and this girl i should have known her name by now

Essays in Existentialism: Footie II

MORE lexa soccer player please and thank you!

Previously on Footie

The ride home after a game was one of the best times on the planet. Coming down from the high of playing, from the adrenaline of winning, from the pressure of the team and herself, from that glorious feeling of her muscles twitching with built up lactic acid from leaving every ounce of sweat and preparation on the field. It was an almost sacred time.

Keep reading

the-queen-sees-all  asked:

I was wondering, what if Harry and Hermione had met before Hogwarts?

The first time Harry Potter met Hermione Granger, she was standing with her chin up and her hands on her hips a few paces from the old olive tree in the schoolyard, glaring into the far distance. The wind was trying to twist and buffet her hair into her face, but mostly it was just tangling cheerfully with itself.

Dudley and Piers were busy kicking all the other kids off the play structure, so Harry had retreated out into the grass. He stood a safe distance from the weird girl who was pretending to be a statue and thought wistfully of lunch.

“There’s a fallen bird’s nest,” the girl said in a rapid and certain tumble of syllables. “The boys knocked it out of the tree, but I chased them off and I’m hoping the mama bird comes back. I’m Hermione Granger. We just moved here.”

“Harry,” he said.

“How’d you get that scar?” she said.

“Car accident.”

“That’s a weird scar for a car accident.”

Harry shrugged. “It killed my parents.”

She blinked quickly at him and even at that distance he wished vaguely that she wore glasses, too, because her gaze was something that really felt like it should have some built-in bluntedness. “Mine are dentists. Mum’s taking me to the library after school, want to come?”

-

Before they went into Diagon Alley, Harry asked Hagrid if they could find a payphone. Hermione picked up on the first ring.

“Harry! Where have you been? I’ve been trying and trying to call–”

“Sorry, yeah. Um, so, I’m not coming back to school next year, I…” Harry drifted off, staring at Hagrid’s massive moleskin shoulders. The giant man saw him looking and gave him a tentatively cheerful little wave. “It’s been weird, Herm.” He pressed his forehead into the phone stand, but not too hard. “I think you’re the only thing I’m really going to miss.”

“Harry,” Hermione said and Harry started to frown, because that wasn’t her stern and startled voice. That was the voice that meant she was off down a charging war path of other thought and might not have heard him at all. “I’ve been reading.”

“Of course you’ve been reading,” he said. “I’ve been being forcibly hidden from a swarm of post office owls–”

“You’re in books,” she said in breathless delight, squeaking over the telephone line. “First thing we did, of course, after the professor explained, was get her to escort us to a bookstore– a whole bibliography, Harry, a whole world’s bibliography I haven’t even touched– how am I ever going to–” She took in a little calming breath, and murmured, “Different infinities, it’s okay, Hermione, okay.” A sharp exhale and then she tumbled right back into her rushing rivelet of a sentence. “And I picked up a good dozen, besides the school books, of course, and Harry, you’re in books, in Dark Wizardwork of This Century and A Modern Wizards’ History and October’s End: A Biography–”

“Hermione,” said Harry with slow enunciation. “Are you a wizard, too?”

“A witch, I think,” she said. “But I’m still reading up on the sociology of it all.”

-

Hagrid wouldn’t say Voldemort’s name, but Hermione would. She came over with a stack of books up to her chin, gave the Dursleys her normal pointed little stare that said she’d like to set them a little on fire, and curled up in his cupboard with him.

He supposed she probably could learn how to set them on fire, now, if she really wanted to.

She gave him passages and excerpts with his name in them, with his parents’ names, a home he hadn’t known. There were pictures of a ruined house with the smoke drifting in little curls of ink. There was his mother, smiling and waving in black and white. There was his mother, laid out on the floor, with a sober little caption below it. That picture was still, except for curtains fluttering in the window.

Hermione finally dragged her face far enough up from the pages to see Harry holding his own hand very tightly, and then she closed the book and reached for one about which magical creatures you should pet and which you shouldn’t.

“Sorry,” she said.

“I wanted to know.”

“I’m still sorry.”

-

The Grangers drove Harry, Hermione, Hedwig, and their trunks to King’s Cross Station. Mrs. Granger kissed the top of Hermione’s head while Mr. Granger mussed Harry’s mop of dark hair affectionately, and then they swapped children and repeated the treatment. Hermione pushed her hair back out of her face and marched them all to Platform 9 ¾, the entrance mechanism of which she had read all about.

“Before you go,” Mrs. Granger said, “let’s buy you some sandwiches? I don’t know what sort of food they’ll have past that–”

“There’s a trolley,” Hermione said, but her parents dragged them off to a snack kiosk anyway, Harry happily in tow.

As they were on Hermione’s tight schedule, there were plenty of compartments open, and they took one all to themselves– well, to themselves, Hedwig, and Hermione’s books, which took up two seats. (Harry would wheedle Hagrid into taking him to Diagon Alley for Christmas shopping that year, where he would get Hermione a carry-all bag for her small personal library.)

Hermione took a long preparatory breath while Harry unwrapped his sandwich. “Harry? What if I go and sit down under the Hat and I just sit and sit there, and then it says I’m not a witch at all?” Hermione said, the words getting more squashed together and higher-pitched as she went. “I’m not magic, it just got confused, and they send me home? Harry, I don’t want to be a dentist. Other people’s mouths are disgusting–”

“You’re not going to get kicked out,” Harry said, chewing amiably on his sandwich. It was not good, but the Dursleys hadn’t bothered with any breakfast for him and he hadn’t wanted to bother the Grangers about it either. It was a bit dry on the way down, but it settled warmly in his belly.

“But what if I do?”

“I’ll stage a protest,” said Harry. “Refuse to do my homework til they reinstate you.”

“You’re not going to do your homework anyway.”

“See how dedicated I am to you.”

She made a dismissive little noise at him, wringing her hands in her lap.

“Hermione,” he said, and she lifted her bush of hair to look at him. “You’re the most magical person I know. It’s gonna be alright.”

She gave a long slow blink but whatever she might have said was interrupted by an uneven knock at the door. “Um,” said the pudgy boy standing there. “I’ve lost my toad.”

Hermione leapt to her feet. “Where did you see him last?”

Harry followed in the wake of her forward charge, but he brought the rest of his sandwich with him.

-

(Harry did not know this and would not know this until Mrs. Granger mentioned it casually over a Christmas dinner years and years later– but she and Mr. Granger reported the Dursleys for child abuse and neglect, over and over.

The reports got lost– minds scrubbed down, papers vanished– but they kept calling in reports. They considered kidnapping. They couldn’t imagine why the wizarding world might want to keep their chosen one somewhere so toxic, why they might want to keep this underfed child and his messy hair with those people.

“My mother left me a blood protection spell,” said Harry, whose scar had not ached in years. He poked at his mashed potatoes under the focused attention of Mrs. Granger’s stern little forehead wrinkle. “I had to live with family, blood family.”

“Then they should have made them treat you right,” Mrs. Granger said, as though it was that simple.

Mr. Granger gave Harry another helping of peas.)

-

On the steps of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy thrust out his hand to the Boy Who Lived, who surveyed the open palm with amusement. “Thanks,” said Harry. “But I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself.”

The redheaded, freckly, hand-me-down clothes boy Malfoy had been bothering snorted. Harry slipped his hands into his pockets.

“You’re the kid with the rat from the train,” Hermione said. “And the spell that didn’t work.”

“It was a cool rhyme anyway, though,” Harry said. “Hi, I’m Harry, this is Hermione.”

“Yeah, she said, then. I’m Ron– uh, Ron Weasley.”

“Yeah, he said,” Harry said, rolling his eyes Malfoy’s direction. “Come on, you wanna stand with us? Hermione will tell you about the ceiling.”

“It’s enchanted!” said Hermione.

-

When Hermione founded SPHEW, Harry was not surprised. He had spent too many schoolyard days escorting spiders to safe spaces, keeping vigil over fallen bird’s nests, and watching Hermione stand up on her desk chair in heated pitched verbal battles with teachers. She’d driven at least two teachers to tears and taught most of them at least a few new vocabulary words.

-

Over summers and holidays, Harry and Hermione took Ron to the movies, to the seashore, to Hermione’s top three favorite libraries. Hermione’s Aunt Meg taught them how to whittle under a cloud of cigarette smoke that clung to Harry’s hair until he washed it out.

In this life, there were things in the Muggle world that Harry missed, that he wanted to see again. He loved Hogwarts, and he nominally went home to the Dursleys each summer, but he knew he always had a bed at the Grangers’. He knew the weird system they used to organize the books on their shelves. He’d pass Mrs. Granger the marmalade in mornings before she had to ask. He got free dental check-ups all his life, which was good because the Dursleys rarely bothered taking him into the dentist.

The whole Granger family tore apart newspapers every morning, calling article excerpts across the table and pointing each other to their favorite journalists. Before Hermione even first stepped onto Hogwarts grounds she got a subscription to the Daily Prophet. During Harry’s fourth year, Mr. and Mrs. Granger got Arthur Weasley to buy them an owl and then began an unending campaign of furious letters to the editor that never got published.

-

In a crumbling boat shed, Severus Snape died, but first he pressed a shining bundle of memory into Harry’s hands.

The fight was still going– Neville newly broad and certain; Luna whipping out quiet, barbed little curses; Ginny charging like an army in and of herself. Hermione had her arms full of basilisk fangs. Ron was moving people like bishops and knights. But Harry had a long damp walk before him, so he had time to wade through that life not his own.

Severus had been a lot of things– one of them was in love. Harry dragged his feet through forest mulch, seeing a little redheaded girl in sunlight, hands not his own offering her transformed flowers. It had been just them for so long. For Severus, for so long, there had been no one but him and Lily.

Even in Hogwarts, Severus had drifted through the classrooms and common room and library. He had believed in magic, in the cool slide of good knives through dried roots, and in Lily– always, always in Lily– Lily in sunlight, Lily chewing on her thumbnail over Transfiguration homework, Lily flicking soapsuds at him in her kitchen at home over summer, Lily pig-tailed and seven, wide-eyed as he showed her the first magic she’d ever seen, a leaf to a flower, a bit of sunlight to a bit of fire.

He had loved, and it had been a real thing. He had fucked up, and it had been a real thing, that heartbreak, that regret.

When Harry turned the Stone in his hand and saw his mother step into pseudo-life in that forest clearing, he thought I wish I’d known you. He thought about how she was in sepia and gray, here, just like in the pictures in the pages of Hermione’s books.

But he was also thinking about Severus. He was remembering Lily in sunlight, remembering her walking away, remembering her in that same cold photographed sprawl but in color–in grief–in bruised knees and heaving gasps.

Severus had been the first to find Lily’s body and it had felt like someone had cut the sunlight out of him. Harry was living through that grief, but he was also living through the wail of the child crying unacknowledged. His tiny pudgy hands were wrapped around the guardrail of his crib.

Harry was thinking about a girl standing in a field like a statue, hands on hips. He was thinking about Hermione’s raised hand ignored in Potions, or the way Snape had sneered that he didn’t see a difference in her cursed teeth. Love had made him brave, perhaps. It had killed him, but it had not made Severus good.

Harry wondered if his mother would have escorted spiders to safe places, if she would have stood guard over fallen bird’s nests, if she had worried herself to pieces that first time on the Hogwarts Express about the Hat telling her she didn’t really belong.

“I wish I’d known you,” he told the specter of Lily Potter. He held his own hands tight.

For Harry, for so long, there had been no one but him and Hermione. Even in Hogwarts, there were things only she would understand– parking meters, the cobweb ceiling of his cupboard, the silence of marmalade at breakfast. Harry believed in magic and he believed Hermione Granger was the most magical thing he knew.

“They’ll be alright,” he said. “I’ll be alright. I was alright, mum. I wish I’d known you– but I wasn’t alone.” He squeezed his hands tighter– Hermione showing him her favorite spots in her favorite libraries; Ron shyly showing them the Burrow like it was anything less than a magnificent masterpiece of warm rooms and patchwork architecture; Hermione standing in the field like a statue, bushy-haired and seven years old, jaw set. “She wasn’t alone, either,” he said. “And she’ll be alright. Ron will be alright. I have to do this, don’t I?”

“We are so proud of you,” Lily said.

“Thanks,” said Harry. “Sorry,” said Harry, and wondered if Hermione was going to be able to read the little passages and excerpts with his name in them, with those un-moving pictures and the sober captions underneath.

He dropped the Stone.

-

When Harry Potter died for the first time, crumpled in forest mulch, he didn’t go to a squeaky clean King’s Cross Station. There were no crescent moon glasses to twinkle kindly at him.

He stood under an old olive tree and a little girl looked up at him with those eyes that needed shielding, needed blunting, needed a manufacturer’s warning. “A wind’s coming,” she said. “You can just go. It will be easy.”

He stood outside Diagon Alley, a Muggle payphone tucked between his shoulder and ear. “You’re in books,” she said, with a breathlessness he’d barely heard for years. There had been too much weight on his shoulders, on hers. “You’re done,” she said. “You’ve done enough. Go on, tap three bricks up and two to the left.”

He stood in Godric’s Hollow, in the snow, holding her hand, looking at the ruined house. “You should have had this,” she said. She was seven and small, not nineteen and weary like she had been in life. The sky was overcast but there was sunlight glinting in her hair. “You can still have this. You can have everything.”

“You’re not real,” Harry said.

“But you are,” she said. “There’s a wind coming. It will be easy.”

“You’ve never done anything easy in your life,” he said.

She took both his hands– hers were so small against his grown fingers, his broad palms, and how had they done everything with hands that small? Basilisks and werewolves; shouting down teachers from atop desk chairs.

Harry was sitting in his cupboard in the light of its single bulb and he was too big for this space, his shoulders curling forward, his head bowing. She was standing there with sunlight still in her hair and her arms piled high with books. “You don’t belong here,” she said. “It will hurt. You won’t fit, if you go back. Everything can be easy. Everything can be fine. It doesn’t have to hurt, ever again.”

“Hermione,” he said and leaned forward, put his hands on her hands where they were gripping her books. “It’ll be alright.” He smiled and she was staring at him with those eyes, those goddamn eyes. “We never fit, remember?”

“We tried,” she said and Harry squeezed her small hands gently.

“Send me back,” he said. “I want to go home.”

-

After the battle, as Hogwarts rang with frantic healing, crushing grief, and raging celebration, the three of them retreated to the library. Hermione hauled them down narrow aisles until she found her favorite tucked-away nook and they all collapsed on sagging sofas that seemed to not have been touched at all by the war.

“Well,” said Hermione. “What now?”

Ron let his head flop back against the seat, hair tumbling all over his pale forehead. “I’m going to nap,” he said. “For a month.”

“That’s not physiologically possible,” said Hermione. “Or if it is, then it’d be a coma.”

“It’s a metaphor,” Ron said, then: “no, wait, a hyperbole.” Hermione beamed at him. He blushed a little and elbowed her gently.

“After this, you’ll be in books, you know,” Harry told her.

“Not– I mean–” Hermione rubbed at her nose furiously. Ron laughed enough to wake up and sit up, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

While Ron came up with outlandish titles for Hermione’s eventual many biographies, Harry pulled his feet up onto the sofa. He watched the candles float quietly between the shelves.

general li mulan

okay so i LOVE mulan okay. as far as i’m concerned it’s a Perfect Movie and doesn’t need any fixing. but i was thinking today and -

- what if mulan didn’t go to war to save her father?

say her father is dead, okay, killed by the previous war. so she’s raised by her mother and grandmother, women who’s complacency and softness has been worn away by necessity. she needs to marry well, for her family’s sake, because her mother has refused the hand of every man who offered. but mulan is even more rough around the edges than before, is educated not only in books (her mother said men wouldn’t find smarts attractive and grandmother pointed out that men aren’t always around and off to school mulan went) but in the sword too, taught to her by her classmate, ping.

mulan is considered in the lower end of the upper class, coming from a family of military men and scholars and successful merchants. ping is near the top, the son or nephew of an advisor to the emperor. his family is very rich and very important, and the reason they become friends is because mulan manages to notice something about him that he’s been hiding from everyone else - he’s going blind.

not totally blind, enough to get around, but blind enough that reading is difficult and swordplay is even worse, although once he has it down he has it. ping is no fool, he’s not weak or bumbling. his eyes just don’t work. so mulan notices and confronts him about it. she promises to keep it a secret, and hey, she’ll even help him with his assignments by reading the books out loud and helping him study. but in return he must teach her the sword, must teach her about military and tactics. he agrees.

ping and mulan become very good friends and there’s some raised eyebrows about it but they are TOO far away in class for it to be inappropriate, so they make tutting sounds and disapproving faces and let it go.

then the draft happens. ping can’t go to war, he won’t survive it. not with his eyesight like it is. so mulan offers him a deal - she’ll go to war for him, in his place. in return, if she survives, he must marry her. if she dies he must take care of her family.

ping can’t make this kind of family decision on his own, so he goes to his mother and tells her everything, about the eyesight and how he’ll die if he goes and mulan’s offer. his mother says he must keep it a secret from his father, but agrees - if mulan fights in her son’s place and survives, a wedding will be arranged. either way, mulan’s family will be taken care of. ping will be sent to live with some cousins in the meanwhile.

“you’re not in love with me, are you?” ping asks, helping mulan saddle her horse in the middle of the night. she scoffs and rolls her eyes, “not even a little. but marrying you will make my family happy, and besides, you’re my best friend,” she says, smiling, “better you than some grabby old man.” he smiles and hugs her and says, “i’m not in love with you either. but don’t die out there. we have a wedding to plan.”

so mulan goes to the camp, pretending to be ping, and she’s a little bit less lost but things still go as they go. she’s educated and trained, so it’s not hard for her to pass as ping. shang is keeping a special eye on her, thinking that she’s the son of an advisor, one of his father’s friends. and he sees how easily she excels, how quick thinking and smart she is, and starts giving her more and more responsibilities. by the time they’re called out, shang considers ping ie mulan to be his right hand man, and possibly his best friend.

he’s also a little bit in love with ping, and he’s long known he’s attracted to both genders, so he watches ping laugh and smile and the crease between his eyes when he frowns and does his best to let his feelings chase away the best soldier he has. every time shang looks at ping his heart clenches and he things to himself: i wish i could have you, i wish this was a time and a place where one man could have another, i wish you were a girl, is wish i was a girl - i wish we could be together. he’s literally a step away from doodling ‘li ping’ with little hearts over his battle plans. 

so the battles happen. shang and ping lead their men together, respected and loved. they each get promoted, and promoted, and promoted. it’s been years, and it comes to a point where they’re both generals in their own right. they trust each other, care for each other. and are both secretly in love with the other.

mulan is so conflicted. because she wants this war to end and to go home and settle back into life and become ping’s wife, so she can have an easy life spent studying and learning with her family taken care of. that’s what she’d wanted. but now what she wants is shang, her best friend, her brother in arms, her fellow general. she wishes to be everything to him, aches to be the woman on his arm and in his bed, but knows it’s the one thing she can never be.

then that final battle happens. mulan’s quick thinking saves them all and ends the war - but she’s injured.

shang finds out the ping has been a girl all along. he demands explanations - so she tells him everything, that she traded places with ping to save him, to become his wife.

and the lies should sting the sharpest, but they don’t. she’s still the same person, after all. it’s that she’s promised to another man, for one second he’d thought he might have her, but no. so he agrees not to reveal her but he’s furious and furious at himself for being furious and they’re not the same now, broken and splintered and neither of them know what to do.

the war is over. they leave. mulan returns home, and thanks to her ping is now known as a respected general. she’s done her part and survived, and now she gets her reward - ping’s hand in marriage.

but she sees ping for the first time and flings herself into his arms and starts crying. she tells him everything, because he’s still her friend, her very best friend besides shang, the man whom she lied to and betrayed and loves. and ping listens and takes her by the shoulders and says - i’ll uphold our bargain, if that’s what you want. you can be my pampered wife, you’ve more than earned it. but if you want to go to shang, i won’t blame you. you deserve your happiness.

and mulan goes back and forth, but ultimately she decides she has to try. if shang rejects her she’ll return and marry ping and uphold her family honor. but if shang wants her - he’s not as high up as ping, but he’s high up enough to satisfy her family, and also she would love him and want him if he was no more than a farming peasant so it doesn’t matter much anyway.

she rides to the capitol. she finally meets ping’s father, running into him while looking for shang. “ah mulan,” says this man who was never supposed to know of her until she became his daughter-in-law, “i didn’t expect to see you here. how fortuitous. walk with me.” she does, wary, and that’s how she discovers - he and the emperor had discovered her deception a year in, but at that point she’d already proven herself too skilled and valuable to lose. he tells her that he will uphold his son and wife’s deal and gladly welcome her to his household - but that she’s earned her rank as general, and that he and the emperor have no problem with letting her keep it.

she says thank you, shocked and joyful, but that she has to talk to someone first. “ah, yes, young general li,” he says, eyes twinkling, “i do believe he’s around here somewhere.”

she has no idea how he seems to know everything, but she finally tracks down shang who’s ecstatic to see her and hates himself for it. she confesses - says she loves him, that she’s engaged to ping but willing and able to break this engagement for shang. who is dumbfounded and elated and says yes, of course, finally and forever.

and mulan accepts her rank and marries shang, and they become the literal power battle couple of the general li mulan and general li shang. ping becomes a scholar and marries a very nice young woman who loves reading and is happy to read aloud to her husband with his failing eyes.

and they all live happily ever after.

Send Nude Pics of Your Heart to Me

James Potter to Mrs. Wife: lily can we have another baby?

Lily Potter to Wears Socks to Bed: R u going to text me that every time Harry does something cute?

James Potter: yes

Lily Potter: U know if we got one every time u asked we’d have like 35 babies by now??

James Potter: i’d be okay with that

James Potter: they might give us our own tv programme

James Potter: lil and jim and their kin 

Lily Potter: Ur right what’s the point of having children if not to pimp them out for reality television

Keep reading

ask and you shall receive | pt 1 (m)

pairing: jung hoseok x reader, sugar daddy! hoseok
genre/warnings: smut, lots of oral, slow burn, dirty talk, dom! hoseok
words: 13,865
summary: your sugar daddy says you don’t have to sleep with him if you don’t want to…trouble is, you do want to. You’re just nervous and a little inexperienced, but he catches on quick and begins to teach you the true pleasures of sex, and boy, are they good…

» pt 1 :: pt 2 ::

Keep reading

Truth about the 'Glamorous Lifestyle' of a Sugar Baby/Escort.

To Aspiring Sugar babies and Escorts

Listen ladies, I’ve been privileged enough to have been on private jets, exotic ‘vacations’, dined in x number of Michelin star dinners, worn the most beautiful dresses on the arm of SD’s, played that Pretty Woman scene when she goes shopping, etc….

I wish I had known the truth before joining, especially since I was so young.

Let me tell you this now: it’s not real. It’s not OUR reality. This is an example of a typical ‘upscale’ escort/sugar baby experience some will probably encounter at some point in their SW career.

Their reality: A sexy 18-29 year old in an even sexier dress hanging off of my arm. I can afford the caviar AND her. Every man in this bar is jealous, and trying to talk to her while I cop a feel of her ass. Another bottle of expensive champagne? Why not. She deserves to try the best. This is an incredible life.

Your reality: I’m in a foreign place where I don’t know anybody, wearing a dress that normally screams “rape bait” (at his request), with a man old enough to be my father, if not my grandfather. The host suspect I’m probably a “hooker” since I didn’t even know what the name of the reservation is under. This dress is making it difficult to breathe. Oh god, I need another drink of whatever it is in that bottle to get through another dinner where he’s trying to drunkenly fondle me under the table. I have to smile sweetly. Need to repeatedly remind myself to ignore the sneering glances from the waiters.

His reality later that night: I can’t wait to show her the top-floor suite of this place with the beautiful view. I even had my assistant go pick up some nice sets of lingerie from the store she mentioned she likes. I already made sure the rest of her envelope with her gift/donation is ready with her name on it. I’ll get the candles lit, have another bottle of wine sent up, and romantic music to top it all off. It’s gonna be a night of romance and passion with a beautiful girl. God, she’s gorgeous.

Your reality later that night: This view would be beautiful if it weren’t for the 50 year old behind me, nibbling his dry lips on my ear while I’m trying to enjoy the ambience. At least my rent money is in that envelope with a random name on it. He hands me a bag from Victoria Secret. I have to pretend to be super excited to get try on see-through lace for an old man now. He takes off his shirt, it’s just a forest of white hair and wrinkly skin. Next to the candle lighter, I see the magic blue pills. This is going to be a VERY long night.

Next day reality for him: I think I have enough time for room service before my flight. I’ll see if I can call the other SW from that other town to arrange another rendezvous for when I’m done with work. I should probably order two dozen roses, delivered to my wife so she knows I’m thinking of her. Note to self, call assistant to order roses and withdraw more cash. Oh wait, what’s that girl in my hotel room right now called? Ashley? Sarah? I’ll leave her a few hundred dollars as tip, save her number and I’ll call her again when I’m in town. I’m glad she really enjoyed the sex. She deserves it from all those times with unattractive and gross clients. At 54, I still got it.

Next day reality for you: Fuck, I have no idea how to get back to my own town without using all of the money he gave me for fare. My rent is due tomorrow, and tuition is due next month. I still have a client in 5 hours, my paper is due tomorrow but I haven’t even started. I have the worst hangover ever. At least I don’t remember much from last night, except his sandpaper tongue running all over my body. I shivered, but thankfully I fake moaned so it sounded like I was enjoying it.

Moral of this post: Don’t join the industry based on the glamorous lifestyle of the CLIENTS. Many of the blogs I see paint the image seen through HIS (the client) eyes, not YOURS (the service provider).

When your service is over, you turn back into a normal girl; back to grocery nights at Ralph’s, back to yelping the cheapest nail salon place, back to having fun with friends playing beer pong, back to being “Sarah or Ashley” because you have bills. Part of your service is renting you as a prop for their lifestyle. Never confuse that with YOUR lifestyle. ‘Vacationing’ in Cabo with him is NOT the same as doing so at your leisure with your friends.

If you still don’t quite understand what I’m saying, let me put it this way; bedazzled French pedicures are beautiful, right? You love being pampered in that massage chair, getting massaged, and ending up with a gorgeous pedicure. It’s stunning and glamorous experience, no?

Guess what. Not from the perspective of the pedicurist scrubbing your feet. There’s nothing glamorous about it for her because whereas she’s the service PROVIDER, YOU are the CLIENT. Same situation, very different experience.

This is something many of us learned the hard way. Yes, this lifestyle can come with many glamorous perks and experiences but there’s definitely a price to pay. Don’t be delusional. If this was all that easy, don’t you think every female on this planet would be in the industry?

After several years of experience I’ve learned to be immune to the ‘wrappings’ of the industry. You are here to make money. All those Roseshire roses, expensive dinners, fancy car rides, delicate lingerie are for HIS fantasy, and does very little for YOUR wallet. Don’t be blind sighted by the fancy tricks he pulls because it isn’t tangible. Never lose sight of your 'paycheck’. Once you see this lifestyle as what it truly is - a job; you become far less naive and more focused on your goals.

Always remember: There’s a price to pay for money.

Stay safe, ladies. 💸💸💸

The Reason I Don’t Do Cold Readings Anymore…

by reddit user Skarjo

I don’t do ‘Cold Readings’ anymore. I don’t tell fortunes. I don’t read tea leaves.

And I do not do contact ‘the other side’.

Look, don’t judge me alright? It was an easy gig. I mean, the first time I did it, it was a joke. I did it just to impress a girl. You’ve been there right? It was something I’d read about online and I thought I’d give it a go.

Keep reading

You’re His Ex Girlfriend and You See His New Girlfriend Wearing Your T-Shirt

Masterlist linked in bio


If there’s one thing Y/n can’t stand, it’s pity. Which is unfortunate for her, considering that’s all she’s been receiving ever since Harry had broken up with her.

Between her family, her friends, and long-known acquaintances, the pity was never ending. The looks people gave her whenever she occupied a room made her sick to her stomach. Nobody looked at her the way they used to as if their perception of her has been altered from a beautiful, humble woman to a broken heart on legs.

Talking to people didn’t help much, either, considering their irrational fear that one harsh tone could wreck what’s left of her. To those, her identity and name have seemed to be forgotten, only to be replaced by “the girl left with a broken heart, who’s heart has failed to mend.”

It’s all a myth, really—a myth that hasn’t been confirmed or denied within the past four months. Y/n provided no reassurance for anybody, nor did she show any improvement since their break up. But she did try her best. Her attempts to answer the question, “how have you been, you know, since the breakup and all?” with an “I’ve been okay” filled with lies didn’t go unnoticed, however, proved to be unsuccessful.

And the pity only got worse when Harry got a new girlfriend.

It was plastered everywhere, the rumors that Harry’s new girlfriend stayed at his hotel in Los Angeles and traveled with him back to London. They disclosed that her name was Jessica, who works as a travel blogger.

She was beautiful, too. More beautiful than she wanted her to be, as selfish as it was. She was the perfect image for him, especially at the height of his career.

Y/n’s heart hit rock bottom that day. Every unblemished part of it became a ruin, a shattered piece of what was once so full and whole.

Y/n hadn’t expected it, not this fast, at least. When Harry initiated the breakup, he told her that it wasn’t the end of their relationship. He had promised her that with the right amount of distance, all the problems they’ve had in their relationship would be fixed entirely.

She believed him, too. That with maybe some time apart, their bitterness towards each other would decease, and all that would remain would be the overwhelming needs for one another.

She should have never been so gullible. After they broke up, they never spoke to each other again. All their ties had been cut, leaving them both hanging in completely separate lives. Y/n never got over him. How could she? They were soulmates, they were each other’s everything. No matter what came at them, they always found a way back to one another.

But Harry’s fame started skyrocketing, leaving Y/n on the ground with no way to reach him anymore. She should have known he’d find someone else—someone more worthy of his time. She just didn’t want to believe it and didn’t want to believe that it had happened so soon.

“How are you feeling?” Gabby asks, reaching over the wooden table so that her fingers can rest on top of Y/n’s hand; a small gesture that Gabby has been giving Y/n nearly every day for the past four months.

Y/n wishes she found it as comfortable as it intended to be, however she can’t help feeling worse whenever Gabby did so. The gesture undoubtedly derives from the pity Gabby has had toward her ever since the breakup. Everything was because of pity.

She looks down at her cold, untouched hot chocolate as she swirls the straw along the brim, resisting to roll her eyes as it’s the only question everybody has seemed to ask her recently.

“The usual,” she shrugs, “nothing’s really changed.”

Gabby gives her a half smile before returning to her tea. The cafe is only occupied by the both of them, considering it’s 7 in the morning on a Sunday. But after everything that’s happened, Y/n’s sleep schedule has been slacking and Gabby wanted nothing more than to be there for Y/n whenever she had the chance.

“Are you sure you don’t want any food?” Gabby asks. “It’s on me if you want anything.”

Y/n shrugs again, a faint yawn falling from her mouth as she shakes her head.

“No, I’m okay. I think I’ll make some waffles when I get home. But I’ll need to stop at the grocery store before I leave. Ran out of milk and flour the other day.”

“We could stop by now if you’d like. I’m getting quite full, anyways.”

“Yeah, sure” Y/n nods, “sounds fine.”


The entrance doors chime when Y/n and Gabby enter the grocery store, barely any people filling the aisles at such hours. Neither of them speak much before they go their separate ways, grabbing all the necessary ingredients Y/n needs for when she gets home.

When she finds flour on one of the bottom shelves, Y/n bends down to grab the cheapest one she could find. In all honesty, she didn’t have a lot of money to spend since she took some time off of work for “mental health reasons,” and she wanted nothing more than to go back home and spend the rest of her day in bed.

When she stands back up from her squatting position, her body rams into somebody else’s, making everything they both were carrying fall onto the floor.

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry!” Y/n gasps, scrambling to pick up the ingredients that have fallen from the girl’s arms.

When Y/n stands back up to return her fallen items, it was as if every nightmare Y/n has ever had was standing right in front of her.

She’d recognize her face anywhere. It haunted her everywhere she went; mocking her and destroying every last bit of her wellbeing. Her face is unforgettable, having been ingrained into her head for so long now. She’s exactly how she is in her pictures, except she’s so much more beautiful in person.

It’s when Y/n’s eyes drift down to the shirt she’s wearing that takes the breath right from her lungs.

The word Lover printed inside of a red heart, the end of it hidden by the pocket right on her chest. It looked so unfamiliar on her—so unfamiliar that tears started piling in her eyes and her lips began to quiver.

That shirt was theirs. That shirt belonged to Y/n and Harry.

Lover.

It was a nickname Y/n always gave Harry. She would have normally settled for “babe” or “baby” like she did with her previous boyfriends, but “lover” came so naturally to her. It exemplified just how unique and rare their relationship was, too.

Harry had never been called that before, but there was something about it that felt so right. The first time she called him that, he blushed like no other. His cheeks and heart felt so warm, and Y/n wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. But no matter how much she joked about how much he blushed that night, it only made her call him that more.

And the more she said it, the more she realized that there was no other name to describe him.

She gave him the shirt for their first anniversary. She was insecure about it, considering it was the only gift she purchased him that year and wasn’t nearly as expensive as all the gifts Harry had given her. But after all the flowers she received had died months later, after all the chocolate he bought her had been eaten in two nights, after all the in-home spa treatments had been used by the both of them progressively throughout the months, and after all the sex they shared died down by the next morning, the only gift that remained so dearly to their hearts was that goddamn shirt.

The shirt became sentimental to their relationship and was almost used as a keepsake between the two of them. The mornings after making love, Y/n found herself slipping it on before rolling out of bed to make breakfast. Harry fell in love with her tendency to do so and always made sure she knew just how much he loved her for it.

This is my favorite look on you, he’d always say, where the shirt hung loosely from her frame and her skin scattered with the marks from his tongue.

Harry wore the shirt as a tradition, most commonly on their anniversaries or on any specific date that held such significance to their relationship. And every time Y/n saw him wearing it, she found it irresistible to kiss the heart designed right upon his chest.

My lover, she’d say, looks so perfect on you.

She never imagined anybody else in it. Even after they had broken up, she never thought the shirt would be passed down to later relationships Harry had with other women. When she moved out, he kept insisting that she should be the one to take it.


He looked down at the shirt all crinkled in his hands, the last compromise they had to make before Y/n officially moved out of their home. Her suitcases were packed neatly by the front door, the darkened sky from the storm waiting to approach making the house feel colder than it already had turned.

Y/n’s body was slumped against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyes red with inevitable tears as they were forced to face the harsh reality of what was to come.

After three years of a relationship neither of them expected to end, Harry had insisted that they take a break from each other. With his career coming to its peak and Y/n spending most of her time in the office, their relationship was going through a rough patch that lasted far too long.

“You paid for this, you know,” Harry whispered, obstructing the silence that seemed to make the air around them thicker and harder to breathe, “this is yours, always has been.”

Y/n shook her head, a few loose tears falling from her face as she did so. In all honesty, she didn’t want to be reminded of it after this. It’s held so much meaning between the two of them throughout a majority of their years being together that she couldn’t stomach the thought of looking at it in her selection of wardrobe. Not when Harry won’t be by her side, not when Harry won’t be apart of her life anymore.

She placed her hand on top of his softly, stroking the knuckles of his clenched fingers with her thumb.

“It was ours. But when it comes down to it, I bought it for you. It was a gift, you should keep it.”

Harry clenched his fingers harsher against the fabric, his quivered lips attempting a small smile as he lifted it to his chest. His thumb traced the heart above the pocket, watching as one of his tears soak into the material.

“It looks better on you anyways.” Y/n tried to laugh through the silent cries, but neither of them had the heart to make light of the situation they were facing.

Harry’s eyes narrowed down at her while a small sigh fell from his lips.

“You know I’d never wear this again, right? Not until we find our way back to each other.”

Y/n’s shaken hands wiped the tears from her cheeks, her lips pursed together to ensure her broken sobs wouldn’t surface until she was alone in her car.

“Yeah, until we find our way back.”

She stood on her toes to reach his cheek, where she tentatively placed a kiss on the flushed skin.

“You’ll always be my lover.”


But looking back at it now, she wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a grocery store, crying pathetically in front of a complete stranger if she had just taken the damn thing.

How could he do this to me?

“Babe, are these eggs alr—“

Harry’s words get caught in his throat when he sees Y/n standing in front of Jessica with tears streaming down her face and cries shaking her body.

At first, his instinct is to reach his hand out to her. But as his eyes follow her tearful gaze to Jessica’s shirt, which is far too large for her frame, but still being worn on her body, the realization hits him that it’s probably the last thing she would want.

He flutters his eyes shut as an unbearable feeling starts to rise in his stomach. This is the most unfortunate time to see Y/n again, and he can’t imagine how much hatred flowing through Y/n’s system as he stands there, cowardly silenced.

Not a word comes out of his mouth. Not even a pathetic stutter of her name, or even a lift of his lips to greet her in the most minimal of ways.

The only thought swirling through Y/n’s mind is how could you not say anything to me? After everything you did, after what I’m witnessing now, how is there not one word to say?

He watches as pain settles in her eyes as she looks at him. It’s as if she’s begging for an explanation, or even an apology he doesn’t really mean. She’s just looking for something, and knowing that she’s not getting anything is taking all the remaining life out of her.  

But he has so much to say. There are so many apologies, so many thoughts all scrambling in his head that everything becomes incoherent. He wants to tell her how sorry he is, and how hard it is to live with himself after all that he’s done to her. He wants to tell her that he never gave her that fucking shirt, that Jessica found it in one of his drawers and put it on while he was still sleeping from the night before. He wants to tell her that it isn’t what it looks like, that it isn’t what everybody thinks this is. But his throat tightens and his tongue suddenly becomes numb, completely preventing him from saying all the things he wishes to say.

“Y/n, is everything alr—”

Gabby halts when she discovers Y/n’s crying body being watched by the very two people that broke her heart. She’s breaking, so evidently breaking and neither one of them are doing anything about it.

“I w—want to go home.” Y/n’s voice cracks, face twisting as Harry still doesn’t find anything to say to her. “Let’s just go home.”

If Gabby hadn’t witnessed her best friend go through so much pain within the last four months, she would have been able to contain all the rage she’s held toward Harry. But something inside of her snaps when she sees the shirt Jessica’s wearing.

“No!” Gabby spits.

Before anybody sees it happening, Gabby slams her fists against Harry’s chest. Jessica begins to scream while Y/n jumps in an attempt to remove Gabby’s wild arms away from him.

Harry doesn’t do anything to defend himself, though, as he allows her to keep swinging her arms at him. All he can think about it how much he deserves it—how much he deserves all of what’s coming at him.

“You’re such a fucking jerk, Harry!” Gabby roars. “You ruined her! Who the fuck do you think you are?!“

“Gab, stop.” Y/n mumbles, finally able to capture her arms.

Gabby squirms as she tries to escape Y/n’s harsh hold on her, but against Y/n’s anger mixed with all her overwhelming emotions, there is no match.

Y/n starts to push Gabby toward the doors, and it takes every bit of strength left in her to not turn around to look at him one last time. 

“You’re her biggest mistake! I hope you know that!”

Queens of Mewni & Their Cheek Symbol

So, I just thought to make the list of the cheek symbols of the Queens of Mewni for my next analysis (the significance of these cheek symbols). The first column were the image of the queens, second is their cheek symbols, third is symbolism’s meaning I got from the internet, and fourth is what traits I think you needed to get that symbol in the SVTFOE universe (in short, what the symbol signifies). 

SVTFOE Card Suite Symbolism speculation:

Heart - people with this symbol are very lovable and has a distinguishing “charm” that naturally attracts people and come to her side. They prioritize their relationship with others compared to anything else and usually let their heart dictates their action (emotional). They are often found as center of the group

Spade - people with this symbol wields strong and fearsome power, even more powerful than normal and typical queens.

Diamond - people with this symbol have the tendency to take the center of command and shoulder the burden and responsibility by their selves. They dress in jewelry and finery, conducting their selves as befitting of nobility.

Club - people with this symbol have the “common” mindset. They appreciate the values that works for the greater whole of society and hates anything that could destroy the social order they are comfortable and grew up in already.

Color symbolism speculation:

Shades of purple - elegance, nobility, regal

Yellow - bright, lively

Pink - lovely, feminine, 

White - harmony, power, everything (as it is combination of all colors of light. That’s why Moon said you must give everything if you want to “dip down”)


Keep reading

Six Years and Seven Days

This is pretending that Bellamy could hear Clarke talking all those years, she just can’t hear him responding, and that the ship at the end is them coming back to Earth. 

So…pain. 


Day Three

“Bellamy…are you up there? Are you alive? Is anyone alive?”

Static.

“I only woke up yesterday. At least, I think it was yesterday. I barely made it into the bunker in time, but I made it. And the computer says it’s been three days since the radiation hit, and I was so hungry I thought I might die. Please tell me you didn’t die.”

Silence.

“Bellamy, my mom was right. In a way. My face is disgusting, covered in boils. You’d be laughing at me…probably. Because she was right but so were you. I’m not dead Bellamy. I hope you aren’t either.”

His fingers slammed on the respond button, pushing it down to the point of it feeling like it would crack from the pressure.

“I’m not dead, Clarke. I’m not dead.”

Keep reading

Come Back to Me (Part One)

Fandom: Marvel
Ship: Peter Parker x Reader
Requested: No, but taken from this prompt list: “Just… come back alive, okay?”
Genre: Low-key angst??
Warnings: Spiderman Homecoming spoilers
Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

Originally posted by j-murphy

Your best friend had raved on and on about asking his crush to the dance, and when he finally did it, you were the first he told. You pretended to be excited for him, and in a small way, you genuinely were. But when you thought of Liz slow-dancing with Peter instead of you, and him kissing her at the end of the night and not you, the excitement for him was largely overshadowed by sadness, because it would never be you. He would never have feelings for you.

So when you saw Liz walk into the Homecoming dance without Peter on her arm, your eyebrows furrowed. She walked around, greeting people everywhere around her, when she made her way to your group with Ned and Michelle. 

“Hey guys!” She said excitedly and smiled, and you forced a smile back. She was a nice girl; you couldn’t deny that. She was good for Peter.

“Hey,” you said back. “Where’s Peter? I thought he’d be with you,” you tried to keep your voice casual, but Michelle caught your eye and smirked. She knew your secret. 

“Oh, he’s in the car with my dad. He should be here soon,” she smiled again, dazzling one, before excusing herself to greet more partygoers. You turned around to face your two friends, fake smile still on your face.

“You okay?” Ned asked, a sympathetic expression on his face that you didn’t see often. He knew your secret too.

(It wasn’t much of a secret to anyone but Peter.)

“I’m okay,” you gave a real smile this time, and his eyes shifted to somewhere behind you. You stiffened, knowing your best friend was here. You turned around, seeing a panicked look on his face, but you knew that you were the only one who could tell his expression. You’d known each other for years; you knew all of his in-and-outs.

He went up to Liz and tapped her on the shoulder, and as he spoke to her, you saw his expression become guilty. You couldn’t see Liz’s because her back was turned to you, but you were sure it wasn’t pleasant. You saw him mouth ‘I’m sorry’ before sprinting through the gym doors and into the hallways of the school. 

Before you knew what you were doing, you were running after him. You abandoned your shoes after crashing through the gym doors and followed him barefoot. “Peter!” You yelled and turned another corner, but he continued to sprint farther ahead of you. After yelling his name again and turning a few more corners he stopped in front of a set of lockers and turned around to look at you.

“(Y/N), go back to the dance,” he said, the panic now even more evident on his face.

“No,” you said stubbornly. “What do you think you’re doing? You’ve been looking forward to this for so long!” 

He simply shook his head before grabbing you by the shoulders and turning you around. “You need to go. Now.”

“No!” You pushed his hands away from you. He looked at you desperately. “What is going on with you?”

He turned away again and mumbled under his breath, pacing back and forth. 

“Peter,” you said his name again, softer this time, and grabbed his hand to stop his pacing. “I’m your best friend. You can tell me anything,” you say, ignoring the feeling erupting in your chest from him squeezing your hand. 

“I know, I know,” he whispered and stayed silent for a few moments, staring down at your connected hands, before sighing, pulling away from you, and turning towards the lockers again. He bent down and pulled the bottom of the lockers, and you gasped in shock when the wall of lockers lifted up to reveal a small crevice filled with multiple things. 

Peter pulled out a ball of red and blue fabric and unrolled it, then turned around to show you it. You stared at try fabric in his hands, seeing the spider on the front and the mask with goggles falling to the side. You stared at it, and stared at it, and stared at it, before it finally clicked. You had seen this suit on the news multiple times before, clad on a mystery man you had always found so brave. 

You looked up at Peter and noticed his nervous expression matching yours. “Why do you have Spiderman’s suit, Pete?” You whispered, and you knew why he had it, you knew, but you couldn’t bring yourself to comprehend it. 

“You know why, (Y/N),” he sighed and looked down at the wrinkled fabric in his hands. 

“I need to hear you say it,” your voice was still quiet, and you looked down at the suit again. 

“I’m Spiderman,” Peter finally said, and your resolve crumbled. Tears flooded your eyes and your vision became blurry, and a few tears fell down your cheeks.  You weren’t sure why you were crying. You didn’t know if it was the betrayal of him not telling you, or the fear of him getting hurt, or something else entirely. But the tears continued to fall. 

“(Y/N),” he sighed again, and pulled you into a hug. “It’s okay. Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know,” you sobbed and laughed and cried, and Peter hugged you and rubbed your back until you could compose yourself. You pulled back from him after a few minutes and wiped your face with your hands, sure you looked like a mess. “But why are you leaving now?”

He sighed for what seemed like the millionth time in the last few minutes. “You know the guy that I’ve been fighting? All the news channels have been talking about it. Or, who Spiderman has been fighting.”

You nodded. “That bird dude?” Peter laughed, a real smile on his face that made you smile too.

“Yeah, yeah, the bird dude.” He chuckled and looked down at his feet before beginning to back away. “I gotta go. He’s gonna steal from Mr. Stark’s plane, and I need to stop him.”

“But why now,” you stressed, taking steps closer to him. “It’s our Homecoming.”

“He’s Liz’s dad,” he said, not actually answering the question, and you gasped.

“Liz’s dad?” Peter nodded. “Does she know?” He shook his head, backing away again.

“I really have to go, (Y/N),” he said, and went to turn around. 

“Wait!” You grabbed his hand again, and he looked at you expectantly. “I, um,” you wanted to tell him, you needed to tell him before it was too late. But you didn’t want to burden him before he went to risk his life. So instead of telling him what you desperately wanted to, you pulled him into a hug. 

He breathed deeply, resting his chin on top of your head as you listened to his heartbeat under your ear. You pulled back the slightest bit to look him in the eyes. “Just… come back alive, okay?” 

He smiled lightly and moved his hands from your back to your hands. “I always do.” He squeezed them once and let go, grabbing the suit from where he dropped it on the floor and running away from you. You sniffed loudly as he turned a corner, disappearing from your vision, and the sound echoed through the empty hallways. 

You began to walk back to the dance, wiping at your face again and collecting your discarded shoes to make yourself presentable. And as you made your way through the school by yourself, you thought, Good luck, Spiderman.

******************
This is my first Peter piece that I’ve written in a while, so I hope everyone liked it! Feedback is always welcome! Requests for Tom Holland and Peter Parker imagines are open, so feel free to send one in! 

~e

two rotten apples [m]

credit: x.

❛❛we’re next-door neighbors and have hated each other since middle school but now we’re going to the same university how can we avoid the other person like the plague so there isn’t a crime scene— what do you mean you promised my mom you would keep an eye on me???? you fucking planned this❜❜ AU

COUNT → 16.053

GENRE → smut | eventual angst

PAIRING → jungkook | reader

WARNINGS → dom and sub tones | spanking | hair pulling | praising | explicit language | female masturbation | graphic oral sex | penetration

LINKS → 1 | 2 | 3COMING SOON


There was always that one person at parties—that one person who hid in a bathtub somewhere so they didn’t have to contribute to society’s norms of choking on their own vomit and passing out cuddling a pink garden gnome.

Or maybe that was just you.

Then again, it wasn’t just any party you were hiding in a bathtub at—it wasn’t some rager that had frat boys downstairs chugging so much alcohol that their livers probably looked like fucking dried out asparagus—it was your high school graduation party. And maybe you’d attended only the lamest graduation parties in your eighteen years of life, but there was no alcohol here—only fruit punch. Yet, there you were, still hiding in a bathtub for some fucking reason with a piece of chocolate cake balanced in your lap.

You should probably reiterate that it was your party, which makes things worse since normally you don’t hide in a bathtub when you’re the guest of honor.

Normally—but this was not a normal circumstance.

Keep reading

By Heart [ I ]

Genre [Rating] : Angst / Some Fluff [Possibly M?]

Length: 4.4k

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader

Summary: Getting over him was the most impossible thing in the world because part of you couldn’t believe it was really over.

Originally posted by kyungsuhos

The hardest part about giving someone else your heart, is that it then belongs to them. Even if things end, they will forever own a piece of you. A piece of the most important part of you, no less. It’s a piece of yourself that you can never get back, not really, not fully.

Six months. One hundred eighty two days. Four thousand three hundred sixty eight hours. That was how long it had been since you felt whole.

Keep reading

slowdance on the inside | (m)

Originally posted by kimthwriter

pairing: kim taehyung x reader | feat jeon jungkook
genre/warnings: light angst, romance/fluff and smut
words: 20,476
summary: Taehyung has liked you as long as he can remember. He’s unsure when the line blurred from friendship to romantically, but it’s about to get a lot worse when he’s forced to watch you date his friend, Jungkook…

a/n: holy cow! this is long! the first of my requests and my first in-depth tae oneshot! hope you enjoy!

Keep reading

Your senior year roommate calls herself Clarity. She’s very small and rumpled and distant, and she goes for long walks in the forest south of campus when she’s frustrated. You aren’t friends, but you coexist peacefully. It’s enough.

The creature on your co-owned Walmart futon isn’t Clarity.

It looks like her. Enough to fool a casual observer, certainly. Enough to fool someone who hasn’t been soldering sterling silver for six hours. But you have, and the truth of silver lingers, and the Thing That Looks Like Clarity is sprouting delicate flowers from the skin of its bare shoulders.

It’s sitting cross-legged and perfectly, terribly still, tracking your eyes as you take all this in. When you sigh and set down your backpack, it says, “Hello, smith. There didn’t seem to be any sense in pretending.”

“Jeweler,” you say, and, “I go by Florence, these days. What should I call you?”

It blinks, languid and slow. “I’m not here to usurp. I’m a… placeholder.”

“It’s still confusing as shit, my guy.”

It considers this at length. Finally, with the air of one who has just solved a great puzzle, it says “Claire. We will know, the two of us.”

“Works for me. Nice meeting you, Claire.”

And that seems to be all there is to say. Your roommate’s been stolen by the Fair Folk, you’re living with a changeling, and there’s not much you can do about either of these things. You scroll through Instagram until it gets tired of watching you and wanders out into the hallway.

So that’s Claire.

Keep reading

Unlucky Nine: A list of antis you may or may not have encountered in the vld fandom

Start Note: When I mention [Ship Name] Anti, it means a shipper of that ship who is also anti of another ship mentioned depending on the context as opposed to Anti-[Ship Name] which is someone who is an anti of the ship mentioned.

I. “Ship K/ance or Sha//ura or my ship instead” anti

These antis are just assholes. They insult other ships that contend to their own. These antis are prevalent in Sheith, Kallura and sometimes Shidge tags.

You get K/ance antis calling Sheith yaoi culture but then they totally change Keith and Lance’s character to fit the same trope. I was so pissed the other day because someone took Lance and just shoved Uke™ on him to fit an AU where he crushes on Keith.

You got K/ance & Sha//ura antis calling Kallura heteronormative but we aren’t the ones who’re forcing a mom troupe on her despite her not being really motherly. (Hunk is the mom friend but let us forget the fat character for aesthetics) You get them saying they love Allura but her story line, which focuses on her duty and willingness to sacrifice anything for it, is shoved for some romance. (Allura, although possibly having some romantic take to it, did not save Shiro because she had a fucking crush on him. She saved him because he needed saving and she viewed his role to Voltron as more important than hers.Stop acting like it is a canon romantic scene. No real scene in Voltron is really inherently romantic.)

You got K/ance shouting if Kallura happens, there won’t be any representation (m/m) but we still got Shiro, Lance and Hunk. Yes, we still got Shunk, Shance and Hance. if we go poly, there is Shunce. And if we dig deeper and you are willing, add Coran into the mix(I’m shoran trash undeniably).

You got them saying Shidge is wrong but the most official thing we got is actually the OFFICIAL Voltron site (whose content probably was made known to the entire crew and was advertised to the general public) saying ‘5 teens.’ But let us dwell on a half-baked video where a person throws numbers into some of the crew’s mouths. Let us not dwell on how Allura has no one bit of an age meter. For all we know, she could be a centuries old Alien. But sure why not, dwell on Shidge.

They put their ships on high pedestals to trample on other ships but you are probably a hateful bitch when you call them out on their shit.

II. “Shiro is spacedad” anti (bonus points for Allura as space mom)

These antis believe Shiro is a grandpa. They seem him as a father figure which would have been okay because let us admit that at some point the space dad joke were funny UNTIL PEOPLE TOOK THEM SERIOUSLY. Unlike the typical fan who laugh at the jab, these people take things to far and actually think it is canon. Shiro is actually a dad. “How dare you hc Shiro as a young and vulnerable character instead of my perfect space dad™?” All that crap.

But if you remember Prisoner Shiro, Kerberos Shiro, he looks pretty young. If you change back his hair before the frosty tips, remove the scar and the buff bara bod (he probably got from fighting in the ring), you wouldn’t find him looking wise beyond his years.

Coupled with Canon™ Space Mom Allura, it just pisses me off. Allura is enigmatic, a bit impulsive but her impulses are mostly practical, not afraid to jump into action, a bit bossy and domineering at times, yes, but deep down inside Allura is just a princess who wants her life back, who wants to live in peace with pretty things like her Altean flowers, who wants to go shopping for sparkly things, and maybe experiment with cute hairstyles.

This is why it kinda pisses me off. The idea was cute. Heck, I made an entire Sha//ura au once with my friend with the whole vld family thing but when they just pushed for it on discourse and acted like it was some holy canon grail, I was just really seven levels of salt.

III. “Pidge is like 4 months old” anti

These antis just infatalize Pidge. “Pidge is a kid. She can’t make romance decision. Pidge is practically a baby. How dare u” and all that shit. But it is totally fine for someone you see as a ‘kid’ to be flying an alien warship and engaging in an intergalactic war? Same goes for those who infantalize other Paladins. The logic is flawed enough but something else really pissed me off in this one.

My main concern with this is that the blatant forcefulness that Pidge is young because she has all the stereotypical looks of younger people. It undermines short girls who never grow up to be tall and developed upfront. Some people never get hit with puberty right. I was thirteen and 5′1 and now I’m  nineteen and guess what? 5′1.5. Where is the justice puberty? You didn’t hit me up. You just poked me with a stick once and left.

And just the other day, guess what? I was again assumed to be like fourteen, especially since I was standing right next to my tree of a younger brother who is like sixteen. I probably would be rich right now if i had a dollar for every single person who thought I was fourteen. Pidge may look young by stereotypical standards, sure. But that doesn’t mean she is. She could just be a short 19 year old.

The concept of child-coded is bullshit. I mean look, I look, by stereotypical anti standard, like a fourteen year old therefore when tall people my age or older (who coincidentally also fit the stereotypical adult look standard) theoretically like me, we are perpetuating pedophilia. If we start dating, since they are adult-coded and I’m child-coded, it’s almost as if it is already pedophilia.

If anything, the infantalization of Pidge showed me that people, yes I repeat, people will continue to be misogynistic to women who do not fit the stereotype of what a woman should be. I mean, when did height and cupsize amount to a woman’s age and maturity as a person? It just says you have to fit this shitty standard to be something and to be recognized and that is fucking bullshit.

Oh well, to the antis, I guess I’ll be a minor forever. And to end this segment with another one of your fave defenses, “I”M MINOR-CODED AND CHILD-CODED SO YOU CAN’T ATTACK ME UWU”

IV. “Shiro’s trauma is an issue” anti

This is by far the one of the things I’ve seen. These people say that because Shiro experienced some traumatizing shit, he is not eligible for a relationship with any of the Paladins. It basically says that because Shiro has ptsd, he can’t date anyone who is potentially(meaning they see this character as young or immature and they aren’t actually as such) less mature™ or younger than he is. It basically says that since Shiro has ptsd, he must be toxic by default. It thrives upon the logic that anyone with mental health issues is gonna be toxic in relationships. (except Sha//ura cuz apparently Shiro who they call toxic in all other relationships isn’t toxic there)

V. “go fucking kill yourself” anti

No explanations needed. Assholes with no regard for human life. Suicide baiting, Gas lighting, you name it. Best thing to do is just block these. No arguing with them.

VI. “I’m a minor/survivor/minority group so I am allowed to be an asshole to anyone” anti

These are the people who go and attack others but when you call them out on their shit, they go like “but we are a minor/survivor/part of a minority.”

I’m only gonna say this once so listen well. (Who am I kidding? I’ve stressed this so much.) Being a minor/survivor/minority does not excuse you from being an asshole. You can experience terrible things and be like fourteen but you can still be an asshole. It does not give you a free pass to ruin other people’s lives. Get that inside your head. Someone can be depressed and still be an asshole. Someone can be autistic and still be an asshole. Someone can be gay and still be an asshole. Someone can be part of a general minority group and still be an asshole. Their status as a minor/minority/survivor DOES NOT make them an asshole but this specific person, who coincidentally fits in a certain group, is just an asshole. Their status is merely circumstantial and not the root of their being an asshole therefor it must not be used as an excuse for them to be one.

VII. “Shaladin is okay except for Shidge ft. Ship Sh/att instead” anti

I’m like WHY? These antis act like they are allies and they are good™ but they throw Shidge under the bus and vilify it to somehow make other shaladin ships appeal to the anti standards. You draw the line in Shidge? Well, I draw the line in vilifying ships to put yours on a pedestal. I would’ve understood if it was just basic ‘I don’t like Shidge’ but no, it has to rhyme with the anti logic of infantalizing her and all those things.

And don’t let me get started on Sh/att. Cuz it just shattered all the hope of me getting into this ship. This was good, old friends trope, I couldn’t save you trope. You name it. It has all the layers of angst that normally i would dive into. But the shippers use the same rhetoric shaladin antis use on Shidge. “It’s shidge but gay” Do you know how misogynistic you sound? And how dare you think I ship my ship because ‘aesthetics uwu’.

The idea of throwing Shidge out to appeal to the antis like some sacrificial lamb is just anti rhetoric itself. “It’s okay if one ships takes the fall for us.” It’s just pointing fingers at someone, in this case some ship. And honestly, that sucks.

VIII. “I’m gonna misuse social justice to call you all these names and not appreciate social justice when it is working against me” anti

These antis are those who try to shit on ships by appealing to twisted social justice but the moment actual social justice works against them, they try to ignore it and you just know, it was never a social issue to begin with.

A perfect example of this are the “Bi Lance for K/ance” antis. They shout and tell the world,”we got Bi Lance, we got a bi character in our ship. Whoop Whoop representation” but moment someone goes “oh nice, I ship Lance with Allura/Pidge/Nyma/Plaxum/any girl in existence.” They jump at you and call you cis het scum or whatever. But Lance is Bi right? Don’t Bi people like umm girls too???? Yes??? Do you know what a bi is?????

You see, they actually don’t care about bi representational at all unless it is used to put their ships up. And don’t get me started on the hate for ‘Bi Keith.’ I know the idea of Gay Keith is a fan fave but Bi Keith is a possibility. Like Bi Lance is everything to the universe but you are suddenly Zarkon if you as much think about Bi Keith. You love bi representation so much don’t you?

Oh and the antis who go like “we are protecting survivors and minors” just as they attack survivors and minors. Good job on the protecting.

Everything these antis do is just plain crap. When you untangle their twisted social justice and see the ulterior motives, you see their actions for what they are, personal vendettas against shippers, attacks so that whatever shitty ship they have gets to trample on other ships.

IX. “fiction is reality” anti

These are just antis who thrive on the idea that fictitious content is actually reality and therefore every dark-themed content is evil.

Tell me why I’m not marking Priests with hot iron stamps fresh from flames and killing them? I read Angels and Demons. Tell me why I’m not suddenly killing humans and eating them? I watched Hannibal. Tell me how I haven’t butchered the person I like? I watched School Days + Higurashi and I was like thirteen, a minor yes, at the time. Tell me how I’m not suddenly taking people in strange boats and making them go through hell, I was eight, a fucking kid, I watched Jigoku Shoujo (Hell Girl). They are unanswerable because fiction is in fact not reality.

The idea that fiction is reality is just the same as how way back four or so years ago, there was a backlash in gaming like with fighting and guns because it supposedly perpetuates violence and supposedly hypnotizes people. And you know how stupid that idea is? That is how stupid the idea that ‘fiction’ is reality’ in fandom is.

And if you actually do think fiction is reality, I suggest you seek medical help.

End Note: Antis may appeal to other forms of attacks or a mix of these but you guys stay strong and safe.

You Deserve Punishment (M)

Description: You never wanted to see them again, you couldn’t bare facing them in the eyes. Not after what you witnessed. It would forever haunt you. Why? Because you discovered their dirty little secret; Park Jimin was the lover of Min Yoonji, who was actually a man.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader x Yoongi

Genre: Smut (M), angst, university!au

Word Count: 6,350

A/N: Extreme vulgar language use. Name calling, and heavy dom/sub undertones. There is also a lot of yaoi (boyxboy) action. Graphic descriptions of sex (oral, etc…) This is a mature read! You have been warned!

Originally posted by bellahasjams

Never in a million years, would you have expected to walk into a full 500 student lecture, only to easily spot the two people you never wanted to see again. There was a big lump held in your throat, as you quickly ducked your head down to find an empty seat. Unfortunately for you, the only empty seat you found was exactly a row behind these certain individuals. Trying to sit down as quietly as possible, you mentally screamed, You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Since when did they come here?!? How could I not have known?!?

Keep reading

Mock up the courage

Bucky x reader

Notes: fluff, just pure fluff. 

A/N: Bucky is tired and needy and just wants to cuddle. (who. fuckin’. wouldn’t?!)

Originally posted by sebastianobrien

If there was ever something more adorable than Bucky being tired or in any way not feeling well, you’d never seen it. Now, the serum made sure he was never not feeling well, but it didn’t help exhaustion after a week long mission with only 2 hours of sleep a day.

This is why he came stumbling into your floor, somehow overriding every security protocol with his left over spy-skills, calling out your name at two in the morning.

Actually, it was more like a drawn out whine.

Keep reading

love letters ❥ peter parker

summary : peter, hopeless romantic that he is, has a cache of love letters, all addressed to you, hidden under his bed and expertly crafted. he never anticipated them being read, or the feelings he has for you being returned.

word count : 3.1k (holy fucking hell i’m sorry)

   Peter couldn’t help it, the way that he was. He was a romantic at a heart, though the awkwardness of him had a tendency to prevail rather than the confident, smooth talking, small part of him that had a desperate desire to reveal itself. Spider-man was as suave as a fifteen year old boy could be; Peter Parker was awkward, inept at participating in normal, human conversation and often incapable of forming coherent sentences more often than not. He wasn’t the best at talking to people besides Ned and Aunt May and- on occasion- Tony Stark. Especially not you. If there was one person that he turned into an absolute bumbling, ridiculous mess around, it was you. He loathed himself for it, sure that you thought that he was weird, annoying, the same way that anyone who didn’t know him assumed he was. 

   Ned, however, continuously insisted that you found Peter to be a sweetheart, like anyone who got to know him well enough did, and that you liked him very much- perhaps more than a friend, though Peter had immediately scoffed at the notion. It was out of the question, downright ludicrous. But, of course, Ned had implanted the idea in Peter’s head, and now the boy’s ever creative mind refused to stop constructing various scenarios in which you were Peter’s girlfriend and he was as happy as he had ever been. 

    While he had been a perfectly charming boyfriend in each and every one of those little dream sequences of his, he was hopelessly lost for words whenever you approached him, unable to even ask what class you had next, let alone reveal the pure adoration he had been holding on to ever since you had been placed beside him in Bio in your freshman year. You had always been the one to stick up for him and smile at him and treat him like a decent human being, and so of course he fell for you, and now he could barely look you in the eye without his cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. So, he bottled his feelings and let them out in a way he had never known could help him.

    He wrote. 

    He wrote to you every single day and poured his heart out in every single letter and expressed every thought he knew, in his heart, he would never be able to say out loud. Writing what he felt was so much simpler than saying the words out loud. That was what he assumed, anyhow. He took his pen and placed it down on the paper, starting it the same way he always did. 

   Dear Y/N… As always, the words spilled over from his mind to the paper as if he wasn’t thinking, just writing and writing and writing until he had filled two pages without lifting his curly head from the paper once. When he finally finished, a yawn stretching across his mouth, he noticed Aunt May standing outside his door. He turned his chair around, raising his eyebrows at her. 

   “Writing to that pretty girl again?” She asked, hand on her hip but wearing a knowing, soft grin. Peter, not bothering to feign shock, nodded solemnly and placed his pen down the paper. “You should think about maybe, oh I don’t know, actually giving her one of the letters you’ve written?” 

    Adamantly, Peter shook his head. “May, I could never. You don’t get it.” He swiveled around in the chair, spinning it until he was dizzy. “These letters are embarrassing. They’re practically my whole heart and soul on a piece of paper. She’d scream and run away if she read how I felt about her.” He sighed, placing his elbow on the edge of the desk and resting his cheek in his hand. He stared up at his aunt, still craving her sage advice. May stared back at him thoughtfully. 

   “Well, in my personal experience,” she came over and gave Peter’s shoulder a squeeze, eyeing the letter that was signed with Peter’s name, “girls are suckers for love letters. And you Parker men write the best ones out there. Trust me.” 

   Peter bit his lip. “Yeah, sure, I’m not an awful writer. But, I still can’t give them to her. I just can’t.” Before she could say anything else, he was folding it up and placing it on top of the shelf on his desk next to his books for English. “Uncle Ben was different. He was charming. You know that.” 

    May smiled wistfully. “I do.” 

    “And that’s one thing that I didn’t get from him,” Peter finished, shrugging his shoulders as he stood up from his swivel chair. “It’s fine.” He waved it off. “I’m happy suffering in silence. I’m gonna go to bed. Big English project starts tomorrow. Love you,” he kissed May on the cheek as she left his bedroom, switching the light off in her departure. He stared at the wall once he was situated in bed, mulling the conversation over in his head. Maybe May’s right. Maybe telling Y/N wouldn’t be as bad as I’m thinking. Maybe I’m overreacting. Actually, never mind. She probably hates me. Ugh. Life sucks. 


    That morning, when he arrived in his English class, you were sitting in the seat that had been previously occupied by Ned pretty much every class since the beginning of the school year. Sucking in a breath, Peter took his first step into the classroom. He knew he was a little late to today’s lesson, but he hadn’t realized he was a full fifteen minutes behind schedule. Ned was in the back with Michelle, giving Peter an encouraging thumbs up when he noticed his best friend finally arrive on the scene. Peter gave him the finger. 

   “Mr. Parker, lovely for you to join us!” Ms. Matthews declared when he decided to shove himself through the door, his heart jackhammering away in his chest and making its way up to his throat. He kind of wanted to throw up. 

   “Um, yeah, well, you know, sleep and whatnot- overslept, haha,” he coughed out a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. The teacher nodded with faux sympathy, though he could tell she didn’t care that much for his explanation. “I’ll just, um, sit. Down.” 

    “Next to Y/N, please,” She instructed, waving her hand in your direction. “Since you were late and unable to choose your own partner, surprising since usually Ned is so eager to work with you, Y/N offered to be your partner.” The teacher gave you a fond smile, as every teacher did. “She can explain the details of the assignment.” 

    Peter gave her a stiff nod before sliding into his chair, and you noticed how rigid he was as he turned toward you with a slight frown. He seemed extremely upset to be working with you, but you wouldn’t let that get in the way. You liked Peter. Really, truly liked him. He was a sweetie whenever he actually talked to and different than the rest of the guys at Midtown. He was genuine.  

    Giving him your full attention, you beamed at him. “Hey, Peter,” you said cheerfully. He gave you a small smile in return, wringing his hands under the desk. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. Your own smile dropped, which he noticed immediately and felt awful about. “Sorry you didn’t get paired up with Ned,” you continued, taking your books out of your shoulder bag. “I know you would’ve preferred it that way-” 

    “No!” He interrupted quickly, practically slamming his hands down on the desk so hard you jumped in your seat, eyes wide. “Sorry, sorry, I just, um,” he laughed a little, his cheeks burning, “I’m, um, happy to have you as a partner. Really, I am,” he added as an afterthought, just to make sure you knew. 

   Your shoulders relaxed as you looked at him. “You’re not just saying that, right? You seem awfully stiff,” you teased, poking his uncomfortably positioned arm as you quirked a brow. 

    “Do I?” He was practically sweating. 

     “I was just joking, Pete. It’s cute, anyway.” Peter’s eyes, a shade of brown that you had come to think of as warm as honey, went wide and he gaped at you, but you pretended not to notice. “So, for the assignment we have to write a short story based on one of the assigned reading books this year.” 

   She called me cute

   “Shit… I think I forgot all of mine,” you were mumbling, your head practically stuck in your bag. “Did your bring yours, Peter?” 

   Oh my god, she thinks I’m cute. She thinks I’m cute. I’m going to faint

   You snapped your fingers in front of his cherry red face, trying not to appear as amused as you felt. He blinked owlishly, an apologetic half smile, half grimace on his face. He was cute most of the time, but especially when he smiled, even if it was only a forced, awkward one. “Do you have your books, Peter?” You repeated kindly. 

    “Um, sorry, I’ll check,” he answered, embarrassed about his utterly obvious staring that had just occurred. He rummaged around in his backpack before realizing he had forgotten them, as well. He popped back up, curls in disarray as his head brushed against the fabric of his bag. “I forgot them, sorry,” he ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. It was kind of adorable.

   “You need to stop apologizing for everything, Pete,” you laughed. “It’s fine. We can get started after school. My place or yours?” You were already packing your things, and before he could think about what he was about to do, he said, “Mine.”   

    “Cool,” you grinned again, a grin that made him want to smile for the rest of his life. “Which one of is doing the writing? Or do you want to split it?” 

    “You’re a, um, fantastic writer,” he told you, having read your submissions to the school newspaper more times than he could count. “If you wanna take over, you can. I can edit and stuff.” 

    “Aw, I’m not that good,” you shook your head abashedly, looking down at your lap. “But thank you, Peter. I’m sure you’re great, too, though. Are you sure you don’t wanna write some of it?”

    “I’m not much of a writer.”


    So, you were in Peter Parker’s room. He was having his third heart attack of the day, and was incredibly grateful that he had managed to keep his wits about him for majority of the day. He had only tripped over his words five times, tripped literally twice, and dropped his Metro card once, but it was fine. You helped him back each time he fell with your usual grace, barely acknowledging his multiple social faux pas and only laughing once because he fell over a small dog- which even he would admit was pretty funny. 

   Still, his palms were sweaty around you and he didn’t know how he was going to survive working so close to you for the next week while the English assignment was occurring. He lead you into his apartment and you noticed that his hands were shaking slightly as he twisted the keys in the lock. You walked into the apartment, the first thing crossing your mind was how cozy and homelike it was. You liked it very much. 

   “It’s really cute in here,” you said, smiling around the room as Peter busied himself with a glass of water. He downed it quickly. “Where’s your aunt?” 

   “Work,” he replied, catching his breath after the gulping down of his water. “Here, let’s go to my room.” He placed his glass of water on the counter and motioned for you to follow him, opening the door to his room and wincing at the mess in there. “It’s a mess, sorry about that.”  

   You rolled your eyes at him playfully. “Didn’t I say stop apologizing?” You entered his room as if you had been there many times before, taking your shoes off and setting them by the door. You threw your bag on his bed and took a seat in his swivel chair, and he liked how natural it seemed for you to be in his room. He liked how comfortable you were, sitting there. Something about it made him happy. 

   “Yeah, my bad,” he shrugged. You tilted your head, pointing your finger at him while he raised his hands defensively. “It wasn’t technically an apology!” He took a step out of the room. He was finally being normal around you, he realized delightedly. He would still need more water, though. He could feel his mouth getting dry. “I’m gonna get more water. Want anything?” You shook your head, spinning around in the chair as he left. 

   Your eyes scanned over his desk, taking in every inch of Peter Parker’s life. He had bad books stacked everywhere, his desk was a mess, there were clothes thrown about the room. Star Wars posters, Avengers posters, notes scattered across the desk. You admired the artful messiness of it all. You leaned up to where his English books were, spotting the one you were most interested in and yanking it off the shelf. As you did, a folded piece of paper fluttered down off the shelf, just when Peter was walking back into the room. 

   “I thought you said you weren’t a writer, Pete,” you raised your eyebrows at him, holding the letter in your hand and waving it at him. 

   He almost threw up right there. “Um, I’m not, please give that back,” he reached for it, but you jumped out of the chair, raising the letter high in the air. “Y/N!” He whined, grabbing for it again. “C’mon, please,” he pleaded desperately, pouting at you with such intensity it almost made you want to give it to him. 

    “Can’t I just read a sentence, Peter?” You pushed out your bottom lip, batting your eyelashes at him. 

     He almost gave in. “No, Y/N. Seriously, give it back.” He sounded scared now, upset as well. You pursed your lips, handing it back to him. He was so anxious about you reading it that it dropped on the floor, opening far enough so that you could see your name scrawled across the top in Peter’s defining chicken scratch handwriting. 

    “That says my name, so now I have to read it.” You stood directly in front of Peter, hands pressed together in a pleading motion, the expression on your face so genuinely interested that he had to give it to you. He picked it back up with a lump in his throat and handed it over, scared as ever. But this was what May had advised. Maybe she’d be right. 

    “Dear Y/N,” you read aloud in a loud, terrible accent, glancing back up at Peter as you read the line after that. He was staring down at the floor, preparing himself for what you were going to say when you read the letter, read his heart. You sat in his chair, realizing it’d be better if you didn’t read it so publicly. He sat down on his bed, waiting. 

   Dear Y/N. This is maybe the tenth letter I’ve written to you, and each time I say the same thing, so if one day you are reading this in proper succession, I’m sorry for being so utterly repetitive. You’ll probably never read this, though. And that’s why it’s so easy for me to write. I think you’re the only person to ever truly be interested in me when I’m talking about science. Not even Ned has an attention span that long. But you do. And you don’t know how much I want to thank you for that. You make it really difficult to not like you, to not be in love with you. I think that’s what it is… love. And if I’m not in love with you yet, then I’m certainly falling for you. Who wouldn’t? You’re a wonderful person without trying, you’re a beautiful hurricane, a sunset on the horizon of my bleakest hours, and you make me feel as if I’ve been standing in the sunshine for my entire life. 

   You put the letter down, smoothing it over your lap. You didn’t need to read the rest. That was enough. Peter gazed at you now, the way you’ve yearned to be looked at before, and you shamed yourself for being so blind these past two years. He wasn’t simply just staring. He was looking. Admiring. You slid next to Peter, placing the letter behind you. He moved his hand, curling his fingers around yours tentative as ever. Your free hand grazed up the side of his face, toying with the hair on the back of his neck before resting on his cheek. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, you were so close that he was able to count each individual eyelash that you had, every single fleck of pure beauty in your deep eyes. 

   “I like you very much, Peter Parker,” you murmured. He felt his heart soar, and then, he felt himself kiss you. It was an out of body experience. He was there, he was the one kissing you, the one who had initiated it, but it felt like he wasn’t. He was up in the clouds, too far lost in the way it felt to run his hands through your hair as he had always dreamed of to notice Aunt May sneaking past the door, overjoyed to see Peter finally with the girl he had been loving in silence for far too long. You pulled away from each other, eyes opening slowly and hesitantly and your lips practically still connected. 

   He wanted to tell her that he adored her, but Aunt May’s voice flowed from the kitchen too loud to overpower his thoughts. “You read her the letter, didn’t you? I told you it’d work! Worked for your Uncle Ben and I was right as I always am!”

   He jumped up from the bed, sticking his head out of the doorway and pressing his finger to his lips. “Maaaayyyy, you’re embarrassing me,” he whispered-yelled, practically whined. “You were right, okay? Thank you, let me go get a girlfriend now. The girlfriend.” She beamed at him, but no one’s smile could shine brighter than Peter’s. 

    He retreated back into the room, and you were clutching the letter in your hands. You looked up at him hopefully. “I was thinking that maybe you could read me the other nine letters. If you’re up for it.” 

    Peter couldn’t possibly say no, taking a page out of his Uncle Ben’s book the way he should have done in the first place as he found the hiding spot for the stack of letters he had been writing for the past few months, sliding them over to you and feeling confident for the first time in a long time.

Ignore This Text

Summary: Sam somehow gets a favor out of Bucky, resulting in a very awkward confrontation with a local barista.
Pairing: Bucky x reader
Characters: Female Reader, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers
Word Count: 1,980

| Feedback is very much appreciated | Masterlist |

Every Sunday morning, at precisely 8:45, Bucky finds himself at a quaint, little cafe just a block away from the Brooklyn apartment himself, Steve, and Sam, who he finds utterly unbearable, live together. Like clockwork, he’ll wake up, argue with Sam about him eating the rest of whatever food Bucky was attempting to have for breakfast, Steve offering to go grocery shopping the umpteenth time that week, and with Bucky frustratingly storming out of the apartment subconsciously heading towards the cafe with the best muffins and no with Sam Wilson in sight.

Just like all the weeks before, Bucky’s feet hurriedly carry himself down the empty morning sidewalk as he groans in annoyance. This Sunday Sam had decided to finish off the carton of egg whites, that clearly had a bright blue sticky-note with Bucky’s name on it, and to use up all the hot water in the apartment. It seemed as if this man’s purpose on Earth was to make Bucky Barnes’ life more difficult than it had to be.

Keep reading