yelping from surprise, you turned and hit her softly on the shoulder. She leaned up kissing your neck softly. “You know I didn’t mean it like that” she muttered against your skin.

You rolled your eyes while leaning back into her shifting some to better face the stronger girl. “You have a shitty way with words” running a hand up her body, taking in her Nike sports bra and camp pj pants.

“I still try though” she smiled kissing you once again.

——

You stood in front of a mirror in the Aphrodite cabin, looking at your outfit you shifted the shirt off your shoulder to better suit your outfit.

Silena walked up behind you grabbing your waist making you jump. Laughing at your reaction she hugged you, looking over your shoulder. “You Look Perfect Why Are You Pressuring over your outfit”

Your silence spoke volumes. “Clarisse told me about the rumors, everyone who says them are just jealous” with that silena kissed your cheek “Common hot shot, bonfire is waiting for us”she chuckled before leaving the cabin.

Letting out a deep sigh you followed the raven haired girls lead. Walking towards the campfire you stopped, looking around for your girlfriend.

Catching you eye you saw Kira one of the other Aphrodite girls being just a little to touchy with clarisse.

—

“I’m serious how pretty do you think I am~” Kira flirted, placing her hand on clarisses shoulder while letting her other graze her body.

“Again I have a girlfriend” she grumbled taking Kira’s hands off of her, throwing them aside she stepped back some to create space. “Forget about her, we both know you’d much prefer me— I mean not to gloat but a daughter of Aphrodite versus a Daughter of Hekate.. it’s hardly a competition”

“First of all—“. Clarisses insult briefly interupted by you Pushing her back, pulling her into a kiss. Tangling a hand into her curly hair you forced the kiss deeper.

Parting only for a second you kissed her once more. Clarisse who had a shit eating grin placed her hands on your hips while pressing your bottom half against hers.

Pulling back you looked over to the now angry Kira. “Sorry didn’t see you there” You looked her up and down with a face of disgust, not letting her respond you grabbed clarisses Hand dragging her towards the ares cabin.

Once Inside you pressed clarisse against the door quickly pulling her into a kiss. Hands gliding under her shirt you gently rubbed her toned stomach.

Her body flinched in response, clarisses hands going straight for your thighs. Bringing one of your legs to her side. She tilted her head while sliding her tongue into your mouth.

Pulling away abruptly slightly pushing clarisse back into the door you scoffed. “Flirting? With an Aphrodite kid low blow”

“Don’t be like that I wasn’t flirting with her” she rolled her eyes walking up behind you.

You however were going to be like that. “Yeah Well how it looked to me You Sure as hell was”

walking towards the mirror in the cabin you leaned forward, fixing your makeup you felt clarisse place her Hands on your hips while leaning in to kiss your neck. She muttered something into your skin making you turn around to lightly hit her arm.

Clarisse grabbed your hand with a smile, turning you around and kissing you while pressing your body against hers. “Have I ever told you.. how hot it is when you get jealous”

“Your a bitch”

“Maybe” she sarcastically responded kissing you once again. Giving into her you chuckled giving her a slight groan. “You are so full of yourself” you panted against her lips.

“I’ve been told worse” she chuckled.

#lesbian #wlw #clarisse la rue #clarisse pjo #clarisse x reader #percy jackson fanfiction #clarisse larue #clarisse my beloved #percy jackson show #pjo fandom #clarisse x female reader #butch clarisse #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse x you #pjo show #percy jackson

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keeps-ache · 5 months

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HEY

#art #my art #artists on tumblr #digital art #oc #pink space #i really like the subtract glitch i've been doing recently - so here's some of that again lol :3 #the way it interacts with their palettes is so fun i like it a lot ehegh :33 #//anyway do you ever consider just tossing out any part the human body you've learned to draw and just drawing dumb little guys with arms #like pipecleaners forever or what hfhs #//oh this is was doobled in traditional originally #i need to digitize more of these. Because #though aura's hair was more extreme in the second panel in that version - i'm tired though and 3 days ago it was the same so no feelings to #change that lol :)#also i didn't shrink the noise enough so it didn't look right - and i was not going to reimport it so Bon Voyage my dude hfhs #was Supposed to fit on a 900x900 canvas but i made the panels a liiiiitle bit too big so it's 950x950 #which is Fine it's a round number but it's not a Round-Round number so [gesturing]#1000x1000 was way too big for this little thing so she sits at a pleasant halfway point :>#//anyway i was also up til 3 a.m. last night doing ?? something ?? i genuinely don't even know what lmfhsbvh #nice though maybe my brain'll get a reset lol :3 #stay up really late some random nights and jumpstart your brain!! it's foolproof!! never fails!! [<- these statements have not been reviewe #by the FDA or the Center for Sleep Control]#//ANywho now i'm going to be on my way #/oh i also forgot to post the oath n aura refs i made for artfight lol-#i'll prolly put those up w/ the kira and hid ones though :>>#i like to have the whole ensemble :D i Do feel bad when one of them gets left out hghsfh - like forgetting a stuffed animal somewhere #even though they're all together for small portion of the story it still feels off lol #i should prolly introduce the rest of the cast at some point. .... ......... ..........hm yea prolly. maybe one day hfhs #//anyway NOW i'm going i've run out of tag space i think hfhs - toodles !! :>

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murdrdocs · 6 months

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she’s driving me crazy

description. STILES STILINSKI finally gets another chance with you, and he won’t take it for granted

includes. SMUT 18+, riding, car sex, fem!reader, protective p n v, lots of making out, loser!stiles, awkward stiles, bi!stiles, exes getting back together, slightly manipulative reader, reader has easily malleable hair, reader wears makeup, drinking (but no drunk intercourse), bickering, scott guest appearance

wc. 6k+

a/n: long awaited stiles fic. bestie boo this one's for u. title from confidence by ocean alley. art credits unknown.

Stiles knows he fucked up.

He had you, after almost a full year of tortuous pining, and he let you slip through his hands. All of it, your relationship with Stiles, really didn’t last more than two months. Two months where date nights were rain checked and eventually canceled. Sleepovers were lackluster, and nothing more than a movie playing in the back while Stiles worked over something that wouldn’t rest in his brain, leaving you alone in the center of his unmade bed. Promises were made, and never kept. It was a mess, a horrible, murky mess of Stiles’ own creation.

He knows this. But he still allows himself to mourn what could have been. He grieves what was. All while nursing a warm beer that doesn’t sit well in his stomach, mostly because of the sight he has been doomed to acknowledge—also his own doing as he could definitely turn his gaze elsewhere.

You’re tucked under the arm of some guy who looks nothing like Stiles, and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. Is that your dream guy? Or are you forcing yourself to branch out and try something that wasn’t him? He tries to resist the spiral that sends him on, and is only able to start crawling out of the self-deprecating and insecurity tunnel through Scott’s voice beside him.

“What’re you staring at?”

Scott reeks of alcohol and fruit-flavored syrup. If he wasn’t a werewolf, Stiles knows his best friend would be unable to stand straight by now. But Scott stands like his usual self next to Stiles, a big grin on his face probably from the attention he’s been getting from Kira. (It was sickening for Stiles to watch but he forced himself to be happy for the strong relationship his best friend has.)

Stiles’ immediate instinct is to lie. “Nothing.” He says it a little too fast. He tries to cover his slip up by taking a sip of his beer, but the flavor is unappealing to the point where the face of disgust he presents makes him look more guilty than he really is.

Scott stares at Stiles, waiting. Stiles knows he won’t lie to Scott, not about something this small anyway, and it is only a matter of a few seconds before Stiles sighs.

“Look,” he points at you and your suitor. “Don’t you think he’s making her uncomfortable? Look at that. He’s all over her. Probably reeks of Axe body spray.”

It’s then that the guy cracks another joke, your head throwing back in laughter just before you rest your ear against his chest. It’s so affectionate. As if you’ve known this guy for years, and not just mere minutes.

Stiles flicks his eyes over to Scott, expecting to see his best friend analyzing the situation with at least a small amount of attention that Stiles is. Instead, Scott is looking over at Stiles, wearing what Stiles can only describe as a knowing smirk on his lips.

Stiles steps back, a little bewildered. “What?”

Scott, annoyingly, shrugs. He sips his drink, one he has solely for taste as Stiles knows, and only responds once he’s taken a long, slow swallow.

“She seems fine to me. I thought you guys were broken up anyway.”

“We are!”

“Then why do you care so much?”

Stiles can’t help but petulantly roll his eyes. He turns to face you and your human shaped bag of bricks once again, gesturing for Scott to do the same. His mouth opens, lips parted and tongue ready to spew out the analytics he’d been gathering this entire time in lieu of an excuse.

Then Scott interrupts.

“Do you want me to see what’s going on?” Scott throws a finger up towards his ear, one eyebrow lifted as he waits for Stiles to gather the implications and then make a decision.

It takes Stiles longer to complete the latter than the former.

He waits, thinks, looks at you and the guy. And then remembers the strict ‘no listening’ rule you all have set in place, the one he most definitely won’t betray in the name of jealousy, even if you aren’t particularly aware of all of the intricacies.

When he sighs, it’s defeated and with his entire body. He knows he’s pouting, he assumes he resembles his teenage self—mopey and brooding. He doesn’t mean to speak through gritted teeth, but he ends up doing it anyway.

“No. She’s probably … fine. I guess.” It hurts to admit, deep in Stiles' jealousy-filled gut. Scott’s way of comforting him is by clapping a hand on his shoulder, and telling him that you’re a grown adult who is allowed to make her own decisions, the same as him.

Scott’s intentions aren’t understood until he points at someone in the opposite direction of you. A guy who, from the looks of it, has been eyeing Stiles for a while. He’s Stiles’ type. Exactly his type, actually, and Scott knows this.

“Instead of sulking around …” Scott doesn’t need to finish his sentence in order for Stiles to understand. He only lingers for a few seconds, and then is pulled back towards the larger group by Kira’s eyes and grin.

The guy on the other side of the bar is still watching Stiles. He’s smiling a small but confident smile, like he knows Stiles wants him as much as he wants Stiles. He tilts his head in a beckon, and Stiles is close to letting the guy pull him over there. Until he sees you step away from the man, smile dismissively up to him, and start towards Stiles instead.

Instantly, it’s like a flip has been switched.

He starts to feel the effects of the alcohol, even though he’d been nursing the same bottle the entire night. Still, he chooses to attribute the buzz flowing throughout his body to the overpriced beer and not excitement of finally having your attention.

He watches your path, trying not to feel too disappointed as he takes notice of the way you’re struggling to walk in a straight line.

You fall into his arms in a fit of giggles. Your head resting on his chest, your hands circling around his back.

“Stiles,” you sing, long and drawn out and definitely drunk.

He repeats your name in the same tune, placing his drink onto a tabletop next to him and abandoning it for good. Keeping you away from self destruction is his new main priority.

You slump against him even more, turning yourself around and leaning back against his body. Your position leaves Stiles with nothing else to do other than stand stiffly. He knows that if you were sober, you wouldn’t be nearly as affectionate as you are now. He ignores the way your ass brushes against his crotch. He ignores the smell of your perfume wafting up to him, a scent he had the privilege of seeing you apply a few times before when you were dating. (The image of you getting ready for the day, lathering yourself in the oils and lotions and scents that worked to create your unique scent will never leave his brain, for better or for worse.)

He does his best to remain unaffected, but then you tilt your head up, the crown of your hair rubbing against Stiles’ shirt as you look at him. As soon as he glances down, he sees you pouting, clearly over exaggerated but it’s a look he, pathetically, will never be able to resist.

“Why won’t you touch me?” You manage to sound pitiful, as if you had lost every single thing you hold dear to your heart in the last couple of minutes.

In his response, he tries to remain neutral. Drunk or not, you know the game you’re playing, and Stiles foolishly believes that his knowledge of the ploy makes him insusceptible.

“Because you’re drunk,” he platonically rests his hands on your shoulders and encourages you off of him. “And we aren’t together anymore.”

You turn around to face him, grinning up at him like the cat with the canary as you tell him, “it didn’t stop us last time, right?”

That, and the way you almost throw yourself at some guy walking past, is enough reason for Stiles to link his hand in yours and pull you towards the others. Scott stares down at your interlinked palms for only a moment before Stiles explains his plan, which entails getting you back to your apartment before you do something you could regret.

This isn’t an excuse for Stiles to continue hanging out with you. He makes sure he clarifies that to himself and his best friend before he’s pulling you out of the bar and towards his Jeep.

You’re both less than ten steps away from the entrance to the bar when you suddenly have your lips pressed to Stiles’.

There is a moment where Stiles fails to resist. Where he reciprocates quicker than his brain can realize, acting on pure instinct and muscle memory instead of logic. He is unable to stop himself from getting comfortable, from linking this kiss to the last one he’d received from you. Hotter and messier than this one. (Lost in his appreciation to finally be kissing you again, Stiles fails to notice how you don’t taste like alcohol at all)

Only a few more seconds pass before Stiles reminds himself that you’re drunk, and that this is wrong. When he pulls away from your lips—regretfully, that is—he’s tempted into staying by the slight stickiness of your lipgloss and the almost-disgusting string of saliva that briefly keeps you two sewn together.

You try to lean back in, but Stiles stops you with his hands on your shoulders.

“You’re drunk,” he reminds you.

You’re fixing him with a look, one that feels strong and weirdly sober. His suspicions have more proof to back them up when you say his name with the same matter-of-fact tone he had just used on you.

“I’m not drunk.”

He scrunches his eyebrows together, the muscles in his face mimicking the movement as well. His lips part as he nonverbally exclaims his confusion. He lifts one of his hands from your shoulder to hook his thumb towards the bar entrance. He looks around, for nothing or no one in particular, but as if the night will have an explanation that you would surely be willing to provide if he asks.

He didn’t even need to ask before you provide an explanation. It’s cut and dry, matter-of-fact, spoken like it is the most casual thing in the world.

“I faked being drunk so you could take me home.”

Stiles knows what you mean. He’s not dumb. But he surely does feel it when he says, “If you didn’t feel well you could’ve just told Lydia. She would’ve taken you back to yours.”

You roll your eyes. “If you don’t wanna sleep with me, that’s fine. Just let me know before I waste my time.”

Stiles should stand up for himself. He should reprimand your attitude, and exclaim how unnecessary it was. Instead, he flounders and almost falls to your feet with the speed he clarifies himself.

“No. I do wanna sleep with you. Like, really bad. But … um … well,” you lift your eyebrows and Stiles clears his throat. “How many fingers am I holding up.”

“Jesus, fuck, Stiles.” He continues holding up his first three fingers on his right hand until you answer. “Three.”

You lean in but Stiles takes a step back. And then another. And then another, until he’s standing against the wall of the bar and you’re standing at the edge of the sidewalk.

“Walk in a straight line towards me.”

You don’t seem happy about it, but you place one foot in front of the other over and over again until you’re in front of Stiles. Nothing more has to be said before Stiles places his hands on your hips, pulls you flush to him, and finally allows himself to kiss you.

It’s been a while since Stiles had the privilege of kissing you. The last time, just a month ago, didn’t count in his mind. Sure, he remembered nearly every detail, but your shared inebriated state at the time overruled any legitimacy the encounter could have held. Now, it only acts as a reminder and motivator for Stiles to enjoy every moment of this that he can.

Eventually, it would be smart, and preferable, to leave the outside of the bar and actually take you home where you two could be alone. But for now, Stiles presses his hands into the middle of your back as a way to pull you as close to him as possible. He has his legs spread, creating space for your limbs to stagger. Your hands rest on his shoulders, then at the back of his neck, then in his hair. Both of you are attempting to get as close to the other as possible, all while engaging in the sloppiest kiss you’ve ever had. You both kissed cleaner when you were drunk.

Now, outside this bar with your closest friends inside, and with nothing but the night (and the bouncer) as witness, you submit to the other. There is a level of appreciation in the way your lips slide together. There is a level of gratitude in the presses of your tongues against each other. There is an exorbitant amount of longing that is solved each time you jerk your hips into Stiles and each time he reciprocates.

You thread your hands through Stiles’ hair the same time that he slides his hands down to your ass and squeezes, pulling you as close to him as possible and rubbing his thigh against the center seam of your jeans. You both groan into each other's mouths—Stiles from the way you tug just right on his hair, and you from the feeling of his leg between yours.

Sensing—knowing that he did something right, something good, Stiles does it again. And again. And again. The steady slide of his thigh between your legs does the job. You let your head fall, leaning the top of it against Stiles’ chest just right under his sternum.

The sound of you moaning Stiles’ name goes straight to his dick, with a few remnants traveling to his head, leaving him dizzy and with a steady growing semi. His actions make you grip his hair stronger. His actions indirectly cause pleasure for him, too.

It all disappears when the sound of spitting—loud and boisterous, almost cartoonish—breaks up the moment. Stiles stops his movements. He lays his hands flat on the back pockets of your jeans as he turns his head to the side.

The eyes of the bouncer meet Stiles and Stiles’ ears burn.

While the bouncer doesn’t say anything to him, Stiles knows the message he’s trying to communicate.

Get the fuck out of here.

Stiles is forced to push you back by hooking his fingers in your belt loops. He’s still touching you, at least an extension of you, but then your hands drop to your sides and Stiles can feel his body crying out for you. The same way his body calls out for vital needs—food, water, sleep, entertainment. He squashes his emotions for a second, plasters on a—truthfully sympathetic—face, one that comes off more as a tight lipped smile than anything else.

“Sorry, man. You — uh. You have a goodnight.” He throws a hand up to the bouncer, hoping it is received as friendly. When the bouncer returns the gesture, still with that same look in his eyes, Stiles heads down the street and pulls you with him.

The walk to the car is tortuous. His boner keeps rubbing against his jeans, leaving him to stop every few paces, face away from the street, and try to adjust himself. After the third time, you were voicing your frustration, claiming that it was taking forever to reach the car because of Stiles’ worry about who could see his erection. He tries things your way, ignoring the way his dick calls for his attention and instead focusing all of his attention on you.

The way your hips sway in your tight jeans. The way the wind blows your perfume to him and lifts the edge of your shirt in one, giving Stiles a peek of your skin. It’s such a small look, nothing more than a glimpse, and Stiles feels like a Victorian man the way he’s having to bite his fist at the next crosswalk to avoid groaning. The street lights illuminate your face in just the right ways, highlighting your makeup in an unnaturally ethereal way. Everything about you is driving Stiles crazy. There’s no way he’s going to make it to your house. If he doesn’t get to his car soon, he might pull you into the next bar bathroom that he could find just for a semblance of privacy.

If he could just get to his Jeep.

It’s then that Stiles realizes he’s been walking for far too long. He stops in the center of the sidewalk. You stop right beside him.

Stiles doesn’t say anything as he turns around and leads you three blocks down the street, one street over, and then into the parking garage elevator.

The way you’re grinning at him alerts Stiles of the words soon to come out of your mouth, definitely words that would be at his expense. He stops you while you’re ahead.

It’s nice to have the position switched. Your back against the wall instead of his. His hands are still on your hips, but he uses them to push you into the metal instead of pulling you into him. You have that part covered, your arms once more thrown over his shoulders, pressed into the back of his neck and head, drawing him in until the pressure of his lips against yours is a little painful.

In the rush neither of you have pushed the button, leaving the elevator stagnant on the ground floor. Stiles notices at the same time that you scratch his scalp. He moans, he really can’t help it. His mouth opens as you purse your lips again, and he feels a little bad but you aren’t deterred. In fact, you do it again, your nails scratching in just the right spot and Stiles feels like an animal the way he shudders and keens.

He’s more human when he admits, “Missed this.” He presses his lips to yours again, pulling back with a smack. “Missed you.”

Your lips slide against his with what Stiles can only describe as desperation. Pure, unadulterated desperation and desire. You’re breathing a little heavy, deep exhales through your nose and inhales in the in between moments, and it doesn’t turn Stiles off at all. He wants more of you. He takes more of you.

He doesn’t know how long you two are in there, but it is eventually you who pulls back first, your lips visibly swollen and lacking any of the makeup that was previously on it.

“Has the elevator been moving at all?” You could check for yourself. Just one look over Stiles’ shoulder and you could see that the small screen still displayed a digital ‘1’. Yet, you’re looking up at him instead. Like Stiles is the most important thing in the elevator. Like he’s the most important thing in the world to you. (Maybe it’s Stiles’ delusion talking, but he chooses to believe it either way)

Still, Stiles looks over his shoulder, confirms that he hadn’t hit the button at all, and leans back to correct his mistakes.

The elevator beeps twice, bringing you both to the third floor, and as much as Stiles’ wants to continue standing there and just admire you, he can hear the door daring to slide close. Again, he pulls you out behind him.

As soon as he turns the corner, Stiles is immediately made aware of the lack of other cars on the level. It’s a little eerie, and if he wasn’t about to get his dick wet he would possibly be on the lookout for potential threats that could turn one of the best moments of his life into another inconvenience.

Your hands are on his shoulders, his back, his arms, as you hold onto him.

“Why did you park all alone? Did you plan this? Were you trying to get in my pants all night?”

Stiles digs into the front pocket of his jeans and searches for his keys. “No. There were other people parked here earlier. They’re just all gone now.”

You hum unconvincingly. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Stiles.”

As soon as Stiles has the passenger door unlocked, he holds the door open for you and stares, hoping the annoyance is overpowering every other feeling he’s currently having towards you.

“In the back,” he tells you. You smile up at him, big and entertained, and then do as he says.

He climbs in right behind you. At this point in the night, there was no point in attempting to get back to your apartment or his. Stiles couldn’t wait much longer, and you two are no stranger to the back of his Jeep. You’ve been in this situation before.

It’s all completely effortless. You’re already in the process of slipping your jeans off whenever Stiles has the door closed. He mourns for just a second, pouting to himself over not being the one to take those sinful jeans off of you. But then you climb over his lap, situating yourself to hover just a bit above him.

Stiles plants his hands on your hips, just like he did before, and pulls you to sit right over him, just like you have before. He knows that the status of your relationship has changed since the last time he had the privilege of being in this space with you like this, but that doesn’t mean the way you do things has to change, too.

You were never shy before. You would always be quick to attach yourself to Stiles in whatever ways you could, just like you had been doing just a little earlier into the night. But that’s gone now. Now, you’re staring at him, your teeth pressed into your bottom lip.

Before you were together for a short time, Stiles had spent months pining. Months analyzing whatever he could about you. Months mentally cataloging your tells. And now, he calls on that information to declare that you’re hesitant. You’re nervous. No, not just nervous. You’re worried. Almost regretful.

He tilts his head. “What’s wrong?”

You shrug but Stiles knows you’re aware of what has you like this. He just gives you the time to voice it.

Eventually, you say: “Will this change anything between us?”

It’s his turn to shrug. “I dunno. Do you want anything to change?”

You shrug again.

“Well … do you want to keep going? And we decide that afterwards?” Stiles really wants to fuck you, but deep down he knows that if you stopped and got up off of him in this moment, he would be okay with it. Well, he would be okay with it after a few days. Maybe a week or two.

A little part in him swells, jumps, and clicks its heels when you nod.

“Yeah. That sounds good.” You press your lips to his once.

“You just tell me when you decide, okay? I’m cool with whatever you’re cool with.” And Stiles means that. If he gets just one more time with you, if this is his final time with you, he would cut his losses and be grateful for the time that he was allowed. What else was he supposed to do? He would never dream of doing anything that could jeopardize his spot in your life.

Stiles can feel the warmth of your center is his hand when he trails his touch down. He cups your mound and his eyes flutter shut. He feels like a pervert for only a second before you start to work your lips down his neck and rock your hips into his hand. The way your mouth suctions around his favorite spot almost has him distracted enough to not notice your hands working on his pants. Almost.

He can’t really tell in the dark, but he can slightly feel your once confident movements start to falter. You stop on his neck, keeping your lips as nothing but a pucker against his skin before you pull away completely to look down between the two of you.

“When the fuck did you start wearing a belt?”

Stiles doesn’t want to tell you the truth, he feels like it would be too embarrassing. Really, he knows it wouldn’t, but something about having to tell you that he decided to wear a belt because you always said he should makes him feel a little meek. So instead of filling the silence with the truth, he fills the silence with the clinks of his belt buckle as he undos it himself.

“Recently,” is all he tells you when you’re still staring at him for a response. Somehow, it’s enough for you and your hands are back on his waistband.

In record speed, your hands are down the elastic of his boxers and wrapping around Stiles’ cock. He doesn’t hiss, but he does shudder. He tries to hide it by pretending that the car is cold, which it was beforehand, but now it’s warm. It becomes warmer when you spit in your hand, wrap it around Stiles’ cock and pump him a few times, and then push your underwear to the side and hover above him.

It really pains Stiles to stop you, but he does. He asks if you have a condom, then he asks if you want to use a condom, and the entire time he’s kicking himself. Because he can feel the warmth radiating. He has his tip already nudged between your folds, and just this small touch is already making him lose it. His nails are digging into your hips, he’s breathing harder than he was before, and he has to blink a few times to really focus on you.

It feels like Stiles blinks and suddenly you’re tearing the foil packet open and slipping the condom over him. He watches it go down as best as he can, and the light doesn’t reveal much. Just the bottom of you and the tip of him is visible, the rest Stiles is forced to make out through squints and memorization.

He’s just briefly dejected about the lack of visuals, but then your hands rest on his shoulders and he hears you take a breath and he knows it’s time.

Stiles rests his hands on your side and looks up at you.

You go down slowly. Softly. It allows Stiles to feel each delicious inch as they go by, revealing more and more of the inside of you as time passes. He battles between watching your face and simply basking in it. Eventually, he settles on the former.

Your eyebrows are tightened just enough to show your discomfort. You have your lips parted, long breaths leaving them every so often, usually right before you sink down again. And Stiles has seen you take him before. He knows that you have been able to take him faster than this before. And then he wonders: is this your first time doing this, with anyone, in a while? Have you been as lost without him as he has been without you? Have you even attempted to fill that hole, and was your stunt earlier tonight just that: a stunt?

There isn’t time for him to ponder over his questions like he would have wanted to whenever you bottom out. It’s with a sigh, the back of your thighs meeting the top of his just briefly.

You rest your forehead against his, and you both breathe together. Or, it’s more so you breathing and Stiles matching the pattern.

You lean up, you move your hair out of your face, and you tell him, “Don’t remember it being this hard.”

Slightly cocky, Stiles tilts his head. At first he doesn’t say anything. He smiles, his eyes are heavy when they look you up and down, and then he rubs your back. “Take your time.”

You take the time you need and then you start moving. Up and down. Up and down. Agonizingly slowly at first, and then faster when you get more comfortable.

This is what Stiles has needed. This is what he has been missing in his life. You’re like a drug for him, and one hit seems like enough at the time, but by the time this is all over he knows he’s going to be searching for more. He’ll do anything he has to, so long as it gets him in a spot similar to this again.

He searches for your hand, refusing to look away from the way your body moves atop of him for even a second. You help him out, bringing your hand to his, pressing the fingertips together, leaving Stiles to interlock them. He lifts your hands, looking at them in the white light that enters the foggy window. Somehow, this image is even more captivating. There is a more pornographic way the two of you are connected, one that demands Stiles’ attention. There is something about the innocence of this. He’s doing nothing but holding your hand, and Stiles feels like he might either lose his mind, or cum too quickly.

He might do both. One after the other.

You sink down on him again, a little awkwardly this time, but it does it for you. You hit a spot that makes your mouth widen and your eyes flutter shut. You search for it, and find it miraculously. Your head throws back as you hit that spot over and over again, pleasing yourself on Stiles’ dick. The image is heavenly for him. It’s euphoric.

He lets his eyes wander down your neck, along your clavicle, and your shirt reveals just a bit of your bust but it’s not enough. With his free hand, he pulls the rest of the fabric down, and when he sees that you’re not wearing a bra, he almost cums into the condom then and there. He doesn’t wonder how he hadn’t noticed, he doesn't consider how he hadn’t taken into account the natural shape of your breasts pushing through the fabric, almost reaching out to him. Instead, he leans forward, presses his hand into the curve of your back, and attaches his mouth to the untouched skin.

Your free hand sinks into Stiles’ hair. Your fingers weave through the back of his hair first, and then you make your way up to the front, pushing back his bangs blindly.

Stiles peers up at you from his spot around your nipples. You’re still in ecstasy—your head now level once more, but your mouth still open and your eyes still closed.

He detaches from your nipple to tell you: “Look at me.”

It fuels Stiles’ ego when you do as told quickly.

You’re looking at him on his command yet Stiles feels like he’s the one entranced. Because of your eyes. Fuck, your eyes. Watery, lazy, but your pupils are dilated. Your mascara has transferred to under your eyes by now, and it’s smudged a bit, making you look completely fucked out. Stiles thinks some of your makeup along your face has disappeared too, but it allows for a fresh skinned appearance instead.

Really, there is nothing else for him to do except kiss you. It’s so messy but so good. You flatter in your movements on his cock, but Stiles feels absolutely no remorse when he takes over.

He unlocks your hands and plants them both on your hips again. This time, he uses the leverage to pull you down on him again and again. He lets you lead the kiss, while he leads this.

Your hands land on the leather of the seat behind Stiles' back and the foggy glass pane of the window. He hears your fingertips glide down the surface as he starts to fuck you harder, and then the sound is combined with your moans when your lips separate from Stiles’.

You call his name, low and breathy.

He hums.

“‘m so close. Keep going. Just like that.” He nods. Then you add, “Little faster.” And he does as told.

Your forehead pressed against his, the sweat on both of your skin making your heads glide more than anticipated. It doesn’t deter either of you. When your nose bumps against Stiles’, he kisses you again. When your head becomes too heavy for you to hold it up, he presses his thumb under your jaw, rests his fingers on the side of your neck, and holds the weight for you.

“You’re so pretty,” he tells you, adding your name at the end to seal the deal. “Baby,” he says, and his heart swells when you hum in response. So he says it again. “Baby, you feel so good. Feel so good, babe.”

He doesn’t know what more he says. He can vaguely recognize his lips forming the words and his own voice in his ears calling you the prettiest girl ever, telling you that he could never get this anywhere else, telling you he never wanted to get this from anywhere else.

“Needed this so bad. I needed you so bad. I’ve missed you.” And just as his words finish, yours begin.

“Stiles, Stiles. Right there. ‘m … I’m…!”

He singles two fingers out, slips them between your thighs, and rubs along your clit until you’re shaking above him and holding onto his wrist between your bodies. He doesn’t know if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away, but watching you cum is too gorgeous for him to ever dream of making it stop.

So he doesn’t.

Not even when your eyes start to leak and your lips start to plead and you contract around him.

“One more,” he asks. “I just need to see it one more time. Please.”

The sound of him moving in and out of you is loud. He drifts his eyes down to watch it happen, groaning when he just barely sees a broken ring of white glinting in the fluorescents from the parking garage.

It feels a little romantic when you cum and then Stiles follows right after.

The Jeep is warm, the windows are foggy, and there’s an ache in Stiles’ thighs. He knows for every one of his aches, you have three. The condom has been removed, tied, and disposed of in an old paper bag Stiles had sitting on the floor of his car. His pants are pulled back up, but his belt is still undone. His shirt sticks to his skin and he really needs greasy food and a shower.

But if that means leaving this moment, and never returning to it, he could put off his needs and wants for an eternity.

You’re sitting next to him, redressed with the button of your jeans still undone. You’re staring straight ahead, trying to catch your breath as you rub the muscles in your thighs.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he licks his lips and he says, “Uh … do you … um. Would you like some … ice or something? For your legs?”

You smile ahead, turn to face him, and shake your head. “It’ll be fine. Nothing a shower and good sleep won’t fix.” You pause. “And maybe some food.”

Which is how Stiles ends up sitting in your bed, sipping the remnants of his Dr. Pepper as he watches you lather lotion on your legs with your towel still hanging off of your body.

“Your food’s cold,” he tells you. He doesn’t tell you about the handful of fries he stole earlier, but he knows you’ll notice it and hold the grudge for later.

Later. Will there be a ‘later’?

“Be there in a second.” You start to walk back to the bathroom. “Should we go to that place in the morning? Or …” you look at your clock and wince at the time. “Later. The one with the really good pancakes?”

Stiles is quick to agree. He would love to do something with you later.

#stilesworld!#stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski smut #celeste writes misc

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fantazygirl-blog1 · 2 months

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So tired of everyone (or almost everyone) making Misa into a kind, weak little victim, manipulated by Light.

That woman may seem sweet, but she's absolutely ruthless. She's selfish, obsessive, stalkerish and emotionally abusive (perhaps not in the traditional way but I will explain)

Way before she even met Light, she managed to kill law enforcement (which might I add, she probably didn't even know was law enforcement) and news reporters just to prove a point. They were just a means to an end to her. She wanted to thank Kira for killing her parent's murderer, but she didn't even stop to think once if the people she killed had families of their own, children of their own. She only had one goal: what she herself, wanted. More than that, Misa literally offered to immediately off her friend, that helped her with the tapes (and if someone offers to help you with that, they're a very close friend for sure) and it wasn't even Light's suggestion. It was all Misa, who saw killing her friend as a way to get Light to trust her. It's clear that girl is willing to kill anyone and anything if it'll help her achieve her goals.

Also, she's super obsessive. My girl traded half her lifespan with no hesitation on the off chance that she might be able to meet Kira. (Yes, she had a plan but there was no guarantee that her plan would even work)And the instant she saw Light, she started stalking him (even though she herself had problems with stalkers) to the point that she just turned up at his house with no warning. Imagine if a stranger just shows up at your house like that, pretending to be a friend and your mom lets them in. That's fucking horrifying.

Also, Misa barely knew Light for like a few seconds and she decided that he was going to be her boyfriend, and NOTHING was going to stay in her way, not even Light himself. She pressured him into being in a relationship with her, even though it was clearly unwanted, Rem literally threatened to kill him if he refused, and then she had the gall to tell Light she would kill any girl she suspected would go out with Light if she saw her with him. This is where the emotional abuse comes from (even though I dunno if I should call it that but I don't know how else to classify it). Misa doesn't really consider Light a person. For her, Light is more like a doll she can project her feelings on. She attributed him emotions according to her whims and acted like those were the reality regardless of Light's real feelings. She made herself the main character in his story, even after told and shown repeatedly tha she wasn't and got mad when years later she was still neglected and barely paid attention to.

I'm not saying all this to hate on Misa and this in no way a Kira appreciation post (my favorite Light is Yotsuba arc Light, I hate Kira tbh) but I'm just saying, if you're a Misa fan you should be able to accept the reality: she's not a weak, sweet little girl, manipulated by evil Light. She's capable of all the horrible things she does all on her own thank you very much and I'm tired of reading fics where Misa is treated like only a victim and given leniency while Light is treated as the only true monster.

I'm just saying, the girl didn't need a boyfriend, she needed a therapist. Badly.

#misa amane #light #light yagami #death note #kira #character analysis

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victimsofyaoipoll · 11 months

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Finals

Propaganda Under Cut

Sakura Haruno

Her husband is gay and her author doesn't know how to write women. So many people say she's the worst but she. DESERVES. BETTER!!! Save her from this franchise.

My baby girl my bestie my best friend. She committed the crime of um being written by kishimoto who both doesn’t know how to write women and somehow writes men in the gayest way possible specifically naruto and sasuke. Like the thing is naruto and sasuke ARE gay and also she gets so much hate for the crime of kishimoto writing her one dimensionally in love with sasuke. I know her personally she is a butch lesbian to me just trust me she’s in love with Ino and has a lesbian thing going on with Karin okay just trust me. My everything. She needs to divorce the loveless lavender marriage she’s in

What is there to say, even? The OG Threat to my 90s anime brain, the only woman I've ever hated with such a passion she made me turn away from the color pink. I used to write fics with my friend where she got left behind on purpose so our OCs could join the Naruto and Sasuke team instead. I loathed this bitch until I was 16 and realized the author simply couldnt write women and decided it was time to make peace with Sakura. It is not her fault she's vaguely written and obsessive over Sasuke. She deserves better. Sasuke and Naruto still should be together and Sakura shouldnt be with Sasuke but I no longer believe this because I hate Sakura, it is because I love her. She deserves a spouse who will actually put in the time to treat her like the hero she is.

Misa Amane

she gets treated in-canon the way fandoms treat female characters that Threaten an m/m ship. it's like, "oh why don't you go sit in the corner and be pretty, misa, while the Men have intelligent conversation and pretend they aren't ten seconds from fucking each other, doesn't that sound nice?" it's infuriating. and MAYBE it's better now but i remember her getting treated the same way in fanfiction too, like we all need to do just as badly by our female secondary characters as fucking tsugumi ohba, but with the added insult of making her be alternately oblivious of the relationship between light and L or actively trying to sabotage it—incompetently, of course, because god forbid misa be allowed dignity or moments of cleverness.

she's one of the first characters I think of when I consider old school fandom misogyny. The annoying bitch and clingy crazy gf allegations were AFTER HER ASS. She's also a lot more intelligent than people gave her credit for, but most seem inclined to take the Very Biased word of our unreliable, narcissistic narrator and his homoerotic arch nemesis and claim that just because she's bubbly and into romance that she's also a complete moron. Which is blatantly untrue. Everyone was afraid of Misa girlbossing too hard. Killing people and devoting yourself to the deranged twink of your dreams even though you know he'll never love you back??? Having a hardcore goth aesthetic and being so Hot even literal Death Gods are into you?? God forbid women do ANYTHING!

Not only is she the victim of yaoi culture, she is the victim of early 2000s misogyny by an author that wanted to introduce a girl character because he knew his male rivals were getting too homoerotic. She is a goth bimbo icon who portrays what I think is one of the few callouts for stan culture and what parasocial relationships can do to both the stan and the idol. The fact that she is a toxic fan of Kira and also hot, funny, sociable is tragic in its own way, which I think the author did try to touch on but was too misogynistic too really get through. Of course, she was reduced to villain status by the fandom and anime alike because she got in the way of the supposed romance in their psychological horror anime

#poll #finals #sakura haruno #naruto #misa amane #misa misa #death note

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miguelschamp · 8 months

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fearless

pairing: isaac lahey x fem!reader

summary: something is finally done about the lingering feelings between you and isaac

warnings: none. it’s quite literally just fluff

the bell rings dismissing you from your last class of the day. you walk out with malia by your side complaining about your teacher.

“malia, she’s just doing her job.” you chuckle

“i don’t care. she’s not making any sense when she’s explaining things and she’s the only one whose given us homework for the weekend.”

“that is true.” you mumble as you two stop at your locker

“it’s stupid.” she says rolling her eyes. she looks past you as you dig through your locker. a smirk takes over her face. “your boyfriend’s coming.”

you look up to her quickly, “what ?” she nods ahead as you turn to your left. your eyes widen as you see isaac coming toward you. “oh my god.”

“good luck.” she says. your head snaps to her. “what ? where are you going ?”

“away from here. the awkward flirting makes me nauseous.”

“wait, malia. please.” you beg

“no.” she mumbles, “isaac.”

you sigh as the boy stops beside you. he smiles lightly, “hey, malia.”

the girl hums before she walks off.

you and isaac had a little bit of a confusing relationship. you two weren’t dating, but it was obvious you liked each other. you didn’t really know what to make of it since he hadn’t asked you on a date or to be his girlfriend. it was just a little awkward whenever you two spoke to each other.

“uh, y/n ?”

your eyes shut tightly before you slowly turn to him. when your eyes open, you’re met with a smile.

“hey, isaac.” you say softly

“hey. how was your day ?” he asks

“it was good.” you nod. “uh, what about you ? how was your day ?”

“good. good.” he nods. you chuckle as you nod with him. “i actually wanted to ask you something.”

“okay.” you say as he starts digging through his bag.

“i wanted to ask if you’d wear my extra jersey to the game tonight.” he says as he pulls the jersey out. you brows raise as you look up at him.

“really ?”

“yeah.” he says scratching the back of his neck, “only if you want to though.”

of course you did.

“yes. yeah, sure.” you ramble

“okay. great.” he smiles wide as you take the jersey from him. “i’ll be sure to look out for you.”

his heart skips as you smile up at him. his blue eyes searching your face before he looks down at his feet.

•••

a couple of hours had passed and the game was starting soon. you sat in the bleachers with lydia and malia while isaac, scott, stiles, kira, and liam were out on the field.

you wore isaac’s jersey like he asked, but you put a long sleeve on under seeing as it was always cold in beacon hills. you also tied the end of his jersey around your waist since it seemed like it was huge on you.

“you know, wearing someone’s jersey basically means that you’re dating.” lydia says

“does it ?” you ask

“yeah.” lydia nods, “trust me. so many different guys have tried giving me their jerseys. it’s like showing other guys that you’re taken.”

you look down at the jersey, “oh.”

“so, he’s finally making a move.” malia says, “thank god.”

“is that bad to where you guys are hoping that we finally start dating ?”

“yes.” they both say. your mouth opens slightly as you try to respond, but you come up with nothing as the game begins.

you missed how isaac had looked into the bleachers for you. his eyes searching each row until they finally land on you. a smile instantly taking over his face at the jersey covering your body.

•••

the game was nearing the end with only a few seconds left on the clock. the teams were tied and you could see coach basically having an aneurysm on the sidelines.

you weren’t too much into sports. only going to the games because of your friends being on the team, but you were on the edge of your seat.

it’s not long before you see the boys running around on the field. your eyes looking for anyone on your school’s team to have the ball.

you gasp as the ball flies through the air and isaac catches. the students start to cheer in the stands as he runs toward the goal.

“go, isaac ! go !” you yell as the students cheer him on. unbeknownst to you, he had been listening to only your voice the entire game. so, out of everyone yelling at him and cheering him on, he only heard you.

you and the students in the bleachers stand as he gets closer to the goal. you feel your heart beat hard in your chest as the clock ticks down.

just as isaac tosses the ball toward the goal, the buzzer goes off. it’s quiet for a second before the ball goes in. isaac earned the game winning point.

the crowd erupts into cheers as the team runs over to isaac. you and lydia jumping up and down as malia cheers beside you.

a couple of people step off the bleachers into the field to celebrate with the team.

you, lydia, and malia make your way down the bleachers and onto the field. you guys spot stiles first. malia walking up and giving him a hug as you look around.

“he’s on the other side.” stiles says breathing heavily. you turn to him to see him already smiling at you.

“go get him.” lydia says tapping your arm excitedly. you chuckle at her before you make your way through the students.

isaac laughs as his team sets him down. he turns as his eyes scan the crowd for any sign of you.

“isaac !”

he turns and sees you pushing through some students trying to make your way to them. you dodge a teen running up toward a friend as he smiles at you.

as you run up to him, he holds his arms out. you two collide in a hug with your arms going around his neck and his around your waist.

he lifts you off the ground slightly causing you to laugh. he sets you down as you pull away, but don’t go far at all. your hands holding onto his arms as his stay around your waist.

“that was amazing. i’m so proud of you.” you smile

“thank you.” he says, before his eyes trail down, “you actually wore it.”

you look down before looking up at him with bright eyes. “yeah, of course. you wanted me to, right ?”

“yeah.” he nods, “you know, i couldn’t have done it without you.”

your brows furrow, “what do you mean ?”

“i was listening for your voice.” he says. your face softens, “while i was playing. it helped me focus.”

isaac searches your face for any reaction to what he said. he doesn’t expect you to lean up and kiss him, but he definitely accepts it.

you pull away slowly. your breathing a little heavy as you look up at him. “i really like you.”

his smile widens, “i really like you too.”

you chuckle as he leans in again, kissing you softly.

#isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey imagines #daniel sharman #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf #miguelschamp

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