i had always known

2

I’ve been working on this career path of mine since I was three years old. I’ve known what I wanted to do. So, this means that all the things I’ve known about myself, felt about myself, and the confidence I’ve had was not misplaced. This is really where I belong. I’ve always known that, but that kind of confidence boost is necessary when you’re rejected so much in this industry.

4

I’ve been working on this career path of mine since I was three years old. I’ve known what I wanted to do. So, this means that all the things I’ve known about myself, felt about myself, and the confidence I’ve had was not misplaced. This is really where I belong. I’ve always known that, but that kind of confidence boost is necessary when you’re rejected so much in this industry. 

That was all it took;
A blink, a breath,
And the world collapsed,
Spiraling,
Endless and lethal.
  
I had always known
That monsters
Walked among us.

I never thought
They’d look like him.
—  poeticallyordinary
10

Jason, is this real?

8

James Valdez: Cuarenta Minutos

Dead Serious Part 2

A/N: Fuck, shit, guys. Sorry this is so bad? Also I’m now gonna write a part 3 (which will also be smutty and it will be the final part).

Warnings: SMUT

Word Count: 1106

Masterlist

Part 1 // Part 3

T-12 HOURS UNTIL THE MIDTERM CHEM EXAM

When you were finally done reviewing your notes, you put them back into your folder and stood up.

Peter sat on his bed, watching you.

“Were you really serious before, or were you just trying to get me to shut up?” Peter asked.

“I told you, Parker. I’m dead serious,”

“Y/N…”

You started walking towards where Peter was sitting.

“Peter. I’m going to kiss you, do you have a problem with that?”

Peter gulped, and shook his head no, “N-no,”

“And if I were to go down on you, would you have a problem with that,” You asked, continuing to walk closer to Peter.

Peter shook his head no again.

Peter was sitting on the edge of his bed and you made your way towards him. You placed one hand on his face, and ran the other though his curls.

“If you want me to stop, you should tell me now,”

“Don’t stop,”

“I really hope that’s not the last time I hear you say that tonight,” you said, leaning down to brush your lips against his.

You pushed your lips against his, swiping your tongue against his bottom lip. Peter brought his hands up to rest on either side of your thighs.

Peter leaned forward, pushing his body into yours. You leaned in towards him, deepening the kiss.

You found your hands beginning to push Peter’s plaid shirt off his shoulders, as your tongues fought for dominance in each other’s mouths.

You began tugging at the bottom of Peter’s shirt. He pulled away from your kiss and took it off.

“Damn, Parker. You’re ripped,”

You lightly pushed at Peter’s chest, encouraging him to lie down. He complied as you pushed you lips against his once again, and followed him onto the bed. You were straddling him, his hands began roaming under your shirt, he lightly squeezed your breasts through your bra.

You sat up and pulled your shirt off over your head and tossed it onto the floor. You winked at Peter as you began trailing kissed across his jawline, down his neck and chest towards where his pants were sitting on his waist.

You lightly kissed, sucked, and bit down Peters chest, all while working on his belt with his hands.

Peter was watching you. You made sure to look Peter in the eyes as you undid his belt.

You began tugging at the waist band of his pants. Peter lifted his hips so you could easily tug his pants off. When they got to his ankles, he kicked them onto the floor.

You ran your hands up Peter’s thighs, stopping only when you reached his boxers. You slowly made your way closer and closer to Peter’s crotch.

You ran your hands around his bulge, careful not to touch it. You knew he wouldn’t last too long and wanted to tease him for as long as possible.

“Not fair, Y/N,” Peter muttered.

“All’s fair in love and war, babe,” you said.

You lightly placed one hand over Peter’s bulge, letting the other stroke his thigh. You began rubbing him through the fabric, gently stroking him.

“Take them off,” he whined

“Patience,” you said.

You leaned down and placed light kisses along his hard on through his boxers. You could feel his dick twitch with every touch.

You placed your hands under the waistband of his boxers and began tugging them down. His cock sprang free and curled up towards his stomach. You tossed his boxers onto the floor and spread Peter’s legs apart so you could sit between them.

You lightly groped his balls, giving them a small squeeze. You grabbed Peter’s dick with one hand, bringing him closer to you. You ran your thumb over this tip, feeling the precum that was dripping out.

Peter was lying there in pure bliss, you were the first person (besides himself) to touch him like this.

You pressed your lips to the tip of his dick, hoping to get a reaction out of him. His dick twitched in your hand, and Peter’s eyes fluttered closed.

You began stroking his dick, running your hand up and down his shaft, using his precum. You moved your hand to the base of his dick and ran your tongue across the top of his cock. You dragged your tongue up from the base, swirling your tongue around his tip.

You placed your mouth around Peter’s dick, taking it in your mouth as you continued to jerk him off.

Peter’s hands immediately came down and he grabbed your hair.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

You began taking more of his dick in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down.

Peter began slightly thrusting up towards your mouth, moaning each time you went down on his dick.

“Please, Y/N,” he breathed out.

You looked at Peter. His head was buried deep in his pillow, his eyes were fluttering, and his cheeks were bright red.

You began bringing your mouth down on his dick as fast as you could, taking in as much as you could.

Peter’s thrusts became harder as he got closer.

“Fuck!”

Peter’s grip on your hair got tighter and he took one last thrust towards you. You could feel warm cum shoot down your throat as you continued to slowly move your mouth up and down Peter’s cock.

You pulled your mouth off Peter’s dick, and licked the rest of the cum off the side of his dick that was lightly spurting out.

Peter loosened his grip on your hair, and lightly ran his fingers through it.  Peter looked like he was seeing stars above him. You ran your hand over his dick one last time before letting him go.

“Damn,” he breathed, leaning back into his pillow.

You laughed and went to lie down next to him.

“If I had only known you were always willing to do that to shut me up, I would have talked a lot more,”

“Oh shut up, Parker,”

“I’d much rather if you made me,”

You leaned towards him and shoved your lips on his.

Peter pulled back, trying to breathe.

“Damn,” he muttered again.

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“So, is the next step studying or something else?” You asked

“I feel like the next step would be you reciting your notes to me while I went down on you,” Peter said.

Tag List: @thenerdherd1294, @notgonnaliekindagayasffff, @miraisnotavailable, @the-girl-with-no-plan, @raindancer2004, @tomhollandgavemecooties, 

I saw it one morning in the car. When the sun rising found your eyes and turned them gold.

I kept seeing everyday we were together.
Riding home in the afternoons,
That one Friday night.

It occurred to me,
That i think i had always known.
All the moments we touched
All the times we locked eyes.
I love you and you will never know.

—  A.P
2

Tell me, Snart, did you think I had it in me? To leave you behind? I wasn’t sure. Always known you had the potential to be as ruthless as they come. Your history made sure of that, same as mine. Who knows, maybe that’s why we get along. You see the good in me. I see the bad in you. Piece of advice: stop trying to beat Savitar at his own game. Your goodness is your strength. And call me sentimental, I think The Flash should remain a hero. Take care of yourself, Snart.

Fireproof #1 - The Beginning - An Alex Mini Series

Originally posted by antogriezmann

**An Alex, Harry’s Character from Dunkirk, fic was highly, highly requested. For the most part, this is an original story simply based around his character and there will only be a few references to things that happened in the film – just in case some have yet to see it, there won’t be any spoilers. 

Well, I hope you all enjoy it and be sure to let me know what you think! :) 

**Word Count- 4,397

********************************************************************************************

3 March 1939 

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Professor Kwon: Chapter III

Genre: Teacher AU, Smut, Fluff, Angst.

Word Count: 3,460

Chapter: 3/?

Pairing: G-Dragon x Reader

Warnings: Once again, there won’t be any until like the 4th chapter ;)) Please hold on until then bbs.

Originally posted by fantastic--babies

“You know Y/N, I must admit you’re improving. It appears my warning has gotten through that dull head of yours”, Mr. Kwon paced back and forth slowly in front of my desk as he spoke.

“With all due respect sir, I do believe my head is not dull and that I am improving at my own will. Not because you told me to do so,” I bit back.

Bang!

Suddenly, Mr. Kwon’s hands slammed down on the surface of the wooden desk. His body lurched forward slightly and his gaze captured my own.

“What? Just because you wrote one decent paper, you think you have the power to question my authority?” he glowered at me and I shivered with a sickening mixture of anger and annoyance. “You will have to do a lot more than whine about your autonomy before I think of you as anything more than a subpar student”.

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8

Daphne, are you saying that you have feelings for Niles?
I think I do.

An Essay about LGBTQ+ representation and art, tied up with a bit of a tribute to Stephanie Rice.

I haven’t written something like this in quite a while. But I’ve been thinking a lot this past month about stories (even more than usual). So please be patient with all the caffeinated rambling I have to do here. 

Needing to tell stories is something I have always known. There’s not a point in my life that I can look back on and not find in my younger self the intense will to put words and worlds, experiences and characters on paper. I’m sure this is a thing many artists and storytellers would say about their own lives. It’s the heart hammering, hand shaking need to find an outlet for experiences, passion, compassion and emotion that answers every “how did you know you wanted to do this” question with a “because I had to.”

Being gay is something that I haven’t always known. And yes, I can look back on my life and point to moments and insecurities and road bumps that came from having always been gay. But I haven’t always known. Knowing came later. Knowing came with combined fear and confidence and the ability to eventually shatter the brick walls I’d built to hold my shoulders upright, in order to look at myself more clearly. And then I knew, and now it’s as though I always have.

I spend a lot of time thinking about my experience coming out and the experiences of other LGBT people around me, and young kids who have come out and are coming out every day, either in quiet moments to themselves, or in one big fight with their families, or again and again each day to that Uber driver or that woman next to you on the plane, or your hair dresser who always asks who you’re dating. I spend a lot of time thinking about how that experience can be made easier, how kids can be received with more love, how we can better learn who we are before the years of self doubt. And no matter how much I think about anything, I am almost always brought back to the same two ways to fix anything. 1. Through giving and compassion and 2. Through art and stories. 

With each generation in the LGBTQ community, the groundwork is laid for the ones that follow. From fighting for our right to live and be seen, to demonstrating that we’re just like everyone else, the generations before mine have laid a foundation that I am fortunate and humbled to stand on. In that light, I really and truly believe that it will be my generation that brings us alive, as a community, through art, that tells stories and writes songs so that generations after us can see themselves a little sooner, can look up to more than just a handful of queer artists, can grow up knowing and with families who know that there is no one normal, no cookie cutter sexuality, no right experience. 

I have few memories of experiencing media that was specifically gay, growing up. But one of the clearest I do have is watching Pretty Little Liars with my mom. I grew up in liberal Massachusetts, outside Boston with loving, accepting parents. Even still, I can vividly remember a time when Emily, a then high school student on the show kissed her girlfriend and my mother explained that she just “didn’t like to see it” that it was fine and she had “nothing against it” but “she’s just a little girl” and she didn’t want to think about it. I’m sure my mom’s response wasn’t different from many others. So often, the world is okay with kids being queer but not okay with showing them a world of experiences like theirs beforehand. My mom is one of the most loving people I know and I tell this story with a fondness. She’s always been accepting of who I am. I’ve always been safe and supported. There’s a chance she doesn’t even remember this moment because she loves me for who I am. But when all is said and done those moments happen all the time and they pile up and they mean something. They mean something because there are young kids, across the country, across the world, in less loving houses, with less accepting parents, who don’t have the word for what they feel for years and years, who are sheltered from seeing Emily Fields kiss girls on TV, who watch their parents turn off movies if two boys are in love. Those kids hear song after song on the radio where girls sing about boys and boys sing about girls. They’re raised on fairytales and animated films about Princesses who marry Princes or don’t marry at all. They flounder, they search, they look for themselves here and there and everywhere and they come up empty handed. They come up with one song by a niche band that no one else listens to, or one sad lifetime movie about a woman’s dead gay son, or one lesbian on a TV show who inevitably ends up dead. 

It’s my understanding that art is never meaningless. That culture and stories are what shape who we are, our worldview, our communities. It’s my understanding that when we diversify those stories we begin to change the world, stone by stone, kid by kid. 

Often, I hear other LGBTQ people talk about not wanting to be defined by being gay or bi or trans. But the more I grapple with it and the more I exist in this world, living in LA, working in television, fighting for my chance to tell stories, the more I want to scream it. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay. Because maybe if I yell it loud enough some kid will hear it and say “hey me too.” Because maybe if I pour that pride and pain and passion into my art it will reach their television some day, their home, their couch, and even if it doesn’t change their dad’s mind, it might make them feel less alone or give them the right words for the pain and passion that they feel. 

I never watched The Voice before last year. I turned on season 11, at random, because I wanted to watch Alicia Keys be a coach. At some point, I stopped. It was fun but these aren’t the kind of shows that feel like they’re for me. They feel like they’re for corn fed, middle America, fighting over this pleasant looking man or that palatable country singer. And while I’m a creative who appreciates the rise and fall and hopes and dreams of other creatives as stories, these weren’t ones I was ever invested in. This year, I again turned the show on to watch season 12. Only to watch the auditions because those are fun and I get one more season with Alicia Keys. I remember the moment the show played Stephanie Rice’s backstory. I was watching it with one of my good friends. I remember we both perked up a little more when we saw her holding hands with her fiancée. I remember watching in an odd, baited breath silence as Stephanie began to tell her story and finding myself choking up just a little. For me, that emotional choked up feeling came from hearing things that I recognized, from watching her talk about the fear of disappointing her little sisters and knowing that exact same fear, to the same hands shaking, heart in your throat need to prove it’s alright, to make your way, to have your voice heard. Even as a person who has been out for years, an adult who is comfortable and confident in my sexuality, that feeling is still there. And as I watched it and watched her speak her truth and kiss another girl back stage I was reminded again that some kid, somewhere on a couch was going to see this, and feel that reliability, and feel seen and understood and not alone. I was driven again to keep fighting to tell my own stories.

There is something significant about pain and diversity and art that isn’t discussed enough. Art is universal and can be interpreted and understood and seen and heard and felt by anyone. But there is a rare and often overlooked feeling that comes when art feels like it understands you. When someone says words or shows an emotion that you can put your finger on and say you’ve felt. I stuck with the Voice after that. I watched specifically to follow Stephanie’s journey. For one, because she’s an incredibly talented artist, and for two, because I have a distinct understanding of how much harder that fight to make your way is.

Just a few nights ago I was driving, after my last day at my job in the Shannara Season 2 Writers Room, at about midnight down the freeway, and I was loudly singing along to Stevie Nicks with my windows down. On my reverse alphabetical order by artist itunes library, Stephanie Rice’s cover of White Flag comes right after Stevie Nicks’s Edge of Seventeen. So I’m driving and I’m singing and I know every damn word to Dido’s White Flag because I’ve heard it a hundred thousand times before and it was never even a song I cared about or liked. But I hadn’t heard this version that many times. Here I am, twenty-six years old, yelling at top volume in my car feeling my head get sort of swallowed and overcome and numbed by emotion as I do. Because when another gay woman sang that song, it changed. Because when another person fighting and dying to get their pain and emotion out of their chest sang that song, it changed. Because the emotion she sang with is emotion I know. Because suddenly yelling that I wouldn’t put my hands up and surrender became about something different. I can’t tell you what someone else meant by their song or their voice or their story. But I can tell you how it touched me personally. And I grinned like a damn idiot in my car because I felt a little stronger and a little prouder. 

I’m in the process of writing a feature/novel package with the brilliant Dawson Schachter. It’s a romance between two women. And as we work on it we keep having to remind ourselves of the reality that these stories don’t get told often, that the market for them is smaller, that they have to be palatable to the big wigs that will look at them. And that is infuriating and compromising and fucks with every better angel and creative demon you have, let me tell you. That’s the ugly part people don’t talk about. That’s the reality of being an LGBTQ creator. Being too gay or too different or not gay enough, not sensational enough, being martyred to your community when you would love just a little less pressure today, knowing the pressure is the only way, being brave because anything else has never even been an option you were given, feeling like failure means letting down that kid who needs this story, feeling like it means letting down the kid in you who needed this story and now just needs to get it out. But I also know how inspiring all those feelings can be and how it can feel like singing along at brain numbing volume to White Flag with your windows down going 90 on a freeway at midnight in Los Angeles far away from your home and your family. 

To Stephanie Rice, thank you. With as much weight as I can put in those two words, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for so bravely sharing your story and your art with America. Your vulnerability and light brought a story to televisions across this country that people need. And despite that particular journey wrapping up last night, I have no doubts that you will go on to keep sharing your soul through your music. As a fellow woman, as a fellow storyteller, you reminded me why I’m doing what I’m doing and I am so grateful to have gotten to hear your truth. You have a friend and supporter in Los Angeles if ever you need one. I look forward to hearing everything else you have to tell the world. 

To anyone else reading this, my friends, young LGBTQ followers, fellow writers, coworkers, strangers consider this very long ramble a plea for you to continue to back and support LGBTQ artists and youth. Continue to lend them platforms and elevate their voices. Continue to diversify the stories you tell, paint televisions and movies and the radio with kids that look like them, that sound like them, that feel like them. And please, also consider this very long ramble, another in a pile of promises I’ve already made to you, that I will never stop doing everything I can to illuminate your hearts and your souls and your stories. If I have to scream them or deliver them from the ground with bloody knuckles, I will make them heard. I hope that together, we can continue to build a foundation for generations after us, through art where exposure has opened hearts and minds, where stories have saved lives, and art has changed the world. We fight, as we always have, for a better, louder, prouder, safer, and more inclusive future. 

Am I Still Your Hero?

Originally posted by iwannaseeitall

Written by Danielle 

Category: fluff

Word Count: 2,074

Request from Anonymous:  Hi! Can I request a scenario where Peter and the reader are childhood friends and the friend walks in on Spider-Man and she starts freaking out that Peter’s in trouble? And can Peter troll her into confessing how she truly feels for her childhood friend?? Sorry if that made like no sense.

A/N: After writing this I realized the anon could have been asking that the reader doesn’t know Peter is Spider-Man but I had already read it as she has always known, so sorry if I misunderstood. I hope you still like this fic <3 I absolutely loved the childhood idea and hope I could do it some justice. I don’t know if he really trolled her lol because I couldn’t think of something clever, but I hope you still like their conversation in this. :) Loved your request! Thank you!! <3


“I see a dragon! What do you see (Y/N)?!” Your best friend Peter asks you excitedly as the two of you lay on the summer grass looking up at the big fluffy clouds.

“I see a unicorn. Right there!” You say as you point to the cloud next to Peter’s dragon. There is a slight breeze and it feels good with the hot summer sun beating down. Even with all the clouds, you can still feel the sun’s warmth on a beautifully perfect day like this. Nearby, you and your best friend’s favorite climbing tree stands tall, branches scraping the clouds. You’d probably attack it after looking up at the clouds for a few moments. At seven and eight years old, you and Peter spent your days running around in the field, climbing trees, staring at clouds, and looking for little critters in and out of the river. Every day was always full of adventure.

“Race you to grandmother Willow!” Peter yelled suddenly as he rushed up. You were right behind him as you two ran to the grand tree you loved so dear. Peter had named it grandmother Willow after the tree in one of your favorite movies, Pocahontas. Peter had beat you to the tree like he always had.

“One of these days I’m going to beat you, Parker!” You tell him while using his nickname trying to catch your breath.

“I’m a superhero, (Y/N)! And superheroes always got to come in first place so they can save people.” Peter exclaims as he pushes his glasses up.

“You’ll always be my hero Peter.” Smiling to Peter, he gives you a smile back as the two of you start climbing the tree.

Although all of your days weren’t spent living in the outdoors, Peter and you always managed to have fun.

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