| hana | she/her | 21 | requests: closed | taglist: open |
✦ i am very bad at texting and getting back to people. i’m sorry.
✦ status: semi-active
✦ free palestine, click here
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about ;
✦ my writing is all f!reader and i used to write for haikyuu, currently i am only writing when inspiration hits, there is no schedule
✦ this is a sfw & nsfw blog, so, 17+ only (dni otherwise)
✦ i will and do write 18+ content, however, there are certain things i refuse to write about
✦ check out my blog for kpop (specifically enhypen) here
writing ;
✦ Haikyuu Masterlist
✦ Loving Khaos & Greek Mythology Masterlist
✦ Criminal Minds Masterlist
✦ Moon Knight Masterlist
✦ The Sandman Masterlist
✦ Marvel Masterlist
small drabbles & poetry ;
✦ Run girl, run
✦ Walking away from the best thing he could have had
it would explain so much about Gotham economics if it turned out the only employers who pay a livable minimum wage are 1) Wayne Enterprises duh, but mainly 2) all of Gotham's assorted villains.
sure henching comes with shitty working conditions, but the benefits package is crazy competitive. they have dental
Gotham's villains are so engrained because supervillainy is the only thing propping up the local economy. henching requires no work experience, provides on-the-job training, and has a diversity hiring program (you're willing to commit crimes in tacky matching uniforms? great you're in, here's your gun and clownsuit)
Batman is constantly throwing money trying to compete but the fact remains that henchpeople are Gotham's largest workforce and will be until minimum wage laws catch up to reality
even educated jobs in environmental science are probably getting laundered money from poison Ivy. and a lab equipment tech might notice three different jobs are tied to pamela Isley and also happened to receive grants from "unrelated" shady shell orgs and the next one is setting up a temperature controled penguin habitat for some eccentric obvious mobster.
we need a new supervillain who gets drawn into villainy specifically to make money for funding grants. they come up with a theme and wacky outfit and loony backstory but at the end of the work day they change back into their alter ego (tired scientist with bags under their eyes and a hotpocket stuck in their labcoat). they're actually very mild mannered irl—the villain persona comes from their background in Theatre Arts
From director Rian Johnson, a collection of some of the screenplays of his movies & TV shows, including Wake Up Dead Man, Knives Out, Glass Onion, Looper, and the Poker Face pilot. “Print them, share them, act them out with your friends.”
summary: you thought moving in together would be cute and domestic. turns out it’s ruining you. spencer does the dishes, fixes a bookshelf, remembers to water the plants—and suddenly you’re ready to drop to your knees over basic responsibility.
includes: smut (MDNI), no use of y/n, soft dom!spencer, domestic fluff turned feral, acts of service as foreplay, praise kink, use of "good girl" and such, reader has zero chill, unholy levels of horniness over chores, hair pulling, oral (f receiving), he just loves you bro
based on requests: 1, 2
The day starts ordinary enough.
Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.
It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.
And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.
He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.
Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.
You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.
Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.
And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.
“For what?” you ask.
He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”
He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.
And something about that makes your knees a little weak.
You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.
His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.
It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.
He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”
You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.
Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.
For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.
Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.
“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.
You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.
You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.
You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.
You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.
“I want you,” you breathe.
He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”
He nods. “Good girl.”
Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.
And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.
But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.
“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.
“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”
You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.
He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.
“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.
He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.
“Shh,” he tells you.
And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.
“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”
You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.
“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”
His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.
You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.
And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.
You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.
He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.
“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”
You shake your head, and he thrusts again.
It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.
And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.
He groans.
Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.
And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.
“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”
He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.
You let out a whimper.
“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”
“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”
He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.
“What got you so horny for me, baby?”
And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.
“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”
He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.
You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.
Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.
"Stand up."
You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.
He sits down, looks up at you.
“Come here, ride me.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice.
You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.
You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.
And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.
You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.
His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.
Then his lips find yours again.
And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.
Like nothing else matters.
“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”
His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.
“I love you too,” you whisper back.
And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.
“Touch yourself,” he tells you.
His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him.
He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.
“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”
“I love you,” you moan again.
“I love you, too.”
You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.
“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”
“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”
He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.
“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”
He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.
“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”
You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.
He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.
“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”
And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.
And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.
You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.
"hollander" (this doesn't have to change, we can go back, we can just be hollander and rozanov and ignore the strings, we can pretend it's nothing more and never talk about it and I'll never say shane again, I'll never ask for more if this is all i can get) "hollander" (there's nothing I can say to keep this from crumbling but i'm begging you)
the benoit blanc movies show really beautifully how to write a queer character whose story is not centered around their queerness. it's shown that benoit blanc is gay married (to hugh grant!) it's shown that he participates in queer mediums like musical theater and fashion, but none of those things are ever explicitly remarked on. he doesn't have a big coming out scene because he doesn't need one; and the subtle details about him not speaking to his mother, the way he associates a church with homophobia, allows us to draw conclusions about how his family felt about his queerness without making that the sole conflict in his story. the conflict in benoit blanc's story is not that he exists in the world as a gay person, it's that he's always trying to wrangle a bunch of 30 somethings into not confessing to crimes they didn't commit
hot take? idk. victor’s fascination with the figurine of the pregnant woman not only hints at the oedipal tension tied to his mother and the image of milk, but also anticipates his desire to create life without a woman’s involvement. the figurine becomes a symbol of the natural, maternal power he tries to control and surpass. in attempting to usurp the role of the mother, victor’s ambition reveals a deep misogyny, his belief that intellect can replace the body, and creation can exist without love or nurture.
ngl the change of phrasing from “if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear” to “if you are not to award me love, then I will indulge in rage” says a lot about what GDT wanted to do with the Frankenstein creature. I think Mary would have sobbed if she heard that
“I will cause fear” is more transitive than “I will indulge in rage” is what I'm saying. cause whose fear? which does align with how the violence the creature commits is in the name of trying to say something to Victor
meanwhile, indulge in rage. aka you know what, I'll just be mad. madness is the out-group created by the violence that it takes for sanity to exist as the in-group that opposes it. to the sane, anything can look like madness and rage as long as it's unlikable. Victor closes every possible door for the creature that he deems as unlikable to enter the company of the sane, the company of normalcy, the company of oppressors, and Guillermo del Toro, master of turning monsters into friends of the oppressed instead, responds like hey what if I need to belong to the sane and the normal and the likable to find my will to live again. I will be ugly and mad and I will enjoy life anyway
i am not articulate enough to make this sound coherent rn. but the cycle of familial violence portrayed in gdt's frankenstein, set against the backdrop of the cycle of violence in society with the constant references to the wars. the creature finding beauty and connection in nature, feeding the deer until it is shot dead. his speech about the wolves and the sheep, how they don't hate each other, it's just in their nature to kill and be killed.
it seems like these cycles will never end but they can. you can turn your ship around. you can forgive your father. you can walk into the snow and feel the sun upon your face. you can, you can, you can.
Guillermo Del Toro's Frankenstein is about forgiving the person who brought you into this world without your permission when you do not want to be alive, and about forgiving yourself for being alive and accepting your life free of guilt and that is genuinely the most beautiful, validating thing I have ever seen in a film.
frankenstein (2025) is a movie about the cycle of violence and the inevitability of violence and about the miracle of being kind. it is a beautiful and touching adaptation that takes a unique view of some of the story’s focal points while staying true to the novel’s themes. it is also a movie that aims to remind us that the original creature textually had long flowing locks, for which I think we should all be thanking del toro specifically
The Creature calling itself Viktor and following Viktor around is so much more tragic when you know how babies develop and how newborns don't yet realise they and their mothers are two separate people. And one of the first things babies realise about themselves is that they're a whole separate person. And one of the first things they do when they start developing as a person is find out they have hands and play with them and with textures and start exploring. And when they want to start talking, they put their hands and fingers on their parents lips and throats to figure out how that sound is coming out of there and then they start imitating. Guillermo Del Toro nailed every single step of human development in such a beautiful celebration of life.
And Viktor abused the crap out of the poor creature for not being smart enough when it was only following natural developmental milestones. Because, like most men, like his own father, he wanted to create life but he wasn't interested in raising it beyond that and instead wanted it to be born a doctor ready to show the world how smart Viktor is for creating a carbon copy of his brain except in a stronger immortal body. Elizabeth gave him five minutes of love and let him explore how sounds come out of her mouth and he started talking.
Idk why some people are complaining about the movie being different from the book when the essence is literally the same, Viktor created life as if it were a godly feat and not something women have been doing since the dawn of humanity, and then he abandoned that life as deadbeat dads do. And that abandonment is what created a monster out of an innocent souls who could have become a beautiful being had it been nurtured. That's literally what Mary Shelley wrote. She would have been proud of this story. On top of being an incredibly gorgeous visual story, the narrative is very loyal to the point Shelley wanted to make.
