#bc SiLvEr WAS NOT WANTING TO BE DRAWN | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

supercutszns · 3 months

Text

bitter to the taste; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc + pairing: 5.5k, luke castellan x f!reader

synopsis: a sharp blade, a black eye, and (more than) two kisses.

warnings: this is even sluttier than the last one, language, sword fighting, sharp objects, blood/injuries, reader is still a horrible person and so is luke but he's also a loooser, making out, allusions/mentions of sex but no super explicit descriptions, kind of fluffy at the end

notes: i’m starting to hate this bc i think i’ve been staring at it too long sorry if this is not as good as pt.1 but i have plans for this series ok. also READER AND LUKE ARE NOT GOOD PEOPLE!!! THEIR RELATIONSHIP WILL NOT ALWAYS BE GOOD!!! THEY SUCK!! they are also not real but keep that in mind :) synopsis inspired by crush by ethel cain; designated song for this fic is unpunishable by ethel cain (i’ve got a whole chronological playlist for these freaks like it’s serious)

You’ve always had a taste for violence. And an equally powerful penchant for sloth.

You prefer to watch the carnage, not participate. It satisfies something inside you that you know, if it wasn’t for your laziness, could cause something irrevocable. Who the hell has time for that?. You’d rather lie back and watch instead.

This flaw of yours is the only reason you haven’t stirred more trouble, you think. It’s the reason you never attend camp games or sparring lessons. Sometimes, when you do, a dark muscle flexes inside your heart to curl out of its slumber, forming a hunger you don’t have otherwise. The second it starts to pry you have to rear yourself back and tuck the monster in. Banish the need for something more.

You don’t want to feed it. You don’t know what happens if you do. So you let other people do the feeding for you.

Luke cuts through two dummy heads in one swoop. It’s fucking gorgeous. The moon reflects off his sword, a silver sheen casting his face when he’s in the right spot. His brows are set, eyes so dark they blend with the night. Every motion is ruthless. Satisfying.

You don’t know how many times you’ve watched him like this. He called you out for it last night, but you’re sure he doesn’t know the half of it. The shadows are a sacred cloak to you, and you wait inside them until you want your presence known.

Meet me tomorrow.

It runs through your head like a broken record. You can still feel his breath on your lips and your neck is still tender—had to wear a sweater in the blazing heat to hide the marks. Since you were created you’ve accepted a universal truth about yourself: you don’t harbour affection for anyone or anything. There’s not a single thing you’ve felt drawn to or protective over but yourself. It’s solitary, yes, and lonely, yes, but that’s the way you’re supposed to be.

But you think about last night. You think about the moments between the kisses and the rush. When he teased you against your ear. When his hand brushed a certain spot on your back and something much lighter fluttered inside of you. When you crawled into sleep and thought about him, those were the moments that struck you the strangest.

His gaze pans over the treeline every once in a while, the anger diluted. Then it comes back twice as hard as he shreds another dummy to pieces.

He’s waiting for you. Oh, this is rich! A better person would probably turn around and go spoon their offerings into the bonfire the second they understand what they’re doing is incredibly destructive. But who are we kidding? You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.

So you take a step forward, slip out of the comfort of the dark, and the next time he looks to the treeline he knows you’re there. He can’t see you, but he knows.

You wait. His strikes are less tenuous, much smoother. It almost makes you laugh. Some fucking showman he is.

Eventually, he buries his blade in the dirt and wipes his brow. “Are you gonna come talk to me or are you gonna stare at me all night like an owl?”

You relish in the feeling of shedding the darkness, coming into the light of the moon. “Hi,” you say flatly, but there’s a tiny smile on his face when he sees you that almost puts you off.

“Hello, rotten.” He tries to lean on the hilt of his sword but it isn’t quite tall enough so he stumbles. It’s so pathetic it almost makes you laugh.

“Don’t call me that,” you grimace.

“Okay, back to heathen?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Well, you don’t seem too happy when people call you by your name so pick your poison here.”

You don’t say anything, your mouth set in a scowl. “All right, both it is,” Luke shrugs.

He’s different from last night. Less impatient. You hope it’s not because he thinks he has you now—he’s got another thing coming. “I almost thought you weren’t gonna come,” he says with a crooked grin, neither bashful nor ashamed.

You’ve made your way closer to him, the soft grass turning to dusty earth. “Don’t know why I did,” you mutter crassly.

Having abandoned his sword, Luke chuckles wryly. “Yes, you do.”

That bitterness he hides from everyone else pierces through. He tilts your face up like he did yesterday, the press of his fingers beneath your chin almost burning you. You know he’s peering at the marks on your neck.

“If you made me come here just to hook up with me you’re delusional,” you glare.

“What, like that’s not why you’re here?” He pushes your face up a little higher, grinning a little when you add resistance. “I’m a gentleman, you know. I can be patient.”

This guy is full of fucking shit.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you snipe. The only point of contact you have is his hand on your chin, but you’re a hair’s breadth away from having everything else. The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you.

He keeps your face still. He’s studying you, and you’re suddenly curious about what he sees. You remember all those looks you’d share at the dinner tables that made this happen in the first place. What did he see then?

“You wanna fight?”

It takes you a second to react. “What?”

“You want to fight. Pick up a sword, let’s go.” He smiles as he finally lets you go, waltzing away from you to unbury his sword from the dirt. His touch permeates through your skin and you hate it.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t fight.”

“Sure you can,” he replies, grabbing another sword from the training rack. “You need to burn off a little steam.”

You laugh sharply. “And you think me waving a sword around is gonna do that?”

“Uh, yeah,” he grins. “It’s the method that lets us keep the most clothes on.”

You glare at him. His smirk is a mile wide. The way your stomach is simmering almost makes you sick; it’s like gorging yourself on candy except this time the candy has a sword and maybe wants to fuck you.

You just watch as he hands you his sword, and the moonlight glinting off the metal has you believing it’s not the kind used for training. “I’ll use the dull one,” he assures. “C’mon, heathen. I know you’ve used a sword before, they force us to.”

“I usually skip those classes.”

He laughs. You can’t tell if it’s at you or with you. “Of course you do.”

You don’t like following orders, but oh, what the hell. Luke knows something about you, just like you know something about him. You’re only a little curious about it.

“Straighten your back,” is the first thing he says once you’ve taken your stance across from him. The blunt of his sword reaches out to tap your hip.

You begrudgingly do as you’re told. He watches you mirthfully, and the press of his sword against you starts to feel like a substitute for his hand. All the closeness you’re hungry for, dampened by cold steel. It still makes you buzz.

He gives you the barebones—the right grip, how to maneuver, the proper balance. But long gone is his easy disposition. The motor inside him that powered all those dummy beheadings and disembowelments is running again, except this time it’s for you. He wants a fight. This is his battlefield. All right, you’ll bite.

You start to spar with the skill of an overgrown toddler. The sword feels like an unnatural ligament hanging off your body. Luke is precise, convicting, far more enthusiastic than you. “You can do better than that,” he prods after your swords clash lazily for the billionth time. “Stop going easy.”

“You’re going easy,” you shoot back.

“Yeah, but I’d really rather not. Come on.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. You think about that dark thing you keep harboured. A muscle aching to be used.

“Come on,” he says again, and he almost sounds pissed. “All of a sudden you’re playing nice? What are you afraid of?”

Something flares inside you. “Nothing!”

“Then pick up the sword and fight me.”

You huff and roll your eyes, but your next swing is far more inspired. Luke blocks it easily, but you don’t care. “There we go,” he nods. “Again.”

This is more than you bargained for when you decided to come see him. All you want is to make out with this hot, awful person and have him tell you hot, awful things about yourself you probably already know. Why do you have to fight to get it?

He keeps provoking you no matter how hard you try. Your temper picks up the more you swing, discordant clangs bruising the air, but it’s still not enough. Luke doesn’t let up. Of course the one time you try to be nice, you’re not allowed to. On second thought, why are you reigning yourself in for Luke? The only other person in camp with a real, consuming viciousness? If anything you should hit him twice as hard, since he’s so sure he can take it.

“No wonder you’re so angry all the time,” Luke heaves out, and it gives you a swell of satisfaction. “You don’t have a proper outlet. Maybe you’d be nicer if you didn’t sit around and complain all day.”

“Shut up,” you gnash your teeth.

“Just saying, maybe you should do something about it.”

You’re getting lost in the rhythm of the swords, the adrenaline, the sweat passing the scar on his cheek. Every swing you think less and less, and that dark muscle flexes more and more. It feels like home to you. Like a good meal. Your bones ache and the world has darkened, but that rotten pit inside you cracks open in full bloom.

Luke keeps egging you on but you can’t hear him. Not like he still needs to. You think you’re smiling, or huffing furiously, or both. The sharpness of the sword intrigues you. A million terrible things reflect off its blade and you imagine them, all at once, until you are out of your body and the black hole inside you has properly wedged itself open.

Luke jabs at you and you bring your sword down with a vengeance. But it’s a little too low. You only notice when he drops his weapon to the side and staggers back.

The fog of violence falters. It fades almost completely when he hisses long and hard, eyes screwed shut, and you see the tear in his shirt. In his skin.

“Shit,” you say. “Fuck.”

You don’t sound sorry, you don’t think you are sorry, especially when he laughs. It’s a wheezy one through his teeth as you come up to him, but a laugh nonetheless. “Knew you were going easy,” he remarks through a wince.

You ignore him, looking down at the injury. A gash across his abdomen. It’s bleeding a little, but not enough for it to drip. You did that. Just looking at the blood, you feel the bitter taste of it in your mouth, the reward a temporary hunger for carnage brought you. This is why you don’t play camp games.

“I’ve got thick skin. I’m fine,” Luke says casually. “I’ve got a medical kit under that tree over there in case I beat myself up too bad.” He’s no longer scrunched in pain, and you’ve got a feeling he’s telling the truth. So you go fetch the kit where he said it was. You need to wrap that slash. Not because you’re sorry for him, but because looking at it makes you angry.

You kneel and pop the lid of the small tin kit, covered in dirt. It’s mostly gauze and bandages. Rubbing alcohol too. “Just give me the gauze, that’s all I need,” Luke gestures.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m doing it myself.” You’ve already torn off some gauze, sitting all the way up on your knees.

“Most people just say sorry.”

“You pushed me,” you spit back, surprisingly forceful. Luke’s smile drops. You take a deep breath, adjusting yourself to get eye level with the injury. “I told you I don’t fight.”

You’re not sure what makes Luke give in, but he doesn’t say a word as you lift the hem of his torn shirt and he holds it up. There’s no proud remark about your eyes lingering on his stomach, or the hesitation in your hands. You stare at the wound. It really is shallow. Your thumb presses at the skin around it and he winces. “My bad,” you mutter.

As you sterilize the cut and wrap the gauze around his torso, you try not to let your fingertips cling to the warmth on his skin. You try not to notice the other scars littered there, most faded to the point they should be impossible to pick up even in the sun. It’s obvious he’s staring at you. Your neck is crawling with warmth. But you don’t engage, you just wrap the gauze a few times and do your best not to notice the rise and fall beneath his muscles as he breathes. Then you fasten things neatly and put everything away so you can get up. Any second. Come on.

“Good?” You ask instead, exhaling.

“Good,” he affirms. He slides a hand under your forearm and gets you up. It stays there once you’re standing. The night stills.

��I’m guessing you’re adding ‘attempted killer’ to your list of horrible qualities,” you go on to break the silence.

He holds your gaze unyieldingly. “I’d consider that a pro, actually.”

You are entirely fed up with this drawn out evening, but you can’t bring yourself to speed anything up any more than stepping closer so your chests brush. “I will give you one, though,” he continues, craning down to your ear. You smell his skin and it sends you back to the position you were in yesterday.

He finally kisses your jaw, just once, then your neck. You shiver. “You’re too tense.” Another kiss behind your ear. It’s not enough. “Do you even know how to have fun?”

“I don’t want to have fun,” you reply bitterly. I just want to make out with you, asshat.

Luke’s breath frosts over your face when he chuckles, but before he can get any further away you catch his mouth with yours. Almost instinctively his arm winds around you to pull you in closer, your hand looping through his curls. It's a relief, knowing last night wasn't some freak accident. This does feel good, actually, and it can happen. Everything you felt yesterday is only more urgent now, hungrier, and you're pretty sure the way you kiss him gives that away.

He indulges you, squeezing the base of your hips as his other hand thumbs across the marks on your neck. This is so fucking embarassing—you think you whine when he bites down on your bottom lip. You’ve never needed something this bad, you’ve never needed anything. But you press yourself as close to him as you can manage and his hand runs lower, slips against your inner thighs, and it’s difficult to worry about anything else.

Until he pulls away. Like a dick.

He doesn’t go far, his forehead pressed to yours, but you feel like pulling out all his hair. It’s a muddling mix of frustration and longing you’re starting to associate with him. “Dude,” you groan, an inner coil only starting to unwind begrudgingly compressing.

“Let’s go for a swim,” he says. The enthusiasm is almost alarming. Almost makes him look younger.

You’re homicidal. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, heathen. Let’s go for a swim, come on.”

He’s rubbing circles on your thigh, which only makes you want to strangle him. “But I—I don’t have my bathing suit,” you string out.

The smile gets more boyish. “Wow, whatever shall we do?”

It’s another challenge. Another dare. And he knows what you want, fucking jerk. You’re going to kill him.

“Fine,” you grunt, and the second the words leave your lips you’re pulled to the lake.

It’s a warm, sticky evening, only made worse with the sweat and the half-assed kissing, so the water doesn’t seem all that bad. Unfortunately, you don’t like giving into demands. So you stare ghoulishly at your fingernails as Luke tosses off his ripped shirt and his shorts so he can plunge into the lake. “Aren’t you going to at least come in?” He asks, but you don’t look at him.

“I don’t like swimming,” you lie.

“At least your feet. It’s nice, I swear!”

A splash, like smoke moving through wind chimes. You look up and Luke has completely submerged, popping his head up closer to the mouth of the dock. “Please,” he says with such conviction your resolve turns to butter. Gods, what is happening to you? You still need that lobotomy!

You sigh, roll your eyes, turn your back to him. “Fuck this,” you mutter under your breath. You undress to your undergarments and you’re not sure if you want Luke to be watching or not. The moon touches your bare skin and a chill trickles through you.

You take a seat at the edge of the dock, knees tucked to your chest. Luke swims over for you right away. His hair is dripping against his skin, and you hate how beautiful it looks. The waterline is high tonight, almost ridiculously so, so he props his elbows up on the dock with no problem. “Come in,” he urges.

“No.”

“Just your legs?”

“No.”

“Gods, I’ll make it worth it, just throw your damn legs in!”

Your eyebrows shoot up. His face is stubbornly pink. Oh, so now he wants something. You take your time uncurling yourself and Luke wades away from the dock so you can put your feet in. The water goes up to your calves, and you shiver. “So fucking difficult,” he mutters, and your pulse flickers.

“Sorry, what was that?” You let yourself grin for the first time all night.

“Nothing,” he hums. This time when he comes to the dock, he wraps his hands around your calves. You’re pretty sure he can stand here because he stops treading. The warmth of the water seems to spread further, long past the threshold of your knees.

He rests his chin just above your knee, water pooling on your skin. “Stop dripping on me,” you complain.

“Sorry.” He fake pouts when he kisses the damp spot. You see, ever so faintly, a diabolic shift in his expression. He nudges your leg with the point of his nose, then kisses it, then starts to move it aside. “Feel bad about teasing you all night,” he murmurs, still with an edge. He presses more kisses on your legs. “I really did want to see you.”

The irony that he’s still teasing is not lost on you. You’re not loving how desperately warm you’re starting to feel. “Why’s that?” You lean back on your palms.

“You’re a very interesting person,” he quips innocently. His hands are cupping the backs of your calves. He’s pulled you a lot closer to the water, and somehow you’ve just noticed. Another blistering kiss on the inside of your thigh.

“You’re fucking evil,” you scathe.

He looks up at you from between your legs. “You have literally done nothing but berate and injure me this whole evening.”

“Yeah, and right after I patch you up you jump in the water for shits. You’re playing infection roulette, Castellan.”

“See? You’re so mean.” He sighs, and in a move that almost surprises you to death, he hoists both your legs over his shoulders and they dangle into the river behind him. “And here I am anyway, making it up to you.”

You are suddenly illuminated on the purpose of this situation. Why Luke is between your legs. Your heart jolts. “Luke, you can’t be serious.”

“Mmhm.” He leans forward to kiss right under your navel.

You hate how much you want him to do it again, how your body burns, but you avert your eyes. “Someone’s gonna—someone’s gonna hear us.”

He snorts, “No they won’t. Either this or you come in the water with me. Or both. We’ll see.”

A huge smile cracks across your face before you push it back down. You’re going to spend a lot of time coming back to this moment, this night, wondering why. “What is wrong with you.”

It comes out like a compliment when it leaves you. You want to vanish. Luke chuckles, and something foreign to the both of you buzzes through the air.

“Are you going to be nice?” He asks against your skin.

“Are you going to be quick?”

His mouth finds your hip bones and yeah, why the hell would you say no to this? He nods, “Swear.”

That’s all you need. You let your eyes slide shut and your head tilts towards the sky. Luke takes your permission and runs with it, pries you open with his mouth until the stars soak through the black of your eyelids.

You discover pretty quickly neither of you are good at keeping promises.

The next time you need Luke’s med kit, he’s already awake.

It’s been happening more and more often. You lurking around camp past moonrise and finding Luke outside his cabin, going for a walk or a stretch or a … something with you.

“Do you ever sleep?” You ask him sometimes between flurries of kisses with your back against a tree.

“Could ask you the same thing, heathen,” he squeezes your hips and nips at your neck, but never answers the question. And neither do you, so you’re both okay with it. You’d hate to give up this feeling, but he doesn’t need to know that.

This is the first time in your punitive life you have felt alive. Like a person, with bones and flesh and soul, a real presence. Not a ghost of smoke and shadow. You are real.

Fooling around makes you feel like an actual teenager. You’re young, you remember when Luke joins you in the dark. You’re having fun. His hands under your shirt and his mouth on your collarbone, the way he bites down and winces when you do something a little too well, when you string out his name and he rewards you for it. You’re both greedy, insatiable people, so there’s a push and pull only the two of you would ever be able to handle. And nobody has to know. Despite all the bruises, the sleepless nights, the swollen lips, all you and Luke share in the daylight are noxious looks, and that's only if he can find you. A perfect crime. Camp Half-Blood’s angel and the vice that lives in the shadows. But in the dark, it’s hard to tell which is which.

“Luke,” you whisper. “Luke.”

“I’m up,” he grumbles, peering up at you. “You shouldn’t sneak into my cabin.” He was already sitting up in his bed when you slipped in, and he didn’t notice you were there till you were right in front of him.

“Worried someone will catch me? You should know better.”

He follows you outside so you don’t wake the other campers. There’s a thrill knowing just one interaction between the two of you could ruin both your reputations forever.

“What is it, heathen?” He asks as the door closes behind him. It’s so dark and your back is turned to him, but his voice is drenched in smugness. “You don’t usually want to put up with me more than once a night.”

“Don’t have a choice,” you mutter, staring out at the camp. You go to chew on your bottom lip, but you wince immediately. “Where’s your kit thingy? The one we used after I impaled you.”

“You mean after you lightly grazed me?”

“Just tell me where it is, Luke.”

Your sharpness could cut through any sleepy daze he possibly has. He’s silent behind you for a second. “Why?” He asks.

“Because I need it.”

His hand curls around your shoulder and before you can think to submerge yourself in darkness, he turns you around. When he sees you, his face breaks from something proud to something … you’re not sure you like. “Oh, heathen,” he murmurs. “What happened to you?”

You guess it’s a semi-appropriate reaction, although you expected at least a grimace. To put it lightly, your face looks gnarly as fuck. There’s a bruise on your cheekbone and your lip is split. But what really draws attention is the half-formed, garish black eye swelling up your right side.

“Just the usual. Pissed someone off.” It hurts the skin on your lip that’s caked with blood.

He rests his thumb on your unbruised cheek, but somehow it still stings. You know he can’t see much of you in the dark but he tries. The prolonged eye contact without the imminent promise of a kiss feels foreign. “You need to go to the Apollo cabin,” he concludes, brows pushed together.

A laugh slips past your broken lips. “No fucking shot. They would not help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because one of their shit-eaters did this!”

The words take a moment to register. You see them filtering through Luke’s brain. He blinks absurdly. “An Apollo guy beat you up?”

“Not beat up. Just … tussled.”

“How much tussling earns you a black eye, exactly? From Apollo kids.”

“Gods, just tell me where your kit is so you can go back to fucking sleep.”

His fingertips inch around the back of your neck, thumb still against your face. “Already wasn’t sleeping. I might as well help you,” he shrugs. “I move the kit every once in a while so some other campers don’t ravage it.”

“I don’t need help.”

Luke opens his mouth, then sighs deeply. He takes a firm hold of your arm and starts to tug you along. “Hey, what—” you swat at his arm.

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs. “Come on.”

It’s strange. Luke’s never done you a favour before. At least not one like this. You’re disgruntled enough that you had to go ask him in the first place and now he’s dragging you around? “This isn’t such a big deal, Luke,” you badger. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, whatever. Wait right here.” He lets go of you and only then you realize you’re in front of the Apollo cabin. You grimace, and Luke must have noticed because he says, “Don’t worry, I’m just gonna go inside and grab some things. No one’s gonna jump you.”

You scowl at him, and he just laughs. A part of you hopes he hits his head on the way in. You hide anyway.

It’s a few minutes of waiting in the oppressive summer heat, until Luke emerges from the cabin with his hands full. He looks around, hesitantly calling, “Heathen?” Then again. You move out of your hiding spot and he jogs over to greet you.

“Nice haul,” you comment. There’s an ice pack, cotton pads, a few miscellaneous items. “How’d you get them?”

He smiles widely. “Everyone loves me, heathen. It’s not hard.”

“…So you stole them.”

“Yes, but only because I’m too tired to talk to people and I’m protesting for your sake,” he rattles off. “Now hold this ice pack before it gives me frostbite.”

The two of you make your way down to the docks again. It’s morphed into your usual meeting place, since the waves lapping at the shore mask when Luke gets a little too noisy just to piss you off. (At least that’s what he tells you.)

He’s stashed his little tin in a different tree this time. After he retrieves it he sets everything out like a chef preparing to make a meal out of gauze and rubbing alcohol.

Your head has been throbbing for the past few hours. You’re not proud that you antagonized the wrong Apollo kid and got a shiner for it. You’re less proud that you came to Luke for help. Just like everyone else does.

“Come,” he gestures, tugging at the waistband of your pants. You scoot closer to him and swallow the weight of your pulse when he touches you.

Luke slowly presses the ice pack to your black eye, letting you hold it. “What did you do to earn this, anyway?” He asks, head tilted to the side.

You’re hissing because of the ice, half-consciously shifting into him. “The usual. Spat at him. Made fun of his daddy a little too much. Tripped him so he landed face-first in his offerings.”

“You did not,” Luke laments as he dots alcohol onto a cotton pad.

“You’re allowed to say you’re proud of me, Saint Castellan. I won’t tell. You can be mean.” Your voice drips with irony, and you hope it bothers him. The flex in his jaw gives it away.

“You’re always gonna be meaner,” is all he says back. “This is gonna hurt.”

It’s all the warning he gives before he presses the pad against your lip. The sting envelops you immediately, and your good eye squeezes shut. “Shit, ow!”

“Stop moving your mouth.”

“Fuck,” you swear anyway. Your lip burns so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

Luke holds your jaw with his other hand so you can’t shy away. “I’ll kiss it better,” he teases. “Almost done.”

You roll your eyes, but Luke takes the pad off a few moments later. “Serious question. How are you so awful to people all the time?”

A groan tears through your throat with such force your head tilts back. “Not you too! I don’t need a fucking reason, there is no reason. Why doesn’t anyone get that?”

“I’m not asking why. I’m asking how.”

He’s oddly serious, the caress of his thumb on your cheek far slower. You hate it when people want a reason why you’re like this, just to help them sleep at night. But from the bags lining Luke’s eyes, sleep doesn’t seem to be on his radar.

“I just don’t care,” you admit, shrugging. “I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about what they can do to me. I don’t care about anything.”

“…What about the Gods?”

It makes you cock your head. “Huh?”

“You wouldn’t care about them, either?”

You think, but only about which words to use. “No,” you decide, “They don’t scare me. They’re nothing. What are they gonna do to me?”

Luke snorts, almost nervously. “Uh, punish you for saying that, for one.”

You turn back to him, ice pack leaving your eye as you gesture. “How? By killing me? Pecking out my eyeballs? Burning me alive? I’m telling you, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. It’s all just nothing to me. I’m fucking unpunishable, I’d like to see them try.”

Huffing, you look back up at the firmament of stars. Luke says nothing.

The grass rustles as he shifts, and his mouth ghosts over the bruise on your eye. “Unpunishable,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out. Then he places an uncharacteristically gentle kiss just beneath your eye. And another just above. “We’ll see about that.”

You get that feeling again, the unbearable lightness in a place it shouldn’t be. Mixed with the poison lodged in your heart.

Luke kisses you, still so delicate that you wonder if he’s been body-snatched. If anything, your bleeding lip feels soothed against his. His hands cradle your face with no ferocity at all. It seems wrong.

“How do you feel?” He asks after pulling away, dark eyes nebulous and wide. The night usually sharpens his features. Now, they’ve been hushed.

“Um, better,” you reply.

He hums, laying a slow trail of kisses on your jaw. “Did you at least get the other guy?” He asks between kisses. “Like, did you hurt him?”

“Not really,” you divulge, wondering if you should feel shame.

“Why?” He’s made his way to your neck now, nudging your jaw up so he can kiss behind your ear.

“I’m not a fighter.” And, without warning, for a reason you will never, ever be able to explain, your tongue adds, “I’m a killer.”

Your own brows furrow. Luke pauses for a moment, but knocks his nose against your neck. “Guess one of us has to be.”

There’s no more fooling around. No snappy insults, no feverish kisses, no hunger to be satiated. Luke just checks you over a few more times, hides his med kit, and you both get up to sleep. But his hand wraps around your wrist, far less firm than when he dragged you here. “Stay in my bunk, heathen,” he offers. “Leave in the morning.”

You think you’re making a mistake when you agree, but it doesn’t feel like one.

The next day, after you’ve left Luke’s bunk, rumours float around camp that Luke Castellan accidentally butted some Apollo kid in the face with his sword during training. Caused a bloody, broken nose. Luke was very sorry, apologized profusely.

But you know, by the way he takes you behind the stables that night, that he didn’t mean a single damn word.

luke taglist: @sunniskyies @apollos-calliope @lillycore @sunny747 @m00ng4z3r @pabkeh @thaliagracesgf @theadventuresofanartist @bonnie-tz

rotten taglist: @thaliagracesgf

leave a pm/comment/ask if you'd like to be added to a taglist :)

#perrie’s fics #rotten to the touch #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan smut #luke castellan pjo #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #charlie bushnell #pjo x reader #luke castellan fic

2K notes · View notes

kitten4sannie · 1 year

Text

2 - ꜱᴏᴍɴᴏᴘʜɪʟɪᴀ - ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ

ɢʀᴏᴜᴘɪᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

part 2

pairing: guitarist! seonghwa x fem! reader feat. lead singer! san (he’s just there so there’s no smut involving him…yet 👀)

genre: band au, smut, angst that lasts for a split second

summary: you'd do anything for your favorite guitarist.

w.c: 2.1k

warnings: alcohol use, dom! seonghwa, sub! reader, free use, jealousy, dirty talk, fingering, marking, somnophilia, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: i've always wanted to write a band au so i was vibrating the entire time i wrote this fdhfshf. oh also i'm not going to be reblogging all the nice feedback i get during FFF only bc i don't want people's feeds to constantly be filled up with my replies yk? but i’ll respond to them in the comment section <3

FFF Masterlist

✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖

You’ve always been particularly drawn to the guitarist of a band. Sure, the lead singer was always cocky, full of himself, shameless, but usually had the charm and the looks to back it up. The bassist was usually kind, down to earth, and sweet most of the time. The drummer was confident and robust. But the guitarist…the guitarist was always something else — especially from your all-time favorite band: Paradigm Glitch.

Seonghwa was charming, so much so that he had you like a puppy on an invisible leash, always willing to answer his every beck and call. He had a ton of passion and fever, especially when it came to his beliefs. He was beyond beautiful, always catching your attention with his stark raven hair, his intense gaze, and his striking features. And of course, he was very, very good with his hands. You could go on and on, but your favorite band member would be starting a set soon.

“Y/N, put one leg up and spread your cunt open. Lemme get a better look,” Seonghwa commanded in a gruff voice, swinging his guitar strap around so that his guitar hung upside down off his back.

You leaned against the wall, glancing around the corner of the hallway, hearing some employees and his other band members grumbling about not being able to find Seonghwa for the nth time. “Hwa, you should just…”

“You’re the one who suggested free use,” he tsked, raking a hand through his hair, the silver jewelry hanging around his wrist jingling with his movement. “I said to put your leg up and spread your pretty cunt for me. So do it.”

You brought your leg up onto the extra speaker sitting on the floor next to you and lifted your skirt to show that you were going commando like usual, using your thumbs to spread your lips apart. "Like this, Hwa?"

"Mm, good girl," the guitarist praised huskily, immediately sliding two digits into you up to the knuckles, his various-sized rings stretching you out and offering you a pleasurable burning sensation. He buried his face in your neck, breathing in your flowery perfume, his plush lips attaching to your soft skin to leave a mark. He preferred to mark what was his.

Due to being a skilled guitarist after years and years of playing, his calloused fingers always brought you to a place of euphoria you could never reach without his help. He had you gripping the rough material of his jacket, barely able to contain your moans, your legs shaking beneath you.

"Gonna cum..." you exhaled weakly, your voice barely making it out of your dry throat.

"Cum, then." Seonghwa continued pounding his fingers into you, slipping in a third and eagerly rubbing your g-spot, your arousal eventually spilling out onto the concrete floor below.

"Hwa...! Oh my god!"

After bringing his cum-coated fingers up to his lips to clean them, Seonghwa grabbed your chin and gave your jaw a kiss, leaving your essence on your skin. “I’ll see you later, baby," he cooed into your ear, walking away and leaving you breathless like he always did.

You stood in the corner of the tour bus, downing a bottle of dark beer, surrounded by tons of loud, drunken people that you didn’t know or cared to know.

“Y/N, hey,” San, the lead singer of the band, addressed you, leaning against the wall beside you and prodding your side with his elbow. “Why do you look so sad, huh?”

Wiping your mouth, you glanced over at him, your hazy eyes focusing on his lip ring, before looking across the bus at Seonghwa, who had his arms around two fans. “Seonghwa hasn’t talked to me all night. He’s too busy entertaining those whores over there.”

San chuckled, grabbing a cold beer from a guy nearby, popping off the cap, and replacing your old one, prompting you to take a few long swigs. “Can you really blame him?”

You shot him a fiery look, muttering, “I should be his whore. Not them.”

San licked his lips, unconsciously prodding his piercing with the tip of his tongue. “That’s hot. Since he’s so busy, want to give me a ride?”

Though San was attractive — insanely attractive at that, you were far too focused on Seonghwa. You wanted him. Needed him. But you weren't about to beg for it. “Maybe next time, San.”

He leaned close to your ear, his breath hitting your skin. “Promise you’ll let me put a baby in you?”

You almost choked on the bitter liquid, but swallowed it down anyway. “Why would you want to do that?”

He shrugged. “I like filling up whores with my cum. Is there something wrong with that?”

San didn't have a filter. He said exactly what he was thinking. Did whatever he wanted. This showed up in his lyrics, his raw vocals, and his facial expressions, mesmerizing everyone in the crowd. This way of life especially affected his behavior while up on stage. You couldn't even keep track of how many guitars he smashed during this tour alone.

Being reminded of how incredibly hot San was, you were almost tempted to backtrack and take him up on his offer, but when Seonghwa eyed you from across the room and gave you a crooked smile, your mind was made up.

“I gotta go…” you mumbled, taking a big swig of the beer and pushing it into the lead singer’s broad chest, walking away into the sea of people.

“Damn.” To distract himself from his bruising ego, San tilted his head back and chugged down the rest of your beer. Wiping his mouth, he turned to his left to start a conversation with a few girls that had been eye-fucking him since he got on the bus.

Fueled by jealousy and desire, you walked up to Seonghwa and ran a manicured finger along the curve of your neck, where he had left his mark on you. “Want to give me another one of these, Hwa?”

Despite the two girls almost fuming at your forward question, Seonghwa chuckled, rubbing a bit of smeared mascara from one of his eyelids. “I always do, baby. I’ll be paying you a visit later on tonight, okay?”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Later on?”

“Mm-hmm. I’m kinda busy right now." He motioned with his head to one of the girls, encouraging them to give you a smug look and lean closer to him just to spite you.

You rolled your eyes, mumbling, “Whatever,” looking as unbothered as humanly possible, before heading back into the crowd and grabbing a random bystander’s beer, taking a swig of it.

Seonghwa watched you disappear in the flow of people, blowing a bit of air out of his nose, smiling softly to himself. He always found your messiness to be endearing, rather than concerning. He was a rockstar, after all. He did a lot worse things himself: participated in illicit drug use, got into a worrying amount of bar fights, and hosted way too many orgies to even count, so who was he to judge you for being so attached to him?

You weaved past drunk strangers and people that might’ve been inside of each other, eventually pushing past a door that led to the deluxe bunk section. You walked up to of one the tip bunks that Seonghwa used and pulled the privacy curtain to the side, not expecting to see San tangled up around both of the girls, his hair messy as all hell, his shirt off and tossed onto the corner of the mattress, and streaks of red lipstick littered all across his melanin skin. That was the final straw.

He turned his head back in your direction, slowly pulling his fingers out of the girl’s mouth, giving you a nervous smile. “I was jus–”

“Just get out of here and go fuck on your own bed!” you cut him off with a brief command, pointing in the direction of San’s bunk with your beer, trying to do it as menacingly as possible. “I don’t want to hear your dumbass excuse.”

San sighed softly, getting off of the bed with his t-shirt in his hand, about to follow the girls that were heading in the direction you pointed, but stopping near you. “I got a load with your name on it, Y/N. Just say the word.” Amused by the shock that overtook your blushing face, he patted your shoulder and walked past you, about to dive into his bed.

He really was something else, you had to admit, but your mind was still focused solely on Seonghwa. You kicked off your shoes, chugged the beer and tossed it into the trash, then collapsed dramatically onto the mattress, falling asleep after a few minutes of ruminating.

Pulling yourself out of a dream, it took you a few seconds to realize what was happening. You heard the springs in the bed squeaking underneath you first, then you felt the pressure and heavy weight of something incredibly hot sliding in and out of you. Not only that, but your thighs ached a bit where something was squeezing into them.

“God, baby, you’re so tight even in your sleep…” Seonghwa sighed, gripping your thighs and spreading them farther apart, gazing down at your half-naked body. He hunched over you, his pants dropping past his upper thighs, his loose tank top hanging low enough to give you a view of his sweat-covered chest, breathing heavily as though he had been going at it for quite a while.

"Seong...hwa..." You opened your eyes, gazing up at the man with stars in your glossy eyes, wrapping your arms around him, holding him close to you. "Please...."

"Please, what?" He brought his lips to your neck, sucking and biting at your sensitive skin, taking pleasure in the moans and whimpers you let out.

"Harder, Hwa..."

"Yeah?" Seonghwa pulled himself away from your bruising neck to sit up, lifting your lower half up from the mattress, beginning to pound into you at a deeper angle, hearing you gasp, your face contorting from the pleasure. "Mm, just like that, huh, baby? You like it right there?"

"Yes, fuck yes...!" you moaned out, your lower-half pulsing and almost trembling from how close you were to cumming. "Oh god, I'm gonna cum, Hwa..."

He pressed his lips to your cheek, just beside your lips, murmuring, "Shhh, you don’t want to wake the other members, do you? Or do you want them to hear you cumming for me?”

You shook your head, a bit of drool leaving your the corner of your mouth. “I don’t care if they hear, Hwa…They should know I’m yours…”

“Mm, then cum with me," he commanded in a shaky tone, his hips suddenly smacking into yours at a rapid speed, overwhelming you in the process and making you unravel just before he did.

"Hwa..." You ran your fingers through his damp raven hair, simply admiring his beauty, as he slowly rode out his orgasm, still sliding in and out of you.

"Don't look at me like that, baby..." he whispered, pulling out of you and laying down beside you, giving your temple a small kiss. "I'll fall in love."

You didn't say anything back, instead burying your face into the crook of his neck, slipping your fingers back into his hair, stroking the ends of it. It wouldn't be fair to take him away from so many adoring fans, only because you knew you wouldn't be able to handle having to share him with everyone if he was yours one day.

You both laid there for a while, the buzzing of your brains and bodies eventually fading away, prompting you to break the silence, your lips forming a pout. "Can you fuck me when I'm awake next time? I want to see you. And I want to feel everything you're doing to me..."

Seonghwa ran his fingers through your equally damp hair, bringing his mouth to your neck to give you another mark, mumbling against your skin, "But you did feel everything. Even in your sleep, you were moaning and whining my name."

Your cheeks flushed with color, wondering if you were saying his name simply because you always seemed to dream about him. "Can you wake me up tomorrow the exact same way?"

He clutched your chin, bringing his lips to your jaw to kiss you in the same spot he always did. "What kind of question is that, baby?"

✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖

Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

FFF: @hwalysm @scuzmunkie @creativechaoticloner @dilucpegg3r @yeosxxx @gemjimin @wonwowzers

#ateez #ateez smut #seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa smut #seonghwa x reader #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #seonghwa x you #ateez x y/n #seonghwa x y/n #kpop smut #atz #ateez x you #ateez fanfiction #ateez oneshot #february filth fest

791 notes · View notes

lilyrizzy · 3 months

Text

revealing myself as the author of this kinkmeme fic & cross-posting here bc why not! romeo & juliet au

Shoving his way through the dancing bodies, Max searches for something to bring him relief from his pounding head, his sweating palms. The faces belonging to the bodies are all blurred, occasionally shifting into focus to reveal the gold-trimmed, bold-coloured masks that most of the partygoers have opted for in place of a real costume.

The metal armour of Max’s own creaks as he moves, but the noise is lost underneath the thrumming of the bass. It repeats only inside his head with every step he takes, the memory of it captured earlier in the quiet of Helmut’s drawing room as he and the boys had prepared to leave.

Don’t go making trouble tonight, they had been warned, but that had before the endless shots hand delivered by Gianni, the pill Martin had presented to him with a sly grin.

Let ’s have some fucking fun.

The fun burnt up just as fast as the ecstasy in Max’s bloodstream, until all that remained of the vibrant colours and wondrous elation was his pounding heart and the grinding of his back teeth.

Stumbling out from the crowd, he makes his way back to the same bathroom he and Martin had giggled their way out of only an hour or so earlier. With shaking hands he plugs and fills the sink, dipping his head underneath the gold faucet when it is only halfway full because he can’t wait a second longer to fill his burning throat with cold liquid. When it’s near the point of overflowing, he dunks his entire face into the bowl.

The cold has prickles erupt over his scolding cheeks, like a thousand tiny needles dancing on the surface of his skin. It’s a pleasurable pain, sweet relief followed quickly with a growing, then agonising discomfort. Lifting his head when he can take no more, he stares at himself in the jewel-framed mirror, watching the water slide down his face and drip from his chin as he pants.

His silver mask floats on top of the cool pool or water, but he doesn’t move to place it back over his eyes.

Let them throw him out; he’s ready to go home anyway.

He swipes a hand over his face, and then across his head. Hours ago he had a helmet as part of his costume, and he wishes he still did to hide his dripping wet hair. It’s long since been lost in the chaos of the evening.

Nobody throws a party like Horner. Max’s pupils are still dilated, his cheeks still flushed pink in testament to that well-regarded fact.

The flush of a toilet behind him disturbs his dissociation and has him pushing away from the sink. He means to make his way back towards the party, but his steps are sluggish and lingering, unsure of where to go. Gianni was his ride, but only a few moments before Max had escaped from the sweating mass of dancers he’d spied him at the bar, helping himself to a bottle of whiskey.

Away from the main hall, the music is quieter, a low murmur punctuated only by the vibration through the floorboards underneath Max’s feet. Every room he has seen has the same garish decor, crystal chandeliers glistening overhead, rich velvet drapes of royal red and forest green drawn across every window to conceal the depravity occurring inside from the respectable front the Horner family portray to the outside. This one, stuck between the place where they snort their drugs and the place where they dance them away is no different.

Showing off their new money Helmut would scoff, like he didn’t compete for the same back alley jobs as Christian, didn’t fill the same corrupt officer’s pockets, just on different days of the week.

To Max, a beautiful thing is a beautiful thing.

Glancing around with awe that would no doubt have his father disown him, something sparkles in the corner of Max’s eye, capturing his attention. Turning towards it, he sees it is the ripple of water trapped inside an enormous tank he didn't notice earlier. Fish every shade of the rainbow gliding through it with ease.

The colours are so bold that Max almost wants to rub his eyes again. To pinch himself, remind himself that it is time to wake himself up from his drug-induced stupor, but-

As he steps closer to the glass with a small smile, eyes tracing the movement of the beautiful creatures, something warmer slides into focus.

Deep brown eyes tracing the same fish Max is, wide in a kind of wonder. Then, meeting his through the ripples of water, wider still.

Max’s breath catches in his throat, as he blinks the rest of the face into focus. In an instance, every extravagance of the evening fades into insignificance, becomes a poor imitation of the beauty held in the teasing curve of lips that the stranger offers him through the glass when Max cannot tear his gaze away.

There’s more than lovely eyes; dark curls, a proud nose and tanned skin. Against the white feathered wings that sit just above his shoulders, it looks the colour of honey and Max imagines would be just as sweet to taste. There is dark ink snaking across his bared collarbones like vines that speak of nothing angelic, and instead only of Max’s desire to consume.

Is this what it feels like, to fall in love?

Hello, Max mouthes almost helplessly through the layers of glass and captive ocean between them. When the man only raises an eyebrow, questioning, Max raises a hand and waves.

This gets him laughed at. Instead of embarrassment, it’s pleasure that has his cheeks burn as a giggle slips from his own lips, fogging the glass in front of him. He resists the urge to press his face against it to see the man better.

Instead, he steps to the left, meaning to move around the fish tank and see the man with only air and no water between them. Wants to move closer until there’s nothing between them at all.

The man seems to have other ideas.

He steps quickly in the opposite direction to which Max walks, teasing. Max stops, raising his eyebrows in his own question, but the man only bites his lip as though trying to hide his grin. Around them, people pass by- or at least they must. Max hardly notices, as though the world has narrowed to only the two of them.

Max steps backwards and again the man evades by stepping back in the direction he just came. For a few moments, they continue like this. No matter which way Max moves, the man dances the opposite way, no longer trying to hide his smirk. Max finds that despite it being at his expense it is a smile easy to return, the way no other has been before it.

Finally, the man's face splits into joyous laughter that Max can just about hear. His body tumbles against the glass as though he has knocked himself from his feet with his own silliness, the palms of both his hands pressing against it. On several of his fingers, there are gold rings that the light through the water dances off.

Max finds himself laughing also, raising his own hands to touch the tank, as though he could press against the man's skin through it.

When the laughing has subsided, the man steps back, raising one finger to beckon Max to him. Max goes, powerless against his need to give this stranger whatever he wants. This time, he doesn’t move when Max steps around the tank until they are face to face with no body of water between them.

“Hello,” Max says again, and this time he doesn’t wave. His blood is hot from their game, thrumming in his veins. Now it is easy to see the rest of the man's costume, a white slip that meets the floor, the hem edged with golden thread.

It is normal at these parties, for men to go in women's clothing. Martin himself is tonight sporting a denim mini skirt and strapless, tiny top borrowed from Victoria for the occasion. This man's outfit is much more tasteful, of course.

A good girl, Max wants to say nonsensically, just to see if he could get the man to blush.

There is no modesty, however. Instead, there is a slit in the fabric of the skirt that travels all the way up to the man's hipbone, a plunging neckline. One strap is dangling just off his shoulder, and it would only take one nudge of Max’s fingertips to reveal his tit, his nipple that would no doubt be the same rose colour as his mouth. This knowledge feels particularly indecent to the lion prowling in Max’s chest, looking to devour.

Though raised to be classy in his own way, reserved and polite, his upbringing abandons him in favour of molten desire pooling in his stomach as he steps closer, and closer, until the man's back is pressed firmly against the wall behind him.

His fingertips itch with the need to touch, but is places them instead on the brick at either side of the man’s head. He’s still laughing; Max wonders if he knows how not to.

“A knight in shining armour,” the man says, eyes sliding from Max’s face down to his toes, in a way that makes Max want to strip it all from his body, lay his flesh bare for more of the same interested gaze. “Very original.”

The teasing edge to his voice is bolder than Max is used to from strangers, startling more laughter from him also.

“What, you do not like it?” He asks, placing a hand over his breastplate, where just underneath his heart is beating for a different reason than the drugs. “I suppose, of course, a fairy is much better.”

He lowers one of his hands to tug playfully at the feathered wing protruding between the man’s back and the brick wall Max has him backed up against.

It is the stranger’s turn to sound affronted.

“I’ll have you know, I’m an angel,” he insists, and he mimes looping a halo around his dark curls with an outstretched index finger. “I just lost my halo dancing.”

Max smirks, then presses a thumb to the man’s plush bottom lip. Immediately, his eyelids flutter shut and his mouth slips open. Hearing his breath hitch has Max’s cock- trapped inside his stupid costume- twitch with interest.

“How lucky,” he murmurs, leaning in so the words are half breathed across the angel’s parted lips, “that you fell from heaven, just for me.”

Girls in his position would usually swoon at Max’s interest, but the man laughs and throws his head back, his eyes still closed. It makes his curls fan out against the dark brickwork, makes his body arch up into Max’s.

“You need to get some better chat up lines,” he says, but his voice is breathy, like he cannot drag enough air into his lungs to make the insult land the way it should. Max silences him by pressing his hips harder against him, unable to help flick his gaze downwards, desperate to see where the man is pressed into Max’s body, wanting to know- Unable to feel because of the hard metal separating them.

If only he was wearing nothing more than an elaborate bedsheet, like-

“Tell me your name,” Max pleads, hand moving from the man’s lips to the back of his head, wanting to protect his delicate-looking curls from the rough scrape of the wall.

The man's eyes slit open again. It sends a thrill through Max, how the man can look him dead in the eye the way the women he’s had never can.

“Where would be the fun in that?” He asks. His hands have fallen by his sides, palms flat against the wall behind him, as though caught somewhere between surrender and submission.

Max makes a noise of consideration, before dropping his mouth down daringly to press against the ink on the man’s shoulder. This close, he can see that they are tiny rose buds in various states of bloom.

“I can think of other ways we can have fun,” Max counters, slotting a leg between the man’s thighs. He hisses, hips rutting against Max, as his lips continue to graze over the delicate skin of his throat. “I could have lots of fun with you, in my bed.”

He would be lying to say it didn’t give him some kind of thrill, taking something so beautiful for himself under the roof of his lifelong enemies, in front of their eyes, but at the same time- This was more. A treasure too precious to be shared.

Even so, Max’s hand snakes under the skirt of his costume, finding the deliciously smooth skin of his angel's inner thigh.

“Let me take you home,” he pleads again, nose brushing against his, as his fingertips inch higher and higher. “Just having this has ruined me for anyone else, I-”

There’s a flurry of noise behind him, the sound of shouts and a door crashing open. Still, it takes the calling of his name in Martin’s frantic tones to have Max dragging his face away from the strangers, looking over his shoulder.

“Max!” Martin says, his pleading face coming into focus, penetrating the light of Max’s personal heaven “Mate, we have to run. Gianni’s been found out, and-“

He pauses, looking between Max’s face and then his lover's. Eyes growing wide, Max is about to ask what the fuck the matter is when Martin is clutching his arm hard and yanking him away with a few forceful tugs.

“What the fuck!” Max spits, looking apologetically back to the man, except-

Except his own eyes are wide now, with fear. They’re fixed on the pendant that Martin wears around his neck, Helmut’s crest, which has slipped from underneath his costume.

“Really, Max, we need to- I don’t think you want Horner to catch you feeling up his golden boy,” Martin says again, desperate, and everything finally slots into place inside Max’s love-drugged brain.

“Daniel,” he whispers, glancing back at his- At the angel.

“Max,” is all he replies, something between salvation and despair. Then, pushing off from the wall and reaching as though to catch Max’s hand, he says firmer, “wait, Max-“

But Max is already running.

---

Later, in Gianni’s car, Martin doesn’t excitedly tell the story of how he caught Max nearly fucking the son of their enemy, the way he would had it been any other conquest. Some lines, in their world, are too bold and bloody to cross.

Instead, he sneaks quiet glances at Max as they drive away from the Horner mansion, as though there is a question burning on the tip of his tongue that he doesn’t dare to ask. It becomes so irritating that Max has to close his eyes.

In the darkness behind his lids, he sees Daniel again. This time, there is the shine of a halo above his head that illuminates the rest of him, bathes him in gold. The knowledge of who he is does nothing to sever the pull Max’s heart feels towards his, his only regret of the evening being he didn’t take more while it was so ripe and real underneath his fingertips.

“Max,” Gianni questions, but his voice sounds far away as though Max’s ears are in the water of the fish tank. “What has gotten you so mellow? Too much to drink?”

Martin scoffs, something pitifully knowing in his voice.

“He’s gone and fallen in love.”

#fic #max/daniel

85 notes · View notes

silaswritesthings · 11 months

Text

Scaramouche royalty au thing

Summary: You and Prince Scaramouche were lovers but you didn’t believe he was sincere with his feelings for you until he kissed you at some important ballroom event.

Starring: Scaramouche/Wanderer

Genre: Romance, royalty au, second person’s pov (you/your), angst to fluff

Warnings: There’s one kiss

Author’s note: I accidentally wrote something else about Scaramouche. I literally just sat down and decided to practice my writing style by describing his face? And then it turned into this. My bad. (Yes its possible to accidentally write almost 1k words). Proofread ONCE by me. Likes, comments (especially now because im experimenting with my writing style), reblogs and new followers will always be appreciated!

Word count: 866

(Adding a gif bc he’s pretty)

Rare magic shone from his wisteria eyes underneath the moonlight, his raven hair dancing around the figure of the mask that clung to his face. That mask… it was an unwanted barrier. You wanted- no, needed to see the man behind that mask. The man whose lips melted against yours not so long ago under the rush of the moment you shared, one moment among many, under the chandeliers that shimmered like stars above you in the ballroom. The same ballroom that was coated in silver and gold with people dressed expensively to impress the fine tastes of the prince, among those fine tastes was you (he would claim).

The same prince who was the man before you.

The same man who held you all those times you shared your burdens and responsibilities as the heir of one the many noble families. The same man who snuck out of the castle to see you all those nights. The same man who made you promises you couldn't bring yourself to believe yet you reveled in them, you spent hours every day dreaming about all those promises which, at the end of the day, would be sweet little nothings because he was a prince and you were undeserving to bound to him. His words, while sweet, were just weaved in delusion.

This is just a temporary fixation.

"Say something." His words were like shattered glass tearing at the doubt you harbored for all the time you’ve known you were in love with him. Was he truly in love with you all this time? Were you wrong for thinking he was simply drawn to you because of curiosity? That you were a phase?

“I don’t know what to say.” You lied, not daring to look into those eyes that always reflected the night sky like a mirror. Those eyes that were always filled with either malice (a facade he perfected as the heir to the throne), wonder or mischief and nothing in between; nothing outside of that either. Not until he met you. You were like a door to so many emotions that he embraced with open arms because it was you. It was always you. It will always be you. Even when you made his heart throb in despair, like right now when it looked like you would reject him and his love because you didn’t believe in his sincerity. He could see right through you and he wished he couldn’t but how could he ever blame you for this? After all, deceit was second hand nature to those of his bloodline.

But he’d throw away everything he had to his name to be with you.

“If you want… I could give the throne away to my sister.” Scaramouche stepped toward you, the hesitation in his movements did not go unnoticed by either of you.

“It’s not your title that’s the problem.” You swallowed hard, the night was cold and clear yet you found it hard to breathe. “It’s you.”

“Whatever it is about me, I’ll change it.” He did not hesitate this time.

“You can’t just throw away everything you have and everything you are just because you claim to love me!” You snapped, eyes narrowed at the prince before you but you were not angry at him. You were angry at yourself for letting things get this far.

“I do not merely claim to love you, I live it.”

You were angry at how he made it so easy to give him your heart.

“It is a part of my being and I do not wish to change that.”

You were angry at how he asked you to dance as his parents, as everyone, watched.

“Are you even listening?”

You were angry at how he held you, how he kissed you like you were more precious than existence itself.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” He trailed off when he realized that you were crying. He was crying.

Not more than a moment later, his hands had cradled your face. For the dozenth time that night, you were lost in those wisteria eyes again. How long will you resist? Scaramouche did not wish to declare that he was yours in your stead forever.

“Marry me.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a demand either. It was a fact… he did propose a few nights before the ball and you said yes but then you believed he was delusional. Then, his words were like the leaves in autumn which were bound to fall and disappear. But now? Things were a little different.

Your hands followed the outline of his mask which cast a shadow on the skin of his damp cheeks. After a gentle tug on the ribbon on the back of Scaramouche’s head, the mask fell to the ground with a quiet thud. Seeing his face fully has never failed to steal your breath in the past and tonight was no exception.

“I’ll marry you.” The words were as natural as the cold sting of the night breeze which was soon replaced with warmth as Scaramouche embraced you. You closed the distance between your lips to seal whatever fate you decided for yourselves.

292 notes · View notes

thedancingcostumeyoungadult · 2 years

Text

The Office Across the Hall - S.R.

Your boyfriend Spencer is working towards his PhD, and when he finishes with flying colors the two of you just have to celebrate.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

(This started as a smaller, much different blurb but then I had the thought of “how much would Spencer have loved being called ‘doctor’ for the first time and how horny would it have made him?” and I just had to write it. Also I aged him up a lil to be like 25 bc I needed this to be s2 Spence and Reader is the same age, just working on her Master’s instead.)

Word count ~3800

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, established relationship, some dom/sub dynamics, nicknames/titles (doctor, sweetheart, good girl, etc.), voyeurism? maybe? a little? I don't know, Boob man Spence, oral sex (implied, fem receiving), riding, choking, uhh I think that’s it

Spencer can just barely see you from his desk in the TA’s office, and he hopes no one can see the way he cranes his neck for a better look. You sit in the administrative office across the hall, tapping your pen idly on your desk as you read the hefty textbook sitting in front of you. His eyes wander, up the graceful slope of your neck, the slight furrow between your brows, your plump lower lip, currently drawn absently between your teeth. A warm tingle runs up his spine as he imagines himself biting your lip, what sweet little sounds he could coax out of you. His gaze changes directions, traveling instead to the glimmer of the delicate silver chain around your throat, the pendant hanging from it sitting perfectly just above your heart. There his gaze lingers, the gentle rise and fall of your chest making the stone in the pendant sparkle.

The white fabric of your sundress sits in contrast to your tanned skin, still glowing from the summer. The dress’ cut, which he thinks he heard referred to as a “milkmaid dress” once, frames your curves perfectly. You aren’t wearing a bra, a fact made evident by the thin spaghetti straps of the dress and the dip of your neckline as you lean forward to grab a highlighter from the cup. Spencer’s heart stutters as he lets his eyes trace over the ample swell of your breasts, the gathered fabric of your bodice only allowing a tantalizing glimpse before you’re settling back in your seat. Much to his frustration, his line of sight is temporarily blocked as a student enters the office, moving out of the way just in time to allow him to see you flash them a dazzling smile. The student asks you something, and Spencer can just barely hear your clear, sweet voice reply, but he can’t make out the words. A light blush rises in his cheeks as you stand, the textbook forgotten as you go to the filing cabinet against the back wall. He can see you fully now, the skirt of your dress clinging to your hips and thighs, which sway intoxicatingly. The breath catches in his lungs as you crouch down, balancing on the balls of your feet as you search for something in the drawers. The fabric of your dress pulls tightly around your ass as you do, accentuating your waist and hips. He shifts in his chair, his slacks quickly becoming a little too tight. When you straighten, your skirt takes a second to fall back down, the slit on one side offering him a glimpse of your thigh, which only made his situation worse. He wants to pull down your bodice, hike the skirt up around your waist, and bury himself between your thighs. Images flash across his mind of how you would look splayed out on his bed, or seated on his desk, or-

He clenches his jaw, fighting to maintain what was left of his composure, his breath already going ragged as he watches you return to your seat. The student talking to you finally leaves, and as they do your eyes find him. For a brief, electric second, you hold his gaze, and Spencer feels like all the air has been sucked out of the building. Then you smile at him, and he can feel the flush on his cheeks flare up as he returns the gesture. You waste no time in returning to your book, and Spencer forces himself to look down at the papers littering his desk. He tries to read them, but the images still racing through his mind make it impossible. In his pocket, the buzz of his phone pulls him out of his head and he reaches for it, fishing it out and flipping the screen on.

Y/N: My place tonight?

You can feel him watching you. His gaze burns into you as you pretend to focus on the textbook open on your desk. Every nerve in your body stands at attention, focused solely on the man in the office across the hall. You see him in your mind’s eye, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, high cheekbones cast in sharp shadow, beautiful and angular. The tension hangs thick between the two of you, intense yet invisible to the casual observer. The hammering of your heart in your chest almost makes you lightheaded as you reach out to pluck a highlighter from the cup in the corner of your desk, leaning forward just a little more than necessary before settling back. A voice breaks the spell, making you snap your head up to see who it was.

“Hi.” A student you don't recognize stands by the door, obviously a freshman.

“Hey, how can I help you?” You flash a quick smile at them, remembering how nerve wracking the first week of your college career had been.

“Uh, I need to add a class, do you know how I can do that?” Pushing back your chair, you turn to the filing cabinet.

“Yeah let me just grab the form.” Once again you can feel Spencer’s gaze as you crouch, your dress riding up your thigh as you rifle through the cabinet drawer. You picked this dress on purpose, knowing how well it highlights your figure and you know he notices. Finding the form, you stand back up, making no move to fix the skirt as you hand the paper off to the kid.

“Fill this out and get a signature from the professor, then turn it back in in the box right over there.” They thank you and hurry out the door. That’s when your eyes find Spencer’s. He rests his chin on the heel of his hand, knuckles pressed against his lips, his glasses doing nothing to dim the intensity of his gaze, exactly how you’d pictured him not a minute before. Your stomach flutters as you give him a smile, and a light blush prickles across your cheeks when he smiles back. Reluctantly, you turn your eyes back to your book, but they only stay there for a second. You can’t help yourself as you glance up, finding him engrossed in the papers stacked on his desk. A smirk plays at the corner of your mouth as you fish your phone out of your bag and quickly tap out a message. The reply comes through mere moments later, another round of butterflies rising in your belly at the words on the screen.

Spencer: Wouldn’t miss it for the world, pretty girl.

Spencer doesn’t get more than a few steps into your apartment before his hands find your waist and he’s pulling you against his chest. You laugh softly as he presses close to your back, his arms wrapping around your middle while he nuzzles his face against your neck.

"Do you need something, Doctor Reid?" One of his large hands slides down your thigh, the heat of his skin burning through the thin fabric as he bunches it into his fist.

"You can't call me that yet, sweetheart, remember?" Your hand finds his hair and you tangle your fingers in the curls, pulling lightly. He groans softly against your skin.

"Mmm, but it sounds so good." You hum. In an instant, Spencer spins you around and crashes his lips against yours, winding his fingers through your hair. The kiss sends your head spinning and you clutch at him for balance. As suddenly as he'd started kissing you, he pulls away, leaving you flushed and breathless. His hands drop to your waist and he walks you backwards.

"I know it does, sweetheart." He murmurs as he guides you down the hall and through your bedroom door. "That’s why the second I've finished my dissertation defense,” he kicks the door shut behind him, “I am going to come home and I am going to make you scream it." He practically growls the last few words, his lips grazing the skin below your ear and sending ecstatic sparks down your spine. Your hands fly back to his hair as he begins to lavish wet, sloppy kisses down your neck, needy and desperate whines falling from your lips.

“Promise?” You gasp out, pressing your hips against his and grinding lightly. The friction makes him groan against your pulse, his hands grabbing roughly at your ass and kneading, in turn making you whine as he grinds his hard cock against you.

“I promise.” You become putty in his hands as his lips travel slowly downwards, past the pendant hanging about your neck until his lips brush the skin just above the neckline of your dress. His hands leave your ass, instead his fingers hook into the straps of your dress, dragging them down off your shoulders until your tits spring free from the fabric. You back arches automatically, presenting him with the best view as they bounce lightly.

“So beautiful.” He murmurs against your sternum, peppering little kisses down the valley between your breasts. Warm hands skim up under your skirt and hook under the waistband of your thong, dragging the baby pink lace down over your hips. They catch between your thighs, the fabric already warm and wet with your arousal. You shimmy your hips to let them fall the rest of the way to the floor and Spencer’s hands travel back upward, fingertips digging lightly into your soft flesh. He attaches his lips to your breast as he walks you the rest of the way to the bed, sucking and biting a mark into your flesh as his hands gather your skirt around your thighs. Your legs hit the bed and you sit down, whimpering as Spencer’s mouth leaves your skin. Standing above you, Spencer grins down at you as he tugs his tie open, discarding it on the floor before sinking to his knees, his hands wrapping around your thighs and propping them on his shoulders.

“Lie back for me, darling, I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

Your nerves are buzzing as you glance at the clock. Twenty minutes and thirty-seven seconds have passed since you’d received Spencer’s text, which simply read:

Coming home

The ticking of the clock echoes in your ears as you try to focus on the book in your hand, your leg bouncing anxiously. He’ll be walking through that door any second. You’re sure he passed, but a tiny part of your mind worries that he didn’t. He would be devastated, this PhD means the world to him. The jingle of keys in the lock makes you bolt out of the chair, the book landing discarded on the carpet. You only make it a few steps towards the door before it swings open, and Spencer rushes through, slamming it shut behind him as his eyes fix on you. His eyes are unreadable and slightly wild, his chest heaving like he’d run up the stairs. He probably had. You freeze in your tracks as he stares at you, his back pressed against the door.

“I did it.” His voice is low and breathless, tinged with something heavier. Your eyes go wide as you register what he said. Letting out a squeal, you dash towards him, almost tripping over furniture on the way.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” He meets you halfway, scooping you off the ground as you throw yourself at him, showering his face with kisses and laughing as he spins you around. His lips find yours as he lowers you back to the ground. You lean into him, making out slowly, savoring the triumphant moment. After a while, you have to come up for air, resting your foreheads together while your hands cradle his face.

“Say it. I want you to be the first.” Your eyes snap open to find him studying you intently, the brilliant sparkle dancing in his eyes making your heart flutter as you tilt your head so your lips brush against his.

“Congratulations, Doctor Spencer Reid.” You purr, and with a low groan he sweeps you into another burning kiss that makes your head swim and heat bloom in your belly. His hands slip under your shirt, tracing burning trails up your sides and making you gasp against his lips as they find your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples between slender, nimble fingers. Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging at them as you kiss him back ferociously. He catches your lower lip between his teeth, sucking and nipping harshly but grinning against your kiss when you let out a high-pitched whine. His hands leave your tits, instead sliding down to loop under your thighs and lift you into his arms.

You cling to him as you wrap your legs around his waist, letting him carry you into the living room and settle on the couch with you straddling him, the fabric of your shorts already soaked as his clothed hard-on presses against you. No sooner had he sat down than your fingers were working at the buttons of his shirt while your mouth left his to travel down his neck, grazing your teeth over his pulse. His hands grip your hips to hold you in place as he bucks harshly against you, his head falling back to give you better access. The friction glows through your veins, making you moan loudly. You finally manage to open his shirt fully, running your palms up his stomach then dragging your nails back down. He jumps a little, a shiver running up his spine as a choked moan forces its way out of his throat. When you start to trail kisses down his chest, his hand tangles in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you sharply back up, forcing you to look at him. You give him your best doe eyes, the sting of his hold on your hair only sending a fresh gush of heat to your core.

“As tempting as fucking your pretty mouth is, sweetheart, I promised I’d make you scream tonight, and you can’t do that with a cock in your mouth, can you?” His words shoot liquid fire straight to your pussy and you whine, grinding desperately against his bulge. He tilts his head, gazing sternly at you with his eyebrows pulled tightly together.

“Answer me.” The command isn’t harsh or mean, just firm.

“No, Doctor, I can’t.” His face relaxes into an adoring smile, his hand releasing your hair to smooth stray locks out of your face.

“Good girl.” He draws your lips to his, enveloping you in his arms. He kisses you again, his tongue slipping between your lips as you make out.

“I wanna make you feel good, you’ve worked so hard.” You roll your hips, grinding slowly against his erection, your core aching with desire as it presses against the damp fabric.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” His hands smooth over your sides to play with the hem of your top as his lips brush against your skin. He noses at your cheek, making you tilt your head to expose more of your neck. “You always make me feel good, pretty girl. Can I take this off?” You’re nodding before he even finishes the question, lifting your arms for him to pull the fabric up over your head. The second you’re free of the garment, his face is buried in your breasts, his hands kneading at the soft flesh lovingly while he mouths at them, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You know he’d stay there forever if he could, happy to suck on your tits while you whimper and squirm in his lap.

“Spencer.” You mewl, tangling your hand in his hair and pressing his face impossibly closer to your chest. His lips don’t leave your flesh as his hands guide you to scoot back on his lap, allowing him to open his belt and undo his slacks. With a soft pop, he lets your nipple fall from his mouth, a string of spit trailing from your hard bud to his plump, flushed lower lip. Before you can think about it, you take your thumb and swipe it away, bringing the pad of the finger into your own mouth and licking it off slowly. His eyes are nearly black as he watches your lips close around it, the pale lavender nail polish that you chose just for him peeking out from between your pink lips.

“Stand up and take your shorts off.” The knot in your stomach tightens as he growls the words and you do as instructed, sliding off of his lap and standing before him. You push the pajama shorts off your hips and let them fall to the floor while Spencer does the same with his slacks and boxers, his achingly hard cock springing up to rest against his belly as he settles back into the couch. Your core flutters at the sight, your thighs already slick with arousal. He reaches for you, guiding you gently back into his lap.

“You wanted to make me feel good, sweet girl?” He hisses as your soaking heat brushes his shaft and you nod. One of his hands wraps around your hip, pulling you up to your knees, as the other wraps around his cock, lining it up with your entrance. The hand on your hip tightens as the head slips inside, a bright flush already rising in your body at the intrusion. You lower yourself onto him, whining as his thick length splits you open. The breath is nearly knocked out of your lungs as you take him to the hilt, the blunt head pressing impossibly deep. He lets out a strangled groan as you bottom out, his head rocking back against the cushions as he fights to refrain from fucking into you. “Ride my cock, baby.” He grits out after giving you a moment to adjust.

“Yes, Doctor.” Your breathy moan is met with a low, desperate noise from Spencer, who surges forward to kiss you, his hands gripping harshly at your hips.

“Say it again.” He demands, trailing open, sloppy kisses across your cheek and down your neck.

“Yes, Doctor.” His head rocks back against the cushions as you grind down on him, rolling your hips agonizingly slowly while you lean down and press your lips to his throat. “Anything you say, Doctor.” You can feel his cock twitch inside you as you purr the words, another low groan falling from his lips. The pressure in your belly grows as you start to ride him, lifting your hips almost completely off of him before letting yourself sink back down, every time feeling the thick, blunt head of his cock stretch you open and press impossibly deep. Your mind goes hazy as you speed up, both of your self-control starting to wane. Spencer’s hands find your breasts again as they start to bounce, heavy and sensitive, drawing a strangled moan from your throat as he fondles them. The sensation goes straight to your core, both yours and Spencer’s thighs now drenched with your arousal. A sharp twist of your nipple makes you gasp, your fingers digging into his skin as you drag your nails down his chest, the purple stilettos leaving bright, angry marks in their wake. He lets out a strangled yell, his hips bucking wildly as his hands drag you down, impaling you impossibly further on his cock. The feeling of his heavy length pressing against your cervix makes you cry out, your whole body shaking as you cum unexpectedly. The pressure in your belly doesn’t subside as you almost collapse on top of him, your hips still stuttering weakly as you gasp for air, your cheek pressed to his racing heart. His steady arms wrap around you, cradling you to him.

“Do you need to be done?” His voice is sweet as he speaks into your hair, strong, gentle fingers brushing a stray lock out of your eyes. You shake your head, whining as you shift your hips and feel him still pressed deep in your belly.

“No, please keep fucking me, Doctor, I can take it.” Faster than you can fully process, Spencer lifts you off the couch and turns, settling your back against the cushions as he sets a bruising pace, pinning your hands down as he slams into you.

“You can take it, huh? You’re such a good girl for me, you think you can take it?” He growls the words in your ear, barely audible over the slap of skin and the pathetic, needy sounds bubbling from your throat.

“I can take it, Doctor, I can take it.” You babble, voice rising in pitch and volume as he pummels your dripping cunt, making your whole body bounce with the force. He releases one of your wrists, his hand wrapping instead around the column of your throat, your eyes falling closed as his fingers press into the sides of your neck. Your head swims as tears prick your eyes.

“What do you say, pretty girl?” He chides, not once slowing his brutal pace.

“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you, Doctor.” You chant, each louder than the last as the pressure in your core turns white-hot, twisting heavy in your stomach. “Thank you, Doc-ah!” You cut yourself off, your eyes screwing shut and your body arching desperately off of the cushions as stars burst across your vision and burning, euphoric pleasure runs through every nerve in your body. Spencer gasps above you, stilling as you clench around him, hips flush with yours and still buried to the hilt in your weeping pussy. He comes undone, his head falling to rest against your collarbone as you feel him burst inside you, his hot, heavy spend pumping against your cervix and sending fresh waves of electricity through your core. You cum a third time, mewling weakly as your tired cunt flutters around him, a warm, floaty feeling rising in your chest as you come down, Spencer’s weight atop you comforting as you both fight for breath.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” He mutters from where he’s buried his face in your neck, his breath tickling your skin.

“Yeah, I just- holy fuck.” You pant, your breathing still unsteady. Spencer chuckles, pressing two tender kisses to your neck before gingerly lifting himself off of you, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he slips out of you.

“Spencer?” You’re not quite ready for him to move, your hand moving to stop him. He pauses, covering your body with his once more and nuzzling against your cheek.

“Yes, my love?” Your hand cradles his jaw as you turn your head to face him.

“I’m so proud of you.”

*please like and reblog!*

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #smut #criminal minds smut #spencer reid fanfic

839 notes · View notes

firewalkzwit · 6 months

Text

in the mood for love // neil lewis x reader

To accept that life is not David Lynch's magnificent "Blue Velvet", or much less Billy Wilder's "Double Indemnity", was not an easy thing for a man like Neil Lewis, who adored nothing more than to vicariously live through the screen time of the 50's Hollywood heartthrobs that starred as his favourite characters.

So, in the event that a Rohmerian woman whose quirk could even be seen through her yellow lens Godard-ish sunglasses, Neil found it to be an offer he couldn't refuse.

Word count: 2.8k

Cross-posted on AO3

A.N: i actually never finished watching the detectives bc i was honestly not a fan of the plot so bare with me lol, i was only too in love w cill and lucy liu's characters but the movie itself kinda disappointed me

also, yes i made them fans of MY favorite movies, arrest me.

The sound of intense tapping of nails on the counter, crowded by a disastrous attempt at organising countless VHS tapes scattered all over it, caused the plastic of the films to rattle as the table vibrated. Neil's tired eyes rolled upwards to catch a glimpse of the face before him, a slight frown drawn between her eyebrows and an intensely inquisitive stare which hardly helped him to decipher what exactly she wanted that actually merited bothering him.

The harsh placement of the VHS on his desk caused him to grit his teeth, it felt almost imperative, and it ached him to see his most prized possessions be mistreated. His eyes drifted back up to her, the yellow-tinted lens of her sunglasses still didn't stop him from finding them oddly familiar. Scanning to the rest of her clothes as if he wanted to glimpse her personality based on her looks, he felt like a detective. The black minidress on her body was rather loose, and the sleeves ended close to the start of her wrists, as if it was too short for her arms. It seemed like an intentional fashion choice, despite how unflattering it looked to him. The dress hugged her waist in the centre, with a peculiar silver belt he'd only see in the outfit of a woman in a nouvelle vague film. In fact, her entire style seemed to be the one of a sixties Parisian flâneur, as if she was ruthlessly trying to imitate Anna Karina. Over the turtleneck that culminated her dress, a thin, long golden chain that went as low as her belt had a large and round golden pendant hanging from it.

But as soon as she spoke he was disappointed to find no thick, sexy french accent, but rather an ordinary speech, almost too friendly and passive to be attractive. His eyes drifted down to the VHS on his desk; while he expected Vivre Sa Vie, le Bonheur or Pierrot le Fou, there was no La Collectionneuse on his desk, but rather the most unexpected of outcomes.

Jane Birkin would never rent a chick-flick, Neil thought.

The membership she handed did not belong to her, it was that of a man's, an old one too, judging by his name.

"Alright, that will be eight dollars."

"Jeez, eight?"

"Eight."

"You do know the other rental charges only five, right?"

"I was not aware, thank you." Not only was she of poor taste, but also quite irritating. Even though he refrained from explaining how being a smaller business practically obliged him to charge more to make an actual profit, it was before he could begin to explain the late fees that she snatched the VHS from his hand.

"I'm actually going to keep looking." And just like that, she turned and began to walk slightly bent over, looking at the orange labels that hung on the shelves. Curiosity consumed him, and he also felt it his duty as the owner of the videoclub to assist his customers in making a choice.

"Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Well... What do you have with Robert De Niro?" Neil's eyes suddenly lit up, as if her personality had a chance at salvation the moment those words came out of her mouth.

"Most of his works, there's his classics like Goodfellas, Taxi Driver... I even have Heat if you're looking for something more thrilling."

"Heat?"

"Heat is one of the most critically acclaimed nineties crime dramas. It also stars Al Pacino, it's this kinda' cop and criminal trope but so realistically achieved, even the sound of firearms is claimed to be one of the most realistic in the history of film-"

"I'll just take that one." The tip of her finger slowly grazed his as she gently took the Heat VHS from his hands, a friendly awkward grin displaying discomfort. "It's just for my dad."

"Oh... Sixteen Candles' for you I guess." A soft nasal laugh left her body as her head tilted down, shaking in denial.

"No, that's for my dad too." Ok, weird, but by then she had undeniably picked his curiosity.

"Nothing for you then?"

"I prefer a cheaper rental, this is my dad's membership." As if he couldn't see for himself that such a name would never belong to her, it could only be that of an old geezer who he still struggled to recognise even though he was a member. And even though she intended to make a subtle comment, it did not come off that way.

"Oh yeah? And what do you rent in the cheaper club?" Media Giant could have a wider offer and lower prices, but Neil assumed it wasn't a real loss if the clientele consisted of girls like her.

"I like French movies, Harmony Korine, seventies giallos... Why, you want me to rent them from you instead?" While her first pick was particularly predictable, Italian giallos were a genre he was interested in exploring, and of which he hardly had any in his extensive collection. Neil shrugged almost dramatically, trying to incite her to take yet another pick.

"It wouldn't hurt your dad. Except for the giallo part, ‘can't help you there."

"You mean you have no giallos here?" His face deformed into an awkward pout, as if he'd been defeated in his own ground. "You look like the type of guy to own them on Criterion."

"I don't think so, no." By that point, the humiliation of her light cackle upsetted and confused him even further, returning her change as she piled up the tapes.

"If you ever want to watch a good Dario Argento movie, you let me know when I return you these." And marking her goodbye with a soft grin that slightly lifted the sunglasses that rested above her cheeks, Neil was taken aback beyond speech. Was it a date? Was she joking? He couldn't quite understand, and so couldn't come up with a proper response.

But seven days passed before she returned, and he would have to charge her the late fees that added to the sixteen dollars. However, in the course of those five days Neil hardly remembered her, briefly making a comment about it to his friends. Neil was not the type of man to stress easily, and he was exercising his peace that particular afternoon as he watched the director's cut of Psycho, to him a movie that truly never got old. He snacked on the couch in a slobby posture, his limbs spread over it without a care about presentation. It was not the type of day for him to expect too many customers, and it was too hot to go outside anyway. Hardly did he ever struggle to find an excuse to stay in anyway, so when he heard the doorknob pushed down his expression shifted into a displeased grimace. His eyes peered over the backrest, displeased to find that someone had indeed come in.

As he got up and stretched, mindfully appearing to be homeless, he caught a glimpse of her again. Her head was tilted and on her hands were the two tapes she had borrowed. He was surprised to have even forgotten that he'd rented her the films, usually being more attentive about what went in and out of his club. Probably the bizarre interaction had caused him to forget. That time she wore a tiny pair of black shorts with black stockings up the knees and also black, sharp-pointed flats. The usual thick, high-waisted belt accompanied a loose sage blouse, which was accessorised with elongated collars of various unique beads, and the peculiar yellow-tinted shades. Not that Neil cared at all about fashion, nor did he understand it, but he assumed she was going for chic.

"Sorry for not coming by sooner, hope you didn't miss these." She placed the tapes on the counter and quickly began looking through her pockets for the money she assumed she'd have to pay for being two days late. Before he could tell her how much extra she owed, she placed the four dollars on top of the movies.

"How'd you know how much..." Neil's finger drew a circle above the tapes and the money, as if she was some sort of genie or simply gambling with how much he'd charge compared to his prime competitor.

"My dad." She quickly interrupted, offering him her usual small grin of politeness before making her way out. Yet by that point Neil wasn't oblivious to her previous invitation, overwhelmed by the curiosity her strange looks provoked him.

"Is... the offer for that Dario Argento still up?" He could tell she was smiling through the way her cheeks lifted, visible from behind, and the way her voice sounded. When people smile and talk, their voice accommodates to the wider lips and sound friendlier.

"Glad you asked."

It was by that point that the old-Hollywood mystery enthusiast Neil and the French new-wave, foreign murder-thriller enjoyer Y/N frequented each other in what consisted of visits to the Gumshoe Video and her place. In contrast to his original impression of her, she was quite the film collector, owning a perfect shrine that ranged from art house Kino Lorber films to a wide range of classics on Criterion. She was truly well stocked. The only thing obvious to him from the start was that she was a great enthusiast of foreign films, something she even gave away in the unique way she dressed.

She was also an occasional actress, kindly starring in the indie projects of some of her film geek friends, many who shockingly knew Neil as well. It was natural for them to have so many people in common, especially because people with mutual interests were bound to come across each other in such a small town, however he was surprised to not have seen her previously roaming around or in any of his friends' films. She had a look that just gave away she'd be into acting, the role of a muse seemed to fit her character perfectly.

Because of this, as soon as Neil began to grow an interest in impressing her, she was surprised to hear he wanted to try and film an experimental short, try his luck at producing something beyond an advertising trailer for his videoclub, something more artistic.

Obviously he invited her to star in it, and even though he'd expected her to jump in his arms in excitement, never did she show herself to be shocked or taken aback by any of the bizarre propositions he had in mind. Neil wasn't very knowledgeable or even interested in the world that existed beneath experimental indie films, but she seemed to be willing to comply with the various shots of strange ideas he sketched frantically in strangely-drawn frames.

When it was finally time to shoot, it was clear that the whole tape would be very rudimentary, using the 35mm film gauge she had offered to lend him, demanding that he treat her camera with extreme care.

Despite Neil's attempts of disclosing what exactly he had in mind, rough sketches were clearly not enough, as the minute they began to shoot and the scenes began to come to life, it became too clear to her that Neil just wanted to see her naked, behaving like a conceited filmographer in poor attempts of masking his amateurism. It was hard to imagine senior film-makers like Jean-Luc Godard, especially the favourites of Y/N, and the thousands of breast and butt-naked women takes they had witnessed being filmed in their lifetime. Neil found it hard to imagine them behaving with naturality, but then again he assumed it was the only way to behave if they were actually in search of pristine shots.

"You don't seem to be taking this too seriously." She finally scolded, her forearm hugging her chest to cover her breasts once Neil cut the cameras.

"What do you mean? I'm directing here."

"You're wasting film in countless shots of my tits, what message are you trying to convey?" Interrogation was not on his plans, especially because Neil expected artistic and abstract film to not be questioned, but rather merely interpreted.

"It's about... the beauty of the raw human body." His tone didn't project confidence, and Y/N could tell he was feeding her bull-shit.

"Okay, then I'll film you too."

"Sorry, what?"

"It's not the human body if you also don't see the male." He didn't seem too convinced, obviously it was far more amusing to simply watch than to have to partake. "You and all these film-makers are so open minded when it comes to seeing women, but there's still a taboo for the male body." Neil couldn't find in him the interest to follow her idea. Obviously she had a valid point, but he was never the type to pay attention to the underlying message behind highly interpretable films, rather driven to puzzling movies where connecting the dots until the end was the reason to get his brain working.

However, how could he disagree? By that point it couldn't get more intimate than that, and a sudden high of confidence invaded him and prompted him to begin to undress himself. He began by his shirt, clumsily taking it off and visibly embarrassed. As he begins to rid himself from his pants and underwear, feeling the lens of the camera stare at him probingly, the desire to turn back strikes him to his core. He finally stands there, exposed and naked. He tries to look defiant and confident, but he's achingly vulnerable.

The camera is delighted with his expressions, and his body is posed like he wants to bend inwards and disappear into the air, but just when the filming of his most exposed self seems to never end, the camera lowers and his eyes meet with hers, and her own naked body too.

The naturality with which she accepted being in the spotlight seemed to indicate it was not the first time she filmed something of the sort, and Neil began to wonder who exactly had been gifted with pioneering in such a scene. He, on the other hand, was awkward and hardly artistic, his skinny body and shaky blue eyes screaming how out of place he felt.

"Do you think that's good enough?"

"Yes, I can't keep lending you more film anyway."

"That was... something." As she sat on the floor naked, her back arched sideways and her legs to her left as her arm supported the body, displaying total relaxation. Meanwhile, he couldn't wait for her permission to get back dressed, staring at her clothes as he waited for her to pick them up and imply she could do the same.

"It's a great thing when you realise you still have the ability to surprise yourself. Makes you wonder what else you can do that you've forgotten about."

"American Beauty?"

"Yes." In a way, the scene did share odd similarities to the American classic. The filming of odd, regular things and their naked bodies, Neil was bound to expect what would come next would follow as in the movie. He slowly crouched and sat before her, the two sharing brief stares that felt like a lifetime. Her gaze was soft and mellow, contagiously transmitting her tranquillity to his own as he pondered on whether to make a move or not.

By that point it was obvious they were not going to leave that room without something happening before, but the decision of who would initiate the contact seemed to be difficult as the longest minute of their lives passed by them.

So when she finally accommodated her posture and began to lean closer to him, he crawled her way progressing from soft and careful movements to pounding her against the floor. The sound of bone against the wooden floor caused them both to wince, her face wrinkling in a frown of pain. It was before she could hold her head to stroke herself that his own hand slid down from her temple to the back of her head, holding her up to finally kiss her.

The kiss was long, and the sound of their lips engaging in humid contact as their tongues went in and out of each other's mouth echoed across the empty room, Neil's free hand travelling from her navel to her breast as her arms wrapped around his slender body. Her legs followed the motion, soon making her look like she hung from him, clinged to his back as he arched to reach closer to her. Her gaze ogled from the corner of her eye in search of the camera as her arm reached out, finally being released from his grip to set up and continue to film themselves, a prime example of human beauty in its most raw expression.

Needless to say that beyond physical pleasure, it was an intellectual disappointment for the two that despite their love for film, they still couldn't make sex look and feel like a scene from Body Heat, sexiness was greatly rehearsed after all.

this sucks ass i just wanted to write filmbro cillian murphy and yap about my favorite movies tbhngl

#cillian murphy #watching the detectives #neil lewis #neil lewis x reader

69 notes · View notes

silly1ky · 8 months

Text

STAN & KYLE HEADCANONS !!! :3

no one suggested it , i just simply wanted too lolz

stan:

Had a short mullet in 8th-9th grade but dyes it blond over the summer out of nowhere lol. dyes it back to black his senior year

Listens to RADIOHEAD!!??

Plays the electric guitar

Still apart of crimson dawn along with kenny

Butters and jimmy stopped playing - due to other school shit - so they held tryouts for a backup guitar player and a new drumist, eventually recruiting two freshmen

RAGING bisexual

Been kinda in love with kyle his whole life

Got braces in the middle of 7th grade and got them taken off at the end of 8th

Kyle eventually got braces too at the BEGINNING of 8th so throughout the whole year, him and kyle definitely matched bracket colors <3

5’8’’ ( 2 inches shorter than kyle )

Always been just a tiny bit shorter than kyle and has ALWAYS despised it while kyle relished in it lmao

Had his first kiss to wendy in 6th grade …. it was NOT good and they broke up like a month later

They never got back together again, much to kyle's pleasure :D

To clarify, they did not break up bc the kiss wasn’t good, they both just realized that they were tired of eachother and that it was stupid trying to hold onto something from literal elementary school

They still talk sometimes but quickly get bored of each other

His style consists of pajama pants, baggy band t shirts, baggy jeans, blue hoodies, and converse

He totally has stickers all over his guitar along with “ k + s “ drawn with in silver sharpie <3

Pins and keychains decorated his school backpack

Sometimes paints his nails but gets mad or anxious and ends up peeling them off by lunchtime

Has wrote 16 songs all dedicated to kyle

HATES social media and only has accounts so that he could look at kyles posts and videos

Still uses an mp3 player .... he SAYS it's bc it sounds better but that's a bunch of bs. he definitely just uses it for the “look”

PLAYS HOCKEY

Was on the team for about a year in 9th grade but QUICKLY got sick of the practices

Listens to radiohead, slipknot, iron maiden, weezer, and deftones

Favorite movies/tv shows are bojack horseman, mid90s, and shameless

Tried to learn how to skateboard with kyle and actually kept up with it for about the whole 10th grade

REFUSES to get a tiktok account

he would probably watch youtube shorts or instagram reels...... 🤠

He would send Kyle tiktoks that were funny like 7 months ago which he JUST got to see on ig reels.

He definitely had a fnaf phase

has car sickness totally

TOTAL dog person

both:

their houses are right next to eachother !!!

they definitely sneak into eachother's rooms at night

they got together sometime in middle school, after kissing on stan's roof and they both discovered that they were major fags for eachother

they go to the same college too!!!!

stan always joins kyle's tiktok or insta lives ( even if it's the most boring thing in the world )

"no homo dude" "oh yeah totally no homo lol" is their catchphrase most definitely

kyle:

Stayed on the basketball team throughout 8th-12th grade

5’10’’ 2 inches taller than stan

He loves being taller than him

gay gay homosexual gay

Didn’t really have to “come out” everyone kinda already knew he wasn't straight lol

Had a little rebellious phase in 10th grade and ended up stabbing a needle through his nose and belly button at like 4 in the morning, the same night that stan bleached his hair ironically (not ironically as they had snuck out together lmao )

By 7am he had a nose stud, a belly ring, and his lobes pierced

Did them all by himself minus his bellybutton, which stan helped him with

It was literally just the piercing scene from thirteen LMAOOOO

Wardrobe mainly consists of sweatpants, green and brown hoodies, straight jeans, nike's, and ugg neumels. oh and lots of grandpa sweaters.

Listens to the cure, tyler the creator, radiohead, the smiths, and the offspring (sometimes ldr too)

Stopped wearing his hat in 7th grade, it just didn’t fit right anymore ( plus it kinda stunk )

Reads romance novels and hyperfixates over them definitely but he will NEVER admit this

ALWAYS live on insta and tiktok

Secretly LOVES stan's dyed hair (he totally thinks its hot)

His first kiss was with stan. at 2 am. on his roof.

Total grammer nerd

bullies ppl when they make grammar mistakes

Lowkey kinda popular on tiktok

STRAIGHT A'S!!!!!

and REFUSES to get anything below a 85

fucking nerd

OH and he definitely cusses WAY to much ( its kinda a problem )

Gets into so many fights at school (mainly caused by cartman) but has developed kinda a bad reputation for himself

has such road rage

lowkey best friends with bebe

thinks elvis is hot

LOVES adult cartoons

when sheila isn’t home, him, ike, and gerald watch family guy

TOTAL cat person

#south park #sp style #stan x kyle #kyle x stan #sp stanky #stan and kyle #kyle and stan #headcanon #south park headcanons #gay #kyle broflovski #stan marsh

71 notes · View notes

t-lostinworlds · 1 year

Note

omg some hurt comfort with any of the five characters (it’s your choice) and " hey... you've been crying. " i’d eat it up i tell ya

A/N: okay, so i went with bucky bc ngl i'm currently fawning over him right now. so this is the first ever bucky fic i've posted so pls be nice sksksk. also, another love confession made it into this one sksk. hope you like it @annab-nana !! <3

bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader | wc: 2k…blurb she said | best friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, canon typical trauma of being a hero™️ | prompt in bold!

The early hours in the compound's gym had always brought some sort of peace. It was empty and quiet, undisturbed.

Although it was a false sense of quietness if it came in the form of raw knuckles hitting worn-down leather, the faint song of crickets, the chains rattling on the ceiling, and the deep harsh breaths that accompanied each jab and left hook, a kick and a blowing right hand, another punch that had your already split skin stinging at the impact.

Because inside your head was anything but peaceful.

With narrowed eyes and gritted teeth, you twisted on your heel and swung behind you, only for your fist to be caught midair.

You knew it was a conscious decision on his part, always careful and wary about his own superhuman strength, doubled down around you. But still, you were thankful enough that Bucky blocked your punch with his calloused and warm palm. Because if it were cold and silver, you would've fractured your entire hand.

If the punching bag hadn't done that already.

"I told you not to sneak up on me," you stated lowly, chest heaving.

"I didn't." Bucky raised a brow. "I called your name twice."

You didn't hear him. Too distracted by your rage and guilt paired with the audibly loud abuse you'd inflicted on the punching bag.

Bucky looked at your fist, still enclosed in his much larger hand and frowned.

"Where are your gloves?"

"Didn't feel like wearing any." You shrugged, pulling your hand away and shaking it off nonchalantly as if your knuckles weren't already swollen.

Bucky glanced to where your blood had colored his skin.

You turned towards the bag, flexing your fingers to get back into it only for a whole mass of muscles and super soldier serum to block your way.

"That's enough," he said firmly, but the concern in his eyes was unmistakable.

With clenched fists and a sharp glare, you gritted, "Nobody tells me what to do, Barnes."

"You're hurting yourself."

"I don't fucking care."

"I do."

That crumbled your resolve a little—only a little, since anger and grief were still boiling rampant in your veins.

"Out of my way. James."

"No."

"Fine!" you growled, pushing at his chest, frustration misplaced. "Fight me then!"

Bucky's tall stature remained unfazed, eyes carefully roaming your features before they softened.

"Hey…" he whispered, fingertips akin to feathers as he caressed your glistening cheeks. The lines were too carefully drawn for them to be sweat. "You've been crying."

You didn't know if it was his touch, his voice, his cerulean eyes, staring at you with such softness and care or everything all at once. But it drained the adrenaline out of your body, taking with it your heart as it fell on the floor.

Your exhaustion came in a sweeping wave as your lips trembled, your body slumping forward, falling into Bucky's already open arms.

He pulled you into his chest with a sigh, "Come on. Let's take care of those hands before they get infected."

•••

The silence that hung between you and Bucky as he cleaned your wounds wasn't deafening, but it also wasn't comfortable.

You didn't know how much of it he knew, the reason for the gnawing guilt that made sleep evade you like the plague.

"Steve won't tell me what happened on the mission, and I'm not going to force you to talk if you don't want to," he said as if he read your mind. After wrapping both your hands with the bandage, he carefully held it in his, a barely there squeeze as he tried to meet your eyes. "But I'm here, doll."

Like a dam that gave way to too much pressure, too many cracks in the foundation, you broke.

Bucky sighed as he scooped you into his arms, your legs draped over his thighs as means to keep you closer, shielded, safe.

You gripped the fabric of his shirt, tight fists resting on his back as you buried your face into his neck, tears staining his skin.

He gently rocked you as a means of comfort, hands rubbing circles on your back, one warm, one cold as he pressed his lips against your temple. But he didn't say anything. He simply waited, already knowing that you'd talk to him when you were ready.

It made it so much easier to do so, knowing that he was always all ears during moments you needed him to be.

"T-There's a little girl…during the rescue mission," you whispered, voice shaky, though with the kiss on your forehead, you knew he heard. "She's ten, got separated from her parents during the commotion and–she's very chatty, feisty, said she could take out the bad guys once she gets big enough but she never let go of my hand as we made our way back to the Helicarrier," you chuckled softly, smile falling as buried your face further into his chest.

Bucky wrapped one arm around your shoulder, the other on your waist, holding you close with a reassuring squeeze.

"Then t–there was an explosion and I—" you choked back a sob. "We got separated and when I found her again she was just gaining consciousness b–but then the concrete behind her started to collapse and I-I ran to her as fast as I could—God I just wanted to grab her so it wouldn't fall on her. I didn't care if it ended up being me but I just…" You lifted your head to look at Bucky with teary eyes, voice broken, bottom lip trembling. "I wasn't fast enough."

He frowned, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing away as much of your tears as he could.

You shook your head with a choked sob, eyes squeezing shut. "H-Her scream, Buck…I-I can't get it out of my head.

"Steve had to come and h-help lift the debris and I just—I just watched. N-Now, she's in a coma and the doctors said s-she might not walk again or-or wake up and it's all my fault."

"Hey, no, it's not, doll," Bucky protested determinedly. "You did what you could."

"But it wasn't enough," you sniffled, gaze falling on your lap in shame. "I-I felt so helpless w-watching her get carried on a stretcher. It felt like whatever I do, it will never be enough because if I couldn't save her then…how can I save anyone else?"

"You've done more than enough," Bucky argued vehemently. "You've saved a lot of people's lives and not just civilians. You've saved lives at the expense of your own. That bullet you took for Nat when she was down and defenseless, the way you dragged Sam out of the enemy fire even though you've rendered yourself vulnerable.

"I mean, think about what you've done for me alone. The sleep you've lost just to be there for me when things get rough, the patience and care you have for me, just— " Bucky took a breath. "Think about all the things you've done for a man who frankly doesn't deserve any of it."

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. "You do, Buck, I—"

"My point is," he hummed, holding your face in his hands, the deep blue of his irises coated with sincerity. "You've saved me in more ways than I could ever imagine, Y/N, not just out there on the field, but by being there for me too. I can't thank you enough for it.

"And when that little girl wakes up, she's going to be forever grateful that you saved her life. Because you did, despite everything else, you did save her."

"B-But what if it happens again?" you whispered worriedly. "And t-this time, it would be worse."

"There's this kid from Brooklyn, smart but a pain in my ass sometimes, a bit patriotic, self-sacrificial, and who I trust and care about. I think you know him," Bucky said, tapping your nose, making your lips quirk slightly with the softest chuckle. He smiled proudly at that. "Kid said something about this job, and how we try to save as many people as we can. But, we can't always save everybody—"

"And if we can't find a way to live with it, maybe nobody gets saved," you finished, smiling sadly. "I heard that speech, too."

Bucky nodded. "You make such a huge difference in the field that when you're not out there, people are going to notice. You bring the best out of the team, doll. You bring the best out of me," he paused, taking your hands in his. "But, there's also nothing wrong with being on the bench for a little while. Because I think it's also time for you to be selfish for once, put yourself first."

"I just—I don't think I can trust myself again. I'm not a hero, Buck, not after what happened," you admitted, voice dejected as that barbed-wired guilt curled around your heart. "I mean, hell, I don't have superpowers. If I had, s-she would've been fine."

"So, there's also this girl," Bucky started, thumb caressing your cheek, smile soft as he held your gaze, "who's definitely one of the bravest people I know, smart and a smartass, kind, sweet, selfless. She cares so deeply for other people that sometimes, she forgets to care for herself. And she has impeccable taste in music and tv shows." He winked before his face softened. "She told me, our past mistakes don't define who we are, but what we do about it, does. And she's right, she always is. I should listen to her more often."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head at him throwing your own words back at you.

"But then she'd argue how it wasn't even my mistake to begin with, that it was HYDRA, it wasn't my fault. She's so stubborn about it, willing to fight who thinks otherwise, hell, she'd even fight me on it sometimes and I…" he took a breath, gaze never leaving yours as he said, "I love her for it."

"Bucky…" you whispered, eyes glossing but for a different reason this time.

"I thought after…everything, I wouldn't be able to feel those emotions again, too messed up, too broken. I mean, how could I when I barely even like myself? But you changed that, Y/N. Not only did you make me believe I can love again, but you also made me want to learn to give myself that kindness, too," he said, lips curved into that precious smile only you got the pleasure of seeing. "If you don't think that's some kind of superpower on its own, then how about the way you care so much for other people? It inspires the team—it inspires me to do the best I can to save everyone. You don't need some kind of superhuman strength or magical abilities to be an important member of the team because you're the heart of it. And that's powerful enough."

"I think I made you watch too many romcoms," you chuckled tearily, pressing your forehead against his, heart warm and aching as you looked at the man who'd stolen your heart without much effort involved.

It was just easy with Bucky.

He laughed, "Maybe. But it's a good manual on how to get the girl. My manual is a little bit outdated nowadays," he joked, nudging the tip of his nose with yours, a nervous glint in his eyes. "I'm not sure if it's working yet, though."

You tilted your head with a giggle and pressed your lips on his. You felt his whole body relax, a sigh tickling your cheek as he cupped the nape of your neck, head tilting to pull you that much closer. Coolness wrapped around your waist, one that was welcomed—needed, even, as you snaked your arms around his broad shoulders.

It was careful yet sweet, simple but laced with all the emotions your words could never justify—gratitude, longing, adoration, love.

"You've always had me, Bucky," you whispered once you pulled away.

There was a shyness in his eyes, tongue darting out as if to savor the taste of your lips for one more moment, as he asked, so softly, "Can you…can you say it?"

"I love you," you said without hesitation, fingers tracing his jaw. "All of you."

Bucky responded by pulling you back in for another kiss, one that assured you that, even though this job wasn't easy, you both would be alright.

As long as you have each other to lean on.

⤷ t's february frolicking celebration

BLOG NAVIGATION • MAIN MASTERLIST

↬ thank you for reading! reblog & leave a comment if you enjoyed. feedback is always appreciated!

✉ NO TAGLIST: go follow @t-lostinlibrary and turn on notifications to get updated on my works!

© t-lostinworlds, 2023 ✘ I do NOT give any permission to repost, translate, & use any of my works (writings, gifs, dividers, etc.) on any platform, with credit or otherwise. Please respect that. Thank you.

#t's ff celebration #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes blurb #bucky barnes x female reader #marvel fanfiction #my writing

336 notes · View notes

arugulaextract · 3 months

Text

Still reading MDZS (I’ve been taking my time) and I have a question that I was wondering if anyone could answer about colors, as someone who wishes to draw fannart. Is the blue often drawn in Lan uniforms book-cannon??? I can find no textual evidence that Lans having any details in their robes that aren’t white, and would like some. Personally, rn I have the inclination to draw the forehead ribbon embroidery in silver/grey. Additionally, I can’t find Wei Wuxian’s outfit description, and definitely can’t find him wearing a red ribbon. WWX definitely wears black as the Yiling Patriarch, and is probably wearing it during present timeline given ch 14 his description of his father and mother and comparing them to him and Lan Wangji (his father wore black and his mother wore white), but I can’t find any explicit mentions of colors for his robes. The red seems to come from chenqing’s tassle. I can’t even find the color of WWX’s sword glare :(

Further color questions/comments below:

Also only note I could find on WWX eye color is that they were originally dark. In Mo Xuanyu his eyes are described as bright but I can’t find any other mentions. Additionally, it’s unclear if they look alike to me; ik WWX described Mo Xuanyu’s face as definitely not the face of the Yiling Patriarch but this seems to be more about the fact that his face has pristine and bright and youthful vibes. Also he’s shorter lol.

Also for the Jin’s robes the only one that specifies a single flower that I can recall was Jin Guangyao’s, and I think Jin Ling was introduced with flowers (plural) on his robe, so I want to know if anyone knows about this discrepancy. This feels like this could be a translation discrepancy though as according to my minute google search Chinese doesn’t have plurals. “The embroidery on his robes was indisputably exquisite, swirling together into extraordinary white peonies.” Is Jin Ling’s robes vs “the full bloom of the Spark Amidst Snow family insignia embroidered on the chest of his round-collar robe, matched with a nine-ringed belt and a pair of tall boots.” For Jin Guangyao.

I also can’t figure out if WWX wears Jiang’s purple robes when he was head disciple.. I can’t even figure out for certain if all Jiang disciples wore purple, as the mentions of it I find are associated with Yu Ziyuan or her kids (Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli). Because WWX’s robe gets specified as black post burial mounds but I can’t find it before it I’d assume he wears Jiang colors, if they were Jiang colors. If not, and he wears black otherwise, I think this would be because it’s the color his father wore not because Yu Ziyuan is particularly jealous. Actually, it could just be that bells were what indicated being a sect member instead of clothing color, but idk if not color coding sect members is common??

Also can’t figure out if the studying disciples at The Cloud Recesses wore white. My guess actually leans towards yes as at the archery competition all the disciples had to wear Wen red, so if that’s the standard I’d assume they’d have to wear white in the cloud recesses (though the Wens may have been doing a power play).

Also if anyone has a chapter/page number for a description of Wen robes that would be appreciated. I started this post like 30 minutes ago and spent a long while looking for textual evidence (luckily I’m on kindle so I have a search feature) of each clan’s robes but I’m feeling done. .. same with what the burial mound Wens were wearing bc I always see them in Wen robes which in my mind kinda makes sense but also kinda doesn’t, but I haven’t reread to that point.

If anyone has any clothing information of sects/characters that hasn’t been mentioned from book cannon and wishes to share with me I’d appreciate it so much I’m going insane. Or if you have any particularly good resources on embroidery/robes/swords/instruments/hair/other things that understanding would give better idea on how these babies actually dress. MDZS isn’t trying to exist in a particular time period is it? I’ve seen guestimations on the internet of like 2nd century to 6th century, but my understanding is that it’s kinda like high fantasy novels which just get set in vaguely-Western Europe and unmodern.

#mdzs #lan robes #Lan Wangji #Wen sect #idk I don’t want to just tag every character bc that feels like too much #Wei wuxian #please I have questions I need answers #give me a month and maybe I’ll make a big post of all textual evidence for colors #where is WWX’s red ribbon???#mo dao zu shi #rant

21 notes · View notes

ghosttotheparty · 1 year

Text

love me softly p8

tags from @variousothershit on part seven bc it made me laugh out loud (i think eddie would allow it bc he’s in love)

They dance until the song ends, and the next one begins, swaying with their arms around each other, their hands linked. Steve makes Eddie twirl, and Eddie blushes, his cheeks flushing with heat when he stumbles and Steve giggles.

The next song ends.

Another begins.

There’s noise out in the hall, loud voices singing and laughing, and they keep dancing, hidden away in the dim light of the bedroom.

“We’re so bad at this,” Eddie says, laughing when Steve ducks his head to twirl, their fingers tangled. Steve laughs again, pulling him close, his arm over Eddie’s shoulder.

“We’re doing great,” he says easily.

Their eyes meet. Steve’s are shining in the light, and Eddie falters, gazing at him. He’s so pretty. Eddie wants to say it out loud.

Steve’s lips part like he’s going to say something, and Eddie realises they’ve both fallen still, just standing with their arms around each other, with their fingers still tangled. But before Steve can speak, the door bangs, and they jump apart.

“Someone’s getting laid,” a voice says outside, laughing, and Eddie’s face floods with heat as he glances at Steve, his heart pounding. “There’s probably a room upstairs, come on.”

There’s a moment of silence between them before Steve clears his throat awkwardly, rubbing his cheek.

“Uhm.”

His cheeks are pink, and even in Eddie’s nervousness he feels a rush of something. Not quite satisfaction, but close.

“I should probably…” Steve says, hesitating, gesturing vaguely to the door.

“Yeah,” Eddie says nodding. “Uhm.”

Someone’s getting laid.

His face flushes with heat again, and he moves past Steve to where the tin lunchbox is sitting.

“Here.” He rifles through it, finding a small baggie of weeds and he turns, tossing it to Steve catches it, perplexed. “We can say we were dealing.”

“Oh.” Steve looks at it, his cheeks still pink. “How much?”

Eddie suppresses a smile.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

Steve stares at him, his eyes wide and shining, and Eddie tilts his head fondly, shutting the lunchbox.

“…Okay.”

Eddie smiles at him, watching him fidget with it for a moment before he picks up the lunchbox and heads to the door.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Steve.”

“Wait—“

Steve moves forward, catching Eddie’s wrist before he can reach the lock, and Eddie’s eyes widen at the sudden close proximity, glances over Steve’s face.

“Uhm,” Steve hesitates, holding Eddie’s wrist gently. “Do you— Do you wanna, uhm… Come over this weekend?”

Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“You’re inviting me to your palace?” he teases.

Steve scoffs.

“Yeah,” he says. “I like hanging out with you.”

Eddie’s chest hurts. He exhales, and Steve’s fingers are suddenly hot against his skin.

“Okay,” he breathes.

“Saturday?” Steve asks.

“Uh, yeah.” Eddie blinks. “Uh, my— my uncle works nights, and we were gonna have dinner before he leaves. Is it cool if I come over after that?”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly, smiling. “‘S cool.”

“Okay.”

They stare for a moment longer before Steve seems to remember that he’s holding Eddie’s wrist, and he lets go, glancing at their hands.

“I’ll see you then?” Steve asks, and Eddie nods, melting a little bit. He wants to lean in and kiss him.

But he doesn’t.

On Saturday Eddie is riddled with anxiety, pacing and fidgeting as he cleans the trailer. He changes his clothes three times, finally settling on a pair of ripped jeans and an old KILL ‘EM ALL t-shirt, with a few silver chain necklaces and his rings. He ties his hair back after getting annoyed with it brushing and tickling his neck and face.

“The fuck’s goin’ on with you, Eds?” Wayne asks while Eddie is making dinner.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re fidgeting like a sinner in church, boy. What’s going on?”

“Uh.” Eddie sighs, scooping food onto a plate from the pan, his cheeks flushing. “Nothing, really.”

“Mhmm,” Wayne hums dryly, obviously not believing him.

Eddie sits at the table with him, a leg drawn up onto his chair, and he pokes at his food for a moment. Wayne is looking at him as he eats, waiting patiently.

“I’m going to a friend’s place tonight.”

“Gareth?”

“No,” Eddie says, his cheeks flushing, looking up at him across the table. “Uh, his name’s Steve.”

“Steve,” Wayne repeats. “He from school?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he like?”

Eddie looks away, back at his food. His cheeks flush again.

“He’s real sweet.”

He takes a bite of his food, glancing up at Wayne, who’s staring at him knowingly.

“That right?” Wayne says gently.

“Mhmm.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Uh, guess we never really met,” Eddie says with his mouth full. “Like, formally.” He pauses to swallow. “But we had detention together a while back and kinda… hung out.”

“Is he nice?”

Eddie suppresses a smile.

“Yeah, he’s real nice. Leaves little drawings in my locker ‘nd shit. It’s cute.”

“You got yourself an artist?”

“He’s not—“ Eddie hesitates, his cheeks hot again. “He’s not mine.”

“You got yourself an artist.”

“Whatever, Wayne.”

Wayne pecks his forehead before he leaves as Eddie is washing up, tells him to have fun and be safe. Eddie just blushes again.

The drive to Steve’s is longer than Eddie remembers. The lights are on when he gets there, over the front door and upstairs, and Eddie hesitates, taking a sharp breath and exhaling slowly before he rings the doorbell.

It takes a few seconds before Steve opens it, looking soft and lovely in a red sweater and a smile, and Eddie melts.

“Hey.”

Steve beckons him inside with a head tilt, and Eddie enters, his eyes widening as he looks around.

“Your majesty,” Eddie teases, his hands shoved in the pockets of his unzipped hoodie. Steve scoffs, closing the door.

It’s big inside. The ceilings are a mile away, and there are stairs leading up to it, abstract, expensive-looking paintings lining the wall. Eddie turns in a circle as he follows Steve to the living room, spinning to look around. He catches a glimpse into the kitchen. It’s bright.

“Holy shit?” Eddie says, laughing when he looks around the living room. There’s a conversation pit. Eddie’s never seen one before. “You ever fall in?” he asks, gesturing toward it with a jerk of his chin.

“Oh, yeah. Probably got a fuckin’ head injury when I was little.”

Eddie laughs, scrunching his nose, and Steve smiles at him.

He waits while Eddie looks around, carefully stepping around the pit so he doesn’t fall in. There’s more art on the walls, simple framed abstracts in red and yellow and blue. Eddie’s smile falters, and he searches around, eyeing the mantle under the television, the bookshelf. There aren’t any kinds of family photos anywhere.

“Is it… weird if I say it doesn’t look like anyone lives here?” Eddie asks, finding Steve leaning against a wall.

Steve shrugs, his hands tucked behind his back.

“‘S just me, so… You’re not really too far off.”

Eddie blinks.

“Your parents don’t live here?”

Steve sighs, shrugging again.

“They’re in and out. Usually on business trips or, like, vacation.”

“They don’t take you on vacation?” Eddie asks with a raised eyebrow. Steve just shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t go even if they offered.”

“Jesus.”

“They, uh, started leaving me home when I was a kid,” Steve says. “As soon as I was old enough to use the stove myself.”

Eddie stares at him, his heart splitting a little bit.

“That fucking sucks.”

Steve shrugs.

“Sometimes I forget I even have parents.”

“That’s sad, Steve.”

Steve shrugs again.

“When you were a kid,” Eddie says, complaining, looking around again, imagining a tiny Steve in the conversation out. Drawing with broken crayons. “Do they even know you?”

“Nah,” Steve says softly. “I got secrets.”

Eddie looks at him. There’s an almost mischievous glint in his eye.

“Consider my interest piqued,” Eddie says, and Steve grins before he beckons with a head tilt.

“C’mon.”

Eddie follows him, pausing to kick his shoes off at the door when he notices Steve’s just in mismatched socks, holding onto the railing as they go up the wood stairs. It’s dimmer upstairs as Eddie follows him down the hall.

“Uh.” Steve turns before he opens the door, pointing at Eddie so his finger touches his chest. Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. “Before we go in, you’re not allowed to judge me for the wallpaper.”

Eddie’s brows furrow, and he smiles hesitantly.

“…Okay?”

“My mom picked it when I was, like, nine, and I’m not allowed to change it.”

“Not judging,” Eddie sweats, holding his hands up in surrender before Steve sighs and opens the door. “Oh my god.”

“What did I say?” Steve says accusingly, but he’s laughing, watching Eddie look around at the horrific plaid walls.

“Not judging, not judging,” Eddie defends himself, hands still raised. “Well, that’s not true, I’m judging your mother.”

“That’s allowed.”

“Okay, good.” He finishes looking around, grinning. There are clothes on the floor and on the desk chair, and books and papers scattered across the desk, and the blankets on his bed are tossed aside messily. “So these secrets I’ve heard about…”

Steve grins, sitting on the edge of his bed. Eddie’s chest tightens. He wants to kiss him.

“Look in the closet.”

Eddie narrows his eyes, moving over the closet, and he opens it slowly, suspiciously, listening to Steve giggle behind him.

When it’s open, his eyes scan over the hanging clothing before they find the bottom of the closet, cluttered with canvases and a shoebox of paint tubes, and a guitar.

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he looks over his shoulder at Steve, who’s watching him shyly, almost nervously.

“Can I?” Eddie asks, reaching down to a canvas, and Steve nods.

“Go ahead.”

Eddie plops onto the ground, eliciting a soft giggle from Steve, and pulls the canvases out of the closet, looking at them, wide-eyed.

Most of them are abstract, but not in the way the paintings in the stairway and the living room are. They’re expressive, loud and passionate and so full of Steve that Eddie forgets the breathe. He looks through them slowly, gazing at every detail, every brushstroke and smudge and speck of paint, setting them aside carefully, gently.

“That one’s you,” Steve says abruptly when Eddie looks at one, and Eddie looks up at him. “It’s, uhm.”

“Explain?” Eddie questions, looking back at the painting. It’s full of dark blues and blacks and soft smudges of white and yellow and red, intense and heavy but somehow calm. At first glance, Eddie thinks it’s the sea.

“I was…” Steve’s cheeks flush red, and he scratches the back of his neck. “I was thinking about you. When I made it. Is that— That’s weird, I— I’m sorry, it’s—“

“It’s not weird, Stevie,” Eddie says gently, his chest aching. “It’s fucking beautiful.”

“Okay,” Steve says softly.

Eddie gazes at the painting for a little while longer, wondering when Steve did it, how long it’s been sitting in the dark of his closet.

“What are you gonna do with them all?” he asks, setting it aside carefully to look at the next.

“Don’t know,” Steve says. “Probably just keep them all there until I move out and get my own place.”

“You should cover every single wall with them,” Eddie says. “When you get a place.”

“You think?”

“Fuck yeah.”

He puts the paintings back as carefully as he can when he finishes looking through them.

“You play guitar?”

“Little bit.”

Eddie grins and picks up the guitar carefully, crawling over to hand it to Steve, who grimaces and takes it.

“Play me something,” Eddie demand, smiling up at him as he sits cross-legged on the floor again, his back to the closet. Steve sighs heavily, sliding his fingers down the frets, and Eddie watches eagerly as he starts to play.

“The Cure?” Eddie asks when Steve stops, grimacing again as he falters.

“Uh, yeah.”

Eddie nods approvingly.

“Is that allowed?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, ‘course. You can like what you like. Metal’s not for everyone.”

“Even if it’s Toto?”

Eddie shrugs, and Steve laughs, raising that eyebrows.

“You liked that song at the party, though.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you…”

“Okay, it wasn’t horrible,” Eddie says, cheeks flushing. Steve cackles almost evilly, looking up at the ceiling and Eddie falls in love a little more. He’d listen to Toto every day if he got to see Steve’s eyes sparkle like this.

“Alright, come on,” Steve says lightly, standing and kicking Eddie gently as Eddie looks up at him from the floor. He puts the guitar back in the closet, but forgets to shut the door.

Steve is different when he’s not at school. Eddie noticed it the first night they spent together, sitting by the quarry in the van, how light he seems when he isn’t surrounded by his douchey friends, how he sits differently, how he breathes differently.

When they sit in the conversation pit to watch a movie, Steve sits with his legs pulled up onto the sofa the same way Eddie does. He has an absent sort of smile gracing his lips, looking vaguely content in a way Eddie’s never seen him before.

Eddie looks away, pressing his lips together and letting his head fall back against the sofa, looking briefly at the ceiling. He’s so fucking beautiful.

They’re both quiet while they watch the movie, and Eddie is barely paying attention, instead focusing on the sound of Steve breathing, and the small distance between them. (Steve moved closer a little while ago, shifted slightly as he set his chin on his knee. Eddie wanted to scream.)

His cheeks flush with warmth when the characters in the movie lock eyes. A boy and a girl, staring intently at each other, the lighting dim and warm. He glances away from the screen at Steve, whose eyes are trained on the movie.

The air feels tight. Like Eddie could cut through it.

The characters kiss after a moment, slowly and gently and lovingly. Eddie’s chest hurts.

“Sometimes I—“ Steve’s voice says quietly, roughly. “I think that isn’t for me.”

Eddie looks at him, eyes wide.

“Kissing?” he says lightly, making Steve scoff. Girls?

“No, just… Romance. I guess.”

Eddie blinks, looking back at the screen. They’re still kissing, arms around each other, the boy’s fingers in her hair.

“Why?” he asks.

Steve sighs and shrugs.

“Nobody’s worked out,” he says. “Feels like they’re all… looking for something I’m not.”

Eddie swallows, biting his lip and picking at the hole in his jeans.

“Maybe you’re… not looking in the right place,” he says softly.

He keeps looking at the screen, watching the boy lift the girl onto a table without pulling away. The girl is smiling.

Steve is quiet for a few seconds before Eddie feels the sofa shift, and Steve’s hand gently touches Eddie’s chin, pulling to make Eddie face him, and before Eddie can even realise how close he is, he’s kissing him.

Eddie gasps, pushing forward to kiss him back briefly before Steve pulls away, holding Eddie’s chin gently. His eyes are wide, reflecting the movie and the soft golden light of the lamp across the room, and Eddie stares at him.

“Woah.”

Steve blinks, his eyes flicking back and forth between Eddie’s.

“Did I misread that?” Steve asks anxiously. His hand is shaking.

“No,” Eddie says sharply, dropping his legs and shifting to face him. “No, no, you— I just— I just wasn’t expecting that, but I—”

“Was it okay?” Steve asks in a small voice. He looks like he might cry.

“Jesus, Steve,” Eddie breathes, reaching up to touch his face, pressing his palm to his soft cheek. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, I…” He shakes his head. He looks at Steve’s lips. He can still feel them on his own.

“Really?”

Steve’s eyes are glistening, and his voice breaks, and Eddie doesn’t want him to cry. He reaches up with his other hand, cradling Steve’s face tenderly, and he nods.

“I have such a fucking crush on you. Christ.”

Steve laughs weakly, hunching his shoulders, and Eddie leans in to kiss him again, squeezing his eyes shut as their mouths crash together, tilting his head and gasping when they part.

“Eddie,” Steve says breathlessly, his eyes still closed, holding Eddie’s face.

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers, pushing Steve’s hair back, tracing a line down his neck lightly. “You okay?”

“I’m so okay,” Steve says softly. “I’ve never been this okay.”

Eddie grins at him, leaning in and kissing him softly.

“Can I…” Steve starts, pausing to bite his lip, his cheeks pink.

“What?” Eddie prompts softly, nudging their noses together.

“Can I sit on your lap?”

“Jesus. Yes, come here.”

He pulls at Steve’s hips, and Steve beams, sitting up and swinging a leg over Eddie’s lap so he’s straddling him. Eddie’s heart is pounding in his chest.

“Never thought I’d make it to Heaven,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist, and Steve shakes his head, rolling his eyes.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Can you blame me?” Eddie asks, sliding a hand over Steve’s back. “Got the prettiest boy in Indiana on my lap.”

Steve’s smile falters. He’s tracing lines over Eddie’s jawline, down his neck.

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks softly, shyly.

Eddie exhales. Gazes up at him. He vaguely hears the movie in the background, but he’s too focussed on the way the soft lighting in the room is making Steve’s stray hair shine like spun gold, on the way his eyes are shining like they’re glass, like he’s a painting that belongs in a museum.

“I think you’re fucking stunning, Stevie,” he says softly. Steve’s cheeks flush pink.

Steve pulls him into a kiss by tugging on his necklaces. Eddie is glad he wore them.

part nine

read the whole thing on ao3

taglist: @dazedandinked @vecnuthy @mareydi @thekingandthejester @michael-the-angelo @mackdaddyofheimlichcountyy @confusionocturne @three-possums-playing-human @narcissist-era @snailcosworld @axltheedaddy @thing-a-ling

#!!!!!!!!!#lmk if you want to be tagged in part nine <3 #i’m also working on a longer fic rn ab steve’s trauma and i’m v excited ab it lmk if you wanna be tagged in that too!!#also looking for ideas for some art i wanna make i’m in a slump and feel like i haven’t drawn in ages if you any ideas my inbox is open <3 #help me pls <3 i feel i may die <3 #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #steddie #steddie fanfic #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #love me softly

204 notes · View notes

brighteyedbushybrowed · 2 years

Text

𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞!𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

@prettyboyeddiemunson this is your fault for you

MINORS DNI!! There are smutty headcanons in this list as well as sfw because I am a whore and Vampire!Eddie has me in such a chokehold that I can think of nothing else but him.

First of all, I headcanon that Eddie wasn’t always a vampire. He was a human at one point and for whatever reason got turned. Maybe he accidentally was given vampire blood during a transfusion after he was brought back out of the upside down and that’s what turned him.

If it’s a modern Vampire!Eddie setting, then it’s blood transfusion for something else OR he got turned one night after a concert or a night out

I share in the telepathy headcanon besties, he will be able to read your mind and know all of those filthy thoughts you think about him at some point

He won’t use that against you straight away though because he doesn’t wanna scare you off or come across as a creep

He will, however, flirt with you here and there. At this point you don’t know he’s a vampire so all of this charm he’s got going on and that feeling of being drawn in just doesn’t register as something abnormal. Maybe you assume he’s just gotten more confident recently

After flirting for a while, a few weeks or a couple of months, he’ll start getting more bold and doing things like backing you up against walls and taking your chin in his hand while he flirts in a lower voice

And he’ll always be watching your lips because he wants to kiss you so bad

But he also wants to bite you so bad as well because he’s starting to feel the need to mark you as his human so no other vampire can claim you

The first time you kiss is when you first feel his fangs graze your lip and he’ll just lick away any blood that comes out and it tastes so much better than he thought it would and he really has to hold himself back

And then comes the inevitable talk about him being a vampire and he thinks that maybe you’re gonna reject him now that you know his secret

Very pleased when you don’t reject him

Even more pleased when you start kissing him again

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

Eddie is always biting you and leaving hickeys all over you so that everyone knows that you’re his human

Obviously he doesn’t bite so hard that he draws blood because he doesn’t want to drink too much of it and make you anemic

He’ll only drink your blood during making out and sex as a treat and if you ask him to. He won’t do it if you don’t ask because he’s not about to violate your boundaries like that. He’s a consent king first and foremost

Because of his increased speed, strength, and stamina as a vampire he’s able to go for multiple rounds and will make sure to get two or three orgasms out of you before even thinking about getting himself off

He’s an absolute tease who will fulfill every little filthy thought and fantasy you’ve had about him since the day you met

Even though he can read your thoughts, he still makes you say what you want out loud because hearing you say it yourself makes him even hornier

Will spend soooo much time eating you out because he has the stamina and he just fucking loves eating pussy in general

Because of his heightened sense of smell, he will be able to smell your arousal so much stronger now and it drives him to the brink of going feral and ripping your clothes off there and then

So we all know the vampires don’t have reflections thing doesn’t apply bc mirrors aren’t made with silver inside them anymore, so he loves getting a mirror and making you watch yourself cum as he touches you, eats you out, fucks you

If you do find a mirror with silver in it, however, he has even more fun because you’ll just see yourself and what’s happening to your pussy and he gets off on that shit

Now, you just know he’s gonna be constantly horny when you’re on your period

Will absolutely be having period sex with you. Partly because sex is supposed to help ease period pain, but also because as a vampire he absolutely has a blood kink

Will eat you out and will be moaning so much the whole time because the blood makes you taste and smell even more intoxicating

Will ask you not to shave because it captures some of the blood and wetness and he can just breathe it in. However, if you’re not comfortable with not shaving he doesn’t force you to keep the hair. It’s just something to bear in mind

King of filthy talk. He will say the most depraved, sexual shit into your ear while he fucks you

When he punishes you in the bedroom, he always does it right before he goes out to hunt. He’ll just have you tied up or restrained with a vibrator on the lowest setting barely touching you so you can’t get off until he returns

And when he does come home, he teases and edges you so much that you’re just begging for him to let you cum and dear god will it be intense

#spicy content #stranger things #eddie munson #vampire!eddie #eddie munson headcanons #headcanons #eddie munson smut #smut

494 notes · View notes

quartztwst · 4 months

Note

how often do you draw these characters?? do you never need references anymore

-🐀

Azul, Jade, and Floyd are the three I draw most often so I know them by memory 💪💪💪💪

Rook is easy to draw

I can get idea of figuring out Idia's hair but sometimes I need a reference LMAOO it's quite complicated but easy to draw somehow but I don't really draw him often

I've drawn Ortho before but his gear and body makes me nervous sometimes BUT IT'S KINDA FUN TO DRAW?? Like creating different outfits for him is kinda fun

Recently I've drawn Epel and I actually kinda liked drawing him but I used a reference for him bc I forget how his bangs go

Silver seems easy to draw but I don't draw him a lot

I enjoy drawing Lilia's hair a lot but I sometimes need references for his side bangs

Malleus I DEFINITELY NEED A REFERENCE FOR. I'm not used to his horns and also I don't draw him a lot

I need a reference for Sebek's hair sometimes bc I don't want him to have a BIG forehead 😭😭😭

Cater is challenging because of his hairstyle and I don't want his side bangs to be REALLY far apart that it looks weird.

Trey is... um

Riddle needs a reference bc I don't remember how many lashes he has

Leona has different hair than the canon version of him. He has locs but sometimes I forget how his front locs go 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 and I also use a reference for his hair and his eyes bc I THINK HE HAS LASHES?? and I wanna keep them in

I don't know how to draw Ruggie and Jack without a reference

I also don't know how to draw Vil without a reference

Adeuce I DEFINITELY need a reference bc I don't draw them........ like yeah I think it was only one time I drew them I don't remember

Kalim needs a reference bc I don't know how to draw his head dress well

Bro and I forget how my ocs look like so I NEED REFERENCES FOR THEM TOO 💀💀💀 I haven't drawn them in a long time

#twisted wonderland #twst

21 notes · View notes

violettduchess · 1 year

Note

Hello! I don't know if you're still taking kisses requests but I'd love one for Isaac bc he's baby and I wanna give him all the smooches<3 thank you!!

A/N: Here you go @akitsuneswife 💜

Isaac x Reader

Word Count: 454

His eyes, the soft pink of cherry blossoms in springtime, light up when he sees you waiting on the university steps. The sky above is already darkening, an ombré of blues from the last, light vestiges of day to the halcyon, inky darkness of night. After a long day of classes and conferences, you are the last person he expects to see and somehow, the only one he wants to. It’s late enough that students and faculty are scarce, the usually bustling entrance of the science building all but deserted. He lowers his worn leather satchel and opens his arms to welcome you as you bound up the alabaster stairs and step into his arms.

Like magnets, your faces tilt and your lips find each other, drawn to one another with a force as natural as it is undeniable. His words, spoken not all that long ago, echo through your mind as your lips touch: “You’re the first person I’ve ever laughed with…felt peace with…the first one I’ve ever felt possessive of…”

Sometimes when Isaac kisses you, he burns as brightly as a comet, his mouth leaving a fiery trail of kisses across the firmament of your body. You're lambent with want, glowing with need. He leaves the world of rational thinking behind and with you, sinks into the wonder of just being. Of feeling. Of letting go and allowing the primal, uralt desire that spins in our cores to drive his actions, his touches, his soft, half-growled whispers. Sometimes he leaves you, deliciously broken, deliriously spent, your mind unable to form a single thought, capable of nothing other than listening to the throb of your heart as it drums how much you love him.

But sometimes, like this velveteen moment on the white marbled steps of academia, there are no chaotic explosions. His lips on yours don’t burn, but rather soothe. It is the gentle, peaceful twinkle of starlight, the silver beam of moonlight as it brightens the night. The kiss of someone who cherishes you, protects you, will always shelter you with every atom of his being.

His kiss sends a warm ripple of satisfaction through your veins as you lean into his arms, feel them tighten around you. You love how you fit into his embrace, how your bodies feel like matching puzzle pieces that lock together perfectly to create a picture of pure happiness. He slides his hands upward until he cradles your face, allowing himself the luxury of using only his sense of feel (your skin under his palms), of taste (your lips, sweeter than apples), of sound (your hushed sighs of contentment). You transcend his need to analyze, to tinker, to figure out.

You allow him to exist, just like this.

And you love him, just as he is.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp isaac #ikemen isaac #isaac newton #isaac x reader #kisses #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #otome fanfic #violettwrites

131 notes · View notes

night-dark-woods · 23 days

Note

I want to start adding text descriptions to stuff i reblog, do you have any advice? is there a guide or something you use, the style of your IDs is very nice.

hey! thats great that you want to start writing IDs. I've reblogged guides before and ill tag this post with the tag they're in (image descriptions) so its easy to browse!

in addition to those other resources, here's some guidelines i personally keep in mind, & what i structure different IDs like.

for text transcripts: source & type of image, author, date if possible. here are some pretend/template IDs:

ID. a twitter screenshot from user @.[username] dated [date] that reads: "[tweet]." End ID.

i put the period after the @ symbol so it doesnt try to tag a nonexistent (or unrelated) user on this site, and a screenreader will just pause there briefly.

ID. a photo of a page from the book [name] by [author]. text reads: [transcript]. End ID.

if the OP cited the author/book/source, you can just do "Transcript: [text]. End transcript."

for actual images:

type of image is really important!

photograph, edited photograph, reaction image, edited reaction image, painting, digital painting, digital drawing, etc. you should always put what kind of image it is.

keep in mind the purpose of the image!

if its an art piece or a photo of one, its good to describe the medium, style, colors, and subject.

if it's a reaction image or other meme, you don't have to describe the surroundings in loving detail. the "point" of the image is enough.

if its a photograph, it might also be an art piece, or from the news, or someone sharing their pet. the amount and kind of detail again depends on the point of the image.

don't make judgements or assumptions!

dont describe things as badly drawn or badly photographed- and on the flip side, dont describe things as cute or beautiful. describe whats in the image, not how it makes you feel. if you love a certain part of how a photograph is framed, or how the light is painted in a piece of art, say that specifically. "beautiful" means nothing! do you mean realistic? vibrantly colored? "cute" means nothing! do you mean in a cartoony style? or that the subject matter is a cat, which many people find cute? be specific!

dont make statements about the gender or race of the people in the photo or art piece, especially if it's real people (like a news photo) unless you know those things as a fact (celebrities, fictional characters, people you know personally, people where it is mentioned in the article the photo is from). you can just describe things like hair length, skin tone, etc. exceptions to this rule imo are stock photos- eg if im captioning my favorite stock photo of all time, cyber woman with corn, i am going to describe it as "a stock photo of a white woman in a futuristic silver and black wraparound visor, wearing a silver bodysuit and cradling an ear of corn near her face and smiling slightly."

here are some example descriptions, all from images i have on my phone.

ID. a photo of two cats laying head to head on someones outstretched legs, which are under a blanket. one cat is an orange tabby, and the other is a gray and white splotched tabby. End ID.

the point of this image is my cats- im not going to spend time describing the blanket, the couch, the stuff you can see in the background, bc it's not relevant to the image, and adds nothing.

ID. a photo taken through a rainy window at twilight, with the camera focused on the raindrops on the glass, so the lights in the houses across the street are out of focus. the lights reflect on the wet pavement in a warm yellow glow. End ID.

i took this the other night bc i thought it looked cool how blurry it was- id consider this more of an "art" photo, so im describing the aspects of the framing etc that make it that- i wasnt just trying to show how rainy it was, but to take a photo in an interesting way, so those traits are "worth" describing.

ID. a photo of an acrylic painting done on a cardboard packing envelope of a city street at sunset, all the building windows reflecting gold. there are purple fluffy clouds in the sky, lit from below with peach and gold. the USPS tracking number barcode is still visible in the gap between houses at the end of the street. the brush strokes are very visible, the perspective is wonky, and the orange underpainting is visible at the edges. End ID.

this is a new ID for something i painted and already posted and i dont feel like getting the old ID. medium, style, and specific details i think are important are included. the perspective being wonky is a bit of a value judgement i wouldn't make about Other people's art, but it's my own and i think its an important detail so!

ID. an edited catcrumb comic, showing a simple mspaint illustration of a cat happily sorting things into piles with the caption, "sort sort. i love to arbitrarily sort." the cat has been colored in gray and its ears have been colored like homestuck troll horns, and the sorting piles replaced with some classpect symbols. End ID.

this is a good example of a edited image- its important to give (to some degree) a sense of what the original image was, say that its edited, and describe the changes. i dont need to list the classpect symbols i put on there, bc its not relevant to the message of the image- it would do nothing but make the ID longer.

oh- and to cap off the post- here is cyber woman with corn:

ID. a stock photo of a white woman in a futuristic silver and black wraparound visor, wearing a silver bodysuit and cradling an ear of corn near her face and smiling slightly. End ID.

#asks #anonymous #image descriptions #i hope this helps!#long post

10 notes · View notes

leejungchans · 2 years

Text

one for the tales — j.ww

༉‧₊˚✧ for my 1k event ! (now closed)

requested by @nayuyeons : HI CHOL MY LOVE *bops nose* CONGRATS ON 1K IM SO PROUD AND HAPPY AND ILYSM YOU DESERVE THIS AND MORE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! also !!! for ur event, can i request a wonu writing? and,,,, im between a royalty au (bc pls imagine prince wonu IM SWEATING JDKSJSKSK) or or or,,,,,,, BIKER WONU since hot is out now like JXKSJKX okay okay !!!!! u can do whichever genre u like, i will love whatever you write my chol<3333

a/n: hi nini 💖💖 thank u for requesting something and i hope this is the prince!wonu of your dreams WHSJAJS i chose the royal au bc someone else requested a biker!wonu au so we get the best of both worlds >:) 🫶🏻

word count | 1k

pairing | jeon wonwoo (svt) x gn!reader

genre | fluff, royal au

warning(s) / includes | none (please lmk if i missed anything!)

Some nights, the fear of the crown prince being caught with you keeps you up. You can already imagine the rumours that would inevitably surface if anyone were to ever find out about your clandestine meetings with him.

What you can’t imagine, however, is not being able to see Wonwoo again. The king and queen seem kind, albeit distant, from their public addresses, but even the kindest have their limit, and you’re almost certain their son sneaking into a bookstore—where the owner also lives, no less—late at night is gravely testing theirs.

Though it’s moments like these that make the fear, the risk, the secrecy all worth it in your eyes. From behind a looming stack of books, you let your gaze linger on Wonwoo. There’s something magnetising about his perfect posture, handsomely sharp features, and silver-rimmed glasses that slide down his nose bridge every five minutes. In a sense, he’s the lantern hanging outside by your door and you’re the moth drawn to it, unable to will yourself to pull away.

As though feeling the weight of your stare, he looks up, his eyes finding yours immediately. You feign an air of nonchalance when he raises his brows curiously, hoping he doesn’t sense your panic at being caught ogling. There’s a lamp hanging right above you, but you don’t think it’s the source of the heat that blooms beneath your cheeks.

“Interesting choice,” you finally choke out, gesturing to the book he’s holding. You had recognised the cover the moment he pulled it out from its shelf, but chose to remain silent until now. “I thought fairytales were too…” your voice trails off as you try to find the right word, not wanting to offend him, “vapid for your tastes, Your Highness.”

“I changed my mind,” Wonwoo responds softly, offering a shrug before idly flipping a page. Is the light deceiving your eyes, or is that a smile crossing his lips? “Also, I thought I said there’s no need to use my title when we are alone.”

When we are alone. You wish your cheeks didn’t burn as much as they should whenever he says it. Then again, everything sounds better, more enticing when they come from his lips.

“R-Right. My apologies, Your H—Wonwoo.”

He hums. “To answer your question, I have… taken quite a liking to fairytales recently.”

“Oh?” You move to take a seat across from him to hear him better—at least, that’s what you tell yourself—and not so you can get a better glimpse at him. Your stomach does a flip as you take in his features, illuminated by pale yellow light that also creates flickers of gold in his irises.

“What changed your mind, if I may ask?”

With a light thud, Wonwoo sets the book down onto the table before lifting his head from the aged pages, his lips pursed as he looks off to the side in deep thought.

“I’m not too certain myself,” he finally says, “perhaps it’s the temporary reprieve from reality they provide that I’m beginning to enjoy.”

Your voice is tentative, barely audible when you ask, “Is… something troubling you, Wonwoo?”

“Ah, it’s nothing troubling.” The way he waves his hand is elegant, dismissive, in an attempt to ease your concern. “Father and Mother are simply becoming rather… impatient because I am not yet married.”

“But—but you’re still so young!”

“Not by royal standards, especially for a crown prince.” His lips curl into a wry smile, the amused glint in his eyes faltering for a second to betray a hint of regret. How ironic that you spend your days tucked away within your cave of bookshelves, and yet you’re unable to find the words to describe the uncomfortable ache that burrows into your heart.

Despite the heavy subject, Wonwoo chuckles. The deep rumble of laughter chases away the heavy silence that has descended upon the room; it’s warm like the comforting crackle of a fireplace in the frigid winter, rich like the hot chocolate they serve at the cosy inn on the outskirts of town.

“Hope is… a powerful thing,” he begins with a glance down at the book, “it will always be the greatest reassurance humans have for the complexities—even cruelty—of life. I’m beginning to find comfort in stories like this one where the protagonist lives a life of freedom with the person he truly loves, and I now understand why there is such an appreciation for them.”

You remember a time in the distant past when you, much like most commoners you know, believed the crown prince to be a stoic, unmoved man. Back then, you would’ve never foreseen him sitting across from you in your tiny bookstore tucked away in a dingy alleyway, arguing over the semantics of happy endings, hiding smiles behind cooled cups of tea.

“I cannot say for certain if my future holds the same,” Wonwoo continues, looking up from the page to hold your gaze, “but…” His lips are still curved into a smile, yet something bittersweet manages to peek through his flawless composure. It sends a gripping ache straight to your heart. “It is nice to hope.”

“Keep it,” you blurt out, earning a mildly bemused look from the prince. “The book,” you rush to clarify, hoping to whatever deity watching over you from the heavens that he doesn’t notice the mistiness in your eyes. “If it holds such significance to you, I’d like for you to have it.”

“That’s very kind of you, Y/N. But respectfully, I will decline. I’d hate to keep such a lovely story to myself, why not leave it here where it can bring others some much needed hope as well?”

An appreciative smile stretches across your face, one that Wonwoo mirrors without hesitation. “Thoughtful to your people as always,” you tease. “Very well then, it shall remain here.”

Curiously, your cat trots across the table before deciding the space between you makes the perfect resting place. Wonwoo hardly seems to mind, gently running a curled finger over her fur and grinning when she lets out a contented purr.

“What are the chances you’d allow me to have your cat instead?”

“I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that you only return here for Maisie for quite some time, Your Highness.”

His laugh rings clearly as your eyes meet; your heart skips a beat at the playful twinkle that not even his glasses can disguise.

“A most preposterous assumption, that I can assure you.”

a/n: skskkws i hope the second half makes sense 😭 as always tysm for reading 💖

please reblog and/or give feedback if you enjoyed my writing ! support the creators and content you wish to continue seeing <3

315 notes · View notes