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letteredlettered · 7 months ago

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feedback and fic in fandom (3 f's of our own)

This conversation about feedback on fic says everything I’ve been wanting to say better than I could say it. But I’ll go ahead and try anyway.

Over the last five years or so there have been some great discussions around the rise of commodification of fanworks and decline of fandom community. This commodification looks a bit like enshittification of the internet: a cool site exists; its popularity makes someone realize they can get money from it; it has more and more ads; the site adds features to drive engagement, including The Algorithm; the things that made the site cool start to fall away. The site exists now as a vehicle purely to get clicks, and the people on it are on it solely to get clicks—to make money, to be successful, for some kind of social cachet.

AO3 doesn’t have advertisements. It’s not making money. But what is happening to fandom is proof of concept that enshittification changes the way we as humans engage. A cool website in 2004 was often a community space where you could meet people, have conversations, find cool things, and make cool things. A cool website in 2024 is either a content farm that will continually feed you enough content to hold your attention, or a social media site where your participation will come with stats to show you whether you are holding the attention of others.

AO3 wasn’t built to be a community space. It doesn’t have great functions for meeting people and having conversations. The idea was that, because fandom community spaces already existed, AO3 would serve the part of that community where you can find the cool things and store the cool things you made. It was meant to be a library in a city, not the whole city itself.

But it was also never meant to be a website in 2024, a content farm constantly generating content solely for your clicks and eyeballs and ad revenue, or a social media site where the content creators themselves vie for your clicks and eyeballs.

The most common talking point when people discuss the enshittification of fandom is the folks out there who are treating AO3 as that first kind of enshittified website: the content farm. This discussion is about how people treat fanfic as a product for consumption.

The post that kicked off the discussion on @sitp-recs’s blog was about someone who wasn’t getting very many kudos or comments on their fic, and was feeling pretty demoralized about it, then joined a discord server and found an entire channel dedicated to people loving their fic. But those on that server had never come to share that love with the author, which the author found really discouraging.

There are more and more stories like this. Someone on tiktok pulls a quote from a fic on AO3 and makes a 10-second video with them staring at a wall, the quote pasted at the bottom, music playing over it. It has 100,000 hearts, and 100 comments with people gushing over the fic, which has 80 kudos on AO3. Overall, people notice more and more hits on their fics, but fewer and fewer comments or even kudos. Fewer and fewer people seem to feel the need to interact with the author, instead treating the fic like a product to be used and discarded—which the enshittified internet (a stunning feature of late-stage capitalism!) encourages. The fandom community is dying, these stories conclude.

I agree. 100%. Both of the stories above have happened to me—viral tiktoks about my fic, secret discord channels to follow and discuss my fic—and let me tell you, it fucking sucks.

But from these observations about fandom enshittification, the discussion continues in a very odd direction. The solution to the death of fandom community is our favorite enshittification buzzword: engagement. We should engage the authors. They’re producing these products for free. We consume them at no cost. We must demonstrate our gratitude by paying them back.

It’s as though the capitalist consumption that the enshittified web encourages is so ingrained within us that we must think in terms of payment, in terms of exchange, transaction. Or as though, by forgoing payment, authors are some kind of martyrs defying capitalism, and the only way to honor their great sacrifice is comments and kudos.

Indeed, the discourse around this sometimes does veer away from capitalist rhetoric into something that smells almost religious in desperation. Authors are gods who bestow us mere mortals with the fruits of their labor benevolently, through love; the least we can do is worship them. Meanwhile the authors adopt the groveling sentiment of starving artists: I produce great art; I only humbly ask that you feed me in return.

These kinds of entreaties make my skin crawl for a number of reasons. I’m not a god. I’m not writing because I love you. I don’t expect your worship or even your praise.

I think the thing that disturbs me the most about it is that it suggests that authors (or, if the OP is feeling generous fan work creators) are the most important people in fandom. I’ve even seen posts stating that without creators, fandom wouldn’t exist—as though readers aren’t just as important. As though conversations where people discuss characterizations and plot points and randomly spin out interpretations and ideas and thoughts related to canon are meaningless. I’ve even seen people scramble to include folks having these discussions as “creators,” as though realizing that these people are necessary and integral to fandom communities but unable to drop the idea that the producers are the ones who are important. As though that person who just lurks can never count.

Is this what community is? When you join the queer community, are you expected to produce a product of your queerness? If not, must you actively participate and give back to the queer community in order to be considered a part of it? Or is it enough that you are queer, that you exist as a queer person and want to be around others who are queer, you want to be a part of something? What is community, anyway?

The problem with people raising the authors above everyone else in the community and demanding that tribute be paid is that they are decrying the “content farm” style of 2024 website out of one side of their mouth, but out of the other side are instead demanding that AO3 become a 2024-style social media website. Authors are influencers. “Engagement” and clicks are the things that really matter. They are in fact suggesting that the way to solve the commodification of fanfic is by “paying authors back” with stats.

Before anyone comes at me with the idea that comments aren’t just “stats,” I will clarify what I mean. There are literally hundreds of posts on tumblr alone claiming that any comment “helps” the author. Someone replies that they are shy to comment. Someone else replies that incoherent keyboard smashes, a single emoji, or the comment “kudos” are all that is required to satisfy the author, all that is required as tribute—all that is required as payment to keep this economy healthy.

I’m not condemning the comments that are keyboard smashes or emojis or a single kind word. I receive them. They make me happy. If anyone wants to leave such a comment on my fics, I’m really grateful for it. But this is not community-building. This is a transaction. In @yiiiiiiiikes25’s excellent response in the post linked at the beginning, they point out that “you have a cool hat” is something that is “perfectly nice” to hear from someone—and it is! We all want to be told we have a cool hat! But as they go on to say, what builds community is interactions that are deep and specific, interactions that are rich in quality, not in quantity. A kudos or a comment that says only ❤️are lovely things to receive, but they don’t build community.

My reaction, when I see people begging for kudos and comments as the only means by which to keep fandom community alive, is very close to @eleadore's. I want to say, “No. Readers do not need to comment or kudos. Believe not these hucksters who claim to know the appropriate method of fandom participation. Participate as you feel able, or not at all; nothing is required of you.”

I’ve been told before (several times) that I’m not qualified to participate in such discussions because I am an established author who has some fics with very high stats. It doesn’t matter that I have also been a new writer with almost no one reading my fics. It doesn’t matter that I still write in new fandoms where no one in that fandom knows me. It doesn’t matter that I, like any human being, still care about receiving recognition and attention and praise.

And maybe that’s correct. I personally don’t think that billionaires have a place in deciding the direction of the economy, and--if we're really going to consider fandom an economy--in fandom terms, if I’m not a billionaire, or even a millionaire, I’m definitely in the infamous “one percent.” So, just as no one wants to hear Elon Musk say “money isn’t everything,” maybe it’s not my place to say “kudos isn’t required, actually.”

That said, I’m not the only one who has a problem with the stats-based discourse around fandom community. However, the main counter-response to this discussion I see goes something like this: you shouldn’t be writing fic for validation. If you’re writing for attention, you’re doing it for the wrong reason. Authors should write fic because they love it without any expectation of return.

This is, in my opinion, missing the point of what is meant by fandom community.

I wrote fanfic before I knew that fanfic, as a concept, existed. I read books; I wanted them to be different; I wrote little stories for myself with new endings, with self-inserts, with cross-overs, with alternate universes. I did it for myself in the 90s. It never occurred to me that anyone else would do this, much less that people would share.

As @faiell points out—creating and sharing are two different things. I created fics for myself, but I decided to share them in the early 2000s because other people might like them, too. And of course, I wanted to hear whether other people liked them. How could I not? I might decorate my home just for me and not for anyone else’s preferences, but when people come over and say my house is nice, how can I not enjoy that? And if a lot of people think my house is nice, which encourages me to post pictures of it online, isn’t it understandable I might do so with the hope that more people will say my house is nice? And, honestly, if no one is appreciating my pictures, I probably won’t continue to go through the trouble of taking them and posting them. I’ll just enjoy my house that I decorated without sharing, the end.

When I found out there were whole fannish communities where people discussed canon and tossed ideas around about it, made theories and prompts and insights into the characters, fics they had written and recs for other fics and analyses of fics and art based on fics and fics based on art—I wanted to be a part of that, too. Now, sometimes, I write fic not out of an internal need to do so but out of a desire to participate in that community.

The idea that we write fic only for the love of it, then post it only because we possess it, is a process entirely centered on the self. It’s fandom in a vacuum. The idea that we share this thing, that we feel pleasure if someone likes it but feel nothing at all if no one says anything about it, that it’s completely okay to be ignored and unseen—that’s not what a community is either. That’s some weird sort of self-aggrandizement through self-effacement—because yes, there is often a weird kind of virtue-signaling in this kind of discourse.

I say this as someone who has virtue-signaled in that way: “some people write for stats, but I write for myself.” It’s bullshit. Sure, I write for myself, but why post it on the internet? Honestly, said virtue has a whiff of the capitalist machine, which would like you to produce for the sake of production, work for the sake of work. The noblest among us expect no recompense for that which they give!

The reason that I’m bringing this back around to capitalism is that capitalism actively works to dismantle community. The reason that folks are out here pleading for “engagement” in order to “pay back” authors for the products they give us “for free” is because people no longer even have the language to discuss how to participate in meaningful community. And frankly, how to build back fandom community, in the face of enshittification, is getting harder and harder to see.

But I do think that if we value fanfic and the fanfic community, it’s really, really not constructive to judge whether someone’s reasons for writing fanfic are valid. It’s also weird to me that it would be considered wrong that someone’s reason for sharing fanfic is because they would like to receive some recognition for it, when in fact that seems to be the most natural reason in the world for sharing something so private and vulnerable with the world.

Let’s go back to that idea of how hurtful it is to find out your fanfic is trending on tiktok without anyone from tiktok saying anything to you about your fic, or how it can be painful to find out there’s a secret discord channel dedicated to your fic. The people who respond to that with, “Ah, but you shouldn’t be writing to get attention!” are missing the point. The fic did get attention. It got lots. Attention obviously wasn't why the writer was writing--they were writing to participate, and they didn't get to. At all.

However, if your conclusion is that the author was upset because these particular stats were not accruing under this author’s profile, thereby preventing them from achieving the vaunted status of BNF and influencer—I don’t know, maybe you’re right. But I don’t think that’s why I, personally, have been hurt by these things, and I doubt it’s what hurt the people in these posts either. They’re hurt because they want to participate, and they have been systematically excluded by the very people they thought were part of the community they thought they could participate in.

Sure, if those folks from tiktok and the discord server all came and showered the author with kudos and comments that said “kudos,” the author might have felt satisfied enough with the quantity of this recognition that they would continue writing. But in the end, this still does nothing to address the problem of fandom community, in which the deep, meaningful recognition, interactions, and relationships in fandom are getting harder and harder to have and to build, as a result of how people now expect to engage in online spaces.

So, how to address the problem of fandom community? You probably read this long, long post hoping that I had an answer, and for that I must apologize. I don’t have solutions. My intent was to be descriptive, rather than prescriptive. I wished to outline the problems that I’m seeing in what was hopefully a slightly new or at least thought-provoking way, rather than offer solutions.

But, now that I’m talking about being prescriptive, maybe I can offer one suggestion, which is—maybe the solution to this isn’t about prescribing behavior. I do understand the irony in writing a prescription saying we shouldn’t prescribe people, but I’m going to write it anyway:

Maybe we shouldn’t be telling anyone the appropriate reasons for writing fanfic or for sharing it. Maybe we shouldn’t be telling readers they need to kudos or need to comment. If we’re going to go pointing fingers, we should be pointing at the institutions of capitalism that have made the internet what it is today—but I don’t think that’s going to solve the problem either.

But I do think that describing this problem, understanding what it actually is, not blaming readers for it and not blaming authors for it—I do think that helps. The discussion I linked at the beginning of this post is what I think of as the fandom I miss, the fandom that's now harder and harder to access, the fandom that is dying. That fandom was a social space where people had opinions and disagreed and went back and forth and gazed at their navels and then talked about Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

In the words of @yiiiiiiiikes25, it was a fuckin’ discussion about hats. And we’re hungry for it.

#fandom #long post #fic #feedback #comment culture

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anaquariusfox · 1 year ago

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I spent the evening looking into this AI shit and made a wee informative post of the information I found and thought all artists would be interested and maybe help yall?

edit: forgot to mention Glaze and Nightshade to alter/disrupt AI from taking your work into their machines. You can use these and post and it will apparently mess up the AI and it wont take your content into it's machine!

edit: ArtStation is not AI free! So make sure to read that when signing up if you do! (this post is also on twt)

[Image descriptions: A series of infographics titled: “Opt Out AI: [Social Media] and what I found.” The title image shows a drawing of a person holding up a stack of papers where the first says, ‘Terms of Service’ and the rest have logos for various social media sites and are falling onto the floor. Long transcriptions follow.

Instagram/Meta (I have to assume Facebook).

Hard for all users to locate the “opt out” options. The option has been known to move locations.

You have to click the opt out link to submit a request to opt out of the AI scraping. *You have to submit screenshots of your work/face/content you posted to the app, is curretnly being used in AI. If you do not have this, they will deny you.

Users are saying after being rejected, are being “meta blocked”

People’s requests are being accepted but they still have doubts that their content won’t be taken anyways.

Twitter/X

As of August 2023, Twitter’s ToS update:

“Twitter has the right to use any content that users post on its platform to train its AI models, and that users grant Twitter a worldwide, non-exclusive, royalty-free license to do so.”

There isn’t much to say. They’re doing the same thing Instagram is doing (to my understanding) and we can’t even opt out.

Tumblr

They also take your data and content and sell it to AI models.

But you’re in luck!

It is very simply to opt out (Wow. Thank Gods)

Opt out on Desktop: click on your blog > blog settings > scroll til you see visibility options and it’ll be the last option to toggle

Out out of Mobile: click your blog > scroll then click visibility > toggle opt out option

TikTok

I took time skim their ToS and under “How We Use Your Information” and towards the end of the long list: “To train and improve our technology, such as our machine learning models and algorithms.”

Regarding data collected; they will only not sell your data when “where restricted by applicable law”. That is not many countries. You can refuse/disable some cookies by going into settings > ads > turn off targeted ads.

I couldn’t find much in AI besides “our machine learning models” which I think is the same thing.

What to do?

In this age of the internet, it’s scary! But you have options and can pick which are best for you!

Accepting these platforms collection of not only your artwork, but your face! And not only your faces but the faces of those in your photos. Your friends and family. Some of those family members are children! Some of those faces are minors! I shudder to think what darker purposes those faces could be used for.

Opt out where you can! Be mindful and know the content you are posting is at risk of being loaded to AI if unable to opt out.

Fully delete (not archive) your content/accounts with these platforms. I know it takes up to 90 days for instagram to “delete” your information. And even keep it for “legal” purposes like legal prevention.

Use lesser known social media platforms! Some examples are; Signal, Mastodon, Diaspora, et. As well as art platforms: Artfol, Cara, ArtStation, etc.

The last drawing shows the same person as the title saying, ‘I am, by no means, a ToS autistic! So feel free to share any relatable information to these topics via reply or qrt!

I just wanted to share the information I found while searching for my own answers cause I’m sure people have the same questions as me.’ \End description] (thank you @a-captions-blog!)

#anti ai #ethics

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hugheswho · 9 days ago

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Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep?

Summary: You come across an edit of young Luke while he’s asleep next to you in bed. You can’t hide your emotions and wake him up from crying so violently.

Paring: Luke Hughes x fem!reader

Warnings: all fluff and crying <3

Author’s Note: Inspired by this tiktok i saw a few months ago that made me gasp out loud. Haven’t stopped thinking about it since

Word Count: 1.7k

It’s late. Really late. Too late to be on your phone. You’re too engrossed in TikTok, convincing yourself it’s okay to endlessly scroll as a way to shut your brain off after a busy day. Luke has been snoozing away next to you for hours at this point.

There really is no rhyme or reason to your For You Page. Some are recipe videos, some are stand-up comedy bits, and others are part 16 of a full-length feature film. You tell yourself you’ll stop scrolling once you find the best video of the night. The right TikTok that satisfies you enough to say ‘Okay, yeah, I should stop now.”

You think you’ve found it when you scroll once more and your boyfriend appears on your screen. You’ve never actively searched Luke’s name on TikTok, but it doesn’t surprise you that he shows up quite a bit. From the number of times you like the Devils' posts, send things to Luke, and, quite frankly, just say his name out loud, you know your phone is listening to you. The algorithm knows all. Can you blame a girl for indulging in some thirst traps of her boyfriend?

A soft smile forms on your face as the video starts, Hozier’s cover of Do I Wanna Know? playing over clips of Luke. Nothing too crazy, just some clips of him in interviews. You’ve seen this trend before and wait with bated breath, expecting the song to flip to the original Arctic Monkeys version with clips of Luke looking rather…. scrumptious.

But that doesn’t happen. The song doesn’t change; instead, the shots of Luke do. It’s no longer the current-day man that sleeps a foot away from you. Rather, it’s young Luke. The boy who became your best friend at birth. The boy you grew up with. The boy you fell in love with.

The switch to adolescent Luke feels like a gut punch. You can’t stop thinking about your lives together. How you’ve always had one another. Even in those clips of baby Luke, you knew him when he first learned to skate. You knew him during his time in the program. You know him now, fulfilling his dream of being in the NHL.

It suddenly became all too much. You don’t even realize you’re crying until a tear drops onto your phone screen. The more you rewatch the video, the more you cry. You think you have it under control, but every time the plot twist happens, your body betrays you, shuddering and gasping. You cover your mouth with your hand when you start to feel something shifting next to you.

“Babe? What’s going on?” You hear a very tired and confused Luke rasp out.

Still actively crying in the dark, you respond, “Nothing Lu, go back to sleep.” You hope he’s too drowsy that he can’t properly comprehend your mental state. There’s no way you can explain this to him right now.

“Are you laughing or crying?” Luke asks, having definitely picked up on your unsteady voice.

“I think both?” you answer truthfully. This is seriously ridiculous, you think to yourself. The absurdity of the moment makes you cry more.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Luke softly questions while leaning over to turn the bedside lamp on.

When the bulb illuminates the room, you get your first good look at his face since before you both retired to bed hours ago. And that just breaks the dam. The sight of his matured face, merely inches away from you, combined with the young, baby-faced Luke you were just watching on repeat, causes you to wail out a full-on sob.

Luke’s eyes go wide, sleep fully gone from his body. He quickly caresses your arm up and down to soothe you.

“Am I that ugly?” He jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

“No, no, not at all. I just…” you trail off.

“What? What’s wrong?”

This can’t be happening. What are you even supposed to reply? Tell the truth and look like a fool? He’s never going to let you live it down.

“Nothing, it’s stupid.” You settle on, hoping he’ll just let it go.

“It’s not stupid if it has you this upset.” God, why is he so good to you? Your tears still fall, this time at his tender care for you.

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

“I promise I won’t,” Luke says seriously, staring into your eyes. You frown to yourself, not budging. “Baby, please tell me why you’re crying. I’m not going back to sleep until we figure this out.”

Looking back at him, you sigh, “It’s silly,” your last futile attempt to get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself into. If only you were a quieter crier.

Luke just fixes you a look, his eyes boring into yours, as to say ‘I’m not dropping this.’ You finally cave and turn your phone towards him. Luke’s brows furrow as the video starts, confused about where this is headed.

“A TikTok made you cry?”

You weakly roll your eyes at your chronically offline boyfriend.

“When don’t TikToks make me cry?” you ask rhetorically, earning a laugh from Luke.

As the video shifts to clips of young Luke, and your breathing gets a bit more staggered rewatching, Luke softly smiles to himself. His eyes look in your direction and see the look on your face. One full of love.

Luke knows he’s still young, but those moments seem like a lifetime ago. He can’t believe how far he’s come in such a short amount of time. He’d say he can’t believe you’ve been there alongside him the whole time, except he can believe it. Because that’s who you are. That’s who you’ve always been to him. The person he could turn to for anything. When he wasn’t sure if being drafted to the Devils would be a good or bad thing for him. When he felt his whole life turn upside down in a second as he left Tampa after losing the Frozen Four. When he felt like he wasn’t the player he knew he could be during his rookie year. All those moments where Luke felt like the walls were crashing in on him, you single-handedly pushed them off of him.

Then the video ends, and you both turn to look at each other. Your lips are pulled into the cutest little frown, eyes glassy and red, with a stray tear rolling down to your neck. Luke takes in the sight before him and bites his lip to make sure he doesn’t crack, but you see right through him.

“YOU SAID YOU WOULDN'T LAUGH!”

“I'M NOT LAUGHING! I’m just… smiling because you’re so cute.” Luke reacts, clearly laughing.

You just pout, letting out a whine as you roll your head onto Luke’s shoulder. Instinctively, he wraps his arm around your waist to get you as close as possible.

“Baby, why did that make you cry?” Luke inquires while softly brushing the hair on the back of your head with his free hand. His head rests atop yours.

“Because you were so young and that was the boy I fell in love with but waited so long to tell when we could've been loving each other since then instead of both suffering in silence!” You blurt out in one whole sentence, no time for pauses, as your tears start back up at how much time you feel you’ve lost with Luke.

“You’re acting like we weren’t in each other's lives then,” Luke replied amused at your dramatics but still soft enough to let you know he’s not dismissing you.

“But we weren’t in the way we are now. And you were so precious then! But I didn’t get to kiss your face the way I do now when I think you’re being cute!”

Luke fondly smiles before saying “we happened when we were meant to happen.”

“You didn’t even know I loved you then,” you mumble as you wipe your tears, not happy your boyfriend isn’t indulging in your pity party.

Silence washes over the two of you. Luke continues to stroke your arm as a means of comfort. He turns his head to place a kiss on your temple.

“I did. I knew.”

You pivot your head to look at your boyfriend. Faces only a few inches away from each other. There’s something about Luke’s eyes that act as a magnetic force. Once you catch a glance, you can’t look away.

“Yeah?” you ask above a whisper, not wanting to seem too hopeful, as if he’d care about that.

“Yeah.”

You suddenly feel vulnerable. You and Luke have been in each others lives since birth. You started dating after his playoffs debut. Obviously both of you loved each other before then. However, you never really went into when you both fell in love. You feel exposed having told Luke you loved him since your early teens.

Needing his reassurance, you quietly ask, “and you loved me then too?”

Luke’s stoic face lights up, a smile slowly stretching across it.

“Completely adored.”

You swallow your nerves down with the revelation of Luke loving you back at the same time. With the new found confidence, you say “so why not then? Why didn’t we get together years ago instead of waiting?”

“We were young,” Luke shrugs before continuing, “I don’t think we would’ve been able to give each other what we wanted if we started then. We both had to figure out who we were before we committed to this.”

“But it’s us,” you defend, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Because it is.

Luke laughs at your persuasiveness.

“Look, we both wanted each other then, right? But we both had so much maturing to do. And once we did that, we both still wanted each other. That’s how we were able to find our way to where we are now. Neither of us were in the way of the other, we were just…on the sideline. Cheering each other into the right path.”

The tears start again. You look down at your phone, picturing all the memories of you and Luke as toddlers, kids, teenagers, and now young adults.

“I miss us being young together,” you confess.

“You’re going to say that about us now in thirty years. We have the rest of our lives to spend together. And prove how much we love each other,” Luke reassures you, and you know he means it.

“Now can you please put your phone away and cuddle with me?”

#luke hughes #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes fluff #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes imagine #bells writes sometimes

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p0orbaby · 2 months ago

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magic 8 ball

summary: What starts as Leah crashing your pity pint spirals, predictably, into something far less wholesome and far more hands-on.

warnings: SMUT 18+, just general sex stuff so you know the drill

a/n: i was inspired, not sure by what, but here we are

word count: 2.5k

“I’m not having a breakdown,” you say, peeling the label off your beer with such deep concentration you forget you have to breathe to survive. “I’m having a perfectly rational response to the current state of the world. And also to my boss, who thinks ‘relevance’ is when a TikTok account reposts our gallery’s Instagram.”

Leah makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and slides onto the stool next to you as if she owns the place. She probably does. Or knows someone who does. She’s wearing a camel coat from The Row that looks like it’s never seen a hanger. Soft, fluid, draped like wealth. Her hair is up—one of those deliberately lazy ponytails that costs £80 at a salon and makes people call you effortless like it’s a compliment. She probably just didn’t bother sorting it after training.

She orders a double gin and tonic. Not with Bombay or Tanqueray or any of the pedestrian options available to people who wear polyester and say OOTD. She points, without looking, at a bottle of something artisanal. Something with botanicals. Something brewed by a man with a beard who lives in Hackney and forages moss recreationally while naked.

“You’re twitching,” she says, when the bartender walks away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, tight. “I’m absolutely fucking fine.”

You’re not. You’re vibrating with the same energy as a microwave that’s just been asked to reheat a bowl of leftover soggy chicken chow mein.

Leah squints. “Your eye does this thing when you’re on the brink of homicide. It’s cute, all things considered.”

You think about stabbing her with the cocktail stick that came with the complimentary olives you got when you ordered. Instead, you finish peeling the label. The bar is now covered in neat, sticky curls of Beck’s branding. You take a vicious sort of pride in it—like this bar owes you something and you’re slowly destroying it molecule by molecule.

“I had to explain post-conceptualism to a man who unironically collects Funko Pops today.”

“God.”

“He said, ‘So it’s like Banksy but sadder?’”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“And then he asked me if Damien Hirst invented fruit winders.”

Leah bites her lip to suppress a grin. You hate that she finds this funny.

“I’m in hell,” you say. “I live here now. It’s beige and the lighting’s fluorescent and all the curators wear Balenciaga in the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way to wear Balenciaga?”

“Yes. It’s when you do it with sincerity.”

Leah hums, amused. Her drink arrives. She picks it up like she’s in an advert for skincare. You hate her glass. It’s too clean. You hate how she sips, like the liquid is trying to earn her respect. You hate her in general, really. But it’s a specific, curated hate. The kind that comes with longing. Jealousy. Proximity.

“You’re not angry,” she says, “you’re heartbroken.”

“I am not heartbroken.”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You’re artistically blue-balled.”

That, unfortunately, lands. You clench your jaw. You spent two months assembling an exhibit that got described as visually competent by someone whose own work consists of melting Barbie heads onto coat hooks. The only person who seemed to get it was a caretaker, and even he asked if it was “about feminism or something.”

Leah’s watching you with the sort of curiosity she usually reserves for rare mushrooms or political scandals. You feel exposed, like she’s mentally peeling your skin back to check for rot.

“I just—” You stop. You sip your beer. You stare at its froth like it insulted your mother. “I just want to make something that doesn’t immediately get filtered through someone else’s idiot-brand algorithm of what art is supposed to do. I don’t want it to do anything. I want it to exist. And I want that to be enough.”

There’s a pause. A proper silence. A respectful one.

Then Leah says, “Well. That’s depressing.”

You blink. “Do you ever have a normal human reaction?”

“I do,” she says, “just not to tantrums disguised as philosophies.”

You groan. Loudly. Obnoxiously. “Why are you here?”

She takes another sip, smacks her lips, says: “You texted me the words ‘I hope my body gets mistaken for a performance piece when I die.’ So I cleared my schedule.”

You rub your face. You did text that. You thought it was funny.

“You’re a masochist,” you mutter.

“You’re dramatic.”

You look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Leah leans in, her face maddeningly calm. “Sweetheart. I know I am.”

You want to throw something at her. A pint glass. the chair you’re sitting on. Your entire unresolved emotional history. But instead you say, “Do you ever get tired of always being the most emotionally detached person in the room?”

She tilts her head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending your anger is intellectual when really you’re just sad and lonely and catastrophically underfucked?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I am not underfucked.”

“I can see how tense your jaw is from here. It’s clenched like a Victorian child repressing her feelings about having to crawl up another chimney. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me that’s the face of someone getting railed regularly.”

You want to die. You also want her to say it again, slowly, in private, with less clothing.

There’s a long, crackling pause. You both know it’s no longer about art.

Leah sets down her glass. She taps the rim once, twice. Rhythm. Precision. Her nails are short, square, coated in clear polish that you don’t normally notice but have now because you can’t look her in the eye. Then you catch yourself staring at her hands for too long and quickly look away.

She doesn’t comment. But you know she notices. Leah notices everything. She notices the hair tie on your wrist has snapped and been retied in a knot, twice. She notices you’ve stopped wearing mascara, which you used to call your “armour” in that stupid, performative way you used to talk about beauty like it was actually important. She notices the crack in your lip that won’t heal because you’ve been biting it every time you think too hard.

She says, eventually, almost to herself:

“Right. That’s enough tragic brooding. Come on.”

You glance at her sideways. “Come on what?”

She lifts her chin, shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s time for the three F’s.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The three F’s,” she repeats, counting them off on one hand like she’s listing dinner party ingredients. “Food. Fucking. And… I haven’t decided on the third one. It’s usually ‘forgiveness’ but tonight it might change depending on my mood or how close you are to bursting into tears.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you having a stroke?”

Leah ignores this. She taps her temple. “It’s a system. A trifecta. A deeply spiritual practice.”

“Sounds like a religious cult run by Gordon Ramsay.”

She smirks. “Exactly. Chips first. Sex second. Existential clarity optional.”

You stare at her, arms folded. She’s smiling now, that crooked, smug half-smile that suggests she knows she’s funny, even when you want to shove her face into a vat of chip grease.

“You offering?” you ask, dry. “For the second F?”

Leah shrugs again. “No. I saw a homeless man outside and thought you two might hit it off.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She sips her drink like she’s just said something unremarkable and bureaucratic, like we’ll be closing early due to maintenance. She doesn’t look at you. You’re glad. You’re not ready for the look she gives you when she’s being sincere. It’s like being x-rayed.

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Of course I’m offering. Don’t be daft.”

You freeze. A beat. Another.

“I thought I was a neurotic, emotionally volatile husk of a woman with a martyr complex and an inflated sense of artistic purpose.”

“You are,” she says. “But you’ve got a decent face and you’re good with your hands. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”

You scoff. And you’re trying really hard to stay calm because your doctor has informed you your concerningly high blood pressure is a direct correlation of your erratic emotions.

“What happened to chips first?”

“Oh, I still want chips. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since three and I’m craving something fried and disgusting. Preferably served by someone with a name badge and an attitude problem.”

You nod slowly. “That’s the most grounded thing you’ve said all night.”

“Thank you. I’m a woman of the people.”

She drains her gin and stands, smooth and sudden, like movement happens to her rather than from her. You watch the line of her coat shift across her hips and hate her a little more. In a nice way. A respectful way.

She glances back at you, already heading toward the door. “You coming, or are you going to sit here frowning into warm beer like the ghost of failed gallery interns past?”

You mutter something under your breath and follow. Of course you do. It’s Leah.

It’s always Leah.

“You’re making that face again.”

Leah’s looking at you from the other end of the bed—half undressed, half mocking, propped up on her elbow like some god-awful, lesbianised version of a Greek statue who knows exactly how fit she is.

You’re topless and regretting all your life choices. “What face?”

“The one that says, ‘this is a terrible idea but I’m already wet so fuck it.’”

She’s not wrong.

You shoot her a glare and yank your bra off in one not so smooth move. It slaps the floor with the exhausted whimper of cotton that’s held too many disappointing breasts over the years.

“God, you’re hot when you’re angry,” she says, and you want to laugh. Or hit her. Or sit on her face. All three feel valid.

“Shut up and lie down.”

She does. Immediately. The smugness fades slightly, replaced by something quieter. More concentrated. She watches you crawl over her like a lion stalking its prey. Or more realistically like you’re some slow-motion car crash she wants to get hit by.

You kiss her. Sloppy. Unapologetic. More tongue than technique. It’s not romantic. It’s hot. It’s urgent. It tastes like gin and old rage.

Somewhere between biting her lip and grinding down against her thigh, you lose track of how long you’ve been pretending not to want this. Leah’s skin is warm and annoyingly soft. Her bra’s still on. She’s still wearing her bra.

You reach for it, fumbling. “Why are these always like a NASA launch?”

She laughs into your neck. “You’ve never undressed another woman before, have you?”

“Only emotionally.”

You finally get the clasp and she shrugs out of it, tits bouncing slightly. You both pretend not to notice how your brain flatlines for a second. You’re supposed to be cool. You’re supposed to be in control.

But her nipples are hard and you’re throbbing and when she reaches between your legs without warning, you gasp—loud and unedited.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Warn a girl.”

“You’ve literally been grinding on my thigh for five minutes.”

“That’s different. That’s friendship.”

Leah slips her hand down your knickers. Finds you soaked. She hums like she’s impressed. Or smug. Probably both.

“Jesus, babe,” she says. “You’re soaked.”

You scoff. “Don’t call me babe. You sound like some weirdo on Love Island.”

“Fine. Darling?”

“Worse.”

“You’re tight when you’re annoyed,” she murmurs, and then pushes two fingers in. Just like that.

You moan. Too loudly. Your hips buck automatically.

“Oh, fuck—”

Leah grins like a wolf. She curls her fingers and your whole spine tries to fold in half.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says, pumping slow, deliberate, unfair. “There. Right there. Don’t move.”

You immediately move. “Fuck, wait—fuck, there.”

She groans, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so annoying.”

You kiss her to shut her up and reach down between her legs. Her knickers are drenched too. You laugh.

“What?” she says, breath hitching.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know England’s golden girl got this wet.”

“I’m a footballer,” she pants, “not a cardinal.”

You pull her knickers aside, push two fingers in easily. She’s hot and slick and all kinds of fuckable. Her eyes roll back for a second. She grabs your arm, anchoring herself. Her nails dig in.

“Oh my god. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t—don’t fucking stop.”

You thrust harder, matching her rhythm, both your hands moving now—sloppy and synchronised. Her hips are rolling. Yours too. There’s swearing. Lots of it. You’re both flushed and swearing and laughing in between grunts.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Harder.”

You give it to her harder. You give it to her like a promise. Like revenge.

At one point you both reach for each other at the same time and bang foreheads. Loudly.

“Ow,” you groan, blinking.

She’s laughing. “This is the least elegant sex I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” you growl, sucking a bruise into her neck. “I’m not here to be elegant.”

You push her legs wider. You go lower.

“Wait—are you—oh fuck—”

You don’t bother answering. You just get your mouth on her. One long, filthy lick from her entrance to her clit and she arches like she’s being electrocuted.

“Jesus CHRIST,” she chokes. “You’ve done this before.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just moan into her cunt and keep going.

Her hand finds your hair and tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel owned.

She’s close. You can feel it. She starts talking like a woman possessed.

“Yes. There. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t. Of course you don’t. You flatten your tongue and she breaks.

She cums hard, loud, practically shaking, her thighs closing around your head like a vice.

When she collapses, she pulls you up, kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t, and flips you over. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her mouth is on you like it’s home. She licks you open, groaning like you’re her favourite meal and she’s been fasting.

“Oh fuck me,” you cry, gripping the headboard like it’s a lifeline.

She hums against your clit. You nearly black out.

“Yeah?” she says, lifting her head. “That good?”

You nod, dazed.

“Use your words.”

“More.”

“More what?”

“More Leah.”

She moans like that’s the final straw and fingers you hard, mouth locked around your clit as if it belongs there. You cum embarrassingly fast. Practically scream. Collapse against the pillow like a dramatic Victorian wife.

There’s a beat. Silence. Both panting.

Then:

“I think I saw god.”

Leah wipes her mouth and shrugs. “Tell her I said hi.”

You both dissolve into hysterical laughter, tangled up and sweaty and slightly horrified.

“So,” you say, catching your breath. “The verdict on the third F?”

She grins. “I think I'll stick with forgiveness. For all the shit we’re about to pretend didn’t just happen.”

You nod. “Fair.”

And then you kiss her again. Because honestly, what else are you going to do?

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine

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meazalykov · 2 months ago

Text

nazareth 18

kika nazareth x f!influencer!reader

when your millions of followers discover who your longtime girlfriend is

a whirlwind of light, a beacon on tiktok with over ten million followers hanging onto your every post, you were known for being so bright.

your content with beauty tutorials, travel vlogs, and that genuine, humble charm has made you… somewhat known to most people.

your face, glowing under golden-hour light or bright in casual settings, is synonymous with aspiration. yet, despite the fame, you’ve kept a piece of yourself private, tucked away from the prying eyes of fans and algorithms.

no one knows you’re in love.

no one knows you’re in love with a woman.

no one knows it’s kika nazareth, the portuguese stargirl at barcelona.

it started in barcelona, nearly two years ago. a mutual friend introduced you during a night out. kika, then ten months into being with the city’s club, was magnetic. the girl’s laugh is warm, her eyes bright with a quiet confidence, and her smile pulled you in.

you were struck by her ease to say the least. it’s the way she carried herself like she belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“you’re the girl from tiktok, right?” she teased the first time you’ve met, her accent curling softly around the words.

you laughed, nodding, and said, “and you’re the footballer, right?”

it was light, playful.

over time, that undeniable spark grew. texts turned into late-night calls and coffee meetups became weekend getaways. you’d fly into barcelona between brand deals, and kika would sneak away from bonding with the team to steal moments with you instead.

when she tore her ankle ligaments, requiring surgery and months of recovery, you were there. you’d sit with her in her apartment, her leg propped up, and you’d talk about everything. for kika, the way the world felt too big and too small all at once, but you made it bearable.

“i don’t know how i’d do this without you,” she’d whisper, her hand finding yours.

you’d squeeze back, heart full, and say, “you don’t have to.”

now, almost a year into your relationship, you’re careful. your followers know you love barcelona since you’re always in the city somehow. you’ve posted about it enough, from selfies at the stadium to beachside vlogs.

still, they don’t know about kika. not yet at least.

you and kika have talked about it, about how to share your love with a world that’s both adoring and invasive.

“we’ll do it our way,” kika says one night, her head resting on your shoulder as you lie on her couch.

“slowly and softly, i hope.” you nod, tracing circles on her palm.

“wait– wouldn’t that be a soft launch?” you murmur, and she laughs kissing your cheek, “yes, exactly.”

the first hint to your fans comes by accident.

it’s a champions league group stage match, barcelona versus ajax. you’re in the stands, cheering, your face painted with the club’s colors. you’re not hiding since you’ve always been a fan, but cameras catch you and social media does the rest.

clips of you clapping, smiling, singing the anthem spread like wildfire.

“y/n is at a barcelona game again,” one post reads, “she’s basically part of the team.”

however, someone notices something.

they notice the way you linger near the tunnel, the way you wave at someone on the pitch. speculation begins.

“i know she is at the women's game but she seems very close with players on both the mens and womens team? is she dating someone?” a fan asks.

“gotta be,” another replies, “she’s too invested.”

you lean into it, just a little.

a few days later, you post an instagram picture.

y/n.l/n

liked by kika.nazareth, ferrantorres, and 189,719 others

y/n.l/n gold

~click to view all 3,910 comments~

it’s you, standing on a barcelona street at golden hour wearing the black away kit. the breeze catches your hair, making it dance, and the kit’s sleek lines stand out against the soft light.

you’re turned slightly away from the camera, casual in blue levi’s, but the vibe is effortless, magnetic.

the caption is simple with “gold” and within hours, the post has hundred thousand likes. from the mens team, ferran likes it. lamine likes it. pedri likes it.

the comments explode.

“y/n and ferran??”

“lamine’s got a crush, i’m calling it!”

“pedri would be cute for her tho!”

you see the speculation during a tiktok livestream at home at nighttime once, your phone propped up as you do a quick q&a. a comment pops up: “are you dating pedri or ferran? spill the tea!”

you laugh, shaking your head.

“guys, no,” you say with your voice light but firm, “not them. not anyone on the men’s team. let’s chill with the rumors.”

the chat goes wild, but you don’t elaborate. kika, watching from her apartment, texts you a heart-eyes emoji.

kika:

you’re cute when you’re dodging

y/n:

just wait.

you and kika plan the next step carefully. the champions league group stage match against arsenal is the moment. at first, you were doubtful but kika assured you that she is okay with everything.

you’re in the stands again, this time wearing the home kit, the number 18 and “nazareth” emblazoned on the back. you’re not subtle, but you’re not overt either…you’re just you, cheering for your girlfriend.

during the game, a fan snaps a photo of you talking to salma, who sits beside you since she is sidelined with an injury. you’re turned around from the fan’s camera, the “nazareth 18” clear as day.

the image hits x and instagram like a tidal wave.

“y/n’s wearing kika’s kit???”

“wait, is she…?”

the game ends with a 3-0 win, kika scoring a stunner in the second half. the crowd screamed, and you’re on your feet, screaming her name. after the whistle, kika jogs to the stands, her smile wide and unguarded.

you lean over the railing, reaching down, and she stretches up to hug you. it’s quick but electric, her arms tight around you, your hands cupping her face for a split second.

“you’re my hero,” you whisper, and she laughs, her eyes sparkling.

“and you’re mine,” she whispers back. cameras catch it all, and the internet loses its mind.

by morning, your social media is a storm.

“y/n and kika nazareth are dating???” a tiktok with a full discussion blows up. they’ve been stitching together clips of your interactions: kika liking your posts, you commenting heart emojis on her posts, a blurry photo of you two at a café last summer.

“how did we miss this?”

“they’ve been soft-launching for months, and we thought they were just friends.”

“y/n as a wag is everything,”

“and a woman’s wag? iconic.”

you and kika sit on her balcony that night. she’s in a hoodie, her hair loose, and you’re wrapped in a blanket, your phone buzzing endlessly.

“not like i would’ve cared anyways, but they’re happy for us,” you say, scrolling through comments.

“they’re freaking out, but they’re happy.”

kika pulls you closer, her lips brushing your temple.

“good,” she says softly, “because i’m happy. i want them to know how much i love you.” your heart skips, and you turn to kiss her, slow and sweet.

“i love you too,” you murmur against her lips.

“always.”

you hear footsteps come out towards the balcony, the light door opening as you look up to see vicky looking down at y’all, “get a room.”

“oh, i forgot you were here.”

you joke, everyone laughing as vicky sits down beside on the bench.

a week later, and people are not over it. tiktok edits of your hug after the arsenal match are everywhere, set to popular tracks with heart emojis flooding the comments. your followers, once clueless, now scour your old content for crumbs of your relationship, and they’re finding plenty.

there’s a fleeting glance in a vlog, kika’s laugh in the background of a story. you’re still the beauty and travel influencer they adore, but now you’re also a footballers girlfriend, and they’re obsessed with the shift.

you’re in your barcelona apartment, the one you’ve been staying in more often since kika’s recovery. it’s a cozy space, with sun streaming through the windows, casting warm patches on the hardwood floor.

you’ve set up your phone on a tripod in the living room for a casual tiktok livestream. you’re in a loose sweater, hair tucked behind your ears, chatting with your followers about your latest skincare routine as per usual.

the vibe is relaxed, your voice soft and easy as you read comments.

“yes, i’m still using that olehenriksen serum,” you say, laughing at a fan’s question.

“i'm not even sponsored but it is so good, i highly recommend.” the live has been going for about twenty minutes, with almost 29,000 people tuned in, their comments scrolling fast.

you’re mid-sentence, answering a question about your favorite travel destination, when kika’s voice floats in from the kitchen.

“babe, come try this!” she calls, her accent warm and lilting.

you glance toward the sound, a smile tugging at your lips.

she’s been in there for the past hour, clattering pots and humming to herself, determined to perfect a recipe her mom sent her…a portuguese caldo verde, she said, though she’s been tweaking it with her own spin.

you hold up a finger to the camera.

“one sec, guys, kika’s cooking something,” you say, your tone bright. the chat explodes with heart eyes and “kika!!!” comments.

kika appears in the doorway, a wooden spoon in one hand, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. she’s in a barcelona hoodie, sleeves pushed up, and there’s a smudge of flour on her cheek that makes her look impossibly endearing.

“come on, it’s almost ready,” she says, beckoning you with a grin. she steps into the frame, unaware of the thousands watching, and holds out the spoon, a small pool of steaming broth glistening on it.

“taste,” she urges, blowing gently on the spoon to cool it down. her eyes are bright, focused on you.

you lean forward, letting her guide the spoon to your lips. the broth is warm, savory, with a hint of something smoky and rich. your eyes widen, and your jaw drops as the flavor hits you.

“wait, hold on!! that’s so delicious,” you say, your voice rising with genuine surprise. you grab her wrist, keeping the spoon close as you take another tiny sip.

“hold on, what is this?” you’re already standing, following her toward the kitchen like a kid chasing a treat.

kika laughs, glancing back at you with a playful roll of her eyes.

you’ve completely forgotten about the livestream. your phone, still propped up, captures the empty couch for a moment before the comments start bursting through.

“did she just leave???”

“kika’s cooking for her omg”

“this is so cute i’m dying.”

the kitchen is just out of frame, but your voices carry through the phone as you talk.

“okay, so what’s in this?” you ask, leaning against the counter. you can’t see kika’s face from the phone’s angle, but her voice is animated.

“potatoes, kale, some chorizo for the kick to it,” she says, “and i added a little smoked paprika because, you know, i’m extra.”

you laugh, the sound bright and unguarded.

“i feel like you’re always extra, sweetheart,” you say, the name slipping out naturally.

kika’s laugh is softer, closer, like she’s stepped toward you.

“shut up!! you love it,” she teases, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

“i do,” you admit, your tone so fond it’s almost tangible. there’s a clink of a pot lid, then kika’s voice again.

“okay, try this one now…it’s got more garlic.” you make a dramatic “ooh” sound, and she giggles.

“don’t mock me, this is serious business,” she says, but she’s laughing too. the livestream audience is eating it up, the chat a blur of “SWEETHEART???” and “they’re so in love” come in rapidly.

you’re in the kitchen for a good five minutes, tasting, joking, bantering. kika tells you about the time her brother tried to make the same soup and ended up with something “like dishwater,” and you’re wheezing, clutching her arm as you laugh.

you don’t realize how much time has passed until you glance at the clock and gasp.

“oh no, my phone!” you say, suddenly remembering.

kika raises an eyebrow.

“what, you’re still live?” she asks, and you nod, already jogging back to the living room.

you grab the phone, and your eyes widen at the screen since 17,000 people are still watching, the chat moving so fast it’s a blur.

“oh my god, guys, i forgot i was live,” you say, laughing as you sit back on the couch. your cheeks are flushed, partly from the kitchen warmth, partly from the realization that your entire love-soaked exchange was broadcasted.

kika follows, leaning over the back of the couch, her chin resting on her folded arms.

she’s still holding the spoon, and she waves it at the camera with a grin.

“hola!!!” she says, her voice playful.

you turn to kika, mock-exasperated.

“i left you guys for, like, ten minutes, and you’re still here?” you say to the camera, but your smile betrays you. kika laughs, reaching over to ruffle your hair.

“they’re a bunch of barca fans who are here for me, obviously,” she teases, and you swat her hand away, giggling.

“rude,” you say, but you’re leaning into her touch, your shoulder brushing hers.

you glance at the chat, catching a comment, the sweetheart moment was everything.

you groan, covering your face with your hands, “oh noooo you guys heard that?” you ask, peeking through your fingers.

kika just laughs again, loud and unselfconscious, and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“guys please clip that, so she can’t deny the simp allegations,” she says, her voice warm against your ear.

you groan again, but you’re smiling, your head resting against her.

“whateverrr,” you say, softer now, and the chat fills with hearts.

the livestream ends a few minutes later, but not before kika makes a few jokes and reminds your chat to watch the next upcoming women’s clasico on friday.

you laugh, happy that your life has brought you to this point.

#kika nazareth #kika nazareth x reader #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #barcelona femeni #fc barcelona #portugal womens soccer team #fc barcelona femeni #benfica women #alexia putellas #vicky lopez

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amara-gaelthorne · 1 month ago

Text

Witchcraft Doesn’t Owe You Proof

Not everything sacred needs to be converted into data or monetized into results. Fantasy isn’t “lesser.” Symbolism doesn’t have to justify itself to capitalism. Internal experiences are valid experiences. And imagination? It is a power. It doesn’t need a paycheck, a testimonial, or a TikTok manifestation glow-up to matter.

Witchcraft—at its core—is liminal. It lives in the in-between, in dreams, in play, in the mythic, in the symbolic. Yes, it can be practical and results-based. But it also can be deeply indulgent, internal, aesthetic, irrational, beautifully useless in the utilitarian sense. That’s not weakness. That’s art. That’s freedom.

The Burden of Legitimization

When witches today feel the need to constantly prove that their craft works in the "real world"—it’s a form of protective posturing. Centuries of persecution, accusations, and erasure led to an underlying anxiety: “If I don’t produce, they’ll call me a fraud. If I don’t fix something, they’ll call me evil. If I indulge in fantasy, they’ll call me insane.”

That anxiety is real. It’s collective trauma. But bending to it doesn’t liberate anyone. It just hands your practice over to the same structures that once condemned it.

You Know What’s Revolutionary?

Saying: “My witchcraft isn’t for you.” “My fantasy isn’t meant to fix the world.” “My symbols don’t need to be literal to be real or meaningful or useful to me.” “This practice is sacred because I feel it, not because it ‘works’ on reality.”

That is radical honesty. That is witchcraft with backbone. And that’s where I'm standing.

But Not Me. Not Us.

I’m a black-garbed warlock with a demon wolf at my side. I have skeletons and sigils and a pendulum that doesn’t need to predict anything to feel sacred. I make charms not for productivity, but for companionship. I speak to spirits, not to control them, but to coexist.

This isn’t about usefulness. This isn’t about outcomes. This is about presence. Power. Permission to imagine. Because that, more than any dollar or spell, is what the world fears:

A woman who doesn’t need to explain her inner world to anyone.

To Those Still in the Shadows:

If you’ve ever felt that your magic was “not enough” because it was too symbolic, too dark, too strange, too aesthetic, too rooted in fantasy— Let me say this with fire:

You do not owe this world results. Your path does not require proof. Your magic is not a pitch deck.

You are not broken for indulging in something that doesn’t “serve a purpose.” You are not immature for finding love in the mythical. You are not failing if your witchcraft doesn’t fix the world’s wounds.

Sometimes witchcraft is not about fixing. It’s about feeling. It’s about facing. It’s about fcking existing as you are, wild and untamed and unquantifiable.

My Magic Is Not For Sale

So to the algorithms, the moral panics, the critics, the capitalist covens, the skeptics, the sanitized influencers, and every fake “demonologist” who ever tried to leash the strange:

You don’t belong in my pit. My witchcraft will remain indulgent. Symbolic. Unapologetically dark. Unmeasurable. And mine.

#witch community #witchblr #witch #witchcraft #witches of tumblr #occult #occultism #demons #dungeons and dragons #dnd #dark witch #witches #witchcore #witch aesthetic #witchy vibes

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xeyeslikesthestarsx-blog · 3 months ago

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Convinced my TikTok algorithm has it out for because me because bb girl why are you showing me pro N*ris posts and Cassian slander after I’ve pressed Not Interested for the 100000th time 😀

#pro cassian #pro nessian #tiktok algorithm when I find you #sick of it all

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vyva-melinkolya · 8 months ago

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we all agree that the push towards short form, vertical video (tiktok/reels/shorts) is ruining fucking everything right? Tiktok has been useful for the dissemination of political information (e.g Gaza) i’ll give it that, but that feels moreso a result of meta and twitters algorithms being just a little *more*’evil and censor happy. And i want to make it very clear that my hatred for tiktok has nothing to do with the fact that it was a product of a Chinese company, because i see a lot of critiques relying on some sort of sinophobic conspiracy. On the contrary, it’s what tiktok has become in the vacuum of western popular culture and marketing that makes me fearful.

I know that every generation faces a new, polarizing technology and inevitably, there are those among said generation who will critique it. That is the nature of things. However, there is also something to be said about how, with the acceleration of technology (running parallel to the acceleration of capitalism, acceleration towards collapse etc), each coming generation faces an increasingly more malevolent “advancement”. TLDR, i’m going to talk my shit.

I’m going to speak on the aspect that is most relavent to me, as a musician. I am petrified by what short form video is doing to music and to musicians. I think that tiktok provides the illusion of making music and being a musician more “accessible” while actually pouring gasoline on the fire that the pop music machine had already started. Standards for what popular culture “expects” from music are being doubled and tripled. Let’s talk about song length. Success and marketability favoring shorter songs is not something new, it has been the trend for decades. But with short form video, it goes even further. You’re not just hearing the same song over and over on the radio, you’re hearing the same 15-30 seconds of the same song over and over again. This in-turn, starts to influence the way people write music, persuading people to make songs that *could* have that 15 second appeal. There is an art to pop music, there is an art to writing a catchy hook—this is something else. We weren’t meant to hear or understand music like that. There are so many songs from reels that i found annoying, until i heard them in their full context. It’s insidious. It makes everything feel like a fucking commercial, even if nothing is being advertised.

I’m going to pull directly from someone else’s experiences, someone who’s music seems to be everywhere on short form videos. The ambient musician My Head Is Empty has a hundred million streams on the song “i was only temporary”. Despite that exposure, they experience “never ending copywrite issues” and have “received death threats” by people who refuse to credit them when using their song. Pulling a quote here, from a comment on their own post

“vyva_melinkolya unfortunately it just gets worse. i saw a bot content page that steals pod cast footage and spams dozens of videos with my song stolen, comment on a "motivation" spam content , who actually made a post telling people the name of my song, and the previous page i mentioned, the pod cast spam commented on that video saying "Bro stop don't give out the sauce. this audio helps me pull numbers brooo" - so people are actively INTENTIONALLY stealing it and telling people to not credit me. like. u can't make this stuff up”

Beyond this, My Head Is Empty feels frustrated that despite all this exposure, the rest of their work (nine albums) as a musician remains under appreciated, and i think that frustration is 100% valid. People cannot fully appreciate music, or even understand it as a work of art created by another human, when it’s taken so far out of its context. Again, the soul being sucked out of art by “the machine” isn’t anything new but, this is a whole other level. Being a musician is more expensive than ever, streaming earns you fractions of a cent etc, it all feeds into itself.

When a song or a musician i love deeply finds its way on to tiktok (let’s use Duster’s “Stars Will Fall”, one of my favorite songs ever as an example)I am not upset that i cant “gatekeep” it anymore. I’m not upset by the idea of something I love and hold dearly finding a larger audience. I AM upset in the manner in which it is being disseminated. I’m upset with art I hold dear to me being chopped up and used as “trending audio”. When I saw Duster in concert recently, lStars Will Fall” was the song I was most looking forward to hearing. It was the last song they played, and it was the song seemly everyone chose to talk loudly over. The audience was mostly people my age and younger. This complaint might come off as petty or pretentious or cliche, i frankly do not give a shit.

Let’s talk about how musicians are expected to promote music on tiktok/reels. This is a matter of opinion, at the risk of sounding very pretentious: the “POV we are x band from x” “My label says i need x followers before x” “posting this video until c musician notices me”. I understand that some of it is in jest but, what the fuck? When did this become the norm? I do not blame anyone for promoting their music like this, but we should want more for ourselves. I’ve always said being a musician is deeply embarassing, inherently. If being a musician is inherently embarassing then what is this? I dont have a solution for this, and the music industry has always been ugly and bloodthirsty and seldom fruitful— but i feel like the very small amount of dignity we had as artists is now lost and I cant fucking stand it. Artists seem to promote the same single with dozens of reels over the course of months, hoping that something sticks. I dont want to sound like i’m shaming or, again, sound like i can provide a solution. I’m just very fucking sorry that it seems like this is “the way”. And personally, i’m scared that if i dont “get with the program”, im going to fail.

Again, all of this speaks to larger trends in entertainment industry and even larger trends in capitalism. But i’m just airing specifics right now because frankly? I cant take it anymore.

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red-riot-unbreakable-heart · 1 year ago

Note

AAAA are you planning on continuing the "How They Kiss" series? If so could you please do my sweet baby Hitoshi next? :cccc

Ooooo yessss - I've been wanting to write some Hitoshi fic for a while!! 💜

Shinsou x Reader | Headcannon: How Hitoshi Shinsou Kisses 💋

The first time Hitoshi kisses you – you totally don’t see it coming. It happens in the library on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Hitoshi is sitting in your favorite spot of the city's library – a cozy corner hidden from view behind the oversized art book section. He’s dragged two large beanbag chairs into the tiny space, waiting for you to join him as he studies for an upcoming Pro hero rescue certification exam. He’s flipping through flashcards when you arrive bearing a purple travel mug filled with his favorite caffeinated beverage. You know your friend is a chronic insomniac – with his permanently baggy eyes and constant yawns - so you decided to get him a refillable mug so he can keep his coffee close throughout exam week. You’ve stuck a cute sticker of a black cat with big eyes to the side of the mug, knowing his TikTok algorithm is almost exclusively cat videos.

“’Toshiiiiii!” You warble quietly as you drop your school bag next to your beanbag chair. “I brought you a ‘lil treat for studying so hard!”

Hitoshi looks up in surprise, his forehead still wrinkled in concentration. He puts down his flash cards and when he realizes it’s you standing over him, he smiles easily. Things have always been like this between the two of you – soft and comfortable.

“You brought me something?” He instantly locks on to the steaming mug of coffee, his eyes crinkling into a smile when he sees the cat sticker. “Is that the cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service?”

“Yup!” you hand him the cup as you plop down into your chair and start shuffling through your bag for your notes. “You told me it was your favorite movie as a kid, so I found a little sticker of Gigi on Etsy.”

After a few moments of digging through your bag, you finally find the sheaf of notes you’re looking for and you yank them out – sheets of paper flying all around you. “Whoops!” You hastily gather the papers back into a neat stack.

When you finally look up, you meet Hitoshi’s eyes – he’s giving you an intense, searching look. His eyes are wide, and there’s a soft pink blush across the high points of his cheeks. He absentmindedly smooths a hand through his wild hair, seemingly lost for words.

“What?” You say, a little startled at the sudden tense atmosphere. “Everything okay? Is that not your preferred flavor of coffee?”

“Of course you remembered my favorite flavor.” His voice a quiet rumble and seems to catch in his throat.

You swallow, suddenly feeling hot around the collar as he continues to gaze at you through those bright violet eyes. You can see him biting back his next sentence, seemingly steeling himself to say something.

After a few moments, he takes a steadying breath and his eyes sparkle with a look of resolve. Hitoshi softly places the hot mug of coffee on the ground before leaning towards you. Instantly, he’s a breath away from your face – his delicate features magnified as he tilts his face towards yours.

“You’re just so…” He whispers, moving to brush his thumb against your cheek. Your skin feels like it’s blooming with tiger lilies at the contact. “…sweet.” His tired eyes flutter shut and he leans into you – guiding your lips to his.

The first kiss is feather light – tentative. He wants to make sure you want him back – he needs you to want him with the same deep intensity he’s been feeling in his gut for you for so long. His lips are impossibly soft and taste like a light berry lip balm, and you find the flavor absolutely delicious. When you respond eagerly he smiles into the kiss, blissful. How lucky is he to get to kiss your pretty face?

Hitoshi climbs into the beanbag chair with you deftly, moving his hands to cradle your face. He moves his mouth against yours slowly, purposefully – almost lazily. It’s such a Shinsou way of kissing that it makes you giggle.

“Hey, now.” He breaks the kiss, bringing his forehead to yours as he takes a shaky breath. “Is my kissing that bad?” He’s smiling, but you can tell he’s the tiniest bit nervous for your answer.

You lean in to kiss him again and he pulls back, his lips just out of reach – teasing.

“Your technique can use some refining. But I know someone who can help you practice.” You grin, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him back in for more. He loves that – the banter, the ways you are able to both make him feel comfortable and keep him on his toes. He deepens the kiss, and you know it will be a while before you get back to studying. His flash cards lay abandoned on the floor by your stack of notes.

---------------------

After that, he’s hooked on you. Any trace of nervousness is nonexistent. In just one afternoon, Hitoshi Shinsou has become a lean, mean, make out machine. He absolutely cannot be stopped. He kisses you everywhere he can – in the library, in dark corners of your favorite bar, at the convenience store. He’s constantly trying to sneak away with you so he can crash your lips together in that way that makes his brain feel all blissed out and fuzzy.

I think we’ve all seen just how much determination Hitoshi has – it takes a lot of unwavering dedication to claim a spot in the hero course. He’s just as determined to figure out how you like to be kissed. He pays attention to what makes your pulse race – maybe he kissed your neck a certain way and you moaned? He’s filing that away in his brain so he can do it again and again and again. You don’t like it when he bites your lower lip? He takes note and never does it that way again. He’s committed to figuring out exactly what makes you tick and how he can maximize your pleasure every time. He can’t believe how lucky he is to have the affections of someone like you – someone so sweet and gorgeous and goddamn perfect.

Of course, once he realizes you find him irresistible – he’s smug AF. He becomes such a goddamn tease. You’ll get a rare private moment and move in to kiss him, only for him to dodge your advances until your lips form a disappointed pout. He absolutely revels in how much you want him and loves to build up the tension between the two of you. He’ll kiss you playfully on the cheeks before your disappointed look causes him to concede. “Sorry, Sweetheart.” He says in his low, gravely whisper. “You know I love to tease.” And then he’ll kiss you with as much passion as he can muster, until your legs turn to jello. After all – it’s not in a hero’s nature to do anything half-assed.

----------------------------------------

Thanks so much for reading!!

Interested in some ~smuttier~ Shinsou content!? Check out my story:

Never Too Tired To Love You💜

My Master List! 💜

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

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˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

.….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ.. .

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not obsessed with him. you’re not. but the world clearly is. strange articles. sneaky algorithms. and a voice in your head that won’t shut up. meanwhile, invincible’s got his own problem: he can’t find the girl who called him out like a scrub tech on a bad day.

⛨ contains: sfw. nurse carla’s mischief. media-induced annoyance. early emotional foreshadowing. reader in denial. mark being haunted by words and mystery. parallel narration. bonus scene chaos.

⛨ warnings: mild language. internet stalking (light). stubbornness. minor delusion. no real threats—just a very determined destiny.

⛨ wc: 2146

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: fun fact—i lost half of this chapter mid-edit because my wifi decided to flatline like a soap opera character. dramatic gasp, hospital monitor beep, the whole deal. one second i’m tweaking a paragraph, the next i’m staring at the void where 800 words used to be. i almost fought my router. bare-fisted. anyway, here it is—risen from the ashes, caffeinated, and slightly more unhinged than originally planned. enjoy my suffering.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You know this. You’ve always known this.

You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by people coughing on your scrubs and trying to die inconveniently. You’ve stitched up knife wounds caused by things described as “accidents,” told grown men they’re not, in fact, dying from a sore throat, and once had to remove a Lego from a place no Lego should ever be.

But lately, it feels personal.

There’s been a shift. A pattern. A very specific, very annoying theme threading itself through your life like the world’s most persistent pop-up ad.

It’s not love. It’s not fate.

It’s him.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You tap your phone’s screen with more passive aggression than necessary, holding it to your ear even though you know your (only) friend won’t pick up.

Beep.

“Okay, listen—I’m not spiraling. I’m not.”

(Pause. Sip. Another pause.)

“But if one more news article, thirst edit, or random merch featuring that man—shows up in my general vicinity, I will commit a felony. Probably a creative one.”

(Beat.)

“And no—before you say it—it’s not a crush. I don’t have time for crushes. I have sleep deprivation and a spine held together by caffeine.”

(Silence.)

“He’s not even that hot.”

You hang up.

Regret it. Immediately.

And that’s when it hits you—

You’re not obsessed with him.

You’re not.

You’ve been into people before—celebrities, coworkers, a random guy who pronounced your name right on the first try—but this isn’t that. You’re not delusional. You’re tired. You have a full-time job, a chaotic sleep schedule, and at least two stress migraines scheduled for the week.

You’re not obsessed.

The entire world, on the other hand, clearly is.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a newspaper.

A real one. Paper and ink and everything. You’re halfway through your first sip of coffee (not bad, not cursed) when you spot it, splayed open on the front counter like it tripped and fell into your line of sight.

’Invincible saves subway commuters in mid-derailment battle.’

There’s a photo. Midair. Bloodied knuckles. Hero pose. That obnoxious blue-yellow suit.

You blink at it once. Twice. The espresso tastes more bitter somehow.

“…Carla,” you call out, slowly.

A soft shuffle from the break room. “Mhm?”

You tilt your head toward the paper. “Is that yours?”

“Nope,” she chirps, far too quickly.

You squint.

Carla reappears moments later with a tea mug that says ’I am the storm’ in passive-aggressive font and absolutely does not make eye contact as she walks past you.

She hums.

The kind of hum that implies dark intentions.

You stare at the paper like it personally insulted your scrubs.

That’s strike one.

Strike two comes via TikTok. Or… Instagram Reels. Or whatever godforsaken app the algorithm has you trapped in.

You’re lying on your couch on your one night off, a warm takeout container on your lap, the lights dimmed just enough to make it feel like self-care. You open your phone to zone out. Maybe scroll through food mukbangs. A few raccoon videos. Rewatch that one clip from ’The Bear’ for the emotional damage.

Instead, the second video to pop up is a slow-motion fan edit of Invincible. Set to a remix of a 2000s ballad.

You stare at your phone in silence as the hero who bloodied his way through your afternoon is now being thirsted after by teenagers in the comments.

You swipe up fast enough to sprain something.

Then another pops up.

And another.

And—oh, good god. This one’s tagged #invincibae.

You throw your phone facedown on your stomach like it’s contagious.

You’re not angry. You’re not even annoyed.

You’re just trying to have one singular crumb of peace in this godless world, and the masked himbo you verbally body-checked in the middle of a disaster won’t stop invading your downtime.

You eventually find a rerun of ’House MD’ and watch a patient nearly die from licking envelopes, which feels more comforting than it should.

You’re not obsessed.

(But maybe you do glare at a passing bus with his face on the side. Just a little.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

By the end of the week, it gets worse.

You’re at the pharmacy grabbing gauze, extra gloves, and the least offensive granola bar in existence when you see the merch.

Merch.

A corner display stacked with shirts and water bottles and pins. There’s a plushie. A plushie. Of him.

You pause, granola bar halfway to your basket.

A kid next to you picks up the Invincible water bottle and turns to his mom. “Do you think he drinks from this too?”

You visibly clench your jaw.

At that exact moment, your phone dings.

You pull it out with the practiced grace of someone who lives and dies by their calendar app—only to find a suggested article on your lock screen.

’Why Invincible Might Be the Most Relatable Hero Yet!’

You could scream.

Instead, you mutter, “I patched up his concussion while inhaling drywall dust. He was seeing double and still arguing with me.”

The cashier stares at you.

You move on.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The final straw?

A patient brings him up.

Middle of a wound check, nothing dramatic. A few stitches, topical numbing, your hands moving on autopilot. You’re explaining aftercare, bandage changes, when the patient—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—smiles at you and says:

“You kinda remind me of Invincible, y’know? Like, you’re calm under pressure and.. kind of badass.”

You blink.

Smile politely. “Cool.”

Inside, your soul shrivels.

You are not him.

You don’t throw punches. You don’t fly. You don’t have a theme song or fan cams or merchandise.

You have an overtime shift on Sunday and a stress knot in your shoulder that’s starting to feel like a second spine.

But the universe doesn’t care.

You’re not obsessed.

You just can’t escape.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t remember your face.

Not clearly, anyway.

The smoke had blurred the details, painted you in silhouettes and urgency. You weren’t the loudest voice in the chaos—just the sharpest. Crisp, cutting, sure of yourself in a way that made his head spin more than the actual concussion.

But your voice?

He remembers that like it’s stitched into the inside of his skull.

Low. Stern. Half-sarcastic and half-soothing. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for bullshit, which—given the circumstances—made sense.

He was bleeding from the ribs. The city was literally burning.

Still, the memory echoes:

“Don’t say fine.”

“You’re favoring your left.”

“You shouldn’t be flying.”

Mark exhales hard, slumping deeper into the worn couch. The TV’s on but silent. Some old action movie flickers in the corner of his vision. It’s supposed to be background noise.

But nothing is loud enough to drown you out.

He doesn’t know your name.

Doesn’t know what you do, where you’re from, if you even survived the aftermath unscathed.

All he knows is that you made him feel—briefly, dangerously—human.

Not a symbol. Not a name in headlines. Just a guy who was bleeding too much and doing too little.

And he can’t stop hearing you.

“You’re zoning out again,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

Mark flinches, barely registering the sound of the fridge opening.

“Sorry. Just tired.”

Debbie hums skeptically and tosses him a cold can of soda. “You’ve said that every day this week.”

“I am tired.”

“You’re also muttering to yourself like a haunted Victorian widow. Anything I should know?”

Mark cracks the can open with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead like the wall is going to give him divine guidance.

“I met someone,” he says finally.

Debbie doesn’t react. Just leans against the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Okay. And?”

“She yelled at me.”

Still silence.

“And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

There it is.

Debbie snorts into her cup. “That’s it? That’s what’s got you acting like a sad poet?”

He shifts. “It’s not just that. She—she saw right through me. In like, five seconds. Called out every injury I hadn’t processed yet. Told me I wasn’t fine before I could even lie about it.”

“And this was… romantic?”

“No!” Mark frowns. “I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know anything about her. I couldn’t even see her face.”

“Okay, now it’s giving Victorian ghost story.”

“She saved a kid.”

Debbie blinks.

“In the middle of it all. Ran straight into debris and smoke. People tried to stop her and she looked at me like I was the liability.”

He doesn’t mention the way your hands shook but never stopped moving. Or the way you lied—beautifully, horribly—just to keep that child alive a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t mention how it made something in his chest ache.

“She sounds amazing,” Debbie says, more gently now.

“She was,” he mutters. “And now she’s just… gone.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The thing is, Mark’s not usually like this.

He gets hit, he gets up. He saves people, and he moves on. Faces blur. Names fade. It’s how he copes.

But this? This isn’t fading.

It’s getting worse.

He’ll be flying over the city and see a flash of hair that looks vaguely like yours—and he’ll nearly crash into a billboard turning to check. His neck has started clicking. He’s going to need chiropractic help and therapy.

He doesn’t even know you, but he’s half-convinced he’ll know when he sees you again.

He’s waiting for it.

And that thought alone is ridiculous.

Because he doesn’t wait. Not for danger. Not for hope. Not for anyone.

Except now, apparently, for you.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

More than once, he’s hovered outside hospitals and urgent care clinics on patrol. Just a few seconds. Just in case.

He makes excuses for it, of course:

• You never know when you might be needed.

• Some med centers don’t have enough security.

• Maybe he’s being responsible.

But then he hears a nurse’s laugh and it isn’t yours.

And he flies off like a coward.

Not even a few minutes later there’s a robbery in Midtown.

Small-time. Two guys. One has a crowbar. The other trips over his shoelace trying to run.

Mark’s on it in sixty seconds flat.

It’s easy—should be, anyway—but his timing’s off. He lands too hard, shoulder twinges wrong. The guy gets one good swing in before Mark sends him flying (not too far).

It’s done in under a minute.

And still—he’s breathless. Not from the fight, but from the feeling.

The missing.

The what if you’d seen that and thought I was sloppy kind of missing.

He doesn’t say anything as he lifts the guy’s dropped phone and hands it off to the store clerk. They thank him. He nods.

Flies away.

He doesn’t go far.

Just lands on some apartment roof, crouches by the ledge, and lets his hands tangle in his hair for a minute.

The city stretches below him, loud and alive.

But all he wants to find is a blur in the chaos that isn’t there.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Later that night, he lies in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer closure.

It doesn’t.

It’s just drywall and shadows and everything you saw through.

His notebook lies half-open next to him—not forgotten, just untouched, like a question he doesn’t know how to answer yet.

It’s not a journal—he doesn’t do feelings that way—but sometimes, when his head’s too loud and his hands need something to do, he sketches. Nothing fancy. Just lines. Shapes. Impressions.

Tonight, it’s you.

Or, what he remembers of you. Which isn’t much.

Your face is a blur. Hair? A vague impression. Maybe dark. Maybe not. But your hands—he remembers those. Quick, steady, smudged with ash. Your posture. How you stood slightly in front of the child like a shield, chin up, like fear was something for other people.

He’s drawn the same half-profile six times now. None of them are right.

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and flips the page over.

Maybe he’s not trying to get it right.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

But the voice stays with him.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Clinic break room. You. Tired.

You sneeze—violently.

Again.

You rub your nose with the heel of your palm, the tip of it already reddish from overuse, and a dramatic groan leaves your throat as you sink into the unforgiving plastic chair.

“This is some kind of karmic punishment,” you mutter to no one in particular. “Like, I must’ve offended a witch. Or touched something cursed.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” offers a random nurse from across the room.

You glare at her. “I’m immune to sickness.”

Then of course, Carla appears behind you, perfectly timed as always.

“Maybe someone’s thinking about you,” she says, casual as rain, not even glancing your way before walking off.

You blink. Deadpan.

Then sneeze again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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autisticgingerblonde · 10 months ago

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If Fallout 4 companions had TikTok accounts

Cait would have an account dedicated to fighting and thirst traps (aimed at women mostly). Teaches women self-defense techniques. She earns a spot in the algorithm of muscle mommies. She also raises awareness for addicts and former addicts, educating on the effects of drugs and the reasons people seek them out in the first place. Honestly, it's a very good account to follow.

Codsworth is just confused about TikTok. He's like "oh so what are the children saying these days? Aura? I'll have to add a new word to my vocabulary banks! Cheerio, mum!"

Curie makes educational videos for all ages and all subjects. She has a series of learning Japanese, a series of vaccines and the science behind them, a series about the effects of different types of parenting, you name it. She also takes suggestions from her audience on what new things to research.

Danse has unintentional thirst traps. He talks about power armor and the Brotherhood of Steel but also posts workouts. These are what get the most attention out of everything he posts. The BookTok girlies find him and all hell breaks loose in the comment sections. He responds to this with, "Thank you, civilians. I am not sure what you mean, but I am glad you are supporting the Brotherhood of Steel by being on my page. Thank you for your enthusiasm for our righteous cause. Ad victorium." People armchair diagnose him as autistic.

Deacon does "GRWM as i tell you about the time i ______" videos where each day he looks completely different and you can never tell if he's telling the truth or not. He also does head shaving videos that double as story times or opinion pieces. You can't tell if those are true or not either.

Dogmeat has a viral account followed by millions. Get's a lot of "I can't imagine liking this guy" comments with the op replying to their own comment with "anymore than I already do. Huge fan!"

Hancock does subtle cheeky thirst traps and dance challenges. This entire post was inspired by the FACT that Hancock would participate in the brat summer trend and would do the Apple dance with Fahrenheit filming it. He also tells stories, mostly of him being high. He gets a lot of requests to cosplay Deadpool.

MacCready has a lot of things he does. Some videos are sniper trick shots, some are Grognak the Barbarian yapping (he does short lore deep dives when he can), and some are about being a young single dad. He doesn't show Duncan's face because he's extremely protective. Casually drops the most insane lore about his childhood which leads to comments like "are we just ignoring that he said he grew up in a cave?"

Nick Valentine would be a very popular fashion and "a day in the life of a detective". He'd do vintage fashion looks, like loose slacks and suspenders with a trench coat to top it off. Sometimes does a deep dive into detective history. Gets a lot of thirsty comments to which he replies "that's one way to get the coolant pumping."

Old Longfellow has the appeal of the New England, stormy weather, sweater-wearing fisherman aesthetic, and he tells stories of his youth while showing people around the area he grew up. Learns mobile phone cinematography to make it look cooler. Every video has either a lesson or a skill for survival.

Piper's account is solely focused on news and truth, posting every source she uses. She uses the trend of an insane video, like someone falling badly on the ground or getting splashed with water, and stitches it to look like a seamless transition of her rolling from the fall or being splashed to start talking about her news stories. It gets traction so she continues.

Porter Gage has a side gig of running TikTok accounts for different people. Gets the money, doesn't get the backlash when they get canceled for racism or worker exploitation.

Preston has an account dedicated to charity work and social activism. He makes sure to highlight organizations he feels are doing the world a service and regularly has fundraisers. He's well-known for always sharing content from people in dire situations and raising money for them. Has a master document of Go Fund Me pages and vets every one of them.

Strong has a lot of those unintentional boomer tiktoks that are 1 second long and he's just looking at the screen in confusion.

X6 cyber bullies the rest of them because he thinks having a TikTok is cringe and stupid (he is currently writing hate comments with his TikTok account)

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melancholicstation · 6 months ago

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YOU TASTE LIKE THE FOURTH OF JULY! - jack schlossberg raya one-shot date.

summary: you join raya as a half-joke but what you find on there—or should you say who you find on there is anything but a laughing matter: none other than jack schlossberg himself.

warnings: drinking, light petting and kisses, innocent touches, yearning desperate man alert...

words: 1,778

Currently, it was an unassuming 4:30pm in the city that never sleeps and what were you doing with your precious time this afternoon? writing emails you'd been procrastinating? calling your grandma who you haven't spoken to in weeks? no, of course not. You were doom-scrolling TikTok for the past few hours.

However the doom-scroll wasn't for nothing, through it you'd identified a common thread running throughout your algorithm: videos upon videos of various young woman who'd taken a break from shilling their amazon shop links to share niche internet personalities—and on the rare occasion actual b-tier celebrity men dating profiles through shaky screen-caps on a dating app called 'Raya'.

According to Google.com 'Raya' was "a private, membership based community for people all over the world to connect and collaborate." Private membership you thought, how overly and unbelievably pretentious. However, and if anyone asked you would deny, you weren't completely turned off by a tinge of pomp and circumstance, in small batches at least.

The first couple videos you scrolled mindlessly, fast forwarding through the video to see if any of your favourite a24 actors had been making the rounds on the dating app: no takers yet.

That was until you saw him. At around the 24 second mark of the video you saw the dating profile of the only grandson of JFK, and the full-time internet heartthrob littering the pages of teenage girls Pinterest accounts—Jack Schlossberg. Now that stopped you in your tracks.

Not many men could get you to perform such a silly act as to pay $24.99 a month for a fucking dating app but alas here you were punching in the details of your black card and hitting purchase. You rationalised this undeniably delusional act by telling yourself that you'd see what all the fuss was about for a month and promptly revoke your subscription once the month was over. Currently, the date was the 1st of September, perfect. By 30th you'd definitely be bored by the app, as you were with all the other apps you've tried before, and it would be forgotten about as a frivolous but harmless expense of $24.99.

After setting up your profile you'd chosen a mix of photos: one sporty photo you'd taken at Wimbledon which does completely misrepresent your true nature of detesting all things involved in tennis—bar the outfits, a photo of you on your ex-boyfriend's motorcycle but potential swipers on your profile didn't need to know that specific detail, and a couple photos of you at a gala you attended as a plus one with a greek prince. Snobby, but as they say if the shoe fits walk in it.

Now sure, was it a carbon copy of your bumble profile... Yes but was that a crime? The prompts were as stupid as the membership price tag so you treated them as such.

Like a prompt that read "I disagree when people say that I'm..."

To which you replied, "the problem."

And another prompt that read "Favourite self-care ritual"

To which you replied, "praying on my cousins downfall"

Snarky replies that most definitely did not come off the best to possible dating prospects but hey you didn't quite care—mostly because you weren't thinking that you'd be earnestly engaging in a real romantic sense with anyone you'd find. You were simply doing this for scientific research purpose, and maybe to make fun of mens profiles over two or three dirty martini's at Harry Cipriani with a few of your girlfriends.

After completing your profile and after swiping through a few profiles recommended to you—and finding no luck with any of the men you saw so far you'd effectively abandoned the app for a couple of hours. That was until it so rudely interrupted your evening with a notification.

You'd went on with your day with relative peace and managed to intercept your part-time career of couch-rotting watching the first season of girls on HBO to go down to your local grocer on Canal St. Opting to get yourself an iced expresso latte with raw stevia and pumpkin milk, with a with a slice of buckwheat cake as an impromptu choice-anxiety driven decision.

Fumbling inside your bag for the keys to your apartment your phone starts to buzz, not an abnormal appearances as your mother has a penchant for incessant checkups now that you're living on your own for the first time, but it doesn't end with 1 or 2 buzzers. It keeps going for around 4 buzzers. Frustrated, you finally get into your apartment shuffling off your jacket and setting aside the fresh coffee, and baked good and angrily swipe up on your phone ready to be annoyed at whatever notification you find.

But instead you're absolutely and irrevocably gobsmacked at what you find:

"You've matched with Jack Schlossberg, 31. Click here to start a conversation"

You click on the notification, and are surprised to see a message has already been sent...

"We already have something in common! I too love plotting the downfall of my cousin as well and think i'm never the problem."

"2 for 2 is a good start" you reply back trying to maintain a normal level of interest mixed with a cool detachment needed to move through dating app conversations.

"We could find a couple more similarities over drinks tonight, if you're free?"

Very forward of him which you definitely didn't expect coming from a man with the internet persona he'd created over the last year. Admittedly you hadn't followed him or shown much interest past nodding emphatically when shown a post of him being hailed as the "internet's baby girl" by one of your girlfriends, but something about his assertiveness endeared him to you.

And before you knew it you were accepting his invitation of drinks at Socialista at 7pm.

Fast forward a couple hours, and you were fixing your lipstick in the back of the Uber before it unceremoniously dropped you off outside the cocktail lounge: the exterior of the bar painted an unassuming shade of charcoal paint.

Pushing open the door to the lounge you're met with the sweet yet severely overrated aromas of baccarat rouge 540 and santal 33. Dressed in a simple skirt and top set with a pair of strappy sandals in black you scan the refined interior of the lounge: green walls, crushed red velvet furnishings, and aged brass fixtures as far as the eye can see, but no sight of Jack yet. You find a two seater booth and sit down calling over a waiter, dressed so elegantly you might just assume it's Thom Browne and considering that its Socialista it very might well be.

You decide on a bourbon old fashioned and as you take your first sip your eyes fixate on the man entering the lounge. And it's none other than Jack himself wearing a long sleeve sable button-up, black slacks, and a nylon sneaker with wool socks.

The first couple of minutes were the typical awkward dance of a first date but after just a short 30 minutes you guys started to get hit a stride and happen to have very good chemistry—defying the common and frequent horror stories experienced on first dates. You guys bond over difficult familial relationship, though you can't imagine having it all play out on the public stage.

As the hour progresses from 7pm to 8 and from 8 to 9 you get cosier and cosier, and by 9:21 your knees rest on each others while you intently listen to his ramblings on why he much prefers cocktail lounges to restaurants,

"-And you end up having to wait for some guy-and then tell him what you want to eat. I mean it's a draconian concept!"

He says it with such magnetism and charisma that you'd think he was talking about something evoking passion, and not the flawed system of the restaurant industry, but you gather that's what draws him to people—that's what, against your better judgement, draws him to you.

You stay for another hour, but you both get up to leave at the chagrin of the staff who looked increasingly more agitated as the minutes ticked by, grateful that you guys took the hint to leave the lounge. Once you do, you both step out on the street.

The end of the date was, by far, the most awkward part of the date for you, it has always been this dance around skirting around a conversation in which you try to assert if the other wants to continue the night, or never wants to see you again in their life.

I couldn't really tell which side Jack was sitting on, despite our conversations and all around great date. However that was made clear to me seconds later

"Tell me if I'm a weirdo and I'll drop it immediately—you'll never have to see me again, but is it okay if I kiss you?"

Despite the touches on the arm and the innocent, light knee rubbing that occurred during the date you found yourself taken back at the earnest desire he presented to you in just that sentence alone. To his comment you emphatically nod with an embarrassingly enthusiastic "Yes", feeling the culmination of the tension and since desire that had steeped and brewed over the course of the night.

The kiss was, as cheesy, 90s erotica as it may sound, was electric and all-consuming. You swore you got so in the moment that you had to remind yourself to take breaths in between—and by the sound of Jack's breathing he might've had to as well.

You both stop after a while, suddenly aware of the possible bystanders who could be looking on, but you both maintain sharp eye contact with each other. Similarly, he continues to hold your forearm—lightly stroking it between his fingers with a quiet intimacy you hadn't quite ever experienced with a man you've known for less than 12 hours.

Without your knowledge you let out a small yawn, to which Jack loudly chuckles under his breath,

"I really bore you out that bad, huh?"

Embarrassed you bow your head, focusing on the graffitied pavement,

"Not at all—I just have a raging caffeine addiction and it's about the time i'd normally have a fix"

"Well not to sound presumptuous-"

"You definitely will, but I'm liking you so i'll allow you to go on anyway."

"I do have a pretty great coffee machine in my apartment if I do say so myself?" To which he proposes the undercover invitation as more of a question and less of a demand which you subtly appreciate.

"Lead the way"

taglist: @carly-rae-jean @h-l-vlovesvintage @inocennture @monturi @hisamericanmuse @passhun4w-blog @vile-harlot @bluelancergirl @jackiesgirl @fortheloveofjos @itgirlvirgo @starsprangledgirl @malkavared @remotewatch @salvatoresablondie @kimcrystal123 @vampyiricris @scaredlamb @dulcegal @strryhaze @chiliscrazylife @joansiesbeloved @beloved-angel

note: for this universe forget raya has a waiting list… i forgot that while writing this

#12 days of melancholicstation #jack schlossberg fanfiction #jack schlossberg imagines #jack schlossberg fanfic #jack schlossberg imagine #jack schlossberg x reader #rpf #political rpf #kennedy rpf

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diabolikangel158 · 10 months ago

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Can you do the Vees x reader (separate) where they see you watching an edit of them and you start fangirling, despite already dating them? Thank you!

Alas, I’ve finished this post. Honestly wasn’t even to hard, I just got busy. I’ve got so much stuff I need to do and want to do, but no time to do it.

Vox x Reader, Velvette x Reader, Valentino x Reader (separate)

Disclaimer: Hints of unhealthy relationships, borderline stalking behaviors, some hints at abuse and anger issues, controlling behaviors from the Vees, suggestive content

Vox:

You lay quietly on your bed, scrolling through TikTok. You remember when you first arrived in Hell, you were simply relieved that there was technology at all, and even better, there was your beloved app. When you met and hit it off with the tech overlord himself, you were thrilled (almost as thrilled as Vox was with you). Vox had mentioned at some points that he was concerned with your “addiction” to the app, sometimes silently wondering if he had accidentally hypnotized you into being so enthralled with it. However, after a few random checks, he realized that it wasn’t his doing at all; you just really liked doom scrolling on there. In all honesty, he felt some kind of pride seeing you spend hours using his tech. Plus, it kept you busy while he was running around his company and discussing various things with other overlords.

You chuckled to yourself, repositioning your body to alleviate some of the stiffness you felt from reclining in the same posture for so long. You swiped up once more, your jaw dropping open. You had seen edits of other people before, whether they were famous actors, idols, and even fictional characters, but this was the first time you’d seen this. It was an edit alright, a sexy song playing in the background. However, there was no actor or idol, but your very own boyfriend, Vox. Vox, CEO of VoxTek, Vox.

A couple things ran though your mind as you watched it on repeat. Hey, it was a good edit. He would kill them if he ever found out who made this. Or would he? Maybe Vox would like this. You giggle a little at the thought. Of course he would like this. You may love Vox, but you’re not blind to how egotistical he can be at times. For all you know, he probably already had a folder titled “Me Edits” on his phone. You went ahead and liked the post, pressing the bookmark icon to save for… future use?

Of course, the TikTok algorithm figured you out pretty quickly. You continued to see and like more videos, finding a new way to pass time on the app. You were so enraptured, you didn’t notice Vox walk into the bedroom, slipping off his jacket with a yawn. He grumbled a small greeting to you, but you didn’t even notice that. Vox narrowed his eyes suspiciously; he was used to you being obsessed with your phone, but not so much that you’d even ignore him.

He pulled out his own phone, clicking on the app that he used to keep a close eye on you… for your safety of course. No other reason. He maneuvered to the section that allowed him to view what you were viewing on your phone live. What he found… surprised him to say the least. You were watching on repeat one of those TikTok edits of him that were floating around on the internet. He pressed a button on his phone to access your camera on your phone, viewing your expression. There was a light blush on your cheeks, and your eyes barely blinked, as though you were afraid that blinking would cause you to miss something important in the edit.

Vox’s screen displayed a toothy grin as he put his phone away in his pant’s pocket. He went over to you on the bed, leaning in behind you close to your ear. “Damn, doll, I knew you were obsessed with me, but this is a whole new level. Even for me.” You whip your head around to look at him, losing the grip on your phone. Vox takes it in between two of his claws, holding it up. “Oh, so sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with…” He pauses, turning the screen towards himself to view it. “Oh, yes, me.” He laughs a little.

You sat up in the bed, crossing your arms angrily. “Oh, please. Don’t act like you don’t have a folder saved up for yourself, of yourself.” You spit back, trying your best to cover up your embarrassment with anger.

Vox simply smiled back at you. “Why? Want me to share the link with you?” He laughs some more, your attempt to embarrass him being brushed aside.

You groan in annoyance. Of course this whole situation was going to inflate his

ego even more than it already was.

Velvette:

Velvette walked through the halls of the Vee tower, making her way without even having to look up from her phone. She tapped her thumbs along the screen to update her various social medias, hitting the upload button with a grin as she arrived at your room.

Not bothering to knock or make her presence known in any kind of way, Velvette easily opened the room to find you laying in bed on your back, head resting on a pillow, with your phone raised above your face. Usually, you would have noticed her by now. She cocked out her hip in annoyance, placing one hand on it as the other still held onto her phone to the side. Velvette’s eyes narrowed when she noticed you grin dazedly at your phone, pop music blaring out from it on repeat.

Velvette gives you a couple more seconds before clearing her throat loudly. You finally notice her and in your surprise, let go of your phone that you had above your head and unceremoniously drop it on your face. You give a yelp in pain before quickly picking up your phone and trying to lock it. However, the pop music continued to play, and if one listened closely, someone was saying something over the music.

“And what’s got you so enthralled that you can’t even bother to greet your girlfriend when she walks in the room?” She huffs out, crossing her arms across her chest. She walks over to you and peers at your phone, which is locked but still playing the sound. “I know it’s a damn tik tok, since that insufferable music keeps–”

Velvette stops speaking as she is interrupted by…herself.

“Ugh. No! Unacceptable. You're fired. What is this? Wrist ruffles? Is it 1750? Burn it like the witches who wore it!" Again, the pop music ensues.

Velvette looks at you blankly, before a smirk tugs at her lips. “Are you… watching edits of me?” She can’t help the chuckle that slips out of her mouth. “Seriously? Open it up, let me see what you’ve been watching.”

You unlock your phone, ashamed, handing it to her. “To be fair, they’re pretty good edits, Vel.” She snatches your phone away and begins to watch the video. She watches it without much reaction and hands the device back to you. She says nothing for a moment. “Um… are you upset about it?”

Instead of answering, she opens her phone to an app, taking a picture of the both of you, not allowing you any time to prepare for it. “H-hey! You could warn me! I don’t even look good!”

Velvette rolls her eyes, typing a message on the photo, preparing to upload it. “Please, I’m your girlfriend. I make sure you look good all the time.” She gives you a snarky grin, finally uploading the image. You get a notification on your phone– you’ve been tagged in a post… Velvette’s post. You open it to look and find the picture that she had snapped of the two of you with the caption “If you don’t catch them watching edits of you in their freetime, do they really love you?” and of course, your username is tagged in it. Various comments already start rolling in about how cute you guys were as a couple, jealous comments about how envious they were of the relationship; the usual.

You look at her, your mouth agape. “Did you really have to put me on blast like that?”

Velvette looks rather satisfied with herself, giving you a shrug. “Anyways, save your little edits for later, the car is ready for us.” You sigh as you get up to follow her.

Valentino:

You honestly weren’t surprised that Valentino had fans that made edits of him and posted them on social media. Let’s be honest, if you had the talent for editing, you’d probably be one of those fans. If you found anything surprising, it was the fact that there were so many that weren’t raunchy. Of course, you supposed, that if someone wanted to see something raunchy about him, they’d have to pay a subscription fee. Surely, there were videos of him in his prime somewhere.

You scrolled through, finding some sort of joy in the fun videos, even adding some of the music that the users had chosen to your playlists. You rolled over onto your stomach and continued scrolling. So enthralled you were with the silly videos, that you were only brought out of your stupor upon feeling a light, yet confident touch on the back of your thigh. “Hey amorcito… and just what are you looking at on your phone, hm?”

Your eyes widened and you quickly turned your phone face down, craning your neck to look back at him. You didn’t expect that he would be back so soon. “Oh, Val! I thought you said you had a long shoot today and wouldn’t be back ‘till later?!” The words come out too rushed to be considered “normal.”

Valentino tilted his head to the side. “What? Did you not miss me? Or do you just enjoy being alone nowadays?” He gives you a fake pout. “Don’t tell me that’s the case, amorcito. You’re going to make me upset…” The tone in his voice held a slight edge to it; the production from today must have pissed him off and so he cut early for him to flip this quickly. You were used to his short temper, but ordinarily you’d have at least a little leeway.

“Of course I missed you!” You reassured quickly. You sat up in the bed, crossing your legs together and looking at him with what you hope is a “Valentino-can’t-be-mad-at-me-like-this” look. Fortunately for you, he gives you a grin and pats your head, sitting down next to you.

“Well, don’t be shy, let me see what you were looking at, hm?” Your cheeks flush with embarrassment, and Val doesn’t miss a beat. He leans in to peer at you closely. “Don’t tell me you were watching naughty films… and without me! I’m hurt, amorcito.” Before you can explain that you definitely were not doing that, Valentino snatches the phone you left unguarded and unlocked on the bed with one of his arms. You start to protest, but quiet down when one of his hands holds a finger up at you, a silent command to shut your mouth.

You’re not sure what you expect from him when he sees it. Maybe to make fun of you, call you touch-starved, obsessed, a lost puppy perhaps? Can’t even be away from me for a second? You’re so pathetic it’s cute. You grimace in your head at the thought of such degradation to your person.

Needless to say, you’re surprised when Valentino squishes your cheeks with one hand, gripping your face hard to pull you close. You lips pucker due to the force and you couldn’t mumble out a preemptive apology even if you tried. Only muffled sounds would come out. “Amorcito, you’re so cute! You know, I was ready to be so angry with you for trying to hide things from me, but this is just adorable! Was my baby scared that I would embarrass them?” You nod as much as his grip on your cheeks will allow. He snickers and lets the hand on your face fall to your neck, softly grabbing ahold of it. Valentino kisses you, hard. It’s honestly rather messy, not that kisses with him were ever chaste by any means. It leaves you gasping for breath.

Val locks your phone, gently placing it on the bedside table. It’s a kind gesture if you’ve ever seen one from him. Vox loves to complain to you about how many phones Val has shattered in his fits of rage or moments of carelessness. Val lies down besides you, pulling him close to him. “You’re too good to me, carino. So, I’ll be good to you, too.” You feel one of his hands sneaking in between your legs as the other three busy themselves with removing some of your clothing. “After all, why bother with those silly videos when you have the real thing right here?” He flashes you a salacious grin before you close your eyes to endure the pleasure that you’ll be succumbing to… whether you want to or not.

#hazbin hotel #vox #vox x reader #hazbin hotel valentino x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #the vees #val x reader #valentino x reader #val #hazbin hotel velvette #velvette x reader #hazbin velvette

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