Jamies Instagram Story, 5/14/24

Jamie’s instagram story, 5/14/24

he is so boyfriend what the FUCK

Maybe hot take but I don’t think most of the hate directed toward Steven was racism. It was a proportional (if extreme) reaction to their public personas. Shane and Ryan are why everyone follows watcher, so of course they’re going to get less hate automatically. But even excepting that, this is how each of the boys is perceived:

Steven: CEO (meaning he’d likely be the one making the final decision here, and in the general public consciousness the assumption is that the CEO makes the most money), drives a Tesla, gets goop (notoriously expensive) salads door dashed (notoriously expensive) every day and admitted it without shame, wants to bring back a series that does not include Ryan and Shane (the reason people watch and the content they’d be most ok paying for) and that is at its core is a show of wealth and that previously included gold-flecked ice cream - something obviously expensive and ridiculous

Ryan: neither flagrantly anti-capitalist, nor a flagrant spender, a net neutral in terms of money

Shane: anti-capitalist, regularly tells you to steal from the rich, told you in the goodbye video to steal from the company (share passwords), has never spoken to any degree about what money he makes or what he buys with it, has spent years building this persona by joking directly with fans

I don’t think this is racism, I think this is a direct reaction to perceived classism judged by how each of the boys has shown their wealth and crafted their online persona over the years. The guy with the Tesla was always going to get the most shit. The guy who told you to share passwords was always going to get the least. I don’t think it’s right, all three made this decision together and they all believed in it enough to take it this far (they shot expensive overseas episodes of ghost files - Shane and Ryan’s show - already for god’s sake) but I think crying racism to make justifiably upset fans feel bad is a stretch

Confessions

Hi!! Here is a sweet little scene with Hozier! Hope you like it, tell me what you think!

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Pairing: Hozier x fem! Reader

Warning: just fluff!! Lots of feelings. Confessions of love. Only the sweet stuff! Mentions of sexy times, but no smut.

Summary: Andrew might be a brilliant lyricist, but he struggles when it comes to expressing his love for you. It's too overwhelming for him. Still, he will try to explain his feelings this time.

Word Count: 2240

Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

His heart is still in a rush when the thought crosses his mind. He’s still high on adrenaline and pleasure, with an erratic heartbeat and lungs ready to burst into flames. Mind clearer than usual in its ecstasy, and muscles incredibly numb after tensing to an extreme. He’s still on cloud nine, in that little bubble that follows right after orgasm, where the world is gone and there is nothing in the universe but him, the softness of sheets and the cadence of your breathing. Your fingers reach for his across the mattress, clammy with your joined efforts towards heaven, an anchor for his brain to clear the fog of physical pleasure and focus fully on you again.

And so Andrew turns his head on the pillow to look at you, as you lay there with him, across the bed you share every night. His bed, officially, but it doesn’t feel like that anymore. Ever since he’s been back from touring, you’ve only been to your place to grab some of your stuff and bring them to his place. It’s been over a month, and it feels like you live here now. In his head, you do. He’s realized that this house feels like home because you are here. He’s home because you’re lying in this bed with him instead of seeing your pixelated face on a screen. And he ponders for a moment when that shift actually happened, when home became a person rather than a place. It’s been a while, he reckons. Longer than he’s willing to admit.

Although, he could almost let himself be vulnerable enough tonight to actually accept it all. Especially now, when the sweat across his torso is starting to make him shiver, and you notice, and you tuck him in under the sheets, leaning closer as you do. You turn to your side to face him, and you truly are a sight to behold. And Andrew thinks about your hand still in his and how he wishes he could hold it forever.

Yeah, he could almost admit that this feeling has been here for a long, long time. That he loves you. That he loves you more than he has ever loved anyone in his life. That he can picture himself growing old with you. That this sight, you laying by his side with beads of perspiration still glistening on your brow, dishevelled and lovely after enjoying pleasure he gave you… yeah, that sight, he could picture himself staring at it every night for the next fifty years or so.

And he has thought about how your children would look like. How it would feel to see your hair become grey with old age. To run his calloused fingertips through the lines on your face. To hold you when you’ve become fragile with the passing of time. To hold your hand when it all ends.

Andrew chuckles at the thought. What a desperate romantic. What a fool. He doesn’t even know if that’s you want. Perhaps he’s just… momentary. A beautiful flicker in the dark, and then you’ll move to another, brighter star. You’re permanent, though. On him, on his heart, on his very soul, you’ll always remain there, altering his atoms, changing his very being…

“You’re alright?”

He nods, adds a hum for good measure, before turning as well in the bed, cheek now smudged against the pillow. He pesters at his hair when his movements pull on a strand, making you giggle. And then he’s facing you, getting lost in your eyes all over again. And it’s almost painful, the way he loves you. It’s like a burn searing through his soul. Something he craves for nonetheless, a moth heading towards a flame even though it knows it will hurt when it reaches for the heat.

And you shine so brightly tonight…

“You’re sure? You seem… a little out of it.”

He raises a playful eyebrow at that. Your voice sounds a little hoarse, one more proof that you’re ending the evening as satisfied as he does.

“You were not saying that five minutes ago…”

You roll your eyes at his teasing.

“No, you were very much focused five minutes ago. I’m talking about right now. You’re… staring at me funny.”

“Am I?”

You nod and hum, you’ve been doing that more since you’ve started dating. Perhaps he’s changed you a little too. Rearranged a part of your molecules the same way you had with him.

But then again, he never says it. Not out loud, at least. Oh, the I love you has been spoken time and time again, but… do you know how much he means it? What he actually means when he speaks these three words? That he would do anything for you? That he’s become yours with a devotion that was foreign to him before he met you? That you’ve rewritten every line of his verses to spell them all with your name, and that he adores it? You’re the only thing he can write about. The only thing he thinks about. The only thing he craves for.

God, he was never afraid to fall hard before you, despite the risks. Love was an act of adoration in his eyes, a touch of skin more sacred than any holy text ever written on paper. But you… you’re taking it all to another level. Do you know that?

He’s never been good at talking about his feelings, not in a clear, upfront way, at least. That’s why he needs music, because otherwise the words stay stuck in his throat. It’s so much easier to write down the way he feels, wrap some metaphors around his heart to reveal it, hide behind images and politics. Craft another voice to speak about his feelings. It’s easier than to look at you now, laying in bed with him, and open himself to you. He feels vulnerable, and he hates it. It is to an extent that terrifies him. Like an offering. Will you crush the heart he presents to you now, or cradle it against yours instead?

You deserve to know, though. He’s fucked up relationships before because he couldn’t talk clearly about his feelings. He can’t let that happen to you too. Especially when you have told him how you feel. You tell him all the time. You shower him in love and attention and care, just like right now: you’re rearranging the sheets on his shoulder to keep him warm, then tenderly caress his cheek, and the way you look at him… he can see it, that you love him. He’s not sure if you would be ready to picture a full life with him, the same he does with you., but he knows you love him.

He tries to show you, as he can’t really say it. It’s always been easier to show than tell for him. He offers cups of tea, he holds your hands, he worships you at night, he listens, he leaves tiny notes all around, he tries to make your life easier. Is it enough to tell you that you’re becoming his entire world? That losing you would mean losing himself too?

And perhaps it isn’t fully healthy, a love so supreme. Andrew doesn’t really care. Isn’t that why you say falling in love? Because it’s supposed to kill you when it ends?

“Andy?”

He’s zoned out again, he focuses on you once more.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you ask, voice quiet and soothing, the brush of your thumb in his beard lulling him to a peaceful state.

“Nothing. I’m just looking at you.”

You roll your eyes, shying away a little.

“Staring would be more appropriate, you freak,” you tease him, mischief held in your smile.

“Yeah, drooling even. But can you blame me?”

You laugh, bright and clear, the sun pale in comparison. A true ray of sunshine.

“Well… I do stare at your pretty face a lot, too. So, I guess it’s only fair,” you tease, and it’s his time to roll his eyes and blush.

“And I thought you were here only for my hair.”

“Definitely a solid argument in your favour,” you keep on teasing, both of you chuckling and moving closer without noticing.

When he reaches for your cheek though, he’s grown serious again. Andrew lets his palm rest on the side of your face, thumb stretching across your cheekbone while the rest of his fingers get lost in your hair. He feels you leaning into his touch, almost nuzzling in his hand. Like you crave for him as much as he craves for you.

“I love you, you know?”

His voice is a mere whisper when he lets out the confession. You nod, your expression serious as well now, though infinitely tender too.

“I know. I love you too.”

“No, I mean… I love you. Like… like a lot. Like… crazy.”

He lets out a quiet tkst in his frustration against himself, mumbles a God under his breath.

He can’t say it. It’s coming out all wrong. He thinks about words to say and others form on his tongue…

“I’m so bad at this, God’s sake…” he mumbles. “I’m sorry. I’m so bad at talking about these things.”

He heaves a sigh, almost hoping you’ll change the subject, say something, anything… but you remain quiet, expectant as you stare at him.

“Why do I reverse to a nervous teenager whenever I try to talk about my feelings, huh?” he tries to joke, turning to humour as he struggles. You grant him a chuckle, but don’t interrupt him.

He takes a few seconds before trying again.

“I just… I really love you. I know I’m not very good at… voicing that, like… but I do. I love you. And I… I love you enough to imagine everything with you in it. You see what I mean?”

You raise a surprised eyebrow.

“Why are you telling me that now?”

“Good orgasm brings wisdom?”

You finally laugh, and a little of the tension dissipates.

“Way to kill the romantic mood.”

“Forgive the dude in me.”

“Yeah, not sure I should. You were about to confess your undying love for me before that dirty joke.”

“It was pretty tame, come on. I’ve done worse.”

“Let’s go back to your confession of love.”

“Do we have to?”

You give him a peck on the lips as an encouragement, and he grunts, faking annoyance when he’s just scared, really.

“I just… I’m worried sometimes because… I’m not good at saying how I feel. And I… I don’t know, with you, it’s like… like this could be it, for me. And I don’t know if I’m always good at showing you that. But I’ve been thinking and… maybe you could move in with me.”

Your shy smile breaks into a grin.

“Yeah, I’d love that. I’m already stealing all your hot water and electricity anyway.”

“Exactly,” he laughs, but he’s still serious when he goes on. “I mean. I want this for the long run, you know what I mean? Like… I want you on the long run. I love you…”

His voice breaks and he curses at himself, looking away as he blinks tears out of his eyes.

“Speak of a lyricist,” he grumbles, making you chuckle while he escapes your touch, trying to gather his courage again by sitting up.

But you move to keep him close, wrapping your arms around him, and despite his tall frame, he seems almost small in your arms as he rests his forehead in the crook of your neck.

“I’m here for the long run too,” you reassure him. “I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone before. I want this to last. I think… I think you’re the one for me, Andy.”

“I feel that way too,” he whispers, kind of stealing your words to express his own feelings but you don’t mind. “I’m just… I just know that I struggle to talk about that stuff. I don’t want you to think I don’t love you the way I truly feel. Cause it’s… it’s overwhelming, really. The way I feel for you. And it makes it difficult for me to express it.”

You hum, but shake your head, too.

“I know you love me. You show me every day that you love me.”

He relaxes in your touch then, a wave of relief that escapes in a long exhale. And he relishes in the warmth of your skin against his, in the vulnerability that you offer each other now, holding tight your naked bodies, as an attempt to let the other feel your heartbeats.

And perhaps he’s just being silly. Perhaps you know already. Perhaps you do feel the same.

“So… if I’m moving in, I have one condition.”

“Whatever you want, love,” he whispers into your skin.

“So, you’re ready to give up on the red blanket? The super warm one your mother gave us for Christmas?”

He laughs, holding you tighter, but unwilling to move away from your neck.

“Hey! She gave that blanket to me, not to you! What are you talking about?”

“She said it would keep us warm.”

“She never said that.”

“I will call her and ask for her to defend me and my claim on the blanket.”

“Or we could share it.”

You chuckle, and your tone is more tender as you answer.

“Yeah… yeah, let’s share it.”

a little early 20s, awkward flirting, college au thoughts

this one is kind of explicit, so 18+ MDNI pls

You knew Andrew from a college class in your second year, though you had definitely seen him around campus and sometimes on the train home.

He was always carrying a guitar case, a backpack slung over one shoulder as he trudged along with a group of friends, and you noticed that he was pretty quiet and subdued for a musician. (Perhaps that was just a bias.)

He was cute and definitely your type--an awkward, gangly thing with a shy smile and adorable laugh that you'd heard a handful of times while sitting in class or the dining hall.

On a night where your friends had finally convinced you to go out and enjoy the pub offerings in Dublin, you spotted him at a table nearby, a huge smile on his face as he chatted with a group of friends around him. You didn't catch the way one of those friends nudged him and pointed you out.

You were a few drinks in and feeling good as you chatted with your own friends about school, work, family, and life in general. It was a much needed night to blow off some steam and enjoy yourself after a few tough exams.

A tap on your shoulder startled you, and you were met with the reddened, grimacing face of Andrew as he avoided your stare.

"Would you...like a drink?" he asked, his eyes trained on the ceiling.

You looked down at the nearly full pint of beer in front of you and shoved it towards your friend as you smiled up at Andrew, saying, "That would be lovely."

His raised eyebrows and incredulous stare made you think that perhaps he hadn't considered this as a possible outcome, you accepting his offer with a deliberate show of interest.

He invited you to sit outside and talk where there's fresh air and less noise, though part of you wondered if he wanted to hide from his friends' prying eyes as you talked.

And boy, could he talk. It was surprising, but not unpleasantly so. In fact, you were enthralled by the answers he provided to every music related question you threw at him. The drunk enthusiasm with with he spoke melted your heart as you rested your head in your hand and smiled at him.

He watched you with rapt attention as you explained your own studies, his eyes darting over your face as he smiled and nodded along. Every now and then, he'd ask a question as if to assure you that he was listening and fully invested.

"Do you want to walk me home?" You didn't live far from this particular pub, only two train stops away from the flat you stayed in with two friends who would be warned of your intentions on the way out.

When he nodded, you grabbed his hand and led him back through the pub, each of you stopping to give your friends some piss poor excuse for your departure before practically running for the exit.

You could hardly wait to get home, instead opting to pull him in for a fevered kiss on the train as you found yourself in a mostly emptied train car. The only other person was sound asleep and unaware of you climbing into Andrew's lap and allowing his tongue to press against yours as his hands wandered from your lower back to grip your thighs.

The call for your stop rang out over the speakers, and you pulled him along to follow you towards your flat while you chirped excitedly about the possibility of "listening to music " or "watching a movie." Which, you would, technically speaking. It still counted even with someone inside of you.

After a cursory look through your music collection, he chose an album by The Black Keys, slipping the disc into your stereo before you were on him again as Dan Auerbach sang about everlasting light.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he asked, eyes wide and pupils blown.

The way you ripped his belt off and frantically unbuttoned his jeans was an answer unto itself. You were coherent enough, at least, to reach into your bedside drawer and produce a condom from its depths.

Finally, finally you sank down onto his cock with a whimper as the stretch of him made you ache. He gripped your hips as you rode him, unable to take his eyes off of you for even a moment as you tilted your head back and gasped quietly.

Andrew let you set the pace, meeting back against your thrusts until the room filled with the obscene sounds of skin-on-skin and the wetness of your arousal.

Your orgasm hit hard and fast--much faster than it had with any previous partner as you rubbed fast circles against your clit. It was a less-than-gentle bite to your shoulder that sent you over the edge.

He followed soon after, fingers pressing hard into your hips as he tried to bite back the groan that desperately wanted to escape. You wished he wouldn't, wanting to hear more of the pretty sounds that fell from his lips.

After, when he pulled out and you collapsed onto his chest, he held you close and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?" he asked, and you could only laugh tiredly and nod in response. Sure, it was a little backwards, but the idea of a proper date made you giddy despite having the man already naked with you in bed.

You both fell asleep soon after, unaware of your roommates peeking into your room and flipping off the lights after confirming that you were both home safe.

private tutoring 📚

I’m so sorry but in the nicest way possible do yall actually read books or just read words??? Cause I’ve been seeing that trend of people not understanding how “snarled” and “eyes darkened” and “eyes softened” etc. was used in a book and like…

Genuinely, do yall just not have imagination?? Or not understand figurative language??? Also eyes do literally darken and soften have you not lived a life??? How do you read with no imagination? Is this how you get through so many books in one month - you simply don’t take the time the understand the words as they are read?