#I don't even think it's the people who ARE drawing EI that are getting my money I think it's Service Canada keeping it

[inkskinned]

for the longest time my family used to host one of the biggest haunted houses on my block: elaborate, themed amateur haunts that pearled out along our lawn for one-night-only. spinning circus wheel-of-terrors and walkthrough alien crash-landings and spiders that arched over our driveway, leaking venom onto your feet.

we didn't have a lot of money; and honestly i don't know how we afforded what we did have. there were not going to be pneumatics or projectors or any supply over 20 dollars - and even 20 was a stretch. we were lucky, and we lived in a town that had a "swap shed", where people would drop off any banged-up-but-usable items that they wanted to get rid of. the whole year, my family would pick over someone else's discarded fans and lights and weird decorations, asking each other - what do you think? for halloween?

we would strip the motors out of rusted fans and spraypaint vases and saw broom handles in half and apply a very thick coat of cardboard and duct tape to everything. for our pirate year, i made the mistake of individually drawing woodgrain onto each strip of cardboard that made up the ship. i then gently painted and distressed the "boards" so they'd each have lichen and cracks and unusual patterns. i hid eyes in the knots and shaped skulls. you couldn't see any of it in the dark, even under our "spotlight" (someone's target-branded workshop flashlight).

i have a lot of very strange skills as a result. i know how to make a flying ghost appear both physically and in the mirror. i know how to make a witch's brew that stirs itself. i know how to burn and cut and paint until there is an iron throne you can sit on, or an alien brushing your ankles, or a hearse trundling along. i can't say we ever made it beyond our local newspapers, but we tried so hard that the town would regularly shut down our street.

i can't put any of these skills on a resume, and i haven't been able to put them to use for a while. i live in an apartment, there's no lawn for me to decorate. for years i've wanted to do an alice in wonderland theme, and have been collecting ideas like coins in a fountain. at other houses, i am transfixed by 12 foot skeletons and paper mache spooky lanterns; easily wooed by the knowledge of how much time people put in.

someone asked me once - so what was the point? and why didn't you guys charge anything to show up?

in truth, we probably needed the money. for years there, we were a 1-meal-a-day kind of a family. i was being polite earlier up in this essay: we furnished both our house and our halloweens using things left a recycling center. we live in new england and still didn't turn on the heat until the end of november, no matter how low the temperature.

every year we would collect donations for unicef and other charities. on an average year, we would collect enough to pay for our food for weeks. every year, without fail: we donated every penny.

this endeavor took months to plan and design and execute. we had to organize any volunteers and check safety and hope-for-the-best. it took at least 24 hours to set up, a week to take down. the motors and fans and lights all had to be packed tight. the cardboard would scatter, pangea in the rain and sleet. i remember picking up a plank from that pirate ship, the paint blown clear off, all my hard work completely erased. a new kind of driftwood.

if this was a poem, and not a memory, i could wrap this up prettily. i could say that these skills landed me a cool job in the haunting industry or that it taught me the value of friendship and responsibility. but i actually think it's something better, something very pretty: there wasn't ever a moral to it.

the night was a long one. yes, there were assholes, people who broke stuff. but mostly it was just kids like us in cardboard costumes, dressed as an incredibly niche kind of truck. good parents who were friendly and laughing. teenagers who slunk in at late hours, wide-eyed and secretly delighted; who asked us can i help next year? like, do y'all take volunteers, or whatever? every year more people came, and told their friends, and offered to pay. and every year we said maybe next year and meant absolutely never.

we did it because it was enough to love something, and to make that love visible. we did it because there is very rarely an excuse to have fun. i think maybe especially, for me - we did it because every year, there was one first "customer" somewhere around 3-4PM, while we were still putting on the final touches. the sun would still be up, and we were frazzled and always-running-late, and these kids saw our vision unfinished in the bright light of day.

something about their parents murmuring say thank you and telling my mom this setup is so sweet while this little kid would grin up at us, dazzled by our artistic mediocrity. the fall air and the chill and their coat-over-a-panda-princess-costume. that first phrase of the night awkwardly managed over a pair of overly-large vampire teeth: a beautiful and excited trick or treat!

#wholesome #happy halloween #writeblr #just something to maybe warm ur heart in these times #my parents also usually let me take nov 1st off #this is the first year in like 20 years im not taking it off bc it became like a family holiday #i regret not taking it off but alas. capitalism.

[an-apocalypse-of-magpies]

I genuinely think it is a rite of passage for a Pokemon fan to champion a Pokemon that is unpopular, uncool, or 'weak'.

For some, it comes quickly. A child sees Gulpin and thinks it's the funniest thing ever. For some, it's trying something new. The competitive battler who just starts messing around, picks up a Pachirisu, and leads it to victory against impossible stakes. For some, it's an accident. The Nuzlocker who got way too attached to an early game friend who refused to die, and grieved for their friend and comrade when their time came. For some, it's defiance. The person who kinda likes Raichu and will defend it from the slings and arrows of all others. For some, it's just comfortably growing up and realising you don't have to justify liking something, just that it makes you happy.

It's easy to be drawn to the crowd favourites. And why not? They can be powerful fighters, cute merch, fanart-bait, they have a je ne sais quoi that draws the eye. And that's still fine! I'm not going to tell anyone they're a bad person for liking Charizard, or Mewtwo, or Gengar, or Pikachu. They're popular for a reason. But there is a kind of zen, a state of enlightenment of sorts, in finding a funky little guy who isn't very good and isn't very popular but makes you smile, and you go out of your way to find them and raise them and maybe even never evolve them, despite them being a damp squib in actual battles.

One of my favourite Pokemon ever is Swinub. Swinub is not a strong Pokemon. In fact, statistically, it's one of the weakest. Swinub has 5 weaknesses, including all 3 starter types. It doesn't learn many coverage moves, and it's abilities are not very exciting either. But I love this little piglet. It's round and soft! It digs up hot springs with its nose! You never see its eyes! I just think it's neat.

It's an important thing, I think, to find a Pokemon you like just for you. Not because it makes you better than 'the normies', but because it makes you appreciate the Pokemon you do meet, not for their battling prowess, but for how much you just want to be around them. When I see @good-pokemon-center-reviews frankly doing the lord's work in sharing people who are just so happy to have their little guys, I see starry-eyed children relishing in the wonder the Pokemon world is meant to bring. Genuine, earnest joy at a plushy Croagunk will always be more real to me that any Smogon tier chart. That guy gets it. The guy being a dick on Pokemon showdown with a team of 5 Zacians and a Mega Rayquaza for spice does not.

#pokemon #feel free to tag this with your unpopular faves #here are some to get you going #swinub #castform #spinda #mawile #sigilyph #venonat #dunsparce

[marthawrites]

Only A Scratch

Aemond Targaryen x fem reader

Word count: 3.4k+

About: Aemond requests you, a healer who has tended to his wounds before, to accompany him on a trip to Duskendale.

Includes: One bed trope! A more balanced mix of plot and porn featuring elements of mean!Aemond, injury, dick sucking, cockslapping, roughness, mild manhandling, mild degradation, unprotected vaginal sex, and mentions of fem receiving oral sex

Note: Hello lovely reader! This story is based on a request from @babyaemond with the quote of "you know what your problem is?" with our favorite one-eyed war criminal. Thank you, Chris ily! 💖 I had an absolute blast writing this and I hope you like it too! As always, reader is non-descript. Please, enjoy!

-

The realm might not believe it, perhaps not even the occupants and workers of the Red Keep would believe it, but, Aemond Targaryen was a momma's boy. He loved and respected his mother more than anyone else in all the kingdoms. With her nameday coming up, Aemond wanted to get her something extra special.

One afternoon while visiting Helaena during her embroidery time – little niece and nephews playing with him in the middle of the floor – he brought the idea up to his sister. 

"I think that a lovely idea, Aemond. You fetching Duskendale's greatest painter? Mother will hang the portrait somewhere everyone can see," Helaena replied with bright eyes. "And they have those mollusks who produce the most dazzling pearls. You can't go all that way and not get her jewelry!"

Aemond smiled. Helaena and her children were the rare people to draw genuine emotion from the prince. "I will pick something in your honor. Your gift to mother."

"And Aegon?" She asked.

"Aegon won't get any credit for these gifts. He wouldn't even be able to keep the secret, much less add to the surprise."

The princess giggled; unguarded in the company of her family.

-

To say receiving the dragon prince's offer was a surprise would be a vast understatement. He wanted you to go along on this trip with him? Out of all the healers and maesters? Even if you wanted to, you could not tell him no. Bewilderment buzzed around you as you rode out of King's Landing on horseback with him, Ser Arryk, and Ser Erryk.

It wouldn't be a long trip. Perhaps a week, there and back, with some leisure time to enjoy the city when you arrived. 

The twins were a skilled and respectful pair. You felt safe with them. You wondered, mind idly wandering as the twins led the way out of King's Landing, if you were Aemond's first pick for an accompanying medic. Fog rolled up from the sea and blanketed everything with a haunting gray. If it weren't for golden ways of sun piercing through clouds and fog like javelins it would be considerably creepy. Rays brought out your natural coloring, and when you turned to look across your shoulder to prince Aemond he looked wholly regal: silver hair shimmering, riding garb decorated with his House's sigil (as if anyone would need reminded who he was), breath hanging in the chilly morning air like he truly breathed smoke.

He felt you looking at him. "I don't need two eyes to see you staring so hard, girl," he said, turning the full attention of his single eye to you. Lilac. It nearly glowed in the foggy subdued brightness.

"Apologies, your Grace," you said with a guilty little grin. "The last time I saw you I was bandaging your newly stitched thigh. A much different sight than what I have of you now. You clean up well," you said, tiny smirk not leaving the outermost corners of your mouth. "Nasty cut it was… how did it heal?"

His face remained skillfully blank. There could have been a dozen emotions hidden behind that perfected poise; from his posture to the way he held the natural shape of his bowed mouth, he didn't allow you a glimpse into how your words affected him. "It healed well."

"I'm pleased to know I made such an impression that you'd request me to join you on this journey. An honor, truly, my prince," you said with quiet pride.

"There are two women in court who are heavy with babes. Both will be making their entrance into the world and day now. None of the maesters would risk leaving them," he replied with an edge of curtness, words clipped and even. "It was only then I considered you."

Ouch. "Oh," you said, a little taken back. "Well, I still stand by what I said," you added, trying your best to deflect the sting his words gave you.

"Hm," he hummed, smug. It was his turn to smirk, now.

The rest of that first day’s ride went relatively smooth and uneventful. That is, until Aemond got bucked off his horse. It was a miracle you were able to stay on yours! The twins’ horses, while still terribly frightened, appeared to be of a more mellow mind for they were able to be soothed while Arryk scouted ahead to see what might have caused the fright. You dared not leave yours during the ordeal in case you needed to get a galloping headstart. Tension hung in the air until Arryk came back. “A black bear is perhaps a quarter mile away,” he said upon arriving. “I didn’t see any cubs and the beast seemed unbothered by me. It was gorging on berries. Are you alright, my prince?”

Luckily Aemond was able to break his fall. Unfortunately it came at the cost of landing on his forearm upon a ridiculously sharp rock. A jagged cut ripped through his riding gear and into his leanly muscled flesh. You had helped wrap it with a clean linen bandage for now, but crimson bloomed beneath the binding. He would likely need stitches once all of you were settled into an inn for the night. “‘Tis only a scratch. Let’s get to the next town before nightfall, yeah?”

Arryk stole a glance with you, and then his brother, and you once more before nodding to Aemond. "A scratch," his eyes had silently said to you; a flash of sarcasm gone quicker than a blink.

The next town on the road to Duskendale was small and hardly worth mentioning on a map. Climbing roses in full bloom covered the inn's facade making it quaint and homely alike; their heady aroma lingered heavily and you wished you could bottle the fragrance. Echos of the scent followed you inside and mingled with savory foodsmells of dinner. 

"'Fraid we're about full t'night. I hope you all don't want separate rooms," a middle-aged man with wild eyebrows said from behind the bar. He leaned on it as he looked all of you over. "Ain't seen one of you Targaryens around in awhile. Pleasure ta have you, Prince Aemond. Now, what can I do for you lot?"

"Three rooms and dinner for everyone. That's all," Aemond replied as he produced payment for the innkeep.

Turning, the man inspected what keys were left. "Hmm… I have only two rooms available." Pulling the keys from their hooks he handed them over. "One bed in each of 'em."

Yet another tense silence fell over the group. The unmistakable tingle of a blush rushed to your face. Shit shit shit.

"We need three. Surely you can kick someone out for the night," Aemond said a bit too sharply, fingers reaching for another few coins to bribe the man.

"Ha!" He guffawed. "No can do. Prince or no, I have a good reputation and I don't intend on breakin' it."

The twins shared an amused glance and you wanted to die.

"Fine," Aemond said as he took the keys and tossed one set to Arryk and Erryk. "See you at first light to break fast before leaving."

You followed Aemond into the room you'd be sharing for the night. One bed. You hoped it was a big one.

Once inside, any hope of surviving the night with all your sanity and wit vanished in an instant. The bed was tiny. And, as if things could get any worse, there was only one pillow and blanket. Surely Prince Aemond Targaryen never considered this happening.

Tension crackled between you two and you wanted to jump out the equally tiny window and run all the way back to King’s Landing. "At… at least neither of us will be cold in the middle of the night?" You half-stammered, trying, feebly, to break the silence.

"You better not snore, girl." He flashed you an icy glare but the smirk of his mouth spoke to something else. Amusement? A challenge? "I'm going to bathe."

While he was gone you were left to stew on the current predicament. Ever since you first laid eyes on the young prince he never left your brain. To you, he was unbearably dashing and roguishly handsome. He was cold, cruel (according to rumors), and smug in a way that made you want to strangle him and drown him in kisses alike. Over the last year or so you'd helped tend to his wounds a few different times, and each time you left with more butterflies in your belly than before. They said his kin were closer to Gods than men, and you believed it.

After hardly eating during the day you were half-starved. You ate your dinner while he was still gone, and left for the women's side of the bathing quarter before he returned. In your experience not all inn's had the space for a proper bath – you weren’t going to pass this up. 

Upon returning – clean, refreshed, and still warm from the bath – you saw Aemond laying on the bed in his nightclothes with his uninjured arm tucked behind his head. It was stupid – absolutely fucking stupid – how handsome he looked in such a regular position. He was all long, and lean, and sharp angles. You wondered if he housed any softness within himself. He'd got a fire going in the small mantle and it crackled peacefully. Light and shadows accentuated the natural lines of his chiseled face, eyepatch practically orange in the glow. After a moment of awkwardly fumbling with your damp hair, you asked, "how's your arm?"

"'Twas only a scratch. I'm fine," he answered, making no move to shift his position to make more room for you on the bed.

"You're lying. It bled through your bandage on the way here," you retorted, squinting at him suspiciously.

He sighed. "And now it's done bleeding."

Turning, you double checked the latch on the door. Sure of the lock you turned back to Aemond. "Can I at least see it?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Are you deaf, or daft?"

It was your turn to glare at him. "You know, I never truly believed the rumors of you being cruel." You threw a cloth you’d used to help dry your hair onto the table as you stepped, firmly and deliberately, across the small room to the bed. "But now I believe it. You know what your problem is? You are rude." Without allowing yourself to process what you were doing – and not giving him a moment to, either – you were straddling over his lap. Demanding. Determination hardened your features. "Let me see it."

Aemond tensed beneath you and the pupil of his eye swelled. He wasn't expecting this. His jaw feathered as the hand behind his head immediately lunged forward to grab your throat. Squeezing gently, warningly, he smirked. "And you know what your problem is? You are an insolent brat." Your eyes softened to those of a doe and it sent his cock twitching beneath your thinly covered center. "Mayhap you forget who you are speaking to, girl."

Breath shuddered from your lungs. You felt him beneath you and it instantly sent fire rolling through your belly. Desire. Lust. So easily he turned your irritation to something else entirely. "I only want to check on it," you said against his careful grasp, trying your best to appear innocent.

He laughed. "Climbing on my lap like this I think you want something else. Tell me… what more does this bratty little mouth do?" With his question he slowly released his hold from your throat, thumb trailing across the softness of your bottom lip. The darkness of his eye glinted when he heard a faint whimper tickle up through your chest. "You'll have to be louder than that…"

Without having to be told you grazed your tongue along his curious thumb, pulse hammering behind your ribs and between your legs alike. Could he feel how hot you were? Boldness coursed through your blood. "Your Grace…," you simpered, looking at him with dazed eyes. "I've wanted you for so long." You dared to nip the tip of his thumb, gently rolling your tongue beneath it. He tasted clean with hints of wood and smoke from stoking the fire. It made you ache.

"I've other things that need tending to, now. Perhaps if you play by my rules I'll play by yours," he proclaimed, pushing his digit further into your mouth. He hissed quietly with the sensation. Greed and need simmered in his chest, threatening to boil over. You weren’t even doing anything and yet you still drove him near wild.

Your hands spread across his chest. “Those are fair terms,” you said with a playful tilt of your head. Your eyes roamed over his throat and what was exposed of his collarbone. Sleek, pale, warm. He was so warm. How could he be when it was so chilly? You unlaced the lazily tied strings of his cotton sleep shirt, fingernails gently scratching down his front. You smiled when he hissed another inward breath. Beneath you, he neared full hardness. “Needy prince…,” you crooned, sliding from his lap as elegantly as you could so you were laying between his legs. You stroked along his cock through his cotton sleep pants, teasing. “Perhaps Targarenys are closer to men than Gods after all.”

"I like you better with something in your mouth," he said, tutting, as he shifted his legs a bit to give you more room. Now he moved, you thought, how generous of him.

Vibrating with your own need and impatience, you unlaced the front of his pants and tugged them down just enough for his cock to spring free. You gasped, satisfied. "So big, your Grace." He had a lovely cock. Truly. It was hot and solid in your hand when you stroked it, head blushed and swollen without you even having to tug downwards on his length. 

You'd be lying if you didn't secretly hope something like this would happen with the tension of sharing a bed and room. But this? You licked up the underside of his shaft, wrapping your lips around his tip, sucking, and moaned at the sensation and taste.

Aemond groaned. "Is this what all you little medics do, hm? Tend to broken men before swallowing their cock?" He taunted, glaring at you triumphantly, mouth parted in silent bliss.

Instead of answering him verbally, you took more of his length into your wanting mouth. Flattening your tongue against him allowed you to hollow your cheeks. You looked up at him all the while, basking in the way his features changed; the way he somehow tensed and relaxed at the same time. You dragged your mouth up until only his sensitive head was wrapped by your lips, then down, lower, and up again.

"Fuck…," he groaned, eye rolling closed. One hand gripped into the thin faded sheets while his other moved to your damp hair. He threaded his fingers through it, gripping, tugging, just slight. 

Your eyelids trembled as a needy whine broke free from your lips. He popped free from your mouth with the noise. You chased his cockhead; wanton. Saliva built in your mouth and the sounds of you lavishing his cock were borderline obscene. You willingly choked on him; you throbbed as you squeezed your thighs together.

He grinned when you came up for air. His hand unfurled from the bedclothes and moved to the base of his length. He gripped himself and held your head still by your hair, expression widening with smug pride. He smacked his cock against the side of your face, traces of your saliva shiny on your skin. "Who knew my favorite little healer was such a whore, too," he purred. A second and third series of smacks followed. 

Bolts of lust jolted right to your core. You clenched around nothing; arousal gushing from you like syrup. "Aemond…," you gasped, vision hazy. "Please," you begged, unsure what you were truly begging for.

Him. Just him. Whatever he would give you.

"Such a pretty sound from your lips," he said, darkly and adoringly, as he delivered a final slap of his cock to the silky skin of your mouth. He leaned forward and grabbed you by the sides of your arms, pulling you up so you were nearly nose to nose. Without even looking he raked the hems of your sleep gown up while simultaneously yanking your smallclothes down. His fingers slid up your folds, testing your arousal. What he felt sent the entirety of his manhood aching. 

He had to be inside you. Now. 

"This little cunny is soaking. I don't even have to prepare you," he growled, shoving a long finger up into you without hesitation.

You might have peaked from that alone if he'd kept his digit inside you. If he pumped it. If he added a second. But, no, the prince did neither. When he pulled it from you he instantly brought it to his mouth and smeared your slick across his tongue. He smirked and you were sure you'd never been so desperate in your life.

Once again he gripped the sides of your arms and pushed you down into the old used mattress. He maneuvered behind you with ease. True to his word he didn't have to prepare you so he didn't. The young dragon prince guided himself right to your dripping center and eased forward. 

You arched deeper beneath him, supporting yourself on your knees while propping your ass up as much as you could. The stretch your body yielded to his sizable intrusion was glorious. You moaned, barely able to bite it back as he buried all of his rigid inches into your core. When he pulled back to snap his hips into you, you cried out his name.

"Be a good girl and shut up. Unless you want everyone in this inn to know what's going on in here," he said huskily behind you, the tremble in his voice betraying his outwardly restraint.

You tried to be quiet. You really did. But his hand holding the hair at the nape of your neck, and the lewd slaps of your smacking skin, and the pant of his breaths, had you wild with bliss and excitement. "So good… fuck! Aemond…! S-so good," you whimpered, body becoming lighter by the second.

The half babbled praises from your pretty mouth had the prince soaring. He gripped harshly onto one of your hips while the fingers of the other snaked beneath your pelvis to work your clit. "Wanna eat this pretty cunt 'til you're crying, too. Will you let me?"

"Please! Yes, yes, yes please," you answered as if in prayer.

His pace quickened, the angle of his strokes hitting you deep and hard, cockhead dragging and battering against that wonderful patch of nerves inside your walls. Leaning forward, his silken hair tickled your back. He bit into your shoulder, harshly drawing your flesh between his teeth so he could mark you.

You squirmed beneath him. Gasping, you basked in the sharp sensation of his teeth. It was the final thing you needed to lose yourself to the euphoria.

"Give it to me," Aemond growled in your ear. "Give your Prince your pleasure. Squeeze my cock like the little whore you are."

You did.

He fucked you through it, chasing his own high all the while. When you became too loud he turned your face into the mattress to muffle your noises. It helped. It also made all those sounds all the sweeter. For Aemond, it was the final thing he needed to lose himself as well. With a groan from deep within his chest, he pulled out of you at the last second and released his spend all over your back. It shone upon your skin. He couldn't help but admire it and he had half a mind to make you sleep with it on your back; marking you with his teeth and scent alike.

Slowly, you both came down from the natural high of orgasm. That cloth you brought in earlier was put to good use. 

"I don't mind that the bed is so small, now," you said as you both got comfortable beneath the blanket. Laying on your sides seemed the best way; him, the big spoon.

"Me either," he replied, a grin audible in his voice.

You found yourself no longer caring about the state of his arm. Not with the way it laid over your waist and rested up between your breasts. He held you against him.

Sleep came easy. 

When you woke up to Aemond's morning-stiff cock against your back you knew you had to find a reason to share a room with him for every night of the journey.

He would make it happen, he told himself, as he drew a lovely climax from you with his mouth before burying himself into you once again. All, before dawn cracked over the horizon.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

Masterlist

To be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know!

Main taglist: @watercolorskyy @melsunshine @girlwith-thepearlearring @arcielee @targaryenbrainrot @ruby-dragon @bloodwyrmcaraxes @chompchompluke @fan-goddess

Aemond taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @bellaisasleep @aemondsblog @khaleesihel @sirenofavalon @sahvlren @doublesparrows @aemonds-fire @nikstrange @abbyandizzysmum @babyaemond @lost-and-founds @castellomargot @okfashionista @avidreader73

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond imagine #request

[bubuslutty]

omg its me the pec lover 🫣sorry yes 141😭 forgot to put who mwehehehhe

hey anon! thanks for this delicious ask!!

pairing: gn reader x (platonic? romantic? you decide) John Price, Simon Riley, Soap Mactavish, Kyle Garrick

warnings: none

price:

I know for a fact this man has a hairy chest. not TOO hairy. but hairy enough to be ticklish when you lay your cheek on it when he's shirtless.

and he has massive man boobs.

I said what I said.

reader would 100% randomly go up to him, asking for a hug or for comfort. and because price is price, he'll wrap an arm around them, to comfort them.

but what he doesn't expect is them just shoving their face between his pecs and groaning, the sound muffled by the material of his shirt.

and he's just standing there like 🧍‍♀️

and he smells nice, like cologne, soap, his own musk, tobacco sometimes when he's stressed and a hint of sweat.

when reader first ever did it, he almost died of embarrassment and confusion, but quickly got his shit together.

he couldn't even pull them away from him, he didn't really feel like it actually, because it looked like the reader was having a great time.

So now don't be surprised when u catch the captain laying somewhere, trying to take a nap with reader on him, face buried between his pecs, arms straight down their body, and sleeping as if it's the most comfortable position on earth.

ghost:

the first time reader buried their face in Ghost's pecs was in the excuse of a hug. it was easy, really, whining and just falling face first on him. and he didn't mind at first because in his head reader was gonna get up after like a couple of seconds. but they DIDN'T.

and Ghost was confused n lowkey suspicious, so he grabbed them by the back of their shirt, like a baby kitten, with one hand and ripped their face away from his chest.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing" 😇

Ghost simply placed them back on the ground and eyed them up and down, then left.

but reader was on a fucking mission, so anytime they had an opportunity to lay on ghost, they would, be it in the Heli, in hideouts, in the base, anywhere. until ghost has had enough.

"Bloody hell- what do you want?"

"Can I cuddle you on your chest, please? 😔🙏"

ghost just stared at them in complete silence. and when he didn't say anything for a whole minute straight, reader added, "I'll give you 10 quid."

"Keep your money." and he wrapped an arm around their neck and brought them straight to his chest, choking them for a minute.

and reader was in heaven, with their arms wrapped around as much as of him as possible.

"Thanks-"

"Shut up."

Johnny:

soap in my head is already very friendly and pretty physical with the people he cares abt. so it's not an unusual sight to see him hanging out with reader, on a couch, or on a bed, watching a movie on a laptop.

and he loves cuddling when the weather is cold enough, so they'd be tangled in each other, watching whatever movie is playing on the small screen while reader is drawing random patterns on his chest with their finger.

if reader is tired, they'll bury their face in his neck at first, trying to get comfortable and go to sleep. or they'll gradually slide down his body and end up with their face pressed against the swell of his pecs.

"They're soft. like pillows." reader would point out while wiggling around, trying to get comfortable.

"Yeah? they are?" Soap would laugh and puff out his chest, making the reader's head bounce a little and they'll laugh and then whine, "Stop it, I want to sleep."

soap would pat their head, "Use the bed, then."

"Nah, you're way better than a bed."

"Thanks?"

gaz:

when gaz noticed the small obsession reader has with his guy's pecs. he knew he was next.

So he was basically a bit nervous n hot around the collar when he found himself and his guys being squeezed into a car, bullets raining down on them.

and there wasn't enough seats in the thing, so reader had to sit on him, chest to back while shooting out of the window.

"You good?" They shouted above the utter chaos outside as Ghost tried to drive them to safety, with soap screaming at how he should've been the one driving instead.

"Yeah!" Gaz shouted back.

and when they were far enough that gunshots sounded so far away, reader took off their helmet and leaned back against Gaz with a deep sigh.

"You're comfy." They said with their eyes closed.

"Am I?"

"Uhum."

Gaz didn't miss how they would rub the back of their head against his chest, or how they would turn their head to the side and try to bury their face between his pecs, even though it was practically impossible in the tiny space the car had.

but you better believe reader tried anyway.

and the whole time he was flustered, trying to act as normal as possible, squeezing their shoulder once while they sagged against him.

I hope you liked this anon! I tried my best 😋

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @silviafantin15 @reveluving @bobastayhigh @originalsimp @h-leigh @gxldyjess @msdrpreist @chaoticevilbakugo @Lacunaanonymoused @whore4dilfs

#bubuslutty writes #bubuslutty ask #cod mw2 #call of duty #captain john price #john price x reader #john price #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #gaz #Kyle garrick #gaz x reader #task force 141 #johnny mactavish x reader #soap #johnny soap mactavish #cod #cod mw2 headcanons #task force 141 x y/n #task force 141 x reader #task force 141 headcanons #task force 141 x gn reader

[scoobydoodean]

Okay so in 1.03 Dead In The Water, there's this exchange Sam and Dean have at one point in regards to Lucas—the little boy who watched his dad drown, who Dean connects with during the episode:

DEAN Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died. SAM There are cases—going through a traumatic experience could make people more sensitive to premonitions, psychic tendencies. DEAN Whatever's out there, what if Lucas is tapping into it somehow? I mean, it's only a matter of time before somebody else drowns, so if you got a better lead, please.

And the last time I watched this episode, I went "Oh cool! A little Psychic!Sam Easter Egg." Right? Sam goes through the traumatic experience of losing Jess, and he's tapped into "whatever's out there" (the yellow eyed demon) and he's having premonitions about what he's going to do next. Which definitely makes a lot of sense.

But when I was gif-ing stuff from 1.03 today, I realized that... funnily enough, within the context of this episode we also have some fun stuff relating to the "slightly psychic Dean" posts that have gone around this year... Or if you prefer, Cassandra!Dean. Cassandra, in reference to the prophet in Greek myth, cursed by Apollo to utter true prophecies but never be believed.

Dean often knows when bad things are going to happen in Supernatural. He doesn't have visions—but he has "bad feelings" and makes predictions that turn out to be scarily accurate at times. Of course we can infer that Dean is just good at 1) reading people and 2) understanding how sequences of events tumble one by one in a row like so many dominoes. It's another sign of his incredible intelligence. But it IS fun to think about Dead In The Water as the first indication of Cassandra!Dean.

First, because Lucas has premonitions, and Lucas and Dean are paralleled and connect on an emotional level.

Dean and Lucas have similar traumatic childhood experiences. Both watched a parent die and both lost the ability to speak afterwards:

DEAN You're scared. It's okay. I understand. See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom—I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave. And maybe, your dad wants you to be brave too.

Dean is able to connect with Lucas through their shared traumatic experience. He's the only one who's able to get through to him—and after a short conversation and just drawing together for a while—much to his mom's shock. Dean is able to understand what Lucas is feeling without Lucas saying it.

Second, because Lucas has bad feelings that tell him the locations where the spirit will strike next, but no one listens to/believes him.

...Kind of like people usually don't listen to/believe Dean's bad feelings.

DEAN Anyway. Well, maybe you don't think anyone will listen to you, or, uh...or believe you. I want you to know that I will. You don't even have to say anything. You could draw me a picture about what you saw that day, with your dad, on the lake.

Of course, this line is just Dean paralleling Lucas with himself and his own reasons for not speaking, but it must hit home, because Lucas begins communicating with Dean through drawings.

Further, despite Sam also knowing Lucas is having premonitions, when Lucas reacts with extreme distress to the idea of going home and clings to Dean desperately, Sam still... doesn't think it means anything. He thinks the case is over.

Third, Dean has a bad feeling that the case isn't over, and Sam doesn't believe him.

The sheriff had just threatened to arrest them if they stayed in town, so of course going back to town is a big deal. When Dean turns around based on a bad feeling, Sam thinks he's just being paranoid.

SAM But Dean, this job, I think it's over. DEAN I'm not so sure. SAM If Bill murdered Peter Sweeney and Peter's spirit got its revenge, case closed. The spirit should be at rest. DEAN All right, so what if we take off and this thing isn't done? You know, what if we've missed something? What if more people get hurt? SAM But why would you think that? DEAN Because Lucas was really scared. SAM That's what this is about?

Dean sticks to his guns, and they arrive just in time to save Lucas's mother from drowning in a bathtub.

#1.03 #he is literally cassandra #pk rewatches spn number ? #parallels #season 1

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Same as it ever was 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: Oh my, we be sad gurls and bois.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

When Pete rumbles with snores, you move to the couch, hoping for what little sleep you can summon. You can't lay there beside him knowing what you know. You can't steam in the spite of knowing that he can sleep just soundly while sneaking around.

Two wrongs can never make right. You're not absolved. Far from it. You're mad. At him. At yourself. At life.

As you drift in and out, the apathy comes. You can't care. If you let yourself feel, you'll fall apart. You don't have that choice. Someone has to hold it together for the kids.

You get up first, like most mornings. You're restlessly impatient to get the day started if only to get away from that house. From the husband who isn't much of one.

Simone and Malik sit at the table eating cereal as you check your phone. You're on track so far. As if fate is throwing you a soft ball, the morning is going smoother than ever.

You get the kids packed and in the car. Every step is taken on habit alone. You walk them to the school doors and wish them a good day. Then you go back to your car and idle in silence. You're empty, you have nothing left.

You make yourself pull out and join the snailish roll of traffic through the school zone. Your drive to work is over before you know it as you stay locked in a trance. Before you just went through the motions, now it's like you're a ghost, floating aimlessly from one place to the next.

You enter the office, the walls a blur in your vision as you find your way blindly to your desk. Your head is pounding. Amid your early morning scramble, your desperation for distraction, to think of anything but reality, you hadn't even had a coffee. Your entire being throbs from the caffeine withdrawal.

You cup your forehead as you boot your computer. Eventually you'll get up and grab a cup of the weak break room brew. You lean heavily on the armrest of the chair and wiggle your mouse. 

For once, you're thankful to be at work. No fighting kids, no laundry, no scoundrel husband. But you're there and it's just as hard to live with yourself. 

"Morning, sunshine," Mr. Hansen's booming tone has you careening back in your chair as he comes to lean on the corner of your desk, "aren’t you bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Long night, huh? Husband finally loosen you up a bit."

You give him the daggers. That look that says 'enough'. Your motherly chagrin blazing at full force. He winks and laughs as he taps the end of your nose.

"You're real cute when you're pissed off, you know that?" He puts a hand on his hip, smoothing his index and thumb of his other across his mustache.

"Mr. Hansen," your voice is gravelly with dry fatigue, "is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, I can think of a certain wakemeup," he snickers, "but I'm thinking that you're not really into it. Still, you look like you could use it."

You huff and turn your chair to glare up at him. Can't he bother anyone else? He had his fun, he humiliated you, he made you hate yourself. So what else does he want?

"If you don't mind," you push your chair back and stand, "I'm going to get some coffee."

"Oh, sounds fun," he shoves away from the desk and trails after you, surprising you as he stretches and arm across your shoulders, "this company shit, it's garbage. How about I make you my own personal brew? I got a keurig in my office, just got some French Vanilla–"

"No thank you," you grumble and pull away from him.

You enter the kitchen first as he continues his incessant pursuit. He likes Malik when he wants to tell you about his legoworld. You go to the machine and find the carafe empty. You rinse it and fill the tank.

"You're mad about yesterday," he says as he leans on the counter, "if you're into snuggling, you coulda stuck around–"

"No," you growl as you measure out the coffee grounds.

"I let you go take care of the crotch goblin so I thought we'd be square–"

"Mr. Hansen, it's not you," you close the lid and flip the switch, "really."

"Ah, got it, it's the hubby. He's not taking care of his marital duties, huh?"

"Please, sir, it's not… it's not that," you falter as the lie sticks on your tongue. "Tired, need coffee."

"You look like you need sleep," he shifts closer as you stare at the slow trickle of coffee, "tell you what," he lowers his voice, "you come in my office, give me a good tug and I'll let you sleep in a meeting room. How's that? I'll make sure you get your eight hours."

You open the cupboard, taking out your mug from the bunch of mismatched porcelain, and set it on the counter. You can't even look at him. Not only because he repulses you but he reminds you of how pathetic you truly are.

"I'm good," you insist, "thank you, sir."

He scoffs, "I'm giving you something you're not getting elsewhere. Action and sleep," he runs his knuckles up your sleeve, "beggars can't be choosers, can they?"

You look at him. You're so fucking exhausted that your eyes are too dry to eke out a single tear. It's the only thing keeping you from tipping over the edge.

He smirks and looks at your blouse, reaching to pinch one of the front buttons, "look at that, all put together."

You glance down at the misaligned buttons. You don't even care. You're a mess. You're old and used up and unwanted. Even he only wants to get off, it doesn't matter who does it.  At the end of the day, he'll be just as happy to do it himself.

You're speechless. It's nothing like shock. It's exasperation. Are all men really like this? Is this what Pete does? Is she some girl at the company?

"Forget it," you take your empty mug and spin in your low orthotics.

You stride out and stumble to your desk. You can do this. You just have to get through the day. And then what?

Get the kids, go home, cook dinner, do homework, bath time, bed for them, clean the endless mess…

Tomorrow? The same thing, over and over, until what? Until when? When do you admit defeat?

Hansen struts out of the breakroom. You look up as you see him sipping from a mug; your mug. He meets your gaze as he drinks deeper and passes by.

You wonder the same thing about him; when will he give up? 

🗄️

You feel yourself slumping lower and lower. Your eyelids are scratchy and burning as you fight to keep them open. You cup your chin in your hand, elbow planted on your desk as the emails blur before you. You can do this… 

In a minute, you’ll get up and get a coffee, undisturbed, and really start working. You won’t fall asleep. How could you? Right here in your office chair. On the best nights, you can barely sleep in your own bed. Lately, it’s only been bad nights.

Once you find the energy, you’ll get up. You swear you will. It’s all you have to look forward to. That cup of coffee. You can smell it. You know it’s burnt by now, stale and bitter, but your stomach growls for it.

A few more minutes.

You hear snorts, strange noises that seem to rumble from within you. The clacking of keys and soft clicks continue, almost forming a rhythm as your screen ripples to bars of colours. You feel a weight over you and a sudden shift.

You hit the floor, bouncing on your ass as your seat hits your shoulder. You look up as you awake, only realising then that you dozed off. You blink at your coworkers before focusing on the figure glaring down at you. Mr. Hansen has a hand in his pocket and a foot on the bottom of your chair. Shit.

“Working hard,” he muses tritely.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stutter, disoriented. You can’t believe you fell asleep. You hope this is just a dream, if so. “I… I didn’t–”

“Get up,” he demands.

You scramble to get to your feet. You reach for the chair and he kicks it further away. You’re overly aware of your audience. No one will look directly at you in fear that they might draw Hansen’s attention, but it’s obvious by the lack of typing that they are very aware of the scene.

“I’m very sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to. I was– I’ll stay awake. You don’t have to worry.”

“Go home,” he says curtly.

“Home? No, I can make it through the day. It was a mistake.”

“Go. Home.” He repeats pointedly, “this isn’t a hotel.”

“Please,” you murmur, “please, Mr. Hansen,” you clutch your hands together, trying not to speak too loud, embarrassed as your voice cracks, “I–”

“Don’t make me call security,” he warns as he steps back on one heel, his posture victorious. He arches a brow in challenge. You’re certain he’d love to see that, you dragged out like an intruder. “Come back Monday, well-rested, and HR will deal with your disciplinary report.”

“What?” You gulp. In all your time there, you’d never been written up. Not once.

“Keep digging that hole.”

“Okay, okay,” you go to your desk and open the drawer to pull your bag out. You hook it on your shoulder and turn around, nearing him as you reach for the coat hung on the back of your chair. He watches you with a smug smirk, “I’ll be back Monday.”

“We’ll see.”

His ominous words put you on edge. You recoil and stare at him. What does he mean by that? You’re not stupid enough to ask. You put your head down and march out, burning with embarrassment as you pass your rapt audience.

“Hey,” Hansen claps his hands, “back to work.”

🗄️

You barely make it home. You set an alarm as you get in the front door and collapse on the couch. You don’t care that it’s lumpy and uncomfortable, you don’t care about anything. You forget all your worries for the blackness that clogs your mind.

As quickly as you close your eyes, your ringer goes off. You wake with a groan and roll over, shoulders cramped and stiff as you reach for your phone. Two o’clock already. Your head pulses with the dregs of fatigue. You feel marginally better.

You fill a travel mug and head out to pick up the kids. Along the way, you can’t help but shrink behind the wheel as the morning pricks in your mind. You don’t expect things to go well on Monday.

You pass a Burger King and slow down. You don’t have the money for a Whopper. No, that’s not what you’re thinking. It’s not spending you’re planning on.

You pull in and get out. You enter and approach the counter, sheepish as a twentysomething greets you from the other side.  You smile as you come forward.

“How can I help you ma’am?” He asks, hands on the side of the till.

“Oh, uh, I was… I was looking for an application,” you eke out. “For a job.”

He nods, you see the surprise flick in his lashes, “oh, well, we don’t have physical applications anymore but…” he reaches over to a stack of small flyers beside the till, “if you scan this QR code it will take you right to careers page.”

“Um, right, yeah, makes sense,” you take the slip as he offers it, “thank you.”

“You lookin’ to order?” He prompts with a strained smile.

“No, sorry, I gotta go get my kids,” you fold the flier and turn away, “have a good one.”

You head back to your car. You drop into the driver seat and curse. Fuck, your hips are killing you. You don’t imagine doing weekends standing behind a till will do much for that but you don’t have much of a choice. Even with the second job, you doubt you’ll be able to pay for the babysitter to cover it. What a stupid idea.

You shove the flier into your purse and back out from between the lines. You check the time as you set out to the school. You arrive just as the bell rings and the kids are let out into the yard. 

You find Malik with the other grade ones as Simone seeks you out on her own, too cool to hang around with the other grade sixes. She can be a bit of a loner but not in a sad way. She can intimidate even you.

“Hey, how was school?” You ask as you take them to the car, “did you do anything fun?”

Malik tells you about the popsicle stick houses they made as you buckle him into his car seat and Simone does up her seat belt on her own. You nod and smile, humouring your son’s slightly lisping story.

“What about you, Simone?” You ask as you look over at her.

“I just read. I’m almost done number four,” she shows the cover of her latest fantasy series, “but they wouldn’t let me stay in the library during recess.”

“Good, you need the fresh air,” you tease, “speaking of, I was thinking we could go for a hike this weekend. How does that sound?”

“A hike?” She grimaces, “is dad coming?”

“Err, we’ll see,” you shrug, “I spend all day in the office, I’d like to get out before the winter gets here.”

“I’ll go if dad does,” Simone opens her book, “it won’t be any fun without him.”

“Daddy, daddy,” Malik claps his hands, “I love daddy!”

“I’ll ask him,” you nod and keep a frown from tugging at your lips. 

You stand straight and gently close the back door. You round to the driver’s door and get it, quiet as you turn the engine. You’re not even good enough for your own kids.

#lloyd hansen #pete brenner #dark lloyd hansen #dark pete brenner #dark!lloyd hansen #dark!pete brenner #lloyd hansen x reader #pete brenner x reader #fic #series #dark fic #dark!fic #au #same as it ever was #the gray man #pain hustlers

[softlymaximoff]

Yes, your Highness

18+ ONLY! MEN & MINORS DNI (blank blogs will be blocked you do not have my permission to republish my work onto any platform.

A/N: I’m obsessed with any wanda variant I need help, also this is way shorter than intended and no smut just dynamic play soooo I’m sorry and have fun hopefully you like it

Summary: your princess has had enough of your attitude and isn’t afraid to let everybody know who you belong to.

Characters: Dark!Princess! Wanda, Gn!Reader

Warnings: degrading, humiliation, violence (if you squint I think?), corruption, mind control, pet play, Dom/sub dynamics, choking, breath play, objectifying.

Word Count: 846 😭

"How hard is it to just try and look like you’re grateful for once!" Wanda seethed as she pulled you away from the ballroom. "Wanda it's not my fault your daddy doesn't like me! He’s some mean old prick who hates everyone who even looks at you" You snapped but whimpered as her grip tightened on your arms. "Don't you ever talk about my daddy like that again Y/n. You could cost me the throne you moron!” A sharp slap echoed the hallways and you choked on a broken gasp. Your eyes filled with light tears as you kept your mouth shut, you knew not to talk back. She was in her element and her eyes were slowly darkening to their reddish-hue.

“You are nothing but a stable hand, a dirty peasant, a street rat and if it wasn’t for my daddy, the King, took pity on you you would be fed to the pigs. Do I make myself clear Y/n?” She grabbed your cheeks between her thumb and pointer finger forcing you to slightly part your lips. “Yes, your Highness” you whispered out and almost whined when she let go and rested a hand on the base of your neck. “Speak up dog” her voice was cold and sent chills down your spine.

“Yes you make yourself clear your Highness” you spoke a little louder and she rolled her eyes. “Pathetic. Utterly pathetic” she grumbled and attached her lips to your neck sucking angry marks along your jawline. “I won’t hesitate to make a scene out there to show everyone how ungrateful you really are. Throwing dirty looks at people who are just trying to be nice to their princess” she threatened and you couldn’t help but huff at her words. “Pets don’t speak, what has gotten into your dumb little brain today” she pulled back and searched your eyes to see if you were pushing her buttons purposely or if you were really upset over something.

“Speak mutt, what’s wrong” she raised an eyebrow and you just whined, a moan threatening to escape as she ran a thumb over the many forming bruises along your throat and clavicle. “My princess” You stumbled lightly over your words and looked away when she pursed her lips. “You’re even more pathetic than I thought. Of course I’m yours you silly toy” she smiled softly for a brief moment before steeling her eyes once again.

“Now do I have to ask again, how fucking hard is it to pretend you’re getting along with my father” she narrowed her eyes and grabbed the base of your neck, pushing you against the walls of the open hallway. You whimpered when her hand squeezed with a little more force than normal and she kicked your legs apart, pushing her knee in between them. “You’re such a stupid mutt. So easy to whore yourself out for your princess” she mumbled before she kissed you. Dominating the kiss and biting down on your lipstick covered lips, she sucked harshly drawing a little blood.

“Wanda” you pleaded desperately and rolled your hips as her eyes glowed a deep red. “Shut up” she growled and applied more pressure, almost cutting your breathing off. You eyes slipped shut and you parted your lips for a brief moment and she used that to her advantage, shoving two fingers in. “Suck” She demanded softly and you did just that. “My good pet” She hummed and you looked up at her all doe-eyed.

“Who knew a street rat could be such a good dog for royalty” she chuckled darkly and took her fingers out. Her eyes were now completely red, all traces of green lost. “Huh? My dumb little pet ready to submit. All brainless and needy” her magic floating heavily through your thoughts. You were nothing but a poor lowlife and you were so deeply grateful for everything the kingdom had offered you. A low throaty whine sounded out in the hallway and your knees buckled. “I think we should let everyone know who you belong to” She pulled away from you and took the sight in.

You had an angry handprint disguising itself as a choker collar, your hair was neatly dishevelled from its up-do from earlier and your lipstick was smeared. “You’re mine” she growled before walking towards the common ballroom, your wrists trapped tightly in a single hand of hers. “People of the Kingdom, Mother, Father, I have an announcement to make” She declared and pulled you out in front of her, showing you off like a prized hunt.

“Y/n will no longer be service of the Kingdom but of me. She is to be my pet, my dog, my toy, what ever title I see fit until the sun stops shining on our land. Daddy I know you don’t like her that much but I promise you I won’t let her get out of hand” she finished with a stern nod and turned to you. You were hers. Completely hers and you were to be forever grateful her kingdom spared your life.

<><><>

Tag list: @youresuchamom @yelenasdiary @cromaximoff @deadlynightshade418

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda smut #wanda x reader smut #dark!wanda x reader #dark!princess!wanda

[besaya-glantaya]

Thoughts on Alex being wrong and loving it

Red White and Royal Blue (2023 movie)

Remember the little quip Henry makes about admiring Alex's willingness to admit when he's wrong? It's such a great moment of foreshadowing, especially since Henry has no idea just how right he is.

Alex prizes himself on being someone who is skilled at reading people, at seeing the person beneath the surface, but he's never come across anyone quite like Henry before.

Alex must be used to people hiding who they truly are - he's been steeped in American politics for years - but he probably isn't expecting anyone from such a legacy of historic power and entitlement to be, at their core, an actual cinnamon roll.

Their initial meeting also comes at a time in Henry's life when any chink in his armour reveals only pain and anger, leading Alex to assume that what lies behind the carefully controlled façade isn't pleasant.

This assumption is only reinforced by further antagonistic interactions, fuelled by Henry's attempts to balance civility while protecting his heart as Alex consistently pulls Henry's metaphorical pigtails.

The fallout from cakegate forces them into extended periods of proximity and we see Alex start to glimpse pieces of the real Henry beneath his bland public persona. Each further piece that's revealed surprises and delights Alex and it's a joy to watch Taylor Zakhar Perez bring those moments to life.

Allow me to ramble about some of these:

1. Alex's pause of panic followed by surprised relief as Henry suavely responds to the interview question, "How did you end up on the floor of Buckingham Palace, covered in cake?" Alex's relief is two fold: he was floundering with no idea what to say (shouldn't have rebuffed Henry's request to prepare for this interview, Alex...) and Henry's answer is not at all what Alex was expecting. Henry could easily have attributed the event to clumsiness or tomfoolery on Alex's part - even just by subtle implication. That wouldn't have been out of line with some of Alex's answers (e.g., "Three words to describe Henry? Um... White, blond and British.") but Henry chooses a more protective route, deflecting attention from Alex, which comes as a pleasant surprise. [Of course he can't show this, so instead retaliates with something as annoying as possible. Cue side eye from Henry.]

2. Alex's big-eyed expression of sympathy as Henry tells him the Palace insisted on parading him around while he was grieving for his father. It's the key moment Alex realises he's built a lot of assumptions on a misunderstanding and has probably treated Henry rather unfairly.

3. Alex frowning at Henry talking and laughing with the little girl in the hospital bed. He's seeing Henry through a new lens and realises this picture doesn’t fit with a lot of his previous assumptions.

4. Alex shaking his head at Henry's joking attempt to decline an invite to his NYE party that most people would kill to get. "That's perfect, you kill me and then I won't have to go." It's the first time Henry uses his sharp wit to share a joke with Alex, rather than directing it at him in a fit of pique. It's an olive branch and I don't think Alex was expecting such easy forgiveness.

5. The sublime series of text based interactions where Alex is surprised and charmed by Henry flirting (under the guise of gentle ridicule).

6. The iconic "I can't believe how wrong I was about you," while he and Henry are as close as two people can get.

7. My all time favourite: Alex's reaction to Henry pointing out the yellow roses on his tie. Henry employs this in a sweet distraction during a moment of all encompassing anxiety for Alex. It's enough to bring Alex out of his fog, to realise how much strength he draws just from Henry being there to support him. The way Taylor says "Oh my god. I'm so grateful you are here," is perfection.

I'm a gooey mess thinking about all the future moments where Alex is surprised and overwhelmed by Henry's kindess.

[Sobs]

On a related note @mulderscully has a great post titled: Alex's headshake of Love™, which captures several of these moments, and more, in perfect gif form.

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #nicholas galitzine #prince henry rwrb #alex claremont diaz #rwrb film #rwrb thoughts #first prince #henry fox #red white and royal blue movie #taylor zakhar perez

[bari-the-witch]

Couples Quiz Night Part 1

Part 2

Heya dear people of the fandom!

I originall wanted to post this as a whole but because my private life is a bitch right now it's going to take a while to finish this. I decided to post the first part now, so you don't have to wait for something to read. Don't worry, I didn't ditch this. I have too much fun writing this!

A few people wanted me to tag them. So, here they are:

@swimmingbirdrunningrock @grtwdsmwhr @lightwoodbanethings @eggrollofchaos01 @gamerdano @miss-hit @photoaesthetic @alexdesappho @lifeisnotsobadonceyoustopcaring (with cherries on top ;D) @gay-stranger-things @hopefulcookieoperatorpersona @thepainisspicy @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @alienace @ashwinmeird @satan-is-obsessed @ninjapirateunicorns

Hope you enjoy!

And beware: English is not my native language so there might be a few mistakes here and there. Even though I used two different spell checkers/grammar programs.

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

Indianapolis, Indiana

July 10, 1987

“Honey, I’m home,” Steve called as he entered the apartment, toeing off his shoes and placing them neatly beside Eddie’s beaten-up sneakers and Robin’s red Converse before slowly making his way to the kitchen.

They had moved to Indianapolis half a year ago, leaving Hawkins behind for good. Between Steve’s shitty parents, Robin’s desire for freedom, and Eddie’s problems with the dear citizens of Hawkins even though his innocence was proven, it wasn’t a particularly difficult decision to make. They were still close enough in case their friends needed help but far enough away to finally heal.

Fortunately, they quickly found a three-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city and were able to afford it with their combined financial forces. Steve was glad he had taken the leap of faith to move here.

His life was a lot better now.

“Welcome back dingus,” Robin greeted him with a mock salute while Eddie just waved. They were both sitting on the kitchen counter together (although they had a small dining table not two feet away), sipping something that looked suspiciously like red wine.

“Already started without me?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you came back home this late,” Robin protested.

“Rob, you literally pressured me into letting you leave earlier so you could get,” Steve eyed the wine glass in her hands, “ready for tonight. I see you’re using your time wisely.”

“It’s totally Eddie’s fault. I swear!”

“Hey! You’re the one who wanted to crack a bottle to get all nice and tipsy before our night out. So you won’t lose your nerves because of Nan-.”

“Shut it, Munson!” Robin grinds out through gritted teeth, a deep blush darkening her cheeks. She smacked a hand over Eddie’s mouth to silence him....only for her to draw it back in disgust immediately. “Eww. Did you just lick my hand? What are you, twelve?”

“Why are you so embarrassed, Bucks? It’s not exactly a secret,” Eddie replied nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders.

Robin hung her head in defeat and sighed. “I know. It’s just… every time I meet her, I make a total ass out of myself, you know? I just want to be this cool person that doesn’t start spewing out unnecessary facts no one cares about.”

“With alcohol?” Steve asked amusedly, holding up his hands in defense when she glared at him. “Don’t look at me like that. Come on, Rob. Nancy likes you. Even your rambling. She thinks it’s endearing.”

“She does?”

Steve nodded. Nancy had told him a few weeks ago when they met up in a small cafe during their lunch break. She also said a few other things about Robin but it wasn’t Steve’s place to tell her that.

“That’s-. I need to get ready. I- Boys, see you later!” she exclaimed dramatically and hopped off the counter, marching straight into her room, and closing the door behind her.

“Well, she sure seems excited now,” Eddie chuckled.

They’re alone in the kitchen right now, and Steve is well aware of that. You see the thing is, moving to the big city and living together with his friends had not only made his life better but also significantly more complicated.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t always found men attractive. However, growing up in the Harrington household had taught him to keep these kinds of thoughts buried deep inside him. His father wasn’t very fond of queer people (an understatement) and would not have liked his son to be one of them (also an understatement). Moving here, living together with Eddie day after day, and finally being free from his father’s clutches had thrown him into the biggest sexuality crisis known to mankind.

At first, it was just mild infatuation that soon grew and spread into a full-blown crush, leaving him scared and confused. But it was OK, really. There wouldn't be anything coming out of it anyway. Steve was positively sure Eddie didn’t even like men that way, let alone him. So all he had to do was wait for this to blow over.

Well, that is, until Eddie decided to tear down Steve’s most effective defense mechanisms by outing himself a few weeks after moving in.

Suddenly, Eddie didn’t seem out of reach anymore, throwing Steve into the next crisis on top of the first. It got so obvious there was something wrong with him that Robin pulled him aside one night when it was just the two of them.

He finally spilled his beans that night. From the fact that he seemed to always have liked men as equally as women (bisexuality, Robin called it), down to his embarrassing all-consuming crush on Eddie.

She listened intently, asking a few questions here and there but otherwise letting him do the talking.

“What makes you think he doesn’t like you that way?” Robin asked earnestly.

“I just know,” Steve answered dejectedly and Robin didn’t press.

“Hey, Steve. You in there?”

Steve snapped out of his thoughts and shifted his attention back to the present. Eddie was standing in front of him, a worried expression on his handsome face.

“Huh? Sorry I- just got lost in my own head.”

“Shit, you really scared me there, man. Didn't we talk about not spacing out at random?" Eddie asked, relief evident in his voice. “For a second, I thought Vecna was back or something.”

“I know, I know, sorry.”

Only now did Steve realize how close they were. And that Eddie was grabbing both of his shoulders, the touch sending a spark of something through his body. The fact that Eddie was a very tactile person, touching Steve whenever he had the opportunity to, didn’t make dealing with his crush any easier.

"I, um," Steve started, trying hard not to stare at Eddie’s lips. “I need to get ready. For later. Shower, yes.” He stumbled over his words like a pre-schooler talking to his crush for the first time. Jesus, get it together. What happened to your famous Harrington charm?

“I mean, I’m gonna head to the shower. Or do you wanna go first?”

“Nah, I already did, so… It’s all yours,” Eddie answered before finally releasing his shoulders, and taking a step back. Steve nearly breathed out in relief.

“Well then, see you later.” Eddie patted him on the shoulder, grabbed the wine glass from the kitchen counter behind him, and made his way to his room. Before he stepped inside, he turned around again, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Oh and Steve? Just take your time. I know how much you like getting all dolled up for me.”

Heat shot to Steve’s cheeks while his heart did a full ballet routine in his chest. But befor he had the chance to react, Eddie disappeared inside and closed the door behind him.

Oh, did he forget to mention that Eddie was a notorious flirt, too?

Steve slammed the bathroom door with more force than necessary. He stripped down angrily and stood under the warm spray of the shower, trying to relax.

Fuck, he used to be good at this. Really good. With girls swooning left and right, just looking at them. He had been King Steve for fucks sake.

But then Eddie appeared and Steve’s famous Harrington charm, which was already in a nosedive anyway, crashed and burned to the ground, shattering into a million useless pieces. Eddie, with his stupid wide-brown doe-eyes, his equally ridiculous dark curly hair, and this fucking dimpled smile that always made Steve tremble and weak in the knees. And don’t forget all the stupid pet names he threw at him like candy, coming up with a new one every week.

Don’t get him wrong. Most of the time he’s glad the King Steve days are over. He just missed it sometimes, being that cocky, self-confident guy, strutting the halls of High School instead of this easily flustered tongue-tied idiot he was now.

Standing in front of the mirror after his shower, Steve had to resist the urge not to style his hair just to teach Eddie a lesson.

He dismissed that thought quickly, though. Not even that would make him leave the house looking like that. He still had some self-respect after all.

Steve stayed holed up in his room until Robin told him it was time to leave. He knew it wasn’t a permanent solution to his problem, not with them living and spending so much time together, but he just needed a break to collect himself.

The next few hours will be exhausting enough.

Going out tonight was all Robin's idea.

Since moving to the big city she had used every opportunity to get out of the house and into every gay bar she could get her hands on. She called it her ‘mandatory gay experience’ and Steve was glad she finally popped out of the shell she had built around herself while living in Hawkins.

And because Steve was such a good friend (the best) he tagged along when she asked him to, week after week. Sometimes just the two of the, sometimes with Eddie and Nancy in tow.

And so it happened that Steve found himself at one of those bars again on a Friday night, pressed against Eddie’s side, while Robin and Nancy sat across from them. The seating arrangement hadn’t exactly been Steve’s decision, but Robin had nearly knocked out his teeth trying to scramble into the booth beside Nancy. This left him with no other choice than to sit beside Eddie.

It was beautiful and terrible at the same time.

This close, Steve could feel Eddie's warmth through the layers of their clothes, leaving a tingling feeling wherever they touched. He tried not to show how much it affected him, but from the smirk, Robin was giving him from across the table, he was failing miserably.

Meanwhile, Eddie didn’t seem affected at all. He was his usual animated self, gesticulating around widely while telling Nancy a story about one of his co-workers who almost burned down the kitchen.

Unable to tear his eyes away, Steve followed the movement of Eddie’s mouth with his eyes. How he licked his lips from time to time or the way he bit his lower lip when trying to keep himself from laughing at his own story.

God, those damn kissable lips…

Stabbing pain shooting through his shin made Steve tear his eyes from Eddie’s mouth immediately.

He glared at Robin, who had a far too innocent expression on her face and only mumbled a soft “You’re staring again dingus” in return, before turning back to the conversation.

Oh shit. Had he been that obvious again?

Fortunately, Eddie didn’t seem to have noticed Steve’s brief staring contest with his lips (or so he hoped), being far too engrossed in telling the girls his funny story.

Thank God.

Later, Robin and Nancy had gone to get them a new round of drinks and from what Steve could see, it would take them a while to get back to the table. As the night progressed the bar had gotten steadily more packed which wasn’t surprising considering it was a Friday night. Steve was glad they had gotten here early.

As the girls returned with fresh drinks in tow and sat down again, Robin slid something into the middle of the table.

“You boys wouldn’t believe me what we’ve found,” she said delightedly, tapping at the small piece of paper with her finger Steve could identify as a flyer now. “Sounds pretty interesting to me.”

Next to her, Nancy nodded approvingly, sipping at her drink.

Eddie snatched it before Steve could take a closer look, tossing it back on the table with a snort a few seconds after.

“Couples Quiz Night, huh? I think I’d rather stab myself than join this, thank you very much.”

“What? Is that too uncool for lil’ ol’ Eddie?” Robin asked challengingly.

“You bet, Bucks. That shit’s only for couples that desperately try to make others jealous by showing how great they are.”

Eddie’s reply started a bickering match about the pros and cons of couples quiz night between him and Robin. Steve just rolled his eyes fondly, glad that the two most important people in his life had become such good friends and got along so well. He didn’t want to imagine a world where those two weren’t part of it at the same time.

Curious, Steve decided to take a look at it and grabbed the flyer off the table. Trying to tune out the agitated chatter of his friends he started to read.

The hand-sized flyer didn’t contain much information besides the name and date of the event written in big bold green letters and something about a prize you could win. Steve remembered doing something like this with his girlfriend Lisa (now an ex-girlfriend, fortunately) back in Hawkins. It ended in a complete and utter disaster because he and Lisa hadn’t even gotten one question right. It wasn’t exactly one of his proudest moments as a boyfriend.

"What?"

Steve flinched at Eddie's ear-splitting screech, immediately scanning the room for any signs of danger, his shoulders sagging in relief when he couldn't find any.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, I need them!"

Eddie looked at his friends one by one with big pleading eyes and, to top it off, even jutted out his lower lip. When no one seemed to take the bait right away, because they were all used to Eddie's antics, he fixed his gaze on Steve who still was none the wiser about what brought on Eddie's over the top reaction.

“Stevie?”

Steve quickly averted his eyes. He knew he couldn't say no to Eddie (to whatever he would ask of him) if he kept looking at him like that.

“Wait. That’s actually not a terrible idea,” Nancy said, sipping her drink like the traitor she is. “I mean, this is a gay bar, right? So there shouldn’t be any problems. And you two are so close, I bet you can easily fake it.”

Huh? Fake it?

Robin seemed to have noticed Steve’s confusion because she immediately started to explain. “Eddie wants to take part in the couples quiz night since he found out what the super secret prize is.”

“And … what does this have to do with me?” A sense of dread started to creep up on him.

“He wants you to join him,” Nancy answered matter-of-factly. “It’s a couples quiz after all.”

“But we aren’t a couple?” Steve asked perplexed. “Unless I missed something.”

The thought of him and Eddie being a couple made his insides all gooey and he quickly shoved it away.

“That’s why we’re gonna fake it, sweetheart!” Eddie laughed and threw an arm around, pressing him snuggly into his side.

Wait, what?

“You want me,” Steve pointed a trembling finger to himself and then at Eddie while trying to keep his voice even, “to fake a relationship with you to win a stupid prize at a Couples Quiz Night?”

“Hey, the prize is not stupid. How dare-”

“Yup. That’s exactly what he said.” Nancy answered nonchalantly, before taking a sip from her drink, giving Steve a look from under her lashes he didn’t like one bit.

“Yeah, come on, Steve, don’t be a spoilsport. It'll be fun!” Robin backed her up, of course, with a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

“Yes, Stevie. Listen to our friends."

“What happened to ‘rather stabbing yourself than joining this?’” Steve asked dryly, a last desperate attempt to wiggle out of this somehow.

“Steve. Steve-o. My best friend. Light of my life, did you not listen to anything the guy said?" Eddie asked sweetly and huffed when Steve only shrugged his shoulders. "It’s fucking tickets for a Metallica concert at Market Square Arena. That shit’s been sold out for weeks! Dude, I’d sell my soul for this if I could. So screw what I said before. I. Want. Those. Tickets.”

Steve felt his resolve start to crumble like a house of cards. He knew how much those tickets meant to Eddie. The guy literally hadn’t stopped talking about it for weeks and was totally crushed when he heard it was sold out.

Steve sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

He was absolutely sure that this was going to end in total disaster as it did with Lisa. And then Eddie would be mad at him about not winning those tickets, about him not being able to answer some stupid questions in a stupid quiz and -

- and then he made the mistake of looking into Eddie's pleading eyes.

Shit.

Rookie mistake.

Steve sighed, getting ready to succumb to his inevitable fate.

“Fine. But if we’re doing this, you owe me, Munson. Big time.”

“Oh my god, thank you! You’re absolutely the best! You won't regret it. Promise!” Eddie clapped his hands together a few times with barely concealed glee, bouncing on his seat like a maniac. Steve didn’t have the heart to tell him that he regretted it the moment he agreed to do it.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t cream your-. Hey, what are you doing?”

Eddie nearly shoved him off the booth and Steve quickly stood up to prevent himself from planting his face on the floor.

"What the hell, Munson?"

"Come on, come on. There are two Metallica tickets with our names on them, I heard.”

“I don’t think-.”

“Less talking, more walking, Stevie,” Eddie tutted, grabbind Steve around the wrist and dragging Steve mercilessly behind him without waiting for a response.

Glancing at the girls for help, Steve was only met with a thumbs up from Nancy and an overdramatic smooching gesture from Robin.

Screw Nancy's guns. He was so going to strangle them after this was over.

Eddie made it through the crowd with relative ease, slipping smoothly between the bodies on his way over to the bar while Steve bumped into people left and right, receiving tons of dirty looks in return. He didn't even have time to apologize, not with Eddie dragging him behind him like this.

At the bar, Eddie squeezed himself between two scrawny-looking guys, eagerly waving the bartender over. With Eddie's hand still clasped around his wrist, Steve didn't have much choice than to stand way too close behind him.

“Yeah? What can I get ya?”

“Hey, we heard about a quiz tonight and really wanted to join. Because I somehow can’t convince this knucklehead," Eddie turned back to him and had the fucking audacity to wink, then turned tack to the baarkeeper. "that we’re made for each other.” He put a hand on his heart, sighing deeply like he was carrying the whole world on his shoulders. “Maybe that’ll finally make him see it. You know?”

God, Eddie really was a theater kid, huh?

No way in hell someone would buy this little performance. Not when Eddie was laying it on this thick. Not in a million years.

But to Steve’s horror, the guy took a pen and a piece of paper from somewhere and shoved it over the counter. “Relationships are tough, man,” he nodded with a sigh, a look of pity in his eyes. Steve wondered if the guy was either a newbie or simply not good at reading people.

“Just write down your names here. We’re starting in ten minutes. So you better be ready.”

Then he left them alone to tend to some other customers demanding his attention.

“Ten minutes?” Steve hissed into Eddie’s ear from behind, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach running amok. “How should we come up with matching answers in ten minutes?”

Unimpressed by Steve’s tiny little freak-out, Eddie scribbled down their names in his neat handwriting before turning around. Their faces were barely a hair's breadth away and if Steve wanted to he just could lean forward and - no. Nope. Bad idea.

“Relax,” Eddie said, his breath caressing Steve’s lips, nearly driving him insane. “We don’t even know what they’re going to ask so I guess we just have to trust in the power of our relationship.”

“Which doesn’t exist," Steve replied dryly, proud of how even his voice sounded. "Listen, it’s always the same shit, like favorite color, favorite food, who kissed the other first yadda yadda yadda. So we need to-.”

“Wait wait wait. You did something like this before?” Eddie raised his eyebrows, his mouth twisting into a grin. “Stevie, you absolute romantic! You really know how to make a girl feel special,” he giggled, twisting a curl around his finger like a girl in those corny teenage movies Robin always made them watch as punishment for whatever.

“Yeah, I bet Lisa would disagree with you on that,” Steve grimaced, shuddering at the memory. “Whatever. Do you wanna go over some possible questions or not?”

Eddie tapped a finger against his lips, weighing his head left and right a few times like he was thinking really hard about his answer.

But then he leaned forward, bridging the gap between them and pressing his lips against Steve’s cheek. Just a short peck.

Steve's eyes widened in shock.

“I don’t think we’re going to need that, sweetheart,” he whispered softly before drawing back again. Which isn’t very far because they’re still unbelievably close, their noses almost touching. "Just trust in us, ok?"

Steve, whose brain had shut down the moment Eddie’s lips touched his face, nodded dumbly, his mouth open. Eddie’s smile grew and he took Steve’s hand in his, intertwining their fingers before pulling him toward the stage.

#steddie fanfic #steddie fandom #steddie

[taylortruther]

The way almost EVERY single line in YLM can be related to a previous like she wrote about Joe is INSANE. Like YLM is basically the song that would most fit the theme of Midnights (reflecting on the past and integrating it into the present) and guess what? She left it out (for reasons that I understand).

Here we go;

You say I don't understand and I say I know you don't// Give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other

We thought a cure would come through in time now I fear it won't// I thought the plane was goimg down, how'd you turn it right around?

Remember looking at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light...now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time// The entirety of Daylight duh

Remember looking at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light...now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time// The entirety of Daylight duh

Do I throw out everything we built or keep it //I am an architect I'm drawing up the plans (I'm reaching here I know)

I'm getting tired even for a phoenix always rising from the ashes // I am ash from your fire

Mending all her gashes // is this the end of all the endings, my broke bones are mending

You might just have dealt the final blow // Darling this was just as hard as when they pulled me apart (these two lines feel so similar to me)

Stop you're losing me (I hope I never lose you) I can't find a pulse my heart won't start anymore// he got my heartbeat skipping down 16th avenue

Every morning I glared at you with storms in my eyes// after the storm something was born on the 4th of July

How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dying// There's many different ways that you can kill the one you love, the slowest way is never loving them enough

I sent you signals and bit my nails down to the quick // I gave SO MANY SIGNS

My face was GREY but you wouldn't admit that we were sick // I don't like anticipating my face in a RED flush (I could write an essay about just this grey/red parallel but nvm)

And the air is thick with loss and indecision//clearing the air I breathed in the smoke

I know my pain is such an imposition // You don't really read into my melancholia // Always taking up too much space or time // I'm not your problem anymore

Now you're running down the hallway // I heard your key turn in the door down the hallway // You were standing hollow eyed in the hallway

And you know what they all say "you don't know what you've got until it's gone" // he better lock it down or I won't stick around 'cause good ones never wait

How long could we be a sad song // each bar plays our song

Till we were too far gone to bring back to life // Do I really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?

I gave you all my best mes, my endless empathy // I'd give you my sunshine, give you my best// After giving you the best I had, tell me what to give after that?

And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier // All the bloodshed, crimson clover // And if I bleed you'll be the last to know // soldier down on that icy ground

Fighting in only your army // I'd sit with you in the trenches

Frontlines don't you ignore me // I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me

I'm the best thing at this party // best believe I'm still bejeweled when I walk in the room, I can still make the whole place shimmer

And I wouldn't marry me either // She would've made a lovely bride // I'd marry you with paper rings // all they keep asking me is if I'm gonna be your bride // the entire bridge of Lover

A pathological people pleaser // what a shame she's fucked in the head // mirrorball tm // my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism

Who only wanted you to see her // Walking with his head down, I'm the one he's walking to

And I'm fading thinking DO SOMETHING BABE // Some boys are trying too hard he don't try at all though

SAY SOMETHING // You don't ever say too much

LOSE SOMETHING BABE RISK SOMETHING // this ain't for the best

CHOOSE SOMETHING BABE I'VE GOT NOTHING TO BELIEVE // stood on the cliffside screaming "give me a reason"

i have nothing intelligent to say but I LOVE THIS, let's discuss

#ylm

[izvmimi]

cw: pop star au! alcohol mention. suggestive.

“unsure what your mentor gojo might have told you about me, yuuji,” you start, swirling your drink with the tip of your pinky finger with just one rotation before looking up at the man before you. "but i don't particularly enjoy the idea of being used to springboard another artist's career."

yuuji itadori hasn't picked a soloist name yet, still known by Yuyu as part of his four-member boy band, but the cutesy name doesn't fit with the venom of your voice, so you call him by his first name. plus, if you are truly meant to be working together, close and personal, you might as well get comfortable. he grins when you pronounce his name rather than bristle at your statement, the gleam in straight, heartthrob-white teeth almost a taunt to you.

"i don't think that's exactly what i'm aiming for but good to know."

his eyes flit from yours to the drink you just stirred, and watches as you put it to your lips, not saying a word. he looks practically cautious, and for a moment you wonder if he's grossed out by the action or if he's just intrigued by the shine on your glossed lips.

yuuji's dressed relatively subdued tonight, in a simple black turtleneck, unlike the shimmery gold chain shirt you remember him wearing on his most recent performance, standing out amongst the crowd despite his quite attractive band mates. the dusky pink of his hair which his design team clearly insists on accentuating doesn't help to avoid drawing your eyes to his among the group like a beacon. everything about him says look at me, look at me from the bright hue in his brown eyes and his build at the perfect balance of thick and aesthetic. you can't deny you too have been looking but you're tired of offering olive branches to bright eyed up-and-comers who lack the ability to be grateful.

you're not some type of gatekeeper but you know this game and gojo wasn't even subtle about it.

make my boy a star! toodles!

you roll your eyes at the thought, but even you have to admit he's mentored you a bit too though to get you where you are. despite being about yuuji's age, you're practically a household name, thanks to gojo's willingness to believe in you. you sigh.

"anyway, i'll have my agent contact you in the morning. we don't have to discuss anything more."

you throw back the rest of your drink and reach for your purse. yuuji raises his eyebrow at you then chuckles. the drink before him is untouched implying a bit of trepidation, but he's leaned back in his chair, one leg propped up on the chair stretcher. it's a look that's far too casual, that would look slightly disrespectful if he weren't so soft-looking.

"if you're uncomfortable being that close to me, you should really just say so," yuuji says. his arms stretch out above him and you tilt your head to the side.

"excuse me?"

yuuji also rises to his feet, and the difference of stature between you two is suddenly noticeable as you hang your purse around you. he intimidates you a bit, you have to admit, especially when he's close like this.

sweet. harmless. a little cocky. fuckable.

he skirts a little closer to you leaning in, his voice honeyed, ready to strike.

"you don't have to be my springboard. if anything, you can bounce off of me if you'd like."

yuuji laughs as your breath catches in your throat, but you shake it out and press a hand against his chest, pushing a comfortable distance between you two.

you're not going to be held accountable for a comment you made in a variety show months ago, even if it were true.

"don't push your luck," you hiss. he beams, and he's no longer sweet venom but the sweet man coming to you for a simple opportunity, no strings attached.

"you're right! i'll do anything you say," his lips pull sweetly and you wonder if you're being sucked in just like his fans.

he's polished perfect for the people, but that doesn't mean he's perfect for you.

but as he follows you out and your driver arrives depositing both of you safely at your respective homes, you wonder if perhaps a little romp will do any harm.

#yuuji x reader #yuuji itadori x reader #yuji x reader #daydreams: jjk #mimi’s notes #mimi writes: pop star! au

[azzy421]

intimate artistry and royalty au?

Lewis Hamilton has taken the commission of his dreams, the one that’s going to earn him a place in the history books.

The brief: a royal portrait.

The problem, inevitably: the royal in question.

***

“An afternoon only?” the prince says, once they're alone. He sounds almost disappointed. “You always work so quickly?”

The accent, Lewis will begrudgingly admit, is charming. “It depends,” he says, cautiously. “I’m not - rushing.”

“No, of course,” the prince agrees politely. Those eyes, big and guileless, are almost more grey than blue. Lewis is going to have to check back with Britta as to whether that's the kind of fact that should make it into an official portrait or whether blue is the official eye colour. “But I didn't realise they hired you for your speed. You don't create all your paintings so quickly, I think.”

“I mean - not ideally,” Lewis says. “Sometimes I spend a day with a subject, sometimes a week. My clients don't usually have the time for a lot of sittings, so I don't often work like that any more. You know, um - it's just a different process.” Princes, even princes of tiny landlocked countries where there are more sheep than people, are presumably trained into showing this kind of eager interest in everyone even when they don't give a shit. This one certainly won't want to know about Nico, about the creative block, about the anxiety that sometimes still rises in Lewis's chest when he stands in front of a fresh canvas. He flicks over to a clean page in his sketchpad. “Obviously I've got loads of material to use and a great brief from your team, so.”

“Fucking hell,” the prince says. “They hire one of the most talented artists in the world and tell you to just make it up from tabloid photos and a ten-minute chat?”

“What - I’m not going to do that,” Lewis says, startled. “I’m not - it's just - this is just a different situation to me hiring a model or -”

“Why?” the prince demands. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in the big leather chair as if settling in for a good argument. “Why is it different? You should paint the whole person, get to know them, or you may as well only work from a photograph.”

“You really sure you'd want that?” Lewis retorts (he can just hear his dad's resigned sigh; Lewis has never known when to pick his fights). “That's not what most people want.”

“I’m not sure I want a painting at all,” the prince says frankly, “but if I have to have one, I want something that at least one of us can be proud of.”

Of course Lewis isn't going to back down from a challenge. He trails the prince around for a week, two weeks. Watches him cuddle babies, even the ones that cry and drool (the sketches that Lewis produces make the prince laugh out loud, and even Kimi, the prince’s dour head of security, cracks a smile). Watches him sit through a three-day conference on climate change, writing page after page of notes with his jaw tight and angry. Sits with him on the long drive home, sees the way his eyes light up when he talks about the things he cares about.

Lewis might have misjudged the guy. He's not so proud that he can't admit that, at least.

The sketches pile up. Charcoal studies of the prince as he talks, as he makes notes during morning briefings. Quick watercolours from a hospital visit. The prince is a good-natured clown, a steely-eyed politician, a strangely bashful subject who shrugs compliments aside. He draws Lewis in and in and Lewis - Lewis is going too far, too deep, caught in the thrilling sweet clutches of something perilously close to obsession; he knows it and he doesn't stop. He sketches the prince on an ornate imaginary throne, prim and uneasy; draws him smiling and at ease leaning on a kitchen table. He spends hours on the exact generous curve of the prince's mouth as he smiles up at the open sky at the end of a long day, eyes closed, the bare sensuous lines of his throat and shoulders.

The prince has a fiancee, sort of. Unofficially, Lewis learns, they are waiting for the right moment to make the announcement. “She needs to be sure she’s marrying the right person,” the prince says, and changes the subject. It's a strange turn of phrase, but Lewis pretends not to notice. The prince has a fiancee; that's what's important. He's off-limits, as far out of Lewis's reach as the sun.

Lewis had once spent hours on the shape of Nico's smile, too.

Lewis goes to a charity gala as the prince’s special guest, gets to talk to bored wealthy celebrities and politicians about the foundation he'd start to help kids get into art schools if he had the money. The prince watches Lewis every bit as much as Lewis has been watching the prince, circling away and back, away and back like they're tied together by a string that gets shorter and shorter every time. Lewis lets himself laugh at the prince's jokes. He lets their shoulders bump together, allows warm fingers to brush against his when he's handed a glass of champagne. He lets himself follow the prince back to his rooms at the end of the night and they sit there talking about everything and nothing, Lewis's sketchbook long forgotten. "Sometimes," the prince says, his gaze very far away. "Sometimes I'd give all of this up to be able to really change things, you know?"

"You wouldn't last ten minutes without someone organising your diary for you, man," Lewis says, to see the quick flash of a smile.

"Ah, but what if I want to make my own mistakes?" the prince says, uncharacteristically sombre. "What if I want to be able to say all the things I feel, to dream, to - what if I am more useful away from this place than I will ever be within it?"

"Whatever you choose," Lewis says softly, "whatever you become, you're going to change the world."

Lewis wakes a couple of hours later with the dawn, warm under a soft blanket that's been placed carefully over him. The prince - Sebastian; if Lewis is honest with himself, he's been Sebastian and not just the prince for a very long time now - is watching him from the armchair opposite, curled up with his head propped on his hand as if he's been there for a while. The expression on his face is entirely unguarded, and Lewis can barely breathe for the way hope winds uninvited around his lungs, his heart, his throat.

“I think you fell asleep halfway through explaining about Rembrandt,” Sebastian says. His voice is soft and hoarse as if he's not slept. Lewis sits up slowly, the world righting itself, and shivers as the blanket slips from his shoulders; the ancient palace heating system hasn't cranked into life yet this morning, and the room is cold. “Would you like tea? Toast? The bread is vegan, I checked.”

“I should - I should go home,” Lewis says, the words slow and clumsy. Sebastian’s cheeks are pink; the flush goes down his neck too, disappears below his shirt, unbuttoned and wrinkled from the night before. Lewis has traced that delicate line of collarbone under skin with his brush, over and over. He's worshipped it already, in his own way; there can be nothing more for him here. “Roscoe, you know, he's going to want his breakfast.”

“You should bring him tomorrow,” Sebastian says quickly. Sebastian, Sebastian. Lewis should never have started this, should have worked alone in his beautiful sunlit studio back in Monaco with silent photographs and a handful of notes his only company. “We can go for a walk. Or later today, if you want. Just let Britta know.”

“Actually,” Lewis says, his throat tight with regret, “I think I've kind of - got everything I need.”

Another long, delicate silence, of quite a different nature. “Ah,” Sebastian says. He sits up. The smile has gone from his eyes. “Have you? I think it was a useful evening for you. I hope it was worth it.”

That stings. “I didn't just -” No. It's better this way, easier even. Lewis makes himself stop, just in time.

“I'll call Britta,” Sebastian says when Lewis doesn't continue. He nods over at Lewis's sketchbook where it lies forgotten on a side table, his lip curling. “Don't forget your notes.”

Lewis ought to burn them, but he has a portrait to complete. He picks up the sketchbook. “I'll let Britta know when it's ready,” he says.

“Thank you,” Sebastian says, polite as ever, and shows him to the door.

#this au brought to you by lewis hamilton's secret sebastian vettel photo album #part one of two maybe? because of course at some point sebastian is going to see what's in lewis's sketchbook #my fic #yes i am hilariously slow with these prompts please don't judge me

[happyk44]

i started writing this in my drafts weeks ago but didn't continue much farther than the first sentence - probably put it down to do something else and then passed out lmao. anyway after scrolling past last night wanted to continue it but can't be effed to scroll through my drafts rn (i save everything to my drafts to tag and queue later and my drafts ar like over 250+ rn)

anyway percy who becomes obsessed with finding this grim reaper he saw the night his mom killed his step-dad. he was an abusive asshole and percy helped his mom stage the scene to look like someone gabe owed money to came knocking. they don't have much in terms of expensive shit - just the TV and playstation. it's an old old model that one of percy's classmates was going to throw out as he wasn't into the games he had with it anymore and was getting the latest version for christmas.

it was nice that he gave it to percy with only a fraction of the cost in hand and a promise to give him the rest over time. percy paid him off every monday. it took sally weeks to pay it off, percy chipping in by donating cans and glass bottles he found lying around. the games were old and a little childish, but it was the only entertainment percy had aside from sally's old and crappy laptop that gabe hogged with online poker games.

so it sucked to watch sally dump it into an empty trash bag. it's small, she'd said. the tv would be too big to carry out without causing suspicion, even in mind-your-business new york city, but the playstation, her shitty laptop, and gabe's cell and wallet were things that could be dumped into a bag with no one giving a second look. percy crawls out the fire-escape grateful their shitty apartment building doesn't have cameras. he has to use a couple boxes to really rise himself enough to stuff the bag under the other bags. sally walks out the front door and they go have a late dinner at a nearby cafe.

then go home an hour later and scream in surprise at gabe's dead body in the bedroom, still warm from the heater in the corner boiling up the room that sally promptly unplugs.

percy doesn't think much about WHY his mom was so specific about how to clean his blood off the kitchen floor, about how to stage the scene, about moving gabe's body into the bedroom, about pulling him like he had been then letting him fall flat. heating up the room to keep him warm and fresh, while keeping the window cracked open so the heat doesn't stay by the time the police arrive.

he writes it away as her being a reader, a writer. maybe murder mysteries had been on her mind lately. maybe she watched too many cop shows. maybe she'd thought about this so many times she perfected it. his mom was not a repeat killer. gabe was her first time. her only time. and it was fine.

he sucked.

it's sitting in the chair, feigning distress but not too much, talking to a cop about the scene while he stares off into the air when he sees him. the boy is young, dark-haired and pale-skinned. he's startled by the presence, cutting off in his explanation about how people often came banging on the door for money gabe owed them. how he kept his poker winnings in the now open and empty safe in the bedroom. he wants to draw attention to the boy, but no one else seems to notice him.

he watches idly as gabe is carried out the front door in a body bag. then disappears towards the bedroom.

percy stands and mutters something about wanting to see his mom. the cop guides him to where she's sat on the bed crying thick tears. the boy is there. no one else cares that he's there. the boy reaches out and gabe's body shimmers into view. he's a visage of how he'd looked right before he died - the wide-eyed shock, tensing of his shoulders, mouth open wide because he'd been shouting at percy, threatening him.

he didn't realize how much like his mom he was until gabe fell flat with a knife sticking out of his throat. his mom standing behind him breathing hard. she'd squatted beside his head, pulled out the knife. stared at it. then stabbed stabbed stabbed until gabe's chokes turned to wispy gasps and his wispy gasps disappeared.

"four stab marks," his mom had said. "hopefully that won't look like overkill. but make sure to mention how many times people came screaming at the door just in case."

gabe's white glowing form dissipates into a ball in the boy's hands. he pulls out a baggie from his shoulder bag, then dumps gabe into it with a grimace.

he does suck, percy thinks. be annoyed.

the boy steps away. his eyes catch percy's. percy's arm tightens around his mom's shoulders as he looks into the endless void that is the other boy's eyes. flashes of his own death catch his mind. lying flat on the ground, weakly asking for help, and a dark-skinned man with black angel wings standing above him whispering, i'm sorry, but it's time to go.

then the boy looks away and disappears into a shadow.

grover believes him when he tells him about it. that's the thing percy loves about grover. the mystical and paranormal are easily believed. grover's parents are hippie-like green witches. percy doesn't really get it but has surmised from grover and visiting their house it means they really, really like plants.

"grim reaper," grover calls him. "or a psychopomp. collectors of the dead."

he lists a bunch of names from various cultures until percy cuts him off. "are any young boys?"

grover shrugs. "i mean life is bigger than what the stories tell. there's more people, more humanity. atheists even. where do they go? who collects them? there's definitely more gods and spirits than we think these days. it's not like they all stopped fucking just because the stories ended. there are definitely more gods than we think."

percy doesn't know what to do with that. grover asks him a lot of questions about the boy. but it's hard to answer them. they can't find a culture he could belong to, a way to summon someone without a name. the kid was young, dressed normal in black clothes with a normal black messenger bag. there were no signs of culture, religion, belonging.

he could've blended into a primary school playground easily.

"maybe you need to kill someone," annabeth suggests. the conversation arises a year or so after they first met and befriended her - a new addition halfway through the school year, a few months after gabe's unfortunate death. following a CPS check, her biological mother decided to take charge of her. annabeth spent a lot of time grumbling about her family in california while also missing california ("it's familiar, new york is not, i don't miss my step-mom, i miss the comfort of routine") and bitching about her bio mom's obsession with her grades and extracurriculars.

it takes some campaigning but the three of them manage to create an afterschool club in the new school year for her to find some time to chill and relax and get school work done. it took a lot longer to convince her mom to let her join their "magics and mystics club" - some nonsense about how it'll make her stand-out in college applications.

percy highly doubts any college is looking too closely at middle school extracurriculars, but what does he know? he's either lasting until graduation with grover and annabeth, or getting his GED and dropping out to immediately book it to the first basic entry-level job he can find. school already sucks ass, but his barely medicated ADHD and severely dyslexic ass already twaddles the line of a C average. What's the use of hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt that's only growing frantically from interest and a degree he barely achieved with the lowest grades required to shake the hand of someone he's never interacted with?

annabeth spends most of her time in the club doing her homework, while percy gets reeducated on grover's witchy stuff. their club advisor is the drama teacher who only checked in at the beginning of that first meeting then dipped for the drama club. grover's putting together a presentation on the history of mysticism while percy glues pictures to poster board. annabeth will present their stuff. the three of them doubt anyone will care if they did anything productive with their club, but annabeth's mom will so they do their best to make it fancy as fuck.

she already doesn't like either of them.

in the spare times that annabeth isn't doing homework or studying for another class, they talk about the spiritual and paranormal, magic and whatnot. so percy mentions his experience with the reaper.

and annabeth's first suggestion is murder. it's hilarious. grover knows the truth but annabeth only knows the lie. percy makes a note of it in his head. maybe he'll hint around the truth. they're close, but there's still time needed between the two of them. the worst she's told him is about the spiders in her bedroom. but nothing about what kickstarted a CPS investigation and her subsequent arrival into his life.

"maybe he's a murder reaper," she says. she's intellectual, doesn't believe in the mystic magic stuff but tolerates it for grover. "so he only comes around when there's been a murder."

"i don't think reapers are split up by types of death," grover argues. "and even if they were, why would a little kid be sent to deal with murders?"

annabeth crosses her arms. "maybe he's not a kid. maybe he just chooses to look like that."

they get into a weird half-argument, half-civil discussion. to her credit, annabeth doesn't bring science into it. they both descend to the computers and the books grover brought in from his house to search through to prove whatever point they've landed on.

percy is too busy cutting out paper to glue to poster board. and thinking about the murder aspect. he doubts that murder matters. he's pretty sure grover's right, but he likes keeping his balls so he doesn't say. annabeth is probably right too. magical beings are always capable of changing form. maybe little kid is just easy. who would be afraid of going somewhere with a little kid. or a dog.

but death is needed to see the reaper again. percy doesn't live with anyone dying. and he's too young to volunteer at the hospital. besides death is random isn't it? everyone was convinced that their classmate who got diagnosed with stage four cancer was going to die but she returned a year and a half later missing a leg but recovering. and the gym teacher who ran marathons and was known for his obsessively healthy eating habits died of a heart attack over the summer.

and even if he hovered around people on the verge of death, it didn't mean he was going to be there when they died.

but murder? definitely. he'd be right there because it would be his fault.

at that, he dashes the thought away. murder is wrong. he can't kill people just to see a reaper he saw but never spoke to. it's not like he has any questions about his death. he'll die when he dies. dying isn't scary to him. what's scary is dying before his mom and leaving her childless and mourning. but death itself? he's unafraid.

but inside burns a deep need to see the reaper again. not even to talk to him. just to lay his eyes on that night sky hair and porcelain skin. then he'd be satisfied and the need would go away.

maybe.

probably.

hopefully.

it's on his sixteenth birthday that he sees another reaper. it's not the boy he's looking for. he's disappointed. he shouldn't be. he should be more concerned with the dead man lying in front of him.

the letter opener is sticking out just below luke's left armpit. it hadn't killed him. it was too delicate for that, and the spot wasn't vital enough. but it had shocked him enough for annabeth to shove him away in disgust. he fell back, tripping over annabeth's shoes, and smashed into the glass coffee table.

"shit," annabeth breathes. she doesn't notice the reaper - a slender arabic man appear from the darkness and pull luke's soul of his chest with thin hands. he pushes his hands together and the soul vanishes. then he turns into a dog, or... something like a dog, and disappears back into the shadows.

it's take a few minutes to figure out how to stage the scene. they get rid of the letter opener and shove a piece of broken glass into the spot. this time he doesn't escape through the window. just walks out of the room, calm and detached, and sits in his mom's car. when the police arrive, annabeth, crying thick tears, tells them that he had fallen over while she was getting her things ready after percy came to pick her up.

it's not technically a lie. the police wish him a happy birthday when he says he came by to pick annabeth up from her study session because they were going to do laser tag for his birthday that afternoon. when they don't arrest him in the weeks that follow, he relaxes. and considers his options. he googles arab dogs which is an odd search term but brings up jackals and anubis. cool, he thinks. he tells them both about it afterwards. despite the death, grover is excited. annabeth is less impressed.

"i would've noticed, i was there too," she huffs.

"maybe they don't like you because you're a nonbeliever," grover fires back.

is percy a believer? he's not sure. he knows that what he sees is real. if he was suffering from delusions or hallucinations, surely he'd be seeing them a lot more than twice over the course of four years.

"what if i asked them?" he suggests. "to make themselves visible to you?"

"planning on being around another newly dead guy soon?" annabeth asks with a laugh. grover snorts. but percy remains silent and serious so their amusement shifts to concern

grover leans in close. "percy-"

"just bad people," he cuts in with a solemn whisper.

"you can't be judge, jury and executioner," annabeth hisses. "what you think is bad is not always universal? think about jim crow laws or slavery-"

"annabeth," he cuts in before she can go on an historical tangent. "i was hoping you'd help actually."

it doesn't take long for her to click together what he wants out of her. she glares at him. "percy," she snarls through clenched teeth. "i'm not swishing my ass to entice seedy men for you to murder so you can maybe have a hallucination to process death."

"okay, okay." conceding, he raises his hands. "it was dumb, i'm sorry. i just... really wanna see this kid again. sorry."

annabeth watches him carefully the rest of the day. grover doesn't. he knows what percy is, even if he doesn't agree. so it's not too surprising to start seeing grover scrolling through the newspaper on his phone. he startles every time percy spooks him when he's reading. then laughs it off, swats at percy, and keeps reading. it's the obituaries that percy sees the most, but sometimes articles about a death.

whatever he's looking for, some kind of proof it's percy, he must not find because he doesn't say anything. but it's grover, percy's soulmate. so he's sure the slow side-eye that he gets some mornings are a knowing side-eye.

percy doesn't look at the newspapers. if he's gonna get caught, he'd rather be surprised about it other than worrying and getting sloppy.

it's hard to find truly shitty people from first glance. he doesn't have the patience to observe. just slight insomnia that keeps him up until one in the morning prowling the streets. he hovers around in his old neighborhood, where the cameras are for show and shitty people live. it's still difficult. he doesn't want to go around hurting innocent people. less so because he cares, but more because it would disappoint grover and annabeth and his mom. he can't disappoint them.

he does see reapers, including the one who will one day take him, but never the boy. percy tries to envision him older, but even then none of them match. he does try to speak to them, but they ignore him. he wonders if it's some kind of weird curse. he can see them but they can't. sometimes the ignorance seems intentional, but he can't really tell so other than a few short sentences that always go ignored, he gives up and heads home.

some days he wakes up and is certain the police will come for him. but they never do and so he gives it a few days or a couple weeks and head back out again. they're opportunity kills. random and haphazard. he keeps mittens on, which looks normal in the fall and winter, but sketchy over the summer. to counteract his want to see that reaper, he signs up to be a counselor for a summer camp. grover joins him. annabeth is dragged off to university summer classes by her mom. her emails are miserable. percy wonders aloud to grover if annabeth would be happier if her mom was dead. grover eyes him flatly and says he doubts it.

percy gets assigned to the little kids who tell him all kinds of family secrets. some are funny. some are not.

it's not that hard to get into the camp's directory and write down in poor handwriting and with tons of struggle the names and addresses of these secrets. it's not a lot, which is great. but it's more than it should be and come summer's end, he has his start for the fall.

it's clear grover knows what percy's planning. he was there after all when a little secret got whispered too loudly. but all he says is, "sometimes kids get things wrong." the newspaper on his phone comes back into play after summer ends. but he still says nothing, even when glances at percy from the corner of his eyes.

it's two years of scattered kills before he sees him again. the kid is older now. he looks about fourteen, maybe fifteen. but percy knows it's him. he's the only one who makes eye contact. this time percy doesn't see his death. but he sees the endless void.

purgatory, he thinks, before he blurts out, "i've been looking for you." the teen tilts his head and smiles, small, gentle. the sight of it slams hard into percy's ribcage and sinks messy into his heart. "what's your name?"

"what's yours?" the teen fires back, turning away from percy and collecting the pulsing orb into a little baggie like before. his voice is enchanting, smooth and crystalline. there's an edge of an italian accent in it.

"percy," he says without hesitation. "jackon. percy jackson." he shakes his head. "perseus, actually, but everyone calls me percy."

the teen laughs gently. the sound is haunting. somewhere in percy's subconscious he knows the sound should scare him. but instead he just craves it more. "well, perseus jackson, my name is nico."

nico, percy thinks. in his head, the name is surrounded by hearts like a schoolgirl writing out the name of their crush in a movie. "that's really pretty," he says aloud. mentally he slaps himself. that's really pretty? that's stupid.

but nico just laughs again. "thank you." he steps over the dead body and touches percy's face. "perseus was a quite the soul when he was collected." his fingertip ghosts down percy's cheek, leaving light phantom tingles behind. "will you be?"

then he dissipates into shadows, leaving percy with a heavy craving for his ghostly touch and hauntingly enchanted voice.

#percico #percy jackson #nico di angelo #annabeth chase #grover underwoood #happy talks pjo #my writing #my fanfic #maybe i'll add more to this later #i was thinking about adding jason to it but i wanna stick w/ percico and i don't wanna accidentally talk myself in perjasico #also how the fuck do i keep starting posts w/ the intention of it being a short ramble of thoughts and then turn it into a thing

[heartfullofleeches]

Make a lady yan who has all the worst traits of the others. We need more nasty women I would do anything for an irredeemable shithead of a lady. She’s got V’s unrepentant nastiness, or maybe Amyas’ wet cat energy, Devlin’s chaos gremlin energy, Milk Tea’s immoral dom energy, Eggnog’s adorable creep energy, I could go on for so long but the main point is lady yan with the nasty traits people usually don’t give lady characters because I will simp so hard and build her an altar in my closet 🫶 heavy are the hips that wear the strap or whatever the saying is and I am willing to support those hips 🥰

(Combining the traits of the first three, meet our lovely queen of nasty Calliope) [mentions of violence, death]

Ah...

What's she doing out here again? Alone in a big scary alleyway, with a complete stranger no less. She's reminded of her torment and mission as she thinks back to the other day - the happy memory of catching you out by yourself ruined by this....thing. Laughing at every passive comment you made, clinging to your arm like you were already date. How desperate could a person be? Then they had to go and actually ask you out. And you said yes. She nearly lost her lunch on the spot. Why do the confident people get everything in life....

"Can we please wrap this up?.. I got get back inside and I have somewhere to be soon."

Right. Calliope swallows her non-existent pride and relaxes her fists in her pockets. There was still a chance. Every now and then there were the "good" ones. People who took pity on those like her if they sucked up enough. All she had to do was look weak, which was easier said than done despite her appearance. Think, think.. She thinks about what will happen if she doesn't. Your first day with it. It holding your hand, kissing you on the cheek, getting to watch you undress before bed.

"U-um... I overheard you asking someone out the other day and I-I was wondering if you... If you wouldn't mind letting me try my chances with them first!!"

The stranger grimaces, looking at her like a carcass on the side of the road - then anywhere but. It's too obvious. Her teeth chatter too loudly for the quivering of her lips to be noticed. Her eyes are too sunken and heavy with depravation to pull off that cutesy big eyed look. She's too pathetic for even this to work. Go figure.

"Look.. I get that this is hard, but I really like them too. I'm sure you'll find someone else who's right for you."

Right for her? There's nobody better for her than you. She picked you out as her only before you first spoke to each other - given you hadn't even done that yet. This fucker doesn't know what it's like. It probably wasn't even love at first sight like it was for Calliope. Either way it was clear they weren't going to give you up. And yet....

"Please! I need them! You don't know what my life will be like if I have to see them with someone else!"

The stranger, obviously taken aback as she latches on their arm tries to shove her off. Her fingers imprint on their skin as she twists their wrist. "Get off of me!"

"Please! Just one chance! I can make my confession better. I'm better for them than you'll ever be!"

"Get off!"

Wrangling free of her increasing grip, the stranger pushes Calliope as hard and far away from them as they can - air flying from her chest as she hits the brick way behind her. Winding, she slides to the filthy alley street - the weight in her pocket dragging her down. She clutches her side with her right hand. That hurt. There's stars in her vision. Tears too. It's not fair.

The panic and agitation on the stranger's face contorts as the water works start. Calliope ugly sobs into the open air, not carrying for the attention she was drawing to herself. She wails and pulls her knees into her chest as she shrinks against the wall. They cautiously step towards her which makes her flinch.

"Please don't hurt me.."

"Take it easy. I wasn't going to."

They offer her their hand. She takes it as she stands, hair falling over her eyes.

"That's a real shame."

She pulls her left hand out of her pocket, producing a rusty hammer.

"Cuz I was planning on hurting you from the start."

Calliope stomps down on their foot as it hits them. Head side up, she brings the hammer down on their skull; glee bubbling within her as the wet thunk rings throughout the vacant passage way. The stranger staggers backwards. Calliope jumps in place, taunting them by beckoning them forward. When they don't move she advances, steadies her arm - and strikes again, aiming closer to their eye socket.

Her body is so jittery she misses her mark, but she still gets a good blow to their upper cheek. They spit blood, flesh discolored from the bursted vessels in their face. Grinning from ear to ear, speckles of crimson spray across her lips and teeth, even hitting her tongue as she drawn back with maniacal shriek of laughter. She head butts then for the next attack, nose crunching from the weight behind it. As their legs start to wobble, Calliope takes the burden off them by sweeping them and pouncing on them once they fall. Unable to defend, she unleashes bow after blow. Rant after rant between her manic giggles.

"You."

Crack.

"Fucking."

Slam.

"Idiot! Did you really think I was going to let you win?!? They're mine. Mine!"

She hits them over and over, long after their twitching had stopped. There isn't a face anymore. Just broken shards of bone sticking through the pink, fleshy meat once enclosed in their head. Just meat. That's all it ever was, and would be. Calliope gets out a few more chuckles before she gets up. She starts to walk off when a phone chimes from somewhere. She grabs it from the coat on the ground. It's you, checking up whoever it belonged to. She's sure they're fine. There were more important matters at hand to be dealt with first.

"All good. What are you wearing tonight?;)"

#yandere oc #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere x you #yandere #yandere blurb #yandere insert #monster reader #yandere drabble #female yandere #Calliope my oc

[fayes-fics]

Kinktober Drabble #12: Hate Sex/ Squirting

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, fingering, squirting, smidge of vaginal sex, arguing as foreplay.

Authors Note: Unbetaed. This is also an anon suggestion fill from a while back here (idea: ‘lovers in public, rivals in secret’). Nonny I hope you enjoy this, same for everyone else. <3

In public, you are his intended. You appear on his arm and dance together, the picture of a chaste romantic match. In private, you argue, bicker, and then fuck mercilessly. Your antagonistic dynamic makes for quite the most explosive secret sex.

The night of the Bridgerton Ball, you goad him more than ever before, perhaps crossing a line by flirting with his brother. Touching the man’s arm, you see the look of confusion flit over his face and, across the room, the look of thunder upon Anthony’s.

“Miss y/l/n,” suddenly Anthony is next to you, “I shall give you a tour of my London home.” It sounds like an offer, but it’s not; it’s a command to follow him. You’ve seen almost every corner of Bridgerton House by now, especially the quiet ones he can fuck you in. But you acquiesce, looping your arm in his and smiling, people giving you polite nods as you move through the crowd, looking like a happy courting couple. 

Tonight he leads you to his private study. 

“How could you?!” he barks the minute the door is shut and locked.

“What?” you smirk, knowing full well what he is so riled up about.

“My brother? Really?” his tone dripping with disdain.

“Don't pretend you don't love it when we goad each other. Just last week, you flirted with that young widow; just to make me so angry, I took you out into the grounds and into my throat.” you volley at him.

His eyes flash heatedly, but his nostrils flare in annoyance. “There's a line, and it’s my family,” he insists.

“Well, what's done is done. Are you going to fuck me or not, my darling intended?” you challenge, hands on hips, the last three words a snarky retort.

“Maybe I won't,” he opines haughty, crossing his arms.

“Fine,” you throw your hands up, moving towards the door. “I'm sure that bohemian artist brother of yours will be up for some fun….” You cannot resist the low blow, knowing it's like picking at a proverbial scab that will scar if you keep messing with it.

“Don't you dare,” Anthony growls, grabbing your arm and manhandling you against a bookcase, breathing heavy.

“Then give me a reason to stay,” you draw your lips into a thin line and raise an eyebrow, your grip on his shoulders harsh, digging your nails into his jacket.

“I’ll do more than that,” he tugs up your dress and chemise, his cool hand questing hard against your mound.

You inhale sharply and groan at the sensation. 

“No undergarments, why am I not surprised,” he chides, “you act such a wanton hussy.”

“Fuck you!” You spit out the harshest language you can think of, base words you seldom utter even under your breath, but still push against his fingers, now sodden as they slide against your clit.

“You’d better,” he snarls, “but first, let's get you to ruin your dress shall we?” two fingers plunging into your pussy without warning.

You cry out and huff breaths through your nose as his fingers curl and start to rock almost violently forward, swinging hard against a spot a few inches inside. Instead of it being painful, you pant wide-eyed, feeling something entirely new, like nothing you've ever experienced.

“So there are still some things I can teach you, it appears?” he growls, panting with the exertion, using the strength of his whole arm to push in and out at a blistering speed.

“What the fuck Anthony?” each word a harsh staccato as your whole body tenses.

“You've never had anyone do this before, have you?” his face just a touch conceited.

“No,” you exhale hard, holding onto him for dear life, keening with each fast stab of his fingers.

“Good. I'm the only one who can bring you this intense pleasure, only me.” The possessive, arrogant litany rockets you towards something hot and intense. 

He is forcing filthy sodden, squelching noises from your body, and all you can do is hunch over him, the need to curl up against the overwhelming sensation so strong, wordlessly panting needy noises. 

“Now let’s make a real mess,” he rumbles and his thumb rounds on your swollen clit, pushing it up against your body harshly. You scream, uncaring who can hear, your whole world pinpoint focussed on a pressure that suddenly releases as a strong gush, your knees giving out, and you feel nothing but a blinding wave of pleasure.

You hear him proudly saying, “Oh fuck yesss,” but it’s distant and fuzzy.

He is holding you up against the bookcase as you come around to realise you have soaked his arm, your dress, stockings, shoes even the rug beneath your feet.

“Look what a pretty mess you made of yourself and me.” He comments as he removes his fingers gently from inside you. 

“Anthony,” you can barely form words, “what the fuck was that?” You are disconcerted by what you see but also so sated you can't bring yourself to do anything but cling to him.

“That, darling, is what you get if you challenge me,” he chuckles, nuzzling your face as you hear trouser buttons opening. “I can't wait to find out how you feel now,” he adds, pulling one of your legs over his hip. He surges his cock deep into you before you can do anything but cry out.

“Oh god, yes, you feel amazing,” his voice thready and debauched. 

You wrap your arms tight around his neck and bite his earlobe.

“So do you,” you murmur, “now let’s do this.”

You proceed to fuck so hard against the bookcase that three books fall out and narrowly miss your heads. You wouldn’t want it any other way.

tagging: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton #kinktober #kinktober 2022

[ghostflowerhotpotch]

can you do more jealous Gwen headcanons or analysis? thanksss

I actually don't think I have more analysis to make, I don't think we have any more scenes with Gwen being jealous. And funnily enough, I don't do enough stuff with jealousy to have headcanons.

Hope this small drabble can suffice!

. . .

"Everything okay?"

Gwen normally wouldn't mind answering, yet her eyes continue to evade her friend's, since something told her that with just one look he would be able to tell.

If he couldn't do it already.

"Fine!" She answers quickly, more sharp than she would had liked "The multiverse is in danger, we are probably late to see Miguel, and Miles who is about to enter the Lion's Den with only an empanada as a sacrifice, how does that look for you?"

"First time I see you criticize a plan of Jess," he comments calmly, looking at the young spider with the older woman ordering the food that was suppose to placate the leader of this place. Hobie was one who thought if you needed to try to placate your boss, then perhaps you were doing something wrong; thought he already thinks the idea of a boss is stupid.

Shame his drummer didn't share that opinion; he could only take care of so many problems at the time. Now however-

"But I was talking more about putting our young 1610 friend on a leash like a Cherry Hogg." (Cherry Hogg: Dog.)

Gwen try to pretend she needed to think of that one before answering, as well as she hoped the hotness she felt around her cheeks didn't actually shown.

"Miguel is waiting for us-"

"Which is exactly why you were so bothered by when we did the detour- oh wait, you didn't."

Looking back at him, she notices his colours are kind of muttered, his expression almost bored, yet when finally faced him his lips shifted into the smallest smirk as his skin adopted a dark red of interest.

Oh he knows knows.

"What do you want me to say?"

"To me? Nothing, maybe why you took my chucks" He eyed the shoes briefly, before looking for a second on Miles- God he couldn't kn- "To him? Whatever you actually want to say that you refuse to admit to yourself."

Scoffing, she used Jess calling them up (probably to get moving since apparently they bought the empanada;) to start walking, "You are overthinking this, there isn't anything going on."

"Hmm, I guess I should go to talk to Margo about him, figure would be good get as much people on his side as possible, don't you think?"

As Gwen tried to not see red, she wanted to replied that there wasn't going to be any reasons to draw sides (or so she hoped at least,) when Miles drifted from Jess towards them.

"Hey! Why are you guys lagging behind?" Miles eyed both of them, specially Hobie.

Miles was a good guy, but for the life of him he couldn't hide his intentions, and Gwen wished she could had found a way to shut up Pav before he got even more dumb ideas in his head.

Nothing wasn't happening!

"Oh nothing, discussing some things," Hobie shrugged off, before casually walking pass Gwen and slinging an arm around Miles "Missions, other spiders; like Pav and Margo, what do you think of them?"

"Oh! Well-"

As they continue walking, Gwen stood up in shock as Hobie casually looked back, and mouthed "Don't be late."

If she wasn't fuming before, she was now.

Oh she was so going to kill him.

#ghostflower #gwiles #gwen stacy #hobie brown #miles morales #atsv spoilers #across the spiderverse spoilers #atsv #across the spiderverse #fanfics #ask #hope it was good! #havent done short stuff in a while #oh Im rusty