#can something be laced with heroin

[munsons-maiden]

𝐒𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Here's a little oneshot for you, lovelies! I hope you enjoy 🖤

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Eddie Munson x female reader (no physical descriptions, though)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Based on this request: could i request maybe eddie brings reader to a deal but wants her to stay in the van so she’s safe but the people he’s dealing to see her because she walked out to tell eddie something and it doesn’t go so well. and after the situation eddie and her argue but eddie’s upset and just what’s to protect her 🥺 but ofc it ends well🫡

- I hope you like it, dear!🖤

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 | fights turning into love confessions, angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst with a happy ending, attempted (sexual) assault

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝🖤

You can barely make out your surroundings, the little dirt path leading you deeper into the woods, in the darkness between the trees as you slowly draw closer – the moon and stars have vanished behind the clouds as if they’ve gone into hiding, and the taste of a summer storm already laces the stuffy air.

In all these years of being Eddie Munson’s friend, there’s been one simple rule when it comes to him meeting his customers for a drug deal:

Stay in the car.

The customers are harmless. It’s the cops I’m worried about, he tells you, expression stern, whenever you crack a joke about him being scared you could scare away a customer.

It’s tiny little Hawkins, and the deals gone wrong that sometimes make it into the TV news or newspaper headlines are over coke and heroin and all the hard stuff Eddie would never sell, not over something as harmless as weed or the occasional pill of ketamine.

Tonight has been no different.

It was supposed to be a quick deal on your way to the Carnival two towns over at Sycamore where you’re supposed to meet the rest of Hellfire.

Some new customer sent by Reefer Rick.

But the longer you’ve been sitting in Eddie’s van, in the dark, in the middle of the lonely road that cuts through the woods surrounding Hawkins…this nagging feeling started to grow in your chest. First into worry, then into outright panic when you’d watched the clock on the old van’s display tick, one minute turning into five, and five into ten.

What if something went wrong?

What if something horrible happened to him?

What if Eddie needs your help?

You wanted to tell him, tonight at the fair, beneath the see of glittering lights of the Ferris wheel. That you’re in love with him. That you’ve been, for a very long time. That even if he doesn’t feel the same, you need to say it out loud, how you first fell for all the tiny little pieces that make him Eddie and then wholly and utterly and completely.

When ten minutes bled into fifteen, and your mind had come up with the most horrid scenarios fueled by news coverage of drug deals breaking into violence, conjuring up gruesome images of Eddie bleeding out between the ferns and brambles covering the forest floor, blood soaking the moss, you couldn’t stay cooped up in the confines of his old van a second longer.

You broke Eddie’s one rule. You left the car and went looking for him.

As you’re now traipsing along the small dirt path cutting through the brambles and ferns, the fabric of your summer dress you’ve spent an entire weekend picking out at the mall just so Eddie might finally start seeing you as something else as his friend, sticking to your sweaty skin and thorns scratching at your legs, you realize that even if Eddie needs your help…how the fuck would you even be able to help him?

It’s not like you’re carrying a gun in the little bag you’re clutching at your side.

The sound of voices startles you out of your thoughts, and in the dark, your eyes lock on the two silhouettes in the little clearing ahead of you.

You recognize Eddie first – you’d recognize him everywhere.

He’s standing with his back to you. Even with the remaining distance between the two of you, the darkness of the woods, you can tell that his shoulders are tense.

His whole body is holding a kind of tension you’ve only ever seen on him once before, a few years ago, when his deadbeat father had shown up at the trailer park drunken and shouting curses into the wind before Eddie had dragged you into the safety Wayne’s trailer.

A twig snaps beneath your sneakers, and both Eddie and his customer whirl around to you.

And you realize you’ve made a huge mistake.

The guy in front of Eddie is no nervous classmate, not one of the chill stoner guys always hanging around beneath the bleachers. No friendly family dad or stressed housewife looking for a little relaxation or piece of rebellion.

The guy’s buzzcut does nothing to soften the harsh angles of his face, the lines around his mouth formed by the frown that seems to be engraved there.

There’s something menacing in his eyes as they lock on you.

Something evil and predatory.

The guy licks his lips, and his mouth curls into a lewd smirk, a twisted mirror to the abysmal panic in Eddie’s wide eyes as he stares at you.

You can read them like the pages of an open book.

What the fuck are you doing here? I told you to stay in the car!

The guy slaps a meaty hand on Eddie’s shoulder, hard enough to make Eddie sway a little on his feet with the impact. And contrary to what the jocks at Hawkins High believe, Eddie is strong.

“And at first I thought you’d brought the cops,” the guy laughs – but it’s not a friendly laugh. It doesn’t reach his eyes, either. He’s got muscles. A lot of them, flexing beneath his skin as he lets his arm sink from Eddie’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t do that to your old friend though, would you? Instead, you brought me a present.”

There’s an eagle tattooed across the guy’s throat, wings spread wide. It’s fitting, this bird of prey marking him. You feel like a tiny little robin beneath his gaze.

Eddie’s eyes haven’t left you for a single second.

“I told you to stay in the car.” His voice is strained with barely suppressed fury and, above all else…panic.

“Nah, we’re good,” the guy grins, letting his eyes roam over you.

Making you wish you were wearing something other than a short little summer dress.

“Come on closer, little birdie,” he drawls, “Don’t be shy now.”

“Go back to the car,” Eddie says, louder, the vehemence of his tone flashing in his panicked eyes. His voice is trembling. “Now.”

“What, you don’t want to introduce us?” The man drawls. The threat in his own voice is as clear and tangible as the panic in Eddie��s umber eyes as he shakes his head, the movement subtle, barely visible. Go, he mouths. Now.

At the guy, he adds, “I thought we were here to talk about business.”

“You want me to focus on business when you brought your pretty girl with you, boy?” The guy makes a beckoning motion at you, still frozen like a deer in the headlights, rooted to your spot only feet away from him and Eddie. “Come closer, doll. Don’t be shy now.”

“No,” Eddie interjects, fervor smoothing his voice as it cuts through the rain-laced air of the clearing, despair flashing out beneath the panic, “She’s not part of this.”

You’re scared out of your mind.

But hell will freeze over before you leave Eddie alone with this man.

So you do what the guy told you.

You step closer, coming to stand beside Eddie.

“Tell you what, boy,” the man purrs, tearing his eyes off of you to meet Eddie’s, a flash of yellowed teeth in diffuse moonlight, as his smirk grows into a grin so devilish you wouldn’t have been surprised had they been pointed, “I’m gonna give you a few more bucks and you’re gonna give me a few minutes with your lovely lady here.”

Beside you, Eddie inches closer to you, shifting to place himself between the guy and you.

Trying to shield you with his own body, you realize.

Eddie Munson, who always swore he was no hero outside of D&D, is becoming your hero right now.

“I’ll give you everything I got with me right now, and you leave,” Eddie counters, voice hard.

A desperate attempt to get you out of this situation.

Almost completely hidden from the guy’s field of vision with Eddie having placed himself in front of you, his muscles taut and ready to fight, your hands slowly dive into the bag slung over your shoulder, fingertips carefully feeling for something, anything, to use to protect him, to protect both of you –

“Or,” the man drawls, taking a step closer, with the ease of a predator rounding in on a wounded fawn, “I’ll just take whatever you got and have some fun with your pretty lady.”

It happens too fast to see it coming.

There’s a snapping sound as the flick-knife the guy must have been holding, concealed in his meaty fist and the dark of night, is flipped open, the jagged blade flashing in the obscure beams of moonlight filtering through the clouds and the foliage of trees above your heads – and Eddie pushes you farther behind him.

Placing yourself between you and the knife’s path as he snaps, voice vibrating, “Stay the fuck away from her.”

The man lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. “And what are you gonna do, hm?”

There. Your fingers wrap around something smooth and cool nestled at the bottom of your bag.

And not a second too soon.

Before the guy can let the knife in his fist soar down to hurt Eddie, you duck around your friend, your own hand flying up as you press your index finger down in the spray bottle in your sweaty grip, sending a blast of hair spray straight into the guy’s face.

He screams, hands flying up to cover his eyes as he stumbles backwards, and the flick-knife lands between the ferns.

Eddie doesn’t waste a single second.

His hand finding yours, he pulls you away from the screaming, staggering man and pushes you towards the path that leads back to the road and the van and safety. Together, you break into a run.

You don’t notice the thorns of the brambles cutting your legs, the burn of your lungs, your muscles, because it all fades to white noise beneath the roaring of blood in your ears, the wild pounding of your heart, Eddie’s own racing steps behind you.

Only at the edges of your panic-addled mind you realize that he’s staying behind you to make sure you’ll get away, first.

The van comes up in the distance, a flash of white among the leaves and branches, and you feel the first tender burst of relief wash through you at the sight.

Eddie rips the driver’s side door open, all but shoving you inside and onto the passenger seat as he climbs in after you, and the old engine comes to life with a sputtering roar. The van jerks forwards with screeching tires as your hands shoot out to grab the door’s handle to avoid toppling over into the footwell.

As the vehicle bolts down the country road leading out of the woods, silence descends upon you, heavy and loud even beneath the roar of the engine, your own panting breaths slowly calming.

You cast Eddie a careful sideways glance.

He doesn’t look at you.

His eyes are glued to the road the way his foot is glued to the gas pedal, jaw set, and his knuckles clamped around the wheel are white.

You’ve never seen him so angry in all the time you’ve known him.

You’ve never felt so angry in all the time you’ve known him, either.

When the van emerges from the woods and lights of the carnival come into sight, the twinkling form of the Ferris wheel rising over the rolling fields of wheat covering the landscape, Eddie steers the vehicle to the side of the road.

By the time he cuts off the engine and pushes the driver’s door open with a force that makes you fear it’ll just rip off its hinges, he still hasn’t uttered a single word.

You reach for the latch in your own door, but before you can open it, Eddie has already rounded the hood, and the door is ripped open to reveal his face, unreadable and void of all the usual humor and goofiness.

“Are you okay?” It sounds strangely hollow, the way he says it.

“Eddie –“

“Are you okay?” It’s nearly a shout, but not an angry one. Only scared. So fucking scared that it makes his voice shake as much as his hands coming up to rake through his curls while his dark eyes roam over you in the diffuse moonlight over the field, the dim glow of the lights inside the van, scanning the tiny cuts decorating your face and arms and legs where the brambles and branches of the woods have left their marks during your flight.

You give a tentative nod.

The breath he seems to have been holding leaves in a sharp exhale as he rakes his hand through his dark curls once more, sending stray leaves falling out as he starts pacing at the edge of the road.

You climb out of the car.

And the storm that’s been building the past few minutes breaks lose – not in the sky, but down beneath it.

“I TOLD YOU TO STAY IN THE FUCKING CAR!”

Eddie has never shouted at you.

You’ve never shouted at him, either, but it breaks out of you like a flood-wave.

“ME?! THIS IS MY FAULT?!”

“YES! FUCKING HELL YES IT IS! SHIT. IF YOU HAD, JUST FOR ONCE, LISTENED –“

“ME?! I’M NOT THE ONE MEETING FUCKING KILLERS IN THE WOODS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!”

“THAT’S WHY I TOLD YOU TO STAY –“

“IF I’D STAYED IN THE CAR, YOU’D BE DEAD ON THE FOREST FLOOR NOW!” The thought of it, of Eddie, bleeding out between the ferns, scared and alone and in pain, makes the tears spill over and your voice shatter as you choke out the rest of the sentence in a miserable little whisper. “You’d be fucking dead!” Saying it aloud brings back the fury at him for being so fucking careless. “HE WAS ABOUT TO HURT YOU!”

“AND THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN WAY BETTER THAN IF HE’D HURT YOU! I CAN’T LOSE YOU, I FUCKING LOVE YOU!”

Eddie’s words shut you up.

They ring through the night, mingle with the soft summer breeze that ruffles the stalks of wheat in the nearby field, the rustling too loud in the shellshocked silence.

The tears which have been glittering in his dark eyes have started running down his pale cheeks.

For a few wild heartbeats, you just stare at each other in the moonlight piercing through the passing clouds, the glow of colorful lights of the fair at the edge of the field sending flares into the night, the stuffy summer night’s air pressing down on the two of you.

In a few quick strides, both of you cross the small distance between the two of you, meeting in the middle.

And then, you’re kissing.

And the world stills, heartbeat accelerating as panic and adrenaline bleed into something entirely else, something that’s been trapped within you for so long it takes a second to realize this, right now, is truly happening.

Eddie’s lips, soft and hot against yours, his palms cradling your face, the metal of his rings warm with the heat of his body as they press gently against your skin.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

He kisses you like he really, truly means it.

Because I fucking love you.

It’s better, so much better than even your wildest daydreams.

You know you’ll never want to kiss anyone else after this.

You know you don’t ever want this kiss to end.

It does, eventually. Eddie pulls away, wide-eyed and panting, lips slightly apart in a gape and curls in a tangled mess – from his own hands raking through it or yours right now, you can’t tell. Even in the half-dark of the night, you can see the blush dusting his cheeks.

“I – I’m sorry,” he breathes, the kiss-dazed gleam in his eyes making room for an appalled expression. “God, fuck, I’m – I didn’t think. I didn’t even ask –“

“I’ve been waiting for you to do this for a very long time,” you say quietly, giving him a soft smile.

For a moment, Eddie just stares at you, as if he’s contemplating whether his mind is playing tricks on him. “You, uh. You did?”

“Yeah,” you whisper into the few inches of between the two of you. “And now I’ll be waiting for you to do it again.”

He does. Not a single beat of hesitation.

This time, when Eddie’s lips meet yours, it’s softer, slower, yet just as intoxicating and feverish as that first kiss.

His hands snake up to cup your cheeks and angle your head as he slowly walks you backwards, until your back meets the side of the van, the metal still warm from the day and the sweltering night air, and butterflies flood your belly, your entire body, a colorful swarm of them making your skin tingle in all the places his body brushes against yours. His chest against yours, one of his knees between yours, his calloused fingertips gently trailing down the column of your throat.

Kissing Eddie Munson is as easy as breathing.

“I meant it,” he breathes into the kiss, before resting his forehead against yours, the curls of his bangs tickling you, “What I said. I’m so fucking sorry I dragged you into this mess. I’m so fucking sorry I put you in danger.” He swallows. “And I’m so fucking much in love with you.”

“I love you, too,” you whisper, placing a kiss to the corner of his lips, feeling his smile. “I’ve been loving you for a very long time, Eddie.”

You place your hands over his, still holding your face.

“I was so fucking scared,” Eddie murmurs, voice trembling again with new tears. “Fuck. I was so stupid –“

“We’re okay,” you whisper, fingers squeezing his, “We’re safe. You saved me.”

“Shit, you saved me. What even was that? Pepper spray?”

You chuckle. “Farah Fawcett hair spray.”

Eddie blinks, before he gives a breathless little laugh, as if he’s not sure he’d rather laugh or cry. Probably both. “Pretty fucking metal.”

“I wanted to look pretty for you tonight,” you amend, and Eddie’s expression grows serious again.

“You always look pretty, sweetheart. I’ve been having a pretty hard time not ogling you every second we’re together.”

“You need to promise me you’ll never ever meet clients in the middle of the woods. Not at night. Not by day either. And –“

“I promise,” Eddie interrupts, voice sincere. “I’m gonna stick to the clients I know. No expanding the business.”

“Good,” you breathe, letting your hands fall away from his to lock them at the nape of his neck, fingertips playing with his dark curls.

“Your hair is really soft,” you breathe, lips not an inch from his, feeling stupid all of a sudden for saying it out loud, but Eddie replies with an adorable little giggle that makes your heart soar and race and squeeze with love all at the same time.

“Thanks. It’s…uh. Don’t laugh. It’s Farah Fawcett conditioner.”

Your own soft laugh fades into the night as Eddie’s lips find yours again, the summer storm brewing over your heads and the glittering lights of the carnival in the distance and the moment of terror in the woods blurring against the radiant joy of knowing the one you love loves you back just as much.

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝🖤

Requests for angst/smangst remain open. If you want to check out my works in progress, here's the list🖤

#eddie munson #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ❤︎ 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

ㅤhistory professor!pero tovar x f!reader

genre: smut, dark academia, minors dni

word count: 2k

summary: you've been suspicious for a while from the way he speaks. talking about historic events with such an affinity as if he's actually been there. the thought refuses to leave your mind and brings you to his office where he gives you answers but not without a price.

prompt: Their history teacher had a way to talk about historic events, just like he had actually been there. (click here for the prompt list)

warnings: unbalanced power dynamics, professor/student, fingering, mild dubcon due to the nature of the dynamic, pero is a bit of an asshole, size kink, rough piv, age gap

requested by @dinjardin

**amazing gif made by the most talented fanna aka @pedrorascal xx

His presence is large within the office. You always found him to be intimidating with his broad shoulders and hard gaze. The intensity of it would always take you by surprise. It would make your stomach jump and skin crawl. You would always wonder how such a soft color could look so intimidating and angry. Pero doesn’t lift his gaze as you enter, seemingly unbothered by your sudden interruption. Briefly, you look around, taking in the sight of worn books and ancient artifacts. 

You swallow and look down, scanning the detailed lace of the end of your dress— maybe it was wrong of you to assume something so drastic, and frankly, unbelievable. Then again, the look in his eyes as he spoke of certain events…the way his gaze would grow cloudy and almost rueful as if speaking of a time he missed…you had to investigate, you just had to ask. 

Raindrops begin to fall against the glass panels, neither of you looks to watch the soothing droplets slither down. 

“How can I help you?” He asks, fingers deftly moving over the paper and scribbling down words you cannot see. “It is very unlikely for you to come and visit after hours. You must have a good reason.” 

Pero’s not asking if something is wrong or not, he’s not telling you to take a seat. Every single sentence is a statement, a hint of a threat, he’s telling you not to pry. You remain silent. All the words you wish to speak suddenly foreign to your tongue. His eyes flit between the stacks of paper and you, noticing your inability to speak, he sighs and leans back against his chair. Your eyes follow the vein meandering down the side of his neck, a sliver of sun-kissed skin peeking from under his white button-up shirt. 

“If you are too cowardly to speak, I suggest you leave,” the corner of his lips twitch into a cruel smile. “Some things are better left unspoken.” 

His words sting and you immediately know you can’t leave this room without confronting him. You’re not a coward. You’re not some little girl throwing a temper tantrum. You noticed something and you want to seek the truth. You hear the blood rushing to your ears, your veins expanding as your pulse quickens. He’s watching you intently, eyes glimmering with amusement as if he’s watching the breaking point of the heroine. 

“I’m not a coward, professor.”

“No?” 

“No,” you lift your chin and his smile widens into a grin. “Your words only prove that there is something going on.”

Something dark crosses his eyes, something that sends a chill down your spine, “How about this,” he starts, lacing his fingers above his belt. Your eyes instinctively drop to them, making you realize that he did it on purpose. It’s not much, but you still manage to witness the outline of his cock. “If you guess what it is that I am hiding, I’ll confess fully. But if not, I get to touch you how I please. You get two guesses.” 

“That seems hardly fair.” After a brief thought, you add. “And unprofessional.” 

He shrugs with a smile, “Then I wish you a good day. See you in class tomorrow.”

He knows you’re not gonna leave this room. And you know that he knows. There’s no way you’re backing down after coming this far. You fix him a half-hearted glare as if you’re thinking about another way to get him to speak. But in all honesty, you’re not at all appalled by the thought of his hands on you. Touching you in places he’s not supposed to be touching. He’s a handsome professor. One of the professors that the other students constantly remark about, and you’re not immune to his deep dark eyes and mischievous, teasing smile.

“Fine,” you answer through gritted teeth and he lifts two fingers, eyes full of flickering amusement. “Okay, my first guess is that you’re a time traveler.” 

His gaze lights up and for a second you think you’ve got it right, your heart starting to pound fast. Your mouth goes dry as you stare at the two fingers.

He lowers one, and slowly, he stands.

“Wrong,” he purrs, this voice thick. The professor rounds the desk and comes to a halt behind you, his body only a breath away. You hold your breath. “ Where should I touch you first? Here?” With both hands he cups your breasts, squeezing them lightly. Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse quickening from where his lips hover an inch away from your neck. “Or here?” His hands slither down and slip to your back, he cups your ass, the plump flesh filling his palms.

A whimper is caught in your throat and he lifts one finger in front of you, “Tell me your second guess and final guess.” 

“Um,” all the answers you previously had feels silly to you now. “You’re a supernatural being, like a vampire or something.”

“Vampire?” He laughs, loudly. The sound booms in your ear, the thick hairs above his lip tickling your skin along with his warm breath. Embarrassment floods your senses and your eyes drop to his weathered desk. You feel the touch of his lips on your ear. “No. I am not a vampire,” he waits for a beat and then chuckles darkly. “You are out of guesses, senorita.”

His hands slip under your shirt and roam, taking in every detail of your burning body. He pulls down your bra, with his thumbs, he plays with the pebbled flesh. His touch makes arousal gather quickly between your legs. You squirm as you finally feel the full press of his body. His cock hard and aching between his legs. Some part of you wants to argue and say that this is more than a touch, but the other part of you is deadly afraid that he’ll stop.

You don’t want him to stop.

He pinches your nipples and slightly twists them, your body jolts, lips parting with a gasp, “Professor—“ 

“You really want to know what I am?” He mutters, dragging his nose down your cheek. You nod but honestly, with the way his hands are kneading you’re breasts, you realize you don’t care much about it anymore. “I am cursed to live out the rest of my days. Watching the times pass me by, watching everyone I once called a friend die.” You shudder at his tone, your body seizing at the sharp feel of his teeth. “I lived over and over. Now I am at a point where I do not care much about anything anymore.” 

Your eyes go wide as he kisses your neck. His lips are soft and slightly damp. It feels good against your skin. A soft whimper escapes your lips. it’s hard to register what he just said, to understand what he means. Some part of you feels as if you’ve already known this. That he lived a thousand lifetimes and will live a thousand more.  

Pero doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Before you can remark or offer some comfort, he holds you by the neck and shoves you down to the desk. His hips are pressed firmly against your ass, his erection tucked between your cheeks. Your breath hitches. With the corner of your eye, you see ungraded papers whipping around you and falling to the floor.

“One of the things that time has not changed is how even the most proper women become whores after I bend them over just like this.” 

He must be right because you end up grinding back toward him, wanting to feel more of his cock, body, and presence. He grins against your skin. With large hands, he pushes up your dress and exposes your covered thighs. It doesn’t take him long to rip away your stockings. Warm palms stroke the flesh of your ass, he slides your panties to the side, exposing your soaked pussy to the chilled air of his office. 

“Let’s see how wet this cunt is,” he teases, voice dropping. Two fingers spread your folds and push between them, your chest heaves as he slips them inside of you with embarrassing ease. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling. He starts thrusting in and out, the wet sounds of your cunt flooding the room, burning your ears. It’s so loud. A fresh wave of arousal soaks his fingers, dripping down his wrist. “How hard do you want me to fuck you?” 

You push back against him, walls fluttering as you take his fingers knuckle deep. “Filthy,” he coos. “You’re a mess already. My sweet student is such a slut for her professor. Isn’t she?” 

“Yes,” you gasp, wiggling your ass. His groan rattles in your chest and you moan at the richness of the sound. 

He pulls out his fingers, his other hand still pressing you down by the back of your neck, “Gonna fuck this pussy until it's drowning in my come,” he says. “Then you’ll be coming here every day, asking—begging me to fill these pretty holes.”

His cock is so much bigger and thicker compared to his fingers. Your body coils tight. The head of his length stretching you incredibly wide. You moan through gritted teeth, a sound of both pleasure and pain seeping into the wood underneath your cheek. Your skin prickles as he presses forward, your jaw going slack. He feels so incredibly big. He reaches deep inside of you, stroking places that you thought weren’t possible before. You writhe underneath him. Your body clenching him tight. He moans loudly when he’s fully heated inside, his cock throbbing and twitching inside you. You let out a deep breath and force your body to relax. He seems to notice. The only kindness he shows is the soothing glide of his palms over your back. You hum and sigh at the feeling.

But the tenderness is short-lived. Pero pulls out until it’s only the tip remaining and with a deep growl he snaps his hips forward, filling you with one smooth thrust. You scream his name, your body burning from the inside out as he pounds harder and harder into you. You’re drooling all over his cock, your nipples tight from where they rub against his desk. He fucks himself deeper into the tight fist of your cut and takes. He takes and takes and takes until you’re lifeless like a doll underneath him. Pleasure licks the base of your spine.

“Come on you professor’s cock,” he rasps into your ear, cock sliding in and out of you with ease. Your body begins to seize. Pero straightens, whine tearing from your throat at the lack of body heat. He roughly takes a hold of your hips and hammers into you, skin slapping against skin, until you’re coming undone around his cock. You cry out and the entirety of your body twitches uncontrollably.

Pero continues to thrust into you, his grip on your hips never faltering as he rides out his own orgasm. His groans and grunts mix with your own moans and cries as he fills you to the brim just like he promised.

Your mind is a blur of pleasure as you feel his cock pulse and twitch inside of you. It's overwhelming and you feel yourself start to come undone all over again. Pero's hands move from your hips to your breasts, giving them a rough squeeze before his fingers pinch and tug at your hard nipples. He pushes even deeper, some of his release dripping from where his cock mercilessly stretches you. A soft whimper drops from your lips. 

He finally pulls out of you, your body limp on the desk. Pero stands up and looks down at you with a satisfied grin on his face. He watches you try to catch your breath. 

“You're mine now. All mine, even if you do not want to be,” he says, pulling his pants back up and adjusting himself. “And you will keep coming back for more.”

You're too exhausted and sated to even respond, but deep down you know he's right. There's no turning back now. 

#pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar x fem!reader #pero tovar smut #pero tovar au #professor!pero tovar #the great wall fanfic #the great wall fanfiction #pero tovar fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

[gretavanlace]

Through the Looking Glass

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, language, dirty talk, pet names, fingering (fem rec), Jake is a cocky fuck, etc

Okay, just something quick because I’ve been terribly busy, but I loved this ask! Thank you, anon! Please keep those requests coming, everyone, they feed my devious brain. Also, I just wanted to say I have merely borrowed ‘bunny’ as we all know that our dear @garbagevanfleet and Abaddon Josh owns. that. shit. Flat out. Period. Alright, on with the show……

“I told you to sit still,” his voice is silken warmth against your throat as he licks over your riot of a pulse.

Your response is a timid, wilting, “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” His teeth drag over the curve of your flushed neck, light as the wings of a butterfly. His demand is quiet, and yet, it bears a stern weight.

He waits until you’ve settled your twitching, writhing muscles, and then presses a kiss to your cheek in reward. “There’s a good girl. Suck on them for me.”

Your lips part, welcoming his fingers into your mouth. Pillowing them with careful devotion against your curved tongue, loving them as you would his cock…if only he would let you.

“You see, bunny?” He swirls his touch further back, searching, until he is greeted with a gentle gag. “You can behave when you apply yourself. You can sit so pretty for me. Look at you being just the best little listener.”

You don’t have to change a thing to follow his directive, your eyes are already honed in on the reflection of the beautifully debaucherous stage Jake has set.

He sits behind you, fully dressed in tattered jeans and a worn, stretched out T-shirt, sleeves cuffed and showcasing his arms in a manner you know wasn’t intentional. Silver necklaces rope around his neck glinting and winking as he moves, brushing against one another and sounding faintly of metallic bells. His gorgeous face, dewy with a sheen of sweat, is twisted into a devious mask of bliss - drunk on lust soaked power.

And you, splayed out on the bedroom floor, bare aside from your drenched panties. Back pressed to his chest, legs hitched and spread wide over his thighs, breasts peaked and achingly on display for him, though his gaze remains trained on your pleading eyes as they drink him in from the immense, ornate mirror resting in the corner.

Jake is an exhibitionist in the worst way. Nothing gets his blood pumping and his cock throbbing like being watched and wanted. Nothing aside from being the one who watches.

He loves to study you this way; slightly removed and voyeuristically. Loves watching your entire body dissolve into an itch you just can’t scratch, all because of him. Loves to watch you shiver and beg with your pretty, needy pussy, and your doe eyes pleading for him. Only for him. Always for him.

His fingers are still stuffed into your mouth, slipping over your tongue, nudging into your throat, until a trail of saliva drips from your chin to roll between the valley of your breasts.

“Messy,” He taunts, admiring the trail it blazes, tracking its glistening path down to your belly button. “Why do you look so fucking whiny, pretty girl? Is there something you need?”

“Touch me,” You whimper, muffled around his digits.

His free hand lands a swift smack against the inside of your thigh. “Manners, bunny.”

“Touch me, please…” the plea mumbles out pathetically as he continues to tease past your lips.

“Yeah?” The tip of his nose nuzzles your cheek so sweetly, in such contrast to his insidious touch and bullying words. “Touch you where? Where does bunny rabbit want my fingers?”

Eyes locked on the amorous display he has created with his nefarious hands, the breath catches audibly in your gasping lungs as he reaches down and tugs your panties up, dragging the satin across your clit.

“I can see it, you know,” He whispers, lapping over your flesh like you’re a heroin-laced lollipop and he’s in shaking need of a fix. “How swollen that sweet little clit is. Look, baby…can you see?”

You zero in on the tiny bump that hides behind your shamefully wet panties, and offer a bashful nod.

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, tenderly scolding you. “Don’t be shy, bun…it’s only ‘cause she misses me. Is that where you want me to touch you? Do you want me to spoil this greedy little cunt for a while? Push your buttons just right?”

“Yeah,” Your nod against his shoulder is too eager. You should care about that, right? You don’t.

“Yeah? Bunny wants to ride my hand so she can see how delicious she looks cumming for me dirty?” He’s pulling at your panties rhythmically now, as your hips begin to rock, keeping time.

But just as quickly as the relieving friction came, he lets go of your panties, and it’s gone.

Another kiss against your jaw does little to quell your pathetic whimpers for more.

“Pull them to the side.” The softer his demands come, the faster they unravel you, and this particular one came barely a whisper.

The moment your fingers hook into the sodden fabric, his hand is there too, spreading you apart. “Poor baby girl. Look how badly you need it…squeezed up so nice and tight. Spoiled little brat.”

At long last, you’ve got him where you need him. His touch circles and strokes over your entrance as your hips chase after his touch subtly enough that he decides against chastising you for it.

After all, it’s his fault you’re such a mess and so completely far gone, and this is his favorite game to play.

He dips inside, but just barely. Two fingers indulging you only to the very first knuckle. “Shh, settle down and relax, bun…” he hushes, mouth hot and sweeping over the shell of your ear, “Let me in.”

You will your muscles to comply - body opening up for this man you can’t imagine you deserve like the evening primrose loosens her petals to greet the moon.

“That’s my girl,” his praise brings to life an arch in your back as he delves into the warmth of you…his most beloved place to be

“You’re so wet,” his words carry a blip of a tremor now that he can feel you from the inside. “Naughty fucking cunt is crying all over my hand already. Give me some more.”

He crooks his fingers, punctuating his filth…grinning wildly at you in the mirror when you moan through a frantic exhale, shaking in his grasp, biting out his name through clenched teeth.

You tug harder on your panties, yanking them aside further until they threaten to rip and tear away from your body, and thrust yourself into his touch over and over. Grinding and hunting for the release you just need so fucking badly.

Fingers winding into your hair, he guides your line of sight back to the mirror when the back of your head meets his shoulder. “Nope. Want you to watch that sweet little cunt take my fingers. Fucking take them, baby. Doing such a good job, aren’t you? Nasty fucking girl using my hand.”

“I need to cum…” whines out of you, vibrating with a hungry longing that makes his cock twitch.

“Yeah?” He clicks his tongue again, tsking as though you’re an overly indulged little girl demanding a pony. “Does baby need to cum for me just so, so bad?”

Your nod is feverish as your eyes burn into his through the glass - willing him to find grace in his heart.

“You’re just a desperate bunny, huh? My desperate bunny. My lovely, greedy whore just wants to cum for me, doesn’t she? Just wants to soak my hand with her pretty pink cunt. C’mon then, be a good girl. Give it to me. It’s mine, and I fucking want it.”

It explodes through you. Blasting fervently into your very soul like a blue flame wave; incinerating you right down to the ashes even as your phoenix wings stretch and ache to kiss his sky.

It’s a sobbing, gushing, perfect release…made sweeter still by the filth he groans out like wanton lullabies. A chorus of ‘yes, yes, yes, just like that,’, a melody of ‘that’s it, bunny baby, that’s it,’. Praises that come tender and quiet as he strokes your hair until the fog in your mind lifts enough for you to find your way back to him.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @profitofthedune @highladyofasgard @jordie-gvf-admin @calumspretty @sunfl0wer-power @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal

#greta van fleet #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet smut #greta van smut #greta van fic #gvf fic #jake gvf #fanfic #jake kiszka fanfiction #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiskza #jake kiszka smut #jake kiskza x reader #jake kiszka imagine #gvf one shot #gvf jake #josh kiszka fanfiction #josh kiszka smut #josh kiskza fanfic #josh kiszka

[justbelievinginmagic]

ariadne's thread ⎯ pt. 1: a deal, a deal, a deal!!

pairing(s): hyunjin x fem!reader series summary: when tempted by an intoxicating offer by hyunjin the goblin king of the underground, you fight against him to find your own sense of self once more while in his labyrinth. glimpse: she said the words - "i wish . . . i wish the goblin king would save me." what is said has been said. nothing can take back a wish except for even more powerful magic - a fae deal. warnings/tags: inspired by the 1986' movie Labyrinth, follows majority of the movie's plot points with lore divergence, 3rd person POV, use of Y/N, pg-13 themes with no explicit smut, world building!!, strong language, suggestive language, faerie lore!!, tension, enemies to lovers, unequal power dynamics, manipulation, faerie glamour, implied kidnapping, blonde, long hair hyunjin being a beautiful faerie king. word count: 4.7k series masterlist

Y/N was floating through life with no goal in sight. Except to wander home to her small childhood bedroom after college courses and her job at the local supermarket to read her books. Vanilla-scented and yellow-tinted pages felt like heaven under her fingertips as she fell into her books’ world day after day.

Pages of books kept her company for many years – as the world spun past. Fantasy worlds that were pretty and dangerous and wild and dreamy. Worlds where the heroine wins and the damsel finds her true love. Admittedly, she wished for it. Wished for something far away – someone to twirl her into their arms and keep her safe and sound. Fantastical but safe. A place to be herself while someone loved her. Instead of facing the world, invisible as she greets the next customer and walks the halls of a university as another face of the hundred-person class and returns home as the adult daughter locked up in her bedroom.

Never did she imagine it’d happen – late at night, on a rain-soaked Sunday. Her family was away from home, and Y/N left alone in the darkness of her childhood home. It hadn’t bothered her. Not as long as she had her books.

There was a clatter of rain against the doors of her balcony. Her eyes flashed away from her book to look over at them. A rickety branch scratched at a door like an old witch’s finger prodding at the glass, casting an eerie shadow onto her carpeted floor. It was frightening in the orange-yellow light of the slowly-dying incandescent fluorescent lights of her childhood room. The ancient lights aching to be replaced painted the room in a sunset nostalgia most days, but, tonight, it was painted her bedroom in a grimy film of age. Everything felt eerie and old and off.

The wallpaper, a fading pink and white with soft bears painted by the baseboards, rotted into a yellow tinged thing. Her bed was a hand-me-down full bed of fluffy duvets and old laced comforters with her bed posts holding a long sagging canopy of white tulle she insisted upon a tween.  She had always favored the fantastical and soft and, despite aging, she had to admit she forgot how long ago it had been when she had chosen the sets of softened bedding and moth-eaten tulle.

Her knick-knacks were of the same theme, gentle and girly of old childhood memories she couldn’t bear to toss aside even in her young adult age. Beloved stuffed animals (some that were soft to the touch while others had hardened scratchy fur from sitting collecting dust on long forgotten shelves), sparkling shimmering water globes (of places she had never been), paint-chipped jewelry boxes on a creaking overfull vanity (the wooden boxes were full of costume bracelets, rings, and necklaces of theatre days long passed), crafts and hobbies piled in a plastic bin in the corner (from bracelet making tools to dried-out paints and moth-eaten yarn balls), and old piles of high school notebooks peaking out from underneath her bed skirt (something she kept in the phantom fear that she may need them for college courses.) College courses that she felt empty when attending. Everything felt fleeting yet not. It felt stupid and overwhelming and – she wished things could be easier.

Easier like diving into her books. With her favorite book in her grasp, the yellow old book crinkling in her hands, she sighed as she whispered to it.

“If I could be any place but here…” she hummed. “I don’t want to work tomorrow – especially with the rain.” A deep sigh escaped her. “I wish…”

There was a pause in her words as she settled back into comfortable pillows. The rustling of her sheets disguising a murmured ‘she’s going to say the words’ from under her bed, from her closet.

“I wish the Goblin King would save me – steal me away to be his and only his.”

It wasn’t said in agony to a lucky penny or in plea besides a wishing well. She had simply laughed a little laugh as she curled up in her bed, hugging the book closer to her face as she read on. It was almost her favorite part – the royal ball!

Now, wishes don’t care for rhyme or even sincerity. (Both were lacking from her plea.) However, it was the perfect time for a wish to be granted - the words have been spoken at the stroke of midnight on the highest of full moons on the first day of spring.

There is a shatter somewhere; the branches of the tree outside her window scraaattcching the glass with a shriek. The wind made the house tremble and rumble as energy flooded the air, tangible enough it made her eyes look up, before with a snap - the lights switch off.

A crash of lightning and a roar of thunder clashed louder than ever. There was no settling silence of electronics and fridges and fans. No, the world growled as the storm grew. Until in a whirl of sparkling shimmer star dust and a burst of cold storm air, the balcony doors flung open to reveal a man. No, not an ordinary man. He was far too ethereal to be a normal man. (The idea of it being a robber didn’t even flicker through her mind. Though, the possibility of this being a dream did.)

The soft chimes of bell rang in her ears as he took a step into the room. He was near glowing like an angel, haloed by some shimmering light. Blonde hair that tickled the back of his neck in long strands fluttered in the storm wind. Dark thick brows pursed, partially hidden by strands of his golden hair that framed his angular face, and striking blue eyes lazily stared at her from within the dark shadows of his brow. Poutful raspberry-kissed lips that smirked at her. Gilded chains hung around his lean neck, displaying his collarbones with a sharpness. Elaborate piercings decorated both of his curved elf-like ears; all gold chained, red jeweled, and shimmering from the distant amber streetlight.

He wore fine tailored dark clothes as if he were part of the night storm himself; leathered pants that gleamed in the light, a lacy sort of shirt that curved tightly over rounded muscles and sinewy tendons and shadowed by a heavy cloak made of oil-slick dark feathers. Darker than night and covered in that sparkly dust that had brought him into her bedroom. His hands were adorned in many rings and one hand that had twists of dark silver that formed a sort of claw, covering his knuckles and fingertips like a gauntlet. He had tawny-tan skin that glowed from the nearby streetlights, with an unnatural. . . gloss of sparkle. As if his skin was made of crushed starlight.

Beautiful. . . tempting. . . frighteningly ethereal.

He stole her breath away and he knew it as he stared at her. The look in his eyes… it was like nothing  she’d ever seen in someone’s gaze towards her before. Dark and broody and yet something sharply cutting in his eyes. It wasn’t adoration. It wasn’t jealous or anger or frustration. Magnetic. Possession, yearning, power. He was powerful. He demanded attention, no – he demanded her attention. His head tilted as he looked on at her. Her gaze trickled down the fine tendons of his neck to realize he hadn’t taken a breath since entering – his chest did not rise or fall as he stared on at her with dark storm eyes. Her legs curled closer to her chest as the old book tumbled from her grasp, falling to the floor. Forgotten.

He didn’t move and, for a moment, she didn’t either. Her heart rushed in her head like the ocean; the rhythm a calling drum to his ears. She took a shuddering breath as she spoke.

“You’re him . . . aren’t you?” Y/N breathed. Realizing, he felt familiar. Not in the sense that she had seen him before– she’d remember someone so handsome. But rather it was like déjà vu. A familiarity with someone you’ve never seen before. But she had read of him over and over and over. He wasn’t what she pictured but maybe it was because she couldn’t imagine someone so hauntingly striking. She scrambled from her bed, almost tripping over the plentiful blankets and comforters.

“You’re the Goblin King.” she clarified.

That was the only explanation. He wore no crown, but she realized he didn’t need it. The power that radiated from him felt tangible like static before a lightning strike. She had read about him in her storybooks for years – folklore of faerie and the Underground something that had always intrigued her but. . . she had never thought it real. Not in reality. It was just a fantasy. A dream that she had wished upon many times before.

He didn’t smile at her, but his petaled lips twitched. His lips were so beautiful and soft looking (she wanted to kiss them, dedicate herself to making the soft flesh swollen and red from nips and kisses. She needed to. She had to.) The thought made her eyes widen in surprise at herself. Swallowing, she blinked glancing away from him.

He smiled then, the curve of his lips forming a sneer of sorts as he watched her with his engulfing eyes.

“Why are you here?” she queried out, hand reaching for the bedpost of her bed for support as she raised her gaze again.

Red-cheeked, she tried to maintain his hypnotic gaze. Was this a dream? She saw a man appear out of nowhere, so, maybe it was. She had been reading more romance books recently. . .

“Think closely, Y/N,” the fae finally spoke, voice low.

It felt like it shook her bones despite its strange gentility compared to the storm that still roared behind him.

Think closely. . .

She had been reading his book but… she had…

“I wished for you,” Y/N queried.

It wasn’t quite a question but it felt… not enough. How could a simple wish of him come true? If that was the case, wouldn’t fae be stealing women and men left and right? She had said those words before over the years (especially as a child)… so why now??

“I’ve come for you; to save you, dear thing,” he agreed.

“It was – I’m sor- I didn’t think you were real,” Y/N babbled, brows pursed almost painfully so.

“I am, just for you,” he replied as his hand rose to flick with grandiose. The balcony doors tumbled shut with a slam.

Silence. Darkness.. Just him and her…

“I don’t mean to be rude but—I can’t really, uh, go with you?” she said, still wrapped around her bed post.

His brows crinkled into a furrow beautifully like a Greek statue. Brows of agony and despair, beautiful despite its emotion. But just like a marble statue, his darkened blue eyes were inhuman. Like obsidian glass or a creature’s eyes, reflective and eerie. Angered. Betrayed even. Before they rose to meet yours once more. And like a façade, his eyes gleamed with light, sparkling and enchanting sea blue rather than the crashing waves before.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” he tempted instead, stepping closer into the room. Closer to her.  

His smile was one of sweet temptation, almost candy-sweet with his soft lips and pearly teeth, as he prowled closer. A part of her wished that if fae stories were true that other tall tales – such as the vampiric tale of the supernatural being unable to enter one’s home without permission – were true too. A chill climbed up her back as he inched closer to her.

(Little did Y/N know that she had given him permission. Not, just now with her conversation, her wish, but when she read her little Labyrinth book ‘til it was worn soft and yellowed from the oils of her fingertips. Devotion and curiosity were all the fae needed to make a link.)

He lifted something up between them – something that he hadn’t had in his hands before. An orb of some sort. Crystalline and faintly glowing in the moonlight that poured into the room. The metallic-claws that decorated his fingers in rows of rings didn’t graze the thing nor did they reflect in the perfectly clear orb. The man’s hand wasn’t visible through it either– like he was a ghost or a vampire in a mirror. A perfect bubble of gleaming light, crystalline and shining with chromatic aberrations. Her ears rung as she looked at it.

“What is that?” she queried carefully, stepping away from the safety of the bedpost to get a closer look.

“It’s a crystal – nothing more,” his voice was low as thunder, rumbling and grumbling like a tiger’s purr as she watched him.

With grace, the orb danced upon his hand, rolling this way and that with the fae never dropping the thing. It didn’t even look difficult for him. Y/N kept her gaze on the crystal for a moment, getting dizzy as he continued to shift it over his hand like it was a boat fighting the tides.

“But –” he tossed the crystal up.

Y/N followed the orb’s trajectory only to be spooked when there was a presence behind her rather than in front of her. The King – through some sort of magic – was beside her, a hand outstretched to catch the orb right beside her face. Y/N startled jumping away a bit, into his chest. She felt caged in by him. His proximity was frightening tempting.

When she breathed in, his smell engulfed her; there was something ancient in his scent. Not like old perfume but something like earthly old. He smelled of fire-smoke, damp moss after a rainshower, something deeper like rosemary or thyme, and something sweet like. . . honey? She wanted to lean back into it, rub her face into his neck like a cat would preen against their owner. She wanted to decipher each scent, find its earthly copy and make a cologne just so she’d never leave its whirlwind of comfort.

Instead, she froze against his cold form.

She knew the Goblin King in her books was tricky - fae often were. There were a handful of types – from those who stole away women from their husbands, to those who caused mischief, and to those who would serve but at a price. It was easy enough to read, not easy to live. She couldn’t tell why she felt this way – sure, he was handsome but… she had control. She wasn’t some teenager. The fact she kept falling into these daydreams of him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him – it scared her. Not knowing where the faerie traps were and how to evade them was scary for her.

The Goblin King smiled; cold snow-sky eyes met crinkled before he raised the crystal up to her eye level.

“But, if you turn it this way,” his hand tilted the orb, as did her head as if she were a puppet on a string, “look into it; it will show you your dreams.”

There was a beat as a hand rose to rest on her hip, cold as ice through her white long-sleeved shirt.

“I’ve seen them.” He whispered tauntingly.

Y/N did not look into the orb. Her eyes remained locked on his. His cruel eyes. How could he have such a sweet smile, and yet the deep blue sea of his eyes felt bottomless, cold and dark?

“But this is not a gift for an ordinary girl.” He chided, tilting his head to lean closer to her. “Who works a job at the store and lives trapped in her childhood home.”

It was cruel – a cruel reminder of the words that those around her all say. How she is stuck in time, stuck in her hometown, stuck, stuck, stuck. Ordinary girl, ordinary town, ordinary job. Nothing like the faerie in front of her.

There was a snicker in her room, and her head whipped around to look about the dark space. It was empty.

He yanked his hand away from her, drawing her attention to him once more. Her eyes steeled at his words, and the king’s smirk grew. He hummed a melody, familiar and distant. It was almost a pleased tone before he stepped in front of her once more. He was taller than her – especially when she saw he wore heeled boots.

“Do you want it?” he offered, the orb held out once more.

The words were said almost kindly. Knowing if she took it, it’d be taking an apple from a serpent.

“It’s tempting. . . but what is the catch?” she finally said, swallowing as she looked at the crystal once more.

His smile was sharp then, and she saw fangs then.

“Your loyalty, your belief, you.” He listed. “You. Everything from you. Your mortality will be mine and you’ll never see this place again, these people again, this dwelling again.”

There was a tenderness to his face as he continued. “I’ll save you, sweet thing. You can live in your dreams with me – beyond this realm.”

“No.”

It was an easy answer. No. She would not devote herself to someone so wholly. A fae of a man especially. Y/N read all the fairy tales out there – all the romance novels and stories of love, deceit, devotion, and betrayal. This would take and take and take. She could see her future – a shell of herself. Hell, she had seen it in the moments of delusion tonight where she wanted nothing but him.

“Don’t defy me.” he warned, so gently. Almost helpfully.  

Defy. This was not being saved. This was no prince riding on a stallion and climbing to her balcony to steal her away. No. . . no, this man was no savior. She had read the fairytale he was from – read it from cover to cover more than she could count. The Goblin King – cruel as he is merciful - will grant your wish for a price.

“I do not want to be saved then. I take back my wish.”

“What is said has been said,” he stated with a chuckle.

He was laughing at her. In fact, she heard a chitter in her room like a guffaw behind her bed skirt. Her head whipped around to look.

The corner of her duvet swayed in the wind. Nothing was out of the ordinary again.

“I don’t care – I say no.” she claimed, glancing back him.

“The words have been spoken,” he claimed again as he bent down to whisper to her.

“You’re no match for me, Y/N. I will treat you well, little thing.”

Thing. It ached of ownership. Of possession rather than protection or freedom.

“I don’t want to be your thing.”

“You should’ve thought of that before making such a wish. What do I gain in saving you otherwise, hm?” he retorted, as if explaining something to a child. “I want you – or another human for my trouble.”

No way! She’d never sacrifice someone for a wish! Her eyes widened at the very thought before her brows furrowed. What could she do? What could she do?

“What if we made a deal?” She fought back.

Her question made a crack of thunder rumble the house like an electric field. It buzzed and hummed… or maybe it wasn’t thunder at all, but voices. She heard them then. Chittering and chattering. Low hums of interest and the haunting chants of “a deal, a deal, a deal!!” Little voices, squeaky and animalistic chant in excitement. It was then she finally saw a goblin’s head from within her closet. One and then another and another. Too many as if her room was nothing but a zoo to the creatures. A crowded room of voyeurs, an unknown audience to her and the King’s dispute.

Long limbed apparitions clung to her white and pink walls with spindly hands. A monstrous thing under her bed with glowing eyes heaved a rumble, the bed skirt fluttering. A winged creature on her tulled canopy swayed with the buzzing excitement of a cicada. Little things peering out at her with wings and horns and fangs and yellowed eyes and radioactive red pupils.  

It was a thing out of nightmares. She yelped a bit, eyes widening in fear.

There was a tsk from the King, and the creatures disappeared into their hiding spots in a rush and a huff. Like they were playing hide and seek. Her room looked normal again but she could feel their pupils trained on her back now. Her gaze settled back onto the Goblin King. Annoyance lingered on the corner of his mouth, the pouty thing twitching faintly before he asked: “You’d like to make a deal instead of seeing your dreams come true?”

A faerie deal never meant anything good. But neither was losing herself for a man, no, a creature of another world with far too many secrets as shown by the creatures prowling under her bed and in her wardrobe.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. Any way to have this wish be forgotten.”

The King sneered. The flash of emotion so quick she almost didn’t spot it.

He was insulted by this human. How dare she be so outlandish… special but if she so wished to be rebellious. He’d give her a challenge fit for such insult.

“A faerie deal is serious matter, Y/N.” He warned before, with an air of nonchalance, he moved aside.

Circling her once more like she was nothing but a soon-to-be carcass and him a vulture bird.

“The terms shall be this. If you can defeat my labyrinth and reach my true throne in the castle beyond the Goblin City within 13 hours, you will no longer be mine; my claim will be relinquished. Your will shall be your own once more. You will be a human.”

He said the final words like they were sickly – he couldn’t imagine wanting a human life when high fae have everything. (But she wouldn’t be a high fae, would she? No, a human became a changeling if caught or stolen away. And that was different.)

 Y/N had no choice but to agree. She had read faerie tales. Humans and faeries didn’t mix – they weren’t meant to. If she followed her wish, if she went with him, she really feared what would become of herself. The idea of forever as someone’s is only good when there is trust. And she couldn’t trust him. A stranger, a king of magnetic power, a faerie. Someone who wished to own her for his own gain. Not out of affection or respect.

“And if you do not succeed,” he continued on with a laugh at the tips of his words. (The goblins echoed him with chortles that crawled up her spine.) “You are mine – as promised by the power of the Wish. All of you. Soul, mind, and form.”

He was behind her again, his words soft in her hair as he brushed it aside observingly. His fingers chilled her throat; his touch felt icy cold.

“Do you agree, Y/N? If you break this contract by your own will or demise,” It was formally said as he placed his hands on her shoulders. Caging her in his arms as she heard the hum of anticipation from the ghouls and goblins in her room. “You shall be mine.”

She didn’t hesitate even as her form shuddered. “I agree.” Y/N said.

There was a change in the wind outside; a flash of lightning blinded her as a deal was struck.

“Pity,” he murmured, low in his throat as he let go of her.

As he passed her, she saw the world in front of her melt away in a wash of watercolor blurs. No longer was she in her childhood bedroom with the comfort of her novels and objects. No, now it was a desert. An orange-purple atmosphere like a distant fire roared over the sea of sand. Rolling sand dunes tumbled towards a grand darkened maze. The Labyrinth. A twisting series of winding paths that seemed endless, all leading to a far-in-the-distance castle. It looked impossible. Dead-ends galore and sections that seemed to be completely unrelated to one another. 13 hours. How was she to get through this in less than a day! A clash of despair rattled her bones – especially when a damp chill danced over her skin. A suffocating heaviness was in the air, as well as the realization, she was underground. Dust and dirt and old air from centuries past lingered.

Looking up, there was no sky, no stars, nor moon above but a darkened cave ceiling full of stalactites and in some cases large sky lights – or cracks in the ground. These cracks let spots of sunlight in, shining over the desert sea in pools of light. Where there was no sunshine pouring down on the maze, there was a haunting golden glow from roaring fire pits high above the maze in watch-out points and floating candles she noted. Squinting her eyes, she could make out thousands of candles decorating the rocky labyrinth. It made everything look orange-red hazy. Shadows cast into the maze making it look even more confusing.

In each of these sunspots away from the Labyrinth, there were different things flourishing outside the maze she noticed– some sunspots were home to a jungle of vegetation; others were conveniently where rain-water ponds appeared; most had small huts and communities.  

She and the Goblin King were in one of those sky lights’ brightness now, sunshine cascading over the pair of them. Half dead foliage and trees curled up from the barren sand, with long tendrils of rotting vines and branches twisting out. The bark and rockwork, despite its dead nature had the same type of glimmer to them as the fae man. It sparkled in the sunlight like someone dropped glitter on it. Magic thrived here – even in the dead and inanimate.

The King looked out of place in such a desolate land – his desolate land. Something beautiful around such emptiness and darkness. His form seemed to glow in the natural light, especially when shadowed by such darkness in the Underground, but Y/N’s gaze focused on the daunting path ahead instead of his angelic beauty.

How could he be so beautiful? It was unnatural.

Her eyes tried to map out a path, only to find no true path to the distant grand castle. The world seemed to curve and prevent her from following a straight line to the grand dark castle. It seemed hopeless. Surely there was a way to plot a way onwards, but the Labyrinth didn’t deal in kindnesses it seemed.

“Turn back,” his voice startled her as he encouraged from her side. “While you still can, my dear Runner.”

Biting her lip, she swallowed as she looked between him and his castle.

“It doesn’t look that far,” she commented, her back turning to him.

(Bravado.)

The King lurched forward, his own back bending to be beside her ear once more.

“It’s further than you think,” he taunted, almost sing-song in tune. “And time is short.”

With a flick of his hand, a grand clock appeared floating in mid-air. She startled, jolting back. Her back settling into his broad chest. His smirk was in her hair as a metal claw-tipped hand steadied her.

The clock – the grand clock of the Underground - was haunting as it was magical. It was a golden shade of wood and its clockface made of intricately ornate stained glass. Its numbers were curled and elegant, counting from 1 to 13. As of now, it was at the top of the 13th hour.

“13 hours, as promised,” he cooed. “13 hours and, then, you are mine, dear Y/N.”

And in an icy rush of wind and soft chimes in the air, her hair was pushed forward, blowing into her eyes, and his form, once lurking over her shoulder, was gone.

“Such a pity I must wait for you,” his voice hummed in the cold.

Then, Y/N, the Labyrinth Runner, was alone in a different realm she heard of in storybooks, but, unlike her many books, she didn’t know how the story would end.

#hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x reader #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #jisung x reader #han jisung x reader #hyunjin x oc #skz imagines #skz reactions #skz fantasy au #skz fanfic #hyunjin imagines #hyunjin reactions #written by haley

[eddiiiieeee]

A little death 1

summary: Rock n Roll was at its peak, and so was Guns n Roses. However, the most popular band had lost their drummer, and what’s a rock band without their drummer? So when a new girl steps in to fill the gap in their band, slash doesn’t take too kindly to her. She’s wild, untamed, free spirited, an addict, and yet, she was free. Everyone loved her. The world loved her. And yet, Slash couldn’t. He hated her. Plain and simple, because it was easier to hate her, than to love her.

warnings: this will contain mentions of sexual themes and adult themes. if any of those things trigger you, please hope off now :) ....

Axls eyes fluttered open, noticing the chair closest to y/n was empty, Slash’s chair was empty. the redheads gaze moved onto the bathroom door, slightly closed but not fully, light coming but from the bottom of the door. Axl got up and took a glance at y/n, still laying practically lifeless with no color in her face. not makeup, no wine colored lips, nor her pink highlighter. He rubbed his eyes as he walked off to the bathroom, slowly pushing the door open as he looked inside, his best friend was on the floor shaking while he clutched something close to his chest. Axl didn’t say much or anything for that matter and sat down next to him.

he rubbed his knees and he kept his gaze straight. Slash gulped putting his forehead against his knees. Axl took a deep breath, licking his lips before going to speak up.

….

1 MONTH PRIOR

"fucking bitch." Slash muttered under his breath as he took a sip of his water, leaning against a wall as he watched y/n sat on a couch with a bunch of other people around her, all sharing lines. Izzy was next to her as he took a line after her. “hey handsome” A brunette said as she moved her hand along Slash’s shoulders and arms before moving in-front of him, slash took a glance at her before looking over at y/n again, soon enough the girl in-front of him pulled him into a kiss, which he couldn’t resist melting into it.

it took a while before the two pulled away, Slash’s gaze averting to where y/n was sat, to find a empty spot. “i-uh, i gotta go” Slash said patting the lady’s arm before rushing off looking for her, walking into a couple rooms to find some couples fucking, Duff and some groupies, some more people doing lines but no y/n before he heard a voice say “man, get off my dick” followed by a giggle, Slash turned around to check the voice out and found y/n on the floor while a guy was standing infront of her with a bag of what looked like to be powdered heroine.

y/n looked over at Slash and smiled “aye! Sau- oops, Slash!” she giggled, as Slash quickly bent down to help her up “okay, let’s get you back to the hotel” He said concern lacing his voice, this was a routine to Slash at this point, he came to parties to look after y/n. “hey man, come on! we were gonna go do something!” the guy said moving over to grab onto y/n’s arm “hey, fucking touch her again and i’ll fuck you up.” Slash said loudly, y/n’s eyes widened as she giggled once again.

Slash quickly moved y/n’s arm around his shoulder to help her walk out, he walked out the party, helping y/n sit down on the sidewalk before calling over a taxi. once one stopped, Slash, helped her back up and helped her get in the back, getting in next to her as he told the driver where they were headed. he rested back before licking his lips, looking over at her. “did he do anything to you?” Saul said as y/n shook her head “nope, but i sure missed out on some good shit” she chuckled laying her head on his shoulder

“think you can stay awake?” Slash asked, hearing her hum but knowing she was going to do the exact opposite, he rested his palm on her leg, moving his thumb in a circle. it didn’t take long for them to arrive, he paid the driver before nudging y/n awake “come on, need you to walk with me sweets, kay?” he mumbled to her, moving some hair out of her face, as he wrapped her arm around his shoulder just like before, walking them inside the lobby as he moved over to the elevator. “you’ve got a lot of hair, y’ know that?” she giggled as Saul chuckled “yea i know sweets. come on” He said walking them inside the elevator and pressing the floor of their rooms

“oh no!” y/n said scaring Saul as he looked over at her worried “what?” “we forgot Izzy! oh and Axl, and duff too!” y/n said looking at Saul, causing him to laugh “sweetheart, we didn’t forget them, they’ll be here soon. how much did you drink?” he smiled looking down at her as he smiled, noticing y/n’s mascara leaving little marks near the top of her cheeks “hold still” he said moving his thumb to wipe his the stains off, before the elevator ping let him know they’d reached, he helped y/n carefully to her room, her giggles filling the hallway “you’ve got your keycard right?” Saul said, realizing he should get copies of her card

“mhm, right here” y/n said pointing at the pocket that held her wallet, Saul dug his hand into her pocket, pulling out the red leather wallet and taking the card out, putting it against the scanner and pushing the door open as he helped her in and set her down on the bed. putting her wallet on the table under the tv. taking his leather jacket off revealing his rolling stones shirt that he had worn after the concert “take your jacket off for me sweets.” Saul knew y/n never remembered most the night after she got high and drunk, so the sweetness wasn’t remembered after all.

Saul drugged through her toiletries and found the makeup wipes she always had, taking a wipe out before wiping her face clean of any makeup, helping her into the bathroom as he then helped her do the skincare routine he had remembered knowing the band would never hear the end of how she forgot to do it. Once she was done, Saul rushed to get the clothes she slept in, which were a shirt and plaid pj pants. he handed them to her as he waited outside for her, She handed him her old clothes which he put in the laundry bag for house cleaning to take care of. He finally had her in the bed, tucked in and out like a light.

he looked at the clock and realized it was 3 in the morning, knowing she had time before their next flight “hey, im leaving this right for ya, okay?” Saul whispered to her moving some hair again out of her face as he put the trash can next to her along with her painkillers and water “night love” he whispered kissing her forehead before grabbing his jacket and leaving the room, closing the door behind him as he leant up against it, digging his face into his hands

“how long are you gonna keep taking care of her before you two realize you love each other?” Saul heard, looking up to see his red headed friend “ ‘m not in love with her” “you sure? because you could’ve left her to do whatever is what she was gonna do with that guy, and every other night, would’ve left her to come home with Duff and Izzy real late, to sleep in her makeup and heals and leather pants.” Axl said looking at his friend as he licked his lips

“Saul-“ “there’s nothing going on. got it rose?” Slash said, looking at him before walking over to his room which was three feet away from y/n’s unlocking the door “night” he mumbled before walking in and slamming the door shut

…

“you okay?” Axl asked as Slash looked at him shrugging “if she is i am.”

#slash hudson #slash fic #slash gur #saul hudson #slash imagine #slash x reader #guitar #80s rock #classic rock #80s aesthetic #music #rocknroll #jeffery dean isbell #axl rose #axl rose x reader #izzy stradlin x reader #gnr imagine #slash guns n roses #slash fanfiction #guns n roses #gunsnfuckingroses #live music #animated gif #tumblr gifs #hair metal #vou could be mine #november rain #welcome to the ingle #use your illusion #appetite for destruction

[loveselenade]

Madoka 1.5

Since I’m watching PMMM for the first time (with a lot of it spoiled due socmed lol), I figured it’d be fun to write my thoughts so far, 1.5 episodes in. It goes without saying, but don't send me any further spoilers, as this is only fun if I can manage to remain as ignorant as I am now.

Things I knew before hand:

-Kyubey is a bastard.

-It has Shinbo Akiyuki's artistic sensibilities all over it (reason I started watching, tho I'm unclear what exactly his involvement in this is lol). Also, Urobuchi Gen is the main writer for this lol

-Madoka dies.

-Madoka is the paragon of good.

-Lesbian Satan.

-Homura has catholic guilt??

-Someone's backstory involves a brother or something.

-Guns

-Time loop.

-Jewel seeds but evil (this only makes sense if you've watched Nanoha, sorry lol)

-Witches

-Madoka saved a cat

---

--

-

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Illusory motion.

[image id: top view of a monochromatic, distorted staircase that looks like a spiral.]

An upwards climb or a downward spiral? The irregular curving of the stories and the pattern alternance sure makes it look like it's spiraling inward. As our lace curtain lifts so the play can begin, this is our first look at the kind of world that awaits us.

[image id: gif showing a close up to Madoka's legs and then a panoramic top view as she runs through a monochromatic hallway with a chessboard pattern]

I don’t have a lot to say about the witches’ labyrinths yet, but I’m always a sucker for dreamscapes (I loved them dearly in Flip Flappers, where they had the incredible work of Studio Pablo strengthening the storybook look), and I’m assuming the labyrinths symbolize something about the interiority or the difficulties the witch in question faced. I don’t have a lot to go by with the two labyrinths in episode one, but I did love the glimpse of the one we get in the opening sequence. I love the effect that it creates when alternating between panoramic shots or extreme close-ups to Madoka’s legs and back as she runs—respectively making her look too small against this overwhelming set piece or claustrophobically trapped in her impotence. As the camera moves along, there’s a sensation that the different patterns in the floors are moving. Because of the way we perceive depth via ascertaining the apparent parallelism or convergence of lines and value/color contrast, among other things, the pattern alternance in this monochrome set piece creates illusions of either motion or that each row is a step more elevated than the other. It’s a properly trippy place. I enjoy it. The straight white for the lighting and tiles creates an artificial and alienating atmosphere. The uniformity of its looks is disorienting. Is Madoka going the right way?  It’s really a fantastic introduction to the world of Madoka Magica.

The path you must follow has been prepared for you.

[image id: A green, flourescent exit sign is centered in the screen, hanging above a dark path framed by silver chain fence]

Despite the disorienting feeling, Madoka follows mostly straight paths and there's a clearly labeled, correct exit. This brings to mind the predetermined paths present in Revolutionary Girl Utena's imagery.

Additionally, I find the way Madoka’s run is boarded reminiscent to Utena’s chase after Anthy in Adolescence of Utena:

[image id: gif showing a panoramic view of of landscape shwoered in sunset lighting and red, square pillars towering over the space. Utena, looking tiny, runs further into the place.]

[Image id: gif showing a top down view of a long monochromatic corridor with chessboard pattern that Madoka, a mere pink dot in the screen, crosses running. The corridor is right in the middle of the screen and surrounded by different equally black and white mandalas that turn slightly.]

We get panoramic overhead shots emphasizing the disorienting, geometrical maze and the impotence of our heroines' tiny figure against them.

Before reaching their destination, they both cross a stairs-bridges of sorts; Utena, towards the dueling arena where Anthy waits for her to continue the dueling cycle with Utena as champion; Madoka, towards the foyer where she can find her exit to where Homura is struggling against another hopeless, fighting cycle, one which Madoka choses to perpetuate when making a contract with Kyubey…

[Image ids:

The image to the left shows shows a stich of two Adolescence of Utena's screenshots: the one on top showing Utena crossing a bridge; due the top down angle and the inclination of the bridge, the planks on the bridge look like stairwells. The image on the bottom shows Utena crossing the bridge against the creamy, pinkish sunset sky. The bridge railing is shown a black silhoutte in the foreground.

The image to the right is a stich of two monocrohmatic Madoka Magika episode one screenshots: the on the the top shows Madoka crossing a corridor, the foreground is dominated by abstract geometric shapes. The one on the bottom shows Madoka going up an ample stair well, and the surrounding walls have a similar geometric patterning.]

Absolute Reality.

[Image id: Predominantly black and white screenshot showing a dark tree on the foreground and black debri flyaing around. A little to the right of the middle line stands Madoka, with Kyubey sitting on top of some fallen pillar. The subtittles are Madoka's dialogue and read: "Can I really do something to help?"]

The offer that tempts Madoka into a contract is the promise of agency. She can’t stand the reality where there is nothing she can do, thus it's the promise she does actually have power to influence the narrative and help others and stop their suffering what Kyubey dangles in front of her. Madoka feels deeply moved by the pain of others and has a strong empathetic response that makes it very easy for her to be preyed upon by our resident ugly cat here. It’s detrimental to her. Maybe Homura has a point in reversing her wish to be the divine embodiment of Goodness. 

It’s then interesting that she expresses disappointment upon waking up not only in the premiere but in episode 02, as well. Her waking up animation might as well become bank during this introductory arc (I’m betting it does, can’t wait to be wrong). When confronted with the thought the world her senpai Mami introduced to her, one of great danger but also apparently fulfilling and actualizing, Madoka expresses disappointment. Even though she has a happy, easygoing life full of friends and family that love her and that she loves in return, there is something else she is looking for.

Confronting your own humble plainness again.

[Image id: Screenshot of Madoka's room dimly lit. Madoka is drawn towards the bottom left edge, hunching and hugging her huge body plush with a beleagered expression.]

Appearances, facades.

Trained confidence. 

[Image id: Screenshot showing makeup labelled with numbers, as if to indicate the order of steps.]

Following Madoka’s "dream", we learn about her homelife anchored around her interactions with her mother as they talk about the love lives of the people around Madoka, contrasted to Madoka's own assertion that no one has an eye on her. Their whole bathroom conversation could be characterized as "girl talk": they go on about love and the need to maintain an appealing image as means to reach it. I could easily accuse this scene of being sexist (and it did rub me the wrong way initially), but the dialogue is naturalistic enough to paint a trusting, warm bond between mother and daughter; plus the repetition of the make-up motif in the second episode while interspersed with Mami's explanation draws attention to themes of appearance and desire.

A remark that can easily be taken as reinforcing gender essentialism lol

[Image id: Screenshot showing the sinks at the foreground barely visible at the bottom edge, with Madoka and her mother in front of them. Madoka is holding her red ribbons with her left hand hesitantly, while her mother has her hands over her hips, talkig matter-of-factly: "A woman's appearance is the one thing she can't afford to get looked down at."]

The contrast in the way mother and daughter carry themselves is apparent. When Madoka relays her reports about her homeroom teacher's love life, her more experienced mother offers keen observations about the possible state of the relationship. Where Madoka takes things at face value, her mother can see deeper. The same applies to the image they project to the world— where her mother has a set (numbered) method to achieve her ideal image, Madoka fumbles and fusses about her ribbon choice and not being seen as too much. The frame pan showcasing the end result has Madoka standing timidly with her hands folded over her lap and her back reflection shown in three different angles in the background mirrors, as if she's being thoroughly scrutinized. While her mother confidently observes her reflection in the mirror, Madoka shrinks at being observed.

[Image id: Screenshot showing Madoka in the middle with a dopey and hesitant expression and her arms drawn close. Her reflections are shown in the mirrors in the background.]

I can't say that Madoka’s self-confidence is worryingly low given what we’ve been presented with—while she lacks the self-assurance her mother possesses, she doesn’t seem particularly self-deprecating. While her affirmation that no one looks her way reflects that self-consciousness, Madoka doesn't further put herself down. Instead, it could simply be that she's a teenager only now discovering her identity, what she's comfortable with, what she wants and what place can she carve for herself in this world. Her mother advises her to train the image and behaviors of someone confident as a first step to grow more certain of herself. The scene places emphasis on the process of purposefully building the image you project, which becomes relevant as episode two's layouts play with a reflection motif around talks of desire. 

While thinking back on Kyubey’s proposal of granting them one wish in exchange of risking their lives, Madoka ponders about what she wants. Her waffling contrasts to her mother’s immediate, cutting  response concerning pragmatic concerns from her work life when Madoka echoes the question to her. Although, of course, her mother lacks the whole context that makes the decision heightened, Madoka’s roof talk with Kyubey and Sayaka reinforces that there isn’t anything she wishes for that strongly. Yet. 

Additionally, when Madoka proposes a bigger ambition to her mother (“Wouldn’t you rather become CEO yourself?”), the image her mother projects into the mirror changes drastically into a more fierce and dangerous look, complete with the repetition of her labeled make-up symbol. This ties a connection between the image people project and what they desire. And just like Madoka has a rather inhibited persona, so do her desires appear mild.

This takes us to Mami, their helpful senpai.

A slightly distorted image seen from below the glass table totally screams trustworthy.

[Image ID: Screenshot of Mami drawn in a low angle, showing her sitting with her legs neatly folded under her backside and her hands resting on her lap. Despite the sunset light filtering through the windows, she's very dimly lit. Most of her image, from the waist up, is shown slightly distorted as its filtered through the glass of the table. The table legs curve outwards and frame her the image in a strange way. The subtitles present her offer: "You should see for yourself what it's like to do battle with witches."]

Knowing the spoilers that Homura is trying to save Madoka from death via time loops and preventing her from forming a contract with Kyubey has an interesting effect— that is, it casts suspicion over other characters. Mami is the helpful senpai that shows up in the nick of time to save them from the witch, heals Kyubey, explains the situation to them and even promises to protect them from Homura at school. She also offers to show them the fieldwork so they can make up their mind about whether to become contracted! The earlier, careful portrayal around purposeful appearances and the reflection motif repeating during their talk can’t be coincidence. Clearly, she wants to be seen as someone who’s dependable, and whether this has more sinister implications or is stemming from personal wishes is unclear to me yet. Mami feels more like Kyubey’s sales associate than anything else. “You can come observe” it’s the pitch you give someone unsure whether to join a club so you can lure them further in. She’s encouraging them to take on a responsibility that can have rather grim outcomes, despite her early assertion that magical girls don’t necessarily work together to reap the rewards of fighting witches—a statement that further reinforces the narrative of Homura as an antagonistic force to our young heroines. Mami either is very upstanding and thinks it’s a duty they should take on since they were chosen or there is something deeply fishy going on here.

For all intents and purposes, Mami is a completely separate entity to our young heroines, not unlike Homura. She’s the one who’s a magical girl already, they’re the uninitiated. They sit on the same side of the table, opposite to her. This shot emphasizes their separation through the black leg of that foreground furniture.

There’s clearly a lot we don’t know about her.

[Image id: screenshot showing Mami's living room. There's sunset light still filtering in, but the room is mostly dimly lit. Mami is on the side of the wall, so she's in the shade. They're sitting at the table, Madoka and Sayaka together on the same side and visually opposite to Mami. The black legs of a furniture are shown in the foreground, creating a strong visual barrier between Mami and her juniors.]

Isn’t it just so fun how this reflection shot obscures her face? Like she’s covering it with her hands in sorrow. Seems charged that it coincides with her explanation about witches causing suicide and murder, does she know of someone who was a victim of them? OR better yet, someone who became One?

I know that magical girls become witches in this series, which also poses interesting possibilities…

[Image id: Screenshot showing Mami's lap with her hands resting on top of it as she sits in front of the table. Because of the top angle, the reflection of her face shows dimly on the glass table. Her face overlaps her hands. The subtitles read: Many of the inexplicable suivides and murders that occur..."]

Are my suspicions on Mami’s intentions totally off-mark? I have no idea, but it’s incredibly fun to doubt her  lol

Speaking of despair lore, I usually raise my eyebrow—think it’s full of shit— when there’s worldbuilding that links suicide and violence to supernatural entities; it’s a run-of-the-mill battle shonen explanation, Noragami also uses it with Ayakashi as amalgamation of negative feelings and energy from the people of the places they haunt. Now, this could still work on an allegorical sense of how oppressive environments lead to such emotional outcomes, since most stories don’t engage with the structural causes of such problems… It can be that, or end up attributing a metaphysical cause as the source of all darkness without even so much extending understanding and sympathy to the people who suffer from it. Where does Madoka Magica fall, I wonder…

Blessed fools.

A pained smile framed behind by bars, a surefire sign that someone isn’t totally trapped. 

[Image ID: Screenshot showing Sakaya's back with her face turned in profile towards the right. She's smiling ambigously and her right hand is holding to the white chain wall that dominates the background against the bright daylight sky. The subtittles read: "Well... Maybe the pair of us are just fools?"]

Given our young heroines lack of direction, ardent ambitions or anguishing desires, Sayaka muses that perhaps the fact they don’t have anything they’d die for is a sign they’re blessed fools. This rings true for Madoka. She’s a happy kid with a supportive family and friends. Despite her longing for something more—her own agency? confidence? Romantic love?—, there doesn’t seem to be anything that is making her actively miserable. Her mild adolescent ennui is not necessarily something pernicious and would’ve likely resolved itself as she experienced and tackled more challenges in her life with the guidance and support of her family. This whole business paints more ill-fated for her (and I mean, I know it is. What a tragedy, hers).

But is this true for Sayaka? This brief shot with its ominous red sky and its bedridden figure shrouded in darkness begs to differ… The fact she feels guilty over being chosen, thinking there’s people who’d make use of a miracle much better than them makes me think it’s rather someone she knows… Is this her motivation to get into Kyubey’s magical girl agency? I don’t have a lot to go by…

[Image ID: Screenshot representing a short-haired person in bed shown facing right . Most of the shapes are represented as black silhouttes, sans the translucent curtains and the ominous red sky framed by the window. The subtittles read "We've been so blessed.."]

Sayaka and homoeroticism.

Welcome back, Shinohara Wakaba. 

[Image id: Screenshot showing Madoka, Sayaka and their irrelevant friend Hitomi at the park. Sayaka is hugging a slouching Madoka from the back, saying "You must be my bride, Madoka!".]

The Girl Talk in episode one continues as we follow Madoka’s commute to school with her two friends: the blue one, the to-be Magical Girl, Sayaka and this one random girl that I'm surprised it's even there. The banter and physicality to Sayaka and Madoka’s interactions is fun and warm, selling their chemistry as friends. And near the end, Sayaka playfully proclaims Madoka must be with her, which immediately brought to mind Revolutionary Girl Utena’s Shinohara Wakaba's own ambiguous, very physically affectionate date-play with Utena. 

Rather than being a maiden in the sidelines, however, Sayaka is positioned as Madoka’s protector against Homura. Given Homura is fighting to be Madoka’s silent protector herself, this is unbelievably funny to me. When Madoka finds Homura's staring off-putting during P.E., she hides behind Sayaka. When Madoka— with Kyubey in her arms— is alone facing the inscrutable, darkness-shrouded, threatening Homura, the one who shows up to save her is Sayaka. When they're alone within the creepy labyrinth, Sayaka protectively embraces Madoka. When Madoka is worried that Homura might try to attack them at school, Sayaka offers to punch Homura. This antagonistic placing of Madoka's two protectors is hilarious, and I'm curious to see if the dynamic fizzles out as we delve into Sayaka's innermost wishes and struggles or if the tension will boil over into something interesting.

'Get behind me, Madoka! I got the fire extinguisher!' 

Such a hilarious way to break the tension.

[Image id: Screenshot showing Madoka and Sayaka in a dark parking lot, with most of the background shrouded in shadows. Sayaka is holding a fire extinguisher that she's shooting towards the left, and Madoka stands behind her, holding Kyubey.]

Even their sitting order in class positions Madoka behind Sayaka lmao Does Sayaka have a thing for Madoka or just a hero complex? 

[Image ID: Screenshot showing Madoka and Sayaka sitting in their classrooom. Sayaka is shown sitting a row in front of Madoka, a column to the left. Madoka is holding Kyubey in her arms. The subtittles read: "If she tries anything on you, I'll punch her lights out!"]

The show acknowledges the homoeroticism between the two in a tongue-in-cheek manner during their commute in episode 2, when their normie friend feels put off by the apparent intimacy of their silent (telepathic) communication:

"You've been staring so intently into each other's eyes… What on earth did you do after I left yesterday?!"

This girl is too homophobic to become a magical girl, smh. 

[Image ID: Screenshot showing Sayaka, Madoka and their friend Hitomi drawn in profile at the park. Sayaka and Madoka are positioned on the left side of the screen, with a tree in the background subtly serving as visual barrier between Madoka and Sayaka. Madoka is slouched and halfheartedly reaching to Hitomi. Hitomi is positioned on the right side of the screen, with her hand to her heart and running towards the left. Her dialogue reads: "Don't you see that it's a love that can never beeee?!"]

Madoka points out that their normie friend's remarks sound a lot like what Sayaka tells to her on a regular basis, lending credence to my Wakaba comparison lol This gag could simply be an acknowledgement of the charged homoeroticism present in the series, but it still amuses me so far a lot of it has circled around Sayaka and Madoka. 

Akemi Homura

Her soundless, despaired scream as she catches sight of Madoka with Kyubey was so cinematic ❤️

[Image id: gif showing a zoom out of Homura's face as she screams. She's resting on a tree branch that's represented as a black silhouette, with debris floating around represented in the same way.]

Speaking of homoeroticism, it's time to talk about Homura. I actually felt a little sad that I already know about her motivations because she's so incredibly off-putting, I'd have had a lot of fun speculating about the meaning of her actions, the way she's framed and the meticulous way her micro expressions are portrayed. However, it's not like there isn't still some room to have fun reading into them. She enters the picture via the classic transfer student trope. From her introduction alone, she creates an awkward atmosphere with the way the standoffish silence lingers due her laconicism. 

Despite her aloof demeanor, and in pure transfer-student fashion, Homura still stands out both in academics and physical feats (she even breaks the regional high jump record lol!); as such garners the attention of her peers. Nonetheless, she couldn't be more uninterested in them, as the one she can't keep her eyes off is Madoka. Her taciturn, blank-faced and cutting demeanor can paint her staring as downright aggressive. This is further reinforced by being color coded with the darkest values in the cast so far: black and purple are her signature colors, classic villain palette. 

Her conversation with Madoka as she rehashes the "could you show me where the infirmary is" routine is the big standout of hers in episode one —the tropey nature of this encounter makes it very easy to imagine how their first interactions went down the first time—. The low angle that emphasizes her head tilt and the accentuated shadows on her face and body make her look haughty and intimidating.

She's literally staring down Madoka lol Worth noting this same framing is repeated as she warns Madoka in a few minutes, complete with rotating animation for gravitas, contributing to Homura's bad vibes. 

[Image ID: Screenshot showing Homura's face and shoulders slightly turned to the right side of the screen. The right side of her face is heavily shadowed and so are her shoulders. She's looking down on the viewer. Her dialogue reads: "May I ask you to accompany me?"]

While one could think that the reason she approached Madoka was to issue her warning, I'm actually not that certain. It could be due the way her anguished reactions to being around Madoka make her look quite erratic as she tortures herself with these distorted echoes of her memories—but I also have to point out the abrupt way she brings the interaction to a halt, stomping and suddenly turning. The way she behaves through the whole interaction feels quite impulsive, which gave me the impression of Homura purposefully trying to recreate the past (whether out of indulgence or to torture herself, I'm not really sure).

It's really fun the way this obscured close-up to her profile hiding her eyes— making it difficult to parse her emotions— paired to how the next highlighted extreme close-ups have her clenching her teeth led credence to the "Homura is a hostile party" narrative. Personally, the timing is what gets me. She reacts deeply upset to the fact Madoka politely yet impersonally addresses her as "Akemi-san" lol This girl was in the trenches. 

[Image ID: Screenshot showing Homura's shadowed profile facing left. She is holding her face up, seemingly imperious and her mouth is tightly shut.]

The way the timing makes it seem like she's really pissed at Madoka’s remark that her name is weird + subsequent fumbling is very funny lol I wouldn't say she's not upset from it, but mostly in the "it's painful to be around you" way. 

[Image ID: Screenshot showing a extreme close up to Homura's clenched mouth, as she lowers her face. There's heavy shading on the left side of her face and lens flare coming from the right side of her face.]

There's a lot of natural verticals in the panels of their classrooms and the windows they transverse that create visual divisions between the two. I found it particularly noteworthy that while there's a natural sense of distance and awkwardness between the them, Homura is the one who accentuates it and fully brings herself to the other side of the threshold when she suddenly skips forward ahead from Madoka. The idea she's intentionally cultivating a distance between the two is very intriguing and appealing…

[Image ID: Screenshot showing Homura and Madoka facing left as they walk through the corridor with blue window panes. There's a particular wide vertical division in between Madoka and Homura, placed more or less in the middle of the screen. Homura is on the left side of the screen, but closer to the blue vertical division. Madoka is falling behind, with more white space between her and the middle.]

Their sitting order reinforces this idea, situating Homura all the way to the front, completely out of reach. 

[Image ID: Screenshot showing Homura sitting in the front row, looking back at Madoka's seat.]

They look fully at odds with each other thanks to the high contrast between the bright windows and the shaded frames. The dark values to their visual barriers fully bring out the tension brought by Homura's sudden halt-and-turn as she issues her warning. Homura is framed as thoroughly oppositional to Madoka, and she herself doesn't bother to correct any misunderstandings. It's pretty interesting she's fine with being vilified if it might grant her any slight chance to get what she wants.

[Image ID: screenshot showing Homura and Madoka drawn in a symmetrical composition, separated visually by the regular window panes. Homura is drawn towards the left edge of the screen, facing right and standing imperiously. Madoka is drawn on the right side of the screen, towards the edge as well, slightly slouched and in a timid pose. Subtittles show Madoka's dialogue: "Yes, really! I couldn't lie about that."]

Homura's dead-eyed ominous warning vs Mami's personable, smiling offer of support, fight!  But this is truly why I can't trust Mami lol Should you really be tacitly encouraging them, Yellow Senpai? A cutting warning really seems more befitting here…

[Image ID: Extreme close up to Homura's blank left eye with the right side of her face being heavily shaded. The subtittles read: "Because if you do, you will end up losing all of those things.]  

Odd ends. 

There's a lot of small gestures that really bring out charm to the interactions and feelings, but if I pointed out absolutely everything, I'd never finish this lol 

There's one thing from the Madoka-wakes-up Bank I do want to point out, though: the odd feeling Madoka’s head turn with the hard shading gives me. Now, I know it's a Shaft™ thing, I've watched another TV series directed by Shinbo that was produced there and I've heard of it. But I still find the timing peculiar— after the opening sequence with her running to the rooftop in episode one and the brief recap with Mami's transformation in the second, just before she wakes up. Of course, this reinforces that sense of being at the verge of waking up from an odd dream, which Madoka fully believes, but it can also get a sense of deja vu. Typically, one would assume that Madoka’s run towards the rooftop is a glimpse to an event that will happen later down the line. But given the nature of this being a time loop and Homura's insistence on preventing Madoka’s death via preventing her contract altogether, which it's implied to happen in that sequence, I don't think there isn't any reason to think that it's not something that didn't already happen. If this ends up being the case, I'm curious how that'd affect further loops.

Tell me your secrets, you pink little one. 

[Screenshot showing a extreme close up to Madoka's eyes facing towards the left. Her face is drawn almost facing front, leaning towards the right. There's heavy shading on her face and a black background.]

Expectations for the rest of the introductory arc:

-Second half of episode 2 will end in a cliffhanger that'll destabilize routine while they fight a new witch. 

-Said cliffhanger will involve Mami (I HOPE IT DOES). I'm suspicious of her and hope she does something terrible, but I think it's equally, if not more, likely that something terrible happens to Her lol

-🤷🏻‍♂️

Hmm that's it. I'm not very good at imagining scenarios lol 

I'm also half-expecting to be wrong about nothing making Madoka miserable, mostly because I've been obsessing over Takamachi Nanoha, another seemingly well-loved, normal kid who turned out to have Important Baggage lol

#pmmm #puella magi madoka magica #madoka kaname #Homura Akemi #Sayaka pmmm #Mami pmmm #so this post made me discover that the image limit is 30 pictures LMFAO #anyway i'm dead and i'm tired. I get it now. I need to save a back up of my file and images and write the img ids as i go #i'm dead #long post #like extremely long post #Mami Tomoe

[marketfreshfics]

Hiiiii!!!

I saw you're asking for prompts.

Can I get a poem from Seb's POV realising he's in love with a stoic and sarcastic MC? Pretty please? ♡

Thank you so much!!!

I find myself contemplating beneath a grand tapestry. Here, where history and footfalls erode the stone, I wait for her, a wizard with wonder cradled in my breast.

She is an enigma, a witch with a sharp gaze, chilling yet beautiful, the icicles that adorn the eaves in winter.

Her words are laced with sarcasm that bites the air, leaving trails of frost in its wake. Yet in her presence, a warmth pushes my very paradigm to shift, aligning itself with the rhythm of her heartbeat,

steady,

and unwavering, and pounding.

There is stoicism in the silent strength that she carries, an invisible mantle. For all her phlegmatic propriety, laughter is seldom heard but always marvelled, a comet streaking across the night, so breathtakingly beautiful because it is so fleeting, so untouchable; Blink and you’ll miss it.

And as she is lost in the pages of a book, I am lost in the contemplation of her, amidst the scent of ancient parchment, and incantations penned eons ago.

There is something about how she concentrates, how slender fingers tuck the stray strand behind an ear, that dredges something deep from my chest, winches it to breach the surface, and shatters the safety of my rib cage.

It calls forth those precious pieces of the past, brief and charged with an electricity that defies explanation, cherished and treasured;

A debate in the common room, heated until the embers in the fireplace grow cold. A shared glance during dinner that speaks volumes above words. A partnership in Potions that feels like an alchemy of curiosity.

She challenges me, this witch who wears armour of indifference as effortlessly as she wields a wand. Yet woven in the whitespace of her words, in silence that follows clever retorts, I hear the unspoken truths of her heart...

Oh, how they echo mine.

In a world where the future is as uncertain as the shifting staircases, I have fallen with certainty. Not for the heroines of old who grace the pages of textbooks, not for the fleeting charms of a passing fancy, but for her—the witch who does not wear her heart on her sleeve, out in the open for anyone to claim.

Hers is tucked, folded into the safety of her chest, as all precious things should be.

With any luck…mine will join her there.

#poetry prompts #prose prompts #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow fanfic #hogwarts legacy requests #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x oc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #poetry #prose #sebastian sallow audio

[marzipanandminutiae]

The Other Nightgown Set, or, The Most Underappreciated Crimson Peak Costume

okay, CPeak fans. when I say Edith's nightgown, what do you picture?

this, right?

RIP to the gorgeous silk dressing-gown we never see after this scene. but I digress.

and yes, that is the more iconic one. but you're forgetting my own dearest-beloved, my #cozygoals, my unsung hero of Victwardian gothic loungewear...The Buffalo Robe/Nightgown Set

finding photos of this is ridiculously difficult, and that strikes me as a travesty. but it's a robe of a goldy-chartreuse silk-velvet, with what appears to be a salmon lining (silk again, I'm guessing), floral appliques, and a black sash. She appears to be wearing a lacy cotton nightgown underneath, although a rather short one- only to mid-calf. Interesting.

because Netflix cannot be screenshotted, I took photos with my phone of some details- pardon the quality, glare, etc.

The collar has piping of the lining fabric. This is done by wrapping a thin cord in the material you want to pipe with, and then stitching that whole affair between two pieces being seamed together. It's a pain in the ass to execute, IMO, but such a nice detail.

Our heroine is furnished with POCKETS! you can see lace on either side of the robe "skirt," either decorative pocket flaps or outlining the openings for normal, flap-less pockets. I can't quite tell which.

A slightly better view of said pockets as Edith regards the door that Eleanor (her mother) just opened using Ghost PowersTM.

I didn't screenshot this specifically, but her sash is a black ribbon- of course -with gold edges.

The Buffalo Robe interests me because it seems much more practical than what she wears at Allerdale. Sure, it's goth-tinged and lovely, but it also looks...cozy. It's not all the way up her neck, it's not silk brocade- it's soft velvet, and with pockets to boot. It's something the audience could see themselves throwing on over their own nightwear to lounge around the house. Plus, those pockets bespeak a need to carry things and do Activities- not just wander around crumbling manors with a candelabra looking appropriately ingenuecore. It kind of plays into an interpretive theory I have about Edith falling into the "world" of the Gothic when she goes to Allerdale- she's no longer in reality, sort of, so she gets this over-the-top fantastical nightgown as her primary outfit.

It also bears, I think, more resemblance to actual dressing-gowns and wrappers of the period than her Allerdale nightwear set:

(Dressing gown, 1880s. Fashion Museum, Bath, England. Earlier than Edith's vague 1895-7 aesthetic, but still similar.)

(Deaccessioned from the Rochester Historical Museum, New York, USA. This is described in the listing as an "1880s day dress" and the bodice does have a hidden button closure, but. Come on. The visual similarities are insane. I'm not convinced that Kate Hawley didn't see this dress somehow. Also earlier; also pretty close regardless.)

Makes you wonder if Lucille's got a more practical option stashed away somewhere, too...

#crimson peak #long post #movie costumes #dress history #edith cushing

[ashandquiet]

My Most Unswerving Devotion

Chapter 3: Picnicking and Parties

Regency! Soma Jarlskona x F!Reader

Summary: Since coming to Norfolk to stay with your family, the conversations have all revolved around matrimony. Just when your aunt has found a match for you much to your chagrin, quite by accident you fall for the wealthy Duke of Cambridgeshire; Soma Guthrumsdóttir. Can circumstance truly keep you apart?

A/N: In which our titular heroine joins a picnicking party and gains new friends, information and intrigue abound. Thank you for your patience, I hope I haven't been away too long. :)

Read it on Ao3

The morning before the dreaded picnic, you snuck out in a simple smock of a dress and overcoat at first light. Having woken up incredibly early in a cold sweat an ever-present feeling of unease churning in your stomach.  

You felt sure a walk would clear your head, though you were more than aware of what today meant for you. You would be expected to put on airs and behave the part of a lady most enticed by the prospect of marriage. As if it was something you wanted, to be married to a man. It sickened you, felt like the crushing weight of destiny lay before you, akin to an out-of-control carriage barreling headwards into a collision. You, the unwilling passenger with an indifferent driver and dubious footman. Barrelling ever onwards with locked doors that blocked out your cries for help. 

Feeling quite woozy in the head and sick to your stomach you stopped on the path and sat down in a patch of soft-looking grass. You couldn’t even seem to bring yourself to care that it was still wet with morning dew. 

The brisk morning air washed over you, and your thoughts slipped back through yesterday’s events, and it was as if every fiber of your being could still feel the deft yet temperate hands of the lady gentleman. 

Upon returning to the magnificent manor house after your disastrous encounter in the fields, there was much fuss over your injured wrist and grass-stained dress. You had recounted your tale as clearly as you could in your flustered amorous stupor to your fussing aunt and her maids; yet when it came to the topic of the owner of the handkerchief tied round your wrist, you froze up. You had heard how they gossiped about the Lady Gentlemen that resided in the country, of Soma Guthrumsdóttir and her companions. If they gossiped so fervently about a Duke surely, anything less than that would be such a foul creature of scorn in their eyes. 

So you had lied and stated that it was simply just a gentleman like any other, and when they pressed for a name, well there was no reason to lie, you simply forgot to ask. They dithered on about the joys of a mystery urging you to divulge any details of your supposed rescuer's appearance which you fruitfully ignored. 

 Once your wrist was treated for the soreness and bruising with chilled water and bound in place with bandages, with your head bowed in quiet shame you excused yourself for the evening. 

While heads were turned you glanced at the lace-trimmed handkerchief that lay discarded on the side table.

Acting quickly you snatched it up and disappeared up the stairs to your room. There you had spent the rest of the evening in silent pity, occasionally glancing headlong at the handkerchief that you had neatly folded and placed on the window sill. It was embroidered with primroses of a pale yellow, and in one corner, stitched with a slate blue thread there were the ornate letters “ SG ”. 

You held it now, the delicate fabric worn and so clearly well-loved was soft in your hand. A faint scent of perfume lingered in its threads, delicate like fresh lilacs and something smoky and herbal. Your head swirled with thoughts about the owner's preferred fragrances, and how she would adorn herself and her clothing with them. The embroidered letters brought you a moment of solace, having such a delicate, intimate object with you seemed to provide every comfort in the world. 

Ever so carefully you tucked it away and rose back to your feet, the object's comforting presence enough to urge you forward into the day, fate’s cruel hand shaken from your spirits for just a while.

Returning to the manor house you dressed, with some assistance, in a simple country frock and tied a long white ribbon in your hair, swatting away the hands of the maids who attempted to even out the ribbons' tails. You even refused to acknowledge the looks from your aunt as you strode past her with a book in hand. 

“You truly mustn't dress so plainly dearest, you’ll want to make a good impression!” She cried in vain as you walked out to the carriage, barely lifting your dress from the ground. 

 “Oh come come, my Love,” your uncle laughed heartily as he followed behind you beckoning for his wife. “It's a glorious summer day, let us enjoy the picnic, she has no need to be weighed down by frills.” 

Your uncle smiled and offered a kind wink in your direction as you climbed aboard the carriage. 

With a sidelong glance at your injured wrist he chuckled, “Perhaps, she should dress plainly to prevent another tumble.”

You huffed lightly sitting, laying the novel on your lap, and resting your injured wrist on its leather cover. You refused to glance your aunt’s way as she boarded the carriage and sat across from you. 

“My dearest niece, how can you expect to find time to read when there are such friends to be met today,” She chortled, glancing from the book to your face. 

“Perhaps dear Aunt, I have no intentions of meeting friends today, when there is such knowledge and friends to be met in a book,” You replied and glanced out over the front gardens. 

Your aunt bristled and shook her head indignantly, surely preparing to snap back about an attitude most unbecoming of a lady, but uncle swooped to your rescue. He sat and commanded his driver to go, grabbing his wife’s hand in a shushing motion. 

“It is a beautiful day in July, let us enjoy it how we please, and if our niece would like to spend it with a book, then that shall be her day,” He said in a firm and commanding tone, yet his spirits were light and he smiled happily to himself as if pleased with his proclamation. 

The carriage ride was a jolting one, winding down from the manor into the parsonage beyond the grand estate. The picnic was to be held in the shade of a beautiful apple orchard belonging to the parish that your uncle presided over. When united with the larger group he chatted gayly with the men of the party about how he was glad to have leased it so long to a family of tenant farmers known as the Grants. 

His prattling seemed like nothing but noise to you, but all the men nodded and chided along in agreement and admiration. Yet the chatter of the ladies as they talked of fortunes and matches made for ladies of the gentry, seemed even more foreign to you still. 

You strode away from the group to better grasp your surroundings, looking for a comfortable place to sit just close enough to avoid scoldings, but far enough for a moment of blissful peace. 

A low-hanging apple tree dense with young fruit seemed to call to you, its drooping bower a welcoming shield from the sun. Just as you were about to make your escape, there was a great commotion from the group. Turning around, you took stock of the situation. A young man, who looked to be no older than five and twenty sat atop a dusty-looking yellow horse that danced about on its hooves. He was dressed plainly in an olive green tailcoat, and he held his riding hat in his hand as a much older man attempted to catch the reins of the young horse.

“Hold the bloody bastard still Oswald!” The older man growled, his accent was Scandinavian in origin. Perhaps he was the younger man’s steward. 

“I’m trying-” the young man, Oswald said as yanked the reins firm to his body. Patting the horse’s neck with his hand and drawing circles into its sweated fur. “Easy Diamond- Woah… there-there boy, that’s a good horse…” 

With the yellow horse calmed he was able to dismount. While handing the reins to his steward he replaced his hat on his mess of golden curls. You watched him intently as he strode over to the rest of the picnicking party. Not so much confidently as ungainly, perhaps wobbly from the ride. The women inclined their heads to him and he gave each a polite nod and a “Hello”, the men greeted him with smiles and pats on the back. 

Just as you were sure the conversation would turn to his deft riding skill and congratulations on taming such a riled-up horse, your aunt called out; “Oh (Y/N), come here dearest! Where did that girl go?”

For a moment you debated running, you glanced at the path between the trees, where the orchard gave way to meadows, and meadows to hills and streams. But the thought of obligation and strong wrestling feeling of guilt drew you back. Running would accomplish nothing, tarnish your name, and destroy whatever small holding in society you may have now. So you turned round and made your way over to the party at your own snail's pace.

“Oh, there she is!” Your aunt cried and made her way to your side grabbing your arm firmly, if not too roughly. “Now come come dearest niece you must meet Mr. Egerton, for he has ridden all this way to meet you .”

You bristled at the way she crooned out the last word, seeming to drip with ever the slightest it of disdain. You watched as Mr. Oswald Egerton turned his full attention to you, scrutinizing your every step, his neutral expression turned to what you hoped was a kind smile. He had the kind of eyes that seemed to expose his every thought and feeling. You dreaded the introduction but you knew, he was your intended suitor. He was on the shorter side, nothing about him was too handsome, and he appeared to be perfectly safe, if not a little plain. He gave a polite bow in your direction, and you couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit smug that even in your poor fashions you had still managed to out-dress a gentleman.

“My niece, Miss (Y/N) (S/N),” Your aunt introduced you, and you gave a polite smile and nod. You hoped the smile didn’t look too forced.

“A pleasure to meet you Miss (S/N),” Oswald smiled kindly.

“Likewise sir,” You chided crossing your arms behind your back to hide your book and injured wrist.

There was an awkward silence that was quickly broken by one of the men, “Mr. Egerton, say how is your estate at Elmenham? I hope your tenant farmers are doing quite well.”

“Oh yes, quite well indeed,” Oswald nodded. “Everyone is doing quite well this season. But I can’t say the success is all mine, Finnr has been working himself to the bone keeping everything in order.”

The steward, Finnr waved his hand towards the younger man in a motion of dismissal with a grunt as he plucked an apple from the branch of a tree. He was a much older and gruff-looking man dressed in almost out-of-date fashions of the 1780s, his hair greyed and long. His facial hair was almost too long to be considered proper for a man of society, but perhaps the Scandinavian fashion was different. 

You found yourself pondering the details of the lands across the sea, you had read somewhere about how Sweden once had a girl king who had refused to marry. Much like the lady gentlemen that now populated the country. Perhaps soon the whole of society would be populated with them, women holding positions of power and dressing like gentlemen, marrying women. You blushed at the thought, the feeling of butterflies in your stomach returning. 

“Um, Hello…?” an apprehensive voice tore you from your thoughts and you jumped slightly. Oswald was standing to your left a small awkward smile on his face that morphed into one of concern.

“Are you quite alright Miss (S/N)?” He asked kindly.  

You shook your head to dismiss your thoughts of women in waistcoats and breeches, “Yes I’m alright sir I appreciate your concern,” you tried not to sound indifferent to him, as he had been kind thus far.

He offered his hand palm up, “If you would be so willing, would you join me for a walk about the orchards?”

His smile was inelegant, brows knit with unease, and his hand trembled. You regarded it for a moment and spared a glance to your aunt and the other ladies. They stared hungrily at your hands like wolves regarding a sickly lamb. Minds likely swirling with tales of success to gloat about for hours, to talk of nothing but fortunes and houses, your potential bride clothes, and where you'd buy them.  Feeling the weight of consequence you nodded with an inaudible sigh and offered the coltish gentleman your arm. 

Oswald took your arm in his and you began to feel ill, it wasn’t that he was terrible to look at but the thought of any prolonged amount of time with the man sickened you. 

He did not tug you forward so much as he suggested a slow and delicate gait, and you followed his lead to appease the party of older women who cooed about the match made between you two. Together you walked paces out of earshot of the ladies and he withdrew his arm from yours with a polite yet awkward smile. You paused but happily accepted the respite from his touch.

“Um,” he began. “You see, it is not that I wish to lead you on, or to let you down per se, but I am- have had, my eye on another young lady for some time.”

You paused and looked at him, “You have? Then why… why would you entertain the idea of coming to the picnic?” 

Oswald’s face reddened and he fixed his collar walking ahead two paces, “Well you see, it is that the young lady was in an unwilling entanglement back in Denmark, before her brothers and she came to England at the behest of their cousin. And our amour is quite secret…”

You followed him resting your injured hand against your back, turning ideas over in your head, “So because it is secret, you must keep up appearances?”

He grinned sheepishly back at you, “Precisely, I planned to formally propose but I doubt her brothers would grant a blessing of the marriage. So to maintain appearances I entertain the whims of my patron until I can secure a firm answer. I had hoped, when I noticed your apprehension that perhaps you weren’t enthusiastic about the match as well…?”

You fought to hold in a snort of laughter, “No,” barely containing your smile you shook your head. “I had no interest in this match. No interest in any match that is.”

“Thank heavens,” Oswald let out a visible sigh, his shoulders relaxing and he touched his chest as if calming his heart. “I mean no offense of course Miss (S/N).”

You waved your hand at him lightly, “I take no offense, sir, you're quite alright.”

He smiled, “Perhaps we can be friends, I could help you avoid potential matches, and perchance, you could help me woo my lady?”

You strode ahead of him to gaze at the clover buds blooming in the grass. He made a good offer, friendship in exchange for matrimony. He was a young gentleman with an estate, and he likely had resources, resources enough to help you find the lady gentleman.

“I would like that, perhaps,” You tried turning towards him. “In exchange for helping you woo your paramour, you could help me with something.”

“Well of course! What can I do for you Miss (S/N)?” 

“I need your help finding a particular gentleman,” You said pulling the handkerchief from your pocket with a smile. 

ꕥ

You regaled Oswald as you walked about the orchard with the story of the lady gentleman and your romp in the fields that caused your injury. He made no attempt to interrupt your tale listening heartily his brows knit together quizzicakly. When you finished your tale you offered the handkerchief his way so he could examine the details of the embroidery. 

“Well this is quite the conundrum,” Oswald puzzled brushing a thumb over the lettering before handing the handkerchief back your way. “The countryside is quite literally crawling with these Lady Gentlemen.”

You bristled feeling indignant, “You all keep saying that, as if they are mice. I have yet to see more than one. If the countryside was crawling with them you would think I would see more.”

Oswald laughed an awkward boyish laugh, “Perhaps you are right, but there are a noteworthy few. Most likely you have encountered a friend of the Duke of Cambridgeshire, her estate is near here, no more than a two-hours ride on horseback. I will see what I can learn for you (Y/N).”

You took back the handkerchief tucking it away in your dress pocket, nodding thanks. Perhaps if Oswald was successful in his promise, you could learn the name of your elusive savior who ceased to escape your thoughts. 

“So,” Oswald drew out awkwardly. “You enjoy the writings of Sappho?”

You turned to him flushed with embarrassment and indignation, you had yet to voice this to anyone but the fatted and lazy tabby tom cat that patrolled the kitchens who seemed to only care that you were a human, and humans bring food from the heavens to fatten his belly further. And a cat, could not go about spouting to others about how you would rather divine kisses from the lips of another woman. Yet you supposed if he trusted you with his secret perhaps you could allow him this one of yours.

“And if I do?” You countered a bit more snippily than you originally intended which caused you to wince.

Oswald raised a hand in a show of submission, “Not to worry, your secret is safe with me. I am a friend of a lady who also prefers the company of other women, though I doubt she is the woman you encountered, she’s blonde. And I wouldn’t always count her among gentlemen, or women for that matter, but she is a friend of a great many other lady gentlemen.”

You couldn’t help yourself from smiling, “Is it possible that she might know who it is that helped me then? Your friend?”

“Oh, Eivor? Yes, I will write to her as soon as I return to Elmenham,” Oswald smiled and offered you his arm again. “Shall we return to the picnicking party?”

“If we don’t soon I fear they’ll have too many scandalous ideas swirling about their heads to even function,” You quipped taking his arm. 

Oswald laughed and led you back through the orchard to the picnic. When you neared the party you were surprised to see a tall black horse had joined Oswald and Finnr’s horses that grazed lazily about in the orchard grasses. Another individual had joined the picnicking party and was heartily regaling the group. 

As you approached you could see that the person was a lady gentleman. You felt your heart quicken at the possibility of it being your savior. But when she turned to face you and Oswald you could see that wasn’t her, this one was tall, her voice jolly and light, and she had a joyous smile that reached from ear to ear. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she was dressed smartly in an all-black gentleman’s suit, similar to the other lady gentleman you had encountered yesterday. 

You came to stand near your uncle letting go of Oswald’s arm and avoiding your aunt's gaze.

“... we would happily receive you all in a week's time for a masquerade ball,” the Lady Gentleman finished speaking and beamed her eyes landing on you in particular. You could tell she was being sly as her eyes flicked from your face and down your body making you blush hotly. 

She smiled and winked before waving, “I bid you all good day!”

The group exploded into whispers and exclamations of joy, the prospect of a private ball was all enticing, yet you had arrived too late to receive the name of your hosts. 

“Uncle,” you tapped his arm lightly to draw his attention. “Who will be hosting?”

Your uncle folded his hands neatly against his lap and smiled, “Why Soma Guthrumsdóttir, the Duke of Cambridgeshire.”

#soma jarlskona x reader #soma x reader #soma jarlskona #soma ac valhalla #ac valhalla #austen inspired #regency inspired #regency au #my fics #i know it may be weird of me to pull such obscure characters from the game for the sake of the plot #but i like oswald and finnr #doesnt help that my cat is named oswald #anyway i hope you enjoyed it

[some-little-infamy]

My favorite lyrics from each song off The Tortured Poets Department:

Fortnight (ft. Post Malone): "I was a functioning alcoholic until nobody noticed my new aesthetic" The Tortured Poets Department: "At dinner, you take my ring off my middle finger / And Put it on the one people put wedding rings on / And that's the closest I've come to my heart exploding"

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys: "I'm Queen of sand castles he destroys"

Down Bad: "Everything comes out teenage petulance/ Fuck it, if I can't have him / I might just die it'll make no difference" So Long, London: "And you say I abandoned the ship / But I was going down with it / My white-knuckle dying grip"

But Daddy I Love Him: "I'll tell you something about my good name / it's mine alone to disgrace"

Fresh Out The Slammer: "Swirled you into all of my poems / Now we're at the starting line"

Florida!!! (ft. Florence & the Machine): "Yes, I'm haunted, but I'm feeling just fine / All of my girls got their lace and their crimes"

Guilty as Sin?: "Throwing my life to the wolves or the ocean rocks."

Who's Afraid of Little Old Me: "I was tame, I was gentle, 'till the circus life made me mean / Don't you worry, folks, we took out all her teeth" and "You wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me" (I CAN'T PICK THIS IS MY FAVORITE SONG I'M SORRY)

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can): "Your good lord doesn't need to lift a finger / I can fix him, no really, I can"

loml: "Still alive, killing time at the cemetery / Never quite buried"

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart: "I cry a lot, but I am so productive, it's an art!"

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived: "I would've died for your sins, now I just died inside"

The Alchemy: "We've been on a winning streak / He jokes that it's heroin, but this time with an 'E'"

Clara Bow: "I'm not trying to exaggerate / but I think I might die if I made it"

The Black Dog: "And you jump up, but she's too young to know this song / That was intertwined in the magic fabric of our dreaming"

imgonnagetyouback: "Even if it's handcuffed, I'm leaving here with you"

The Albatross: "So I crossed my thoughtless heart / spread my wings like a parachute / I'm the albatross / I swept in at the rescue"

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus: "If you wanna break my cold, cold heart / Just say 'I loved you the way that you were' "

How Did It End?: " The deflation of our dreaming / Leaving me bereft and reeling / My Beloved Ghost and me / sitting in a tree / D-Y-I-N-G" So High School: "And in a blink of a crinkling eye / I'm sinking, our fingers entwined / Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights"

I Hate It Here: "I'll save all my romanticism for my inner life, and I'll get lost on purpose" thanK you aIMee: "But when I count the scars, there's a moment of truth / That there wouldn't be this if there hadn't been you"

I Look in People's Windows: "Does it feel alright to not know me? / I'm addicted to the 'if only' "

The Prophecy: "Feeling like the very last drops of an ink pen"

Cassandra: "When it's 'burn the bitch', they're shrieking / When the truth comes out, it's quiet"

Peter: " 'Cause love's never lost when perspective is earned"

The Bolter: "Splendidly selfish, charmingly helpless / Excellent fun 'til you get to know her"

Robin: "You have no room in your dreams for regrets"

The Manuscript: "The professor said to write what you know / looking backwards might be the only way to move forward"

#taylor swift #the tortured poets department #lyrics #THIS ALBUM MEANS SO MUCH TO ME OKAY

[iggydabirdkid]

Thank you @just-a-tiny-goldfish for giving me the wonderful idea of an Outlaw AU which beamed this almost fully formed scene directly into my brain. I may write more to this at some point, after I finish writing all my other stuff 🤣

-----

Ah! There she is! Not that the Marshall was a hard woman to spot in any circumstance but you were starting to wonder if she’d show up today at all given the late hour. The false smirk finds itself sitting comfortably upon your lips and you saunter over to where she sits in the booth in a darkened corner of the saloon, looking ever bit a brooding heroine.

“Well howdy there Marshall,” you purr as you lean a hip against the table and tilt your head, showing off the pale stretch of your neck, “What can I get for you today?” You lean in towards her far more than would be modest if this place was anywhere else, “The usual?” your practiced smile is firm and it turns into something a tad more playful when her eyes very briefly flick down to where your bodice reveals the freckled tops of your bosoms. Your smile turns into a grin when you watch her face darken before she quickly looks away.

She clears her throat, “The usual. Yes. Thank you Annabelle.”

“You’re very welcome,” you lower your voice as you lay on the charm and brush your fingers over where her hand rests against the grainy wooden table. She doesn’t shift away. You look towards the bar and placing two fingers in your mouth you blow a short yet sharp whistle and the woman standing serving drinks gives you a short nod. You don’t know her name. You never bother to ask, “So then Marshall,” you withdraw your hand and step back before sitting in the seat opposite, “Any luck so far catching that Outlaw?”

“Which one?” she laughs, finally turning her attention back to you. You raise an eyebrow but otherwise stay silent, “Ah, Firecracker then.” You adjust the bandana atop your head, “No luck as of yet no. Fortunately.”

“Fortunately?” you repeat, lowering your voice conspiratorially as you place you palms on the table and lean in. You fight to keep the smirk from your face but when the Marshall looks at you with eyes dark and uncertain, the small smile that your lips had started to form is dispelled, “I know that look,” you lean back into the not very comfortable booth. You have no idea why she keeps coming back here just to sit in the same horrid spot each time, “What is it?” you ask, “What has you thinking so?”

“Annabelle have you ever doubted yourself?” she asks and the question catches you by surprise.

“How so?” you squint and your words leave your mouth in a hesitant manner. She places her arms on the table and stares down at her hands as she laces her fingers together.

“Sometimes I’m not sure if what I’m doing… the path I’m taking… I just wonder if I’m doing the right thing.”

#Outlaw AU #everytime I am presented with new ideas #i have to write the scenes that form in my mind immediatly #otherwise they will be lost forever #Annie Kane #julia ortega

[tobias-hankel]

"Spencer, what did you do?"

TW Drug use, overdose but no MCD

"Spencer, what did you do?" Spencer heard from the doorway, barely conscious.

What did I do? Where even am I? A bathroom? How did I get here? I thought I was at work. Spencer thought to himself, struggling to keep his eyes open but it didn’t matter either way, his vision was too blurry to make sense of anything around him. He heard yelled though. A lot of yelling.

“Emily! Get Hotch! Someone call 911! Damn it! Kid stay with me, okay?”

Morgan? Is that Morgan? Why would someone need to call 911? Spencer felt someone roll him over on the cold tile floor. He hadn’t even realized he was on the floor until then.

“Spencer, talk to me kid. Come on, keep your eyes open,” Morgan said as he moved Spencer around.

Spencer felt Morgan touch his arm, an odd feeling – like someone removing an IV, and a release of pressure around his upper arm. Oh yeah… I came to the bathroom to get high… Spencer thought as he vaguely saw Morgan cap the needle he had used and set it to the side. I took less than normal… How… Am I overdosing? Spencer thought before his world faded out again.

“Morgan, what happened?” Hotch asked as he rushed into the bathroom, already moving to kneel by Spencer, checking his pulse.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I saw Reid go to the bathroom like 10 minutes ago, so I came in here to check on him and he was on the floor with a needle sticking out of his arm. Is he going to be okay?” Morgan asked in a panic.

“Reid, Reid! Can you hear me?” Hotch asked, shaking Spencer some. “Prentiss is on the phone with 911. He isn’t answering but he still has a pulse.”

Spencer started to hear people talk around him and he started to come to again, “What…” he mumbled out as he tried to understand what was happening again.

Morgan let out a sigh of relief when Spencer said something, “Just keep your eyes open okay, Reid? Help is on the way.”

Hotch could see the dazed confusion on Spencer’s face, “Reid, you are in the bullpen’s restroom. You overdosed. Can you tell me what you took?”

Overdosed… Heroin… It must have been laced with something else… Spencer thought, taking a second to realize he never said anything. “Her… heroin.” Spencer forced out.

“It might have been laced with fentanyl,” Hotch said, having come to the same conclusion but Morgan’s mind was somewhere else. He had no idea Spencer was using, but it seemed like Hotch knew to some degree, so this had to have been happening for some time.

“ ‘m sorry…” Spencer slurred out and Morgan took a hold of his hand while Hotch moved a strand of hair out of his face.

“We will make sure nothing like this ever happens again.”

--

I'm a slow writer but feel free to drop me a 5 sentence ask or a prompt in my ask box 🖤 Btw, I don't always go in order.

#Thank you Maya! #maze's drabbles #drabble #criminal minds fanart #criminal minds #spencer reid #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #could be seen as #hotchreid #moreid #or horreid #or none #up to you #drug addict spencer #more than 5 sentences #1mechanicalalligator ask #i didn't proofread this #I feel like I'm missing a tag

[mermaidsirennikita]

Any recs where the hero is a literal trash monster? Kinda like Seb from IHOA where he he’s telling Lillian she’d like it when they slept together. You’re both yelling “shut up” and “go on” at the book when this asshole comes in?

I love a villain hero! I think of villain heroes on a sliding scale:

1/5--villain in name only. Can be motivated by a confusion

2/5--a dick, but would/can he actually do it? (Sebastian)

3/5--total asshole, can do it, isn't especially morally bothered, but isn't super MALEVOLENT by nature and can be reasoned with, may be reformed in the end

4/5--a reeeeeal problem, dangerous, amoral, may have loved ones but will probably end on a "he's like... not redeemed.... and doesn't really think he needs to change.... but he'll slow down for his lover" note; he still is cool with wanting the world to burn, but if his love wants otherwise, he'll chill.... not redeemed but CHILLED

5/5--usually violent to the love interest as well, a specific kind of dark romance protagonist wherein you're looking for a bit of torture (metaphorically and literally)

Historical:

Tempt Me at Twilight by Lisa Kleypas--Harry is a 3/5. He's not like, MUAHAHAHAHA cackle, he just doesn't have any scruples about getting what he wants, he doesn't need Poppy to love him, he just needs her to belong to him. He's super effective, but there is something sweet within deep down. I consider Harry worse than Sebastian because Sebastian is incapable of actually getting anything done.

Shadowheart by Laura Kinsale--Allegreto is probably a 4/5 or 4.5/5. I mean, as I've said often.... His first encounter with Elena is non-consensual. I wouldn't say it's like, especially unusual for Kinsale; because she writes people with more accurate perspectives on morality, and Allegreto acts much like a lot of men from the 1300s would. Tbh, though, the big thing is that while he does believe he's going to Hell, he's also not gonna stop being a murderer and master manipulator. And like, he's been iNSANE since he was a teenager, because you see him as a teenager in For My Lady's Heart and that boy... ain't right.

The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne by Elisa Braden--A weak 2/5. Like, he is a dick and he does trap his heroine into marriage and I do find him hot and entertaining. But how bad IS he when you consider everything he thinks he knows? Like, shouldn't bring an innocent woman into this shit! Shouldn't! But he does THINK he has good reasons lol.

The Prince of Broadway by Joanna Shupe--Clay is a 2.5/5, imo. He's much more competent than Sebastian, and much more systematic in his villainous deeds. But he does have, in my opinion, some pretty solid emotional motivations. He's also extremely sexy and runs a casino and jacks off while Florence fingers herself in the same room. I love him.

Duke of Sin by Elizabeth Hoyt--Valentine is like... another 4.5/5, in my opinion. Mostly because he's like. Not abusive to Bridget--but he's also not loving in a NORMAL way, lol. And he does some pretty despicable shit. And some shit that's less despicable but very violent. And some shit that isn't really violent or despicable but is SUPER WEIRD AND CREEPy. Yet he also wears lace and dashes about in pink and/or purple robes with his dick flopping around. We love it!

Imo, a lot of people think Sebastian is going to be like Valentine when they begin Devil in Winter, and are disappointed. And a lot of people think Valentine is going to be like Sebastian when they begin Duke of Sin, and they're liken "OH SHIT" because while Valentine has not like... raped anyone... that we know of.... He has kidnapped SEVERAL women lmao. Like Sebastian did it once and went "mmm I went a bit far there" whereas Valentine was all "BACK TO THE WELL" with the kidnapping.

A Rogue by Any Other Name by Sarah MacLean--Bourne is a 1.5/5. He's a total asshole to Penelope in the beginning of this book, and he does behave like a general trash dude for the first half or so. Giving her her first orgasm from another person and then going "MUAHAHAHA YOU FELL INTO MY HANDS" right after (honestly probs pretty traumatic for her), forcing her to marry him, flaunting the fact that they fucked to his dad. He is good at his plot. But he also slows his roll fairly quickly and does have a very understandable tragic backstory.

Daring and the Duke by Sarah MacLean--Mmmm. Somewhere around Clay Madden here. Ewan would. Ewan DID. But Ewan again has a very solid backstory, and he is very sexy and obsessed with his heroine (would recommend reading the other Bareknuckle Bastards books before his for full effect--they're also just good, but Ewan finding out Grace is alive after thinking she's been dead for years and going APESHIT is so good), which makes for a solid villainous hero.

The Dragon and The Pearl by Jeannie Lin--Li Tao is a very good 3/5. He's a literal warlord and is super good at it. He terrorized his former fiancee (heroine of the previous book) and her family. He begins this book by kidnapping his heroine (classic). But again, solid backstory, and while he'll never pull his punches he's also not at all sadistic. It's business, he just happens to be good at slaughter.

Contemporary(ish):

Mafia Madman by Mila Finelli--Enzo D'Agostino is a strong 4/5, nearing 4.5/5. You meet him in the previous books and he literally calls the previous a heroine a slut (in Italian, so in his defense she wasn't supposed to understand GOD), then kidnaps her to get at her lover (he didn't know she was pregnant??? not his fault) and puts a gun in her mouth. Then, after much torture and four years in hiding, he kidnaps her sister, puts her in a cage naked, and falls in love with her! I love a garbage man! He gives her iPads and enjoys her SPIRIT, okay??? He does sex really good! He ADORES her (and he loves his kids). He just has no desire to be a better person otherwise lol.

Paranormal:

Dreams of a Dark Warrior by Kresley Cole--Declan Chase is like... an interesting and extremely hardcore 3/5 to me, because he does do shit that's way gnarlier than most of the dudes in other books (on Fated Mates they called him Mr. Vivisection... for a reason) but he's basically a highly effective brainwashed weapon. If you like a Bucky Barnes but wanna dial it up to 11 and throw in a heroin addiction? IT'S DC! He's a super dangerous, super brainwashed, incredibly traumatized man (who for the record isn't on heroin anymore... but is kept on a leash by his owners through legal~ substances) who doesn't realize that part of why he was miserable growing up, part of why he felt dead inside and GOT ON DRUGS to feel alive, is because he's a reincarnated berserker who has been desperately, subconsciously searching for his mate, who is immortal and has been avoiding him because whenever she kisses him he ends up dying in his past lives. And now his mission and drive is to kill immortals! And he has her captive! And she's a snarky immature warrior woman who gives him so much shit and makes him feel alive for the first time ever!

Anyway, Declan Chase crosses the line like 72 times but he's an amazingly compelling hero.

Lothaire by Kresley Cole--Like... a hard 4.5/5. Lothaire is the Enemy of Old; he's like one of the main dudes on the Bad Side; he collects favors from other beings, including other heroes and heroines lol, and everyone sits there like "Lothaire is going to ask for my firstborn, oh no!!!"; he puts his heroine in death row for FIVE YEARS "for safekeeping" and then picks her up five years later because she willingly accepts her sentence, and by picks her up I mean he tears through dozens of people while she sits there quaking, shows up covered in gore, and is like "WOW. WOW. CAN'T BELIEVE THIS. YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH THIS WEEK!!!"

He's crazy (literally)! He's funny (sends a wraith off screaming by looking at her and remembering that he fucked her "when she was pretty")! He is completely bowled over by a woman he has no desire to love and then has to pay up in a bIG way! He calls trailers "conveyances" and talks about cock-slapping gnomes!

There's never been a hero I was more excited to read, and he completely lived up to expectations. Lothaire does not REFORM, but he does go "alright dude whatever keeps her alive and happy, I guess I'm on that side". That's how you do a villain. (And Baldur's Gate 3 fans--I have it on good authority that if you like that vampire guy, you should read this vampire guy.)

#romance novel blogging #book recs #romance novels

[professorpski]

Piecework Fall 2023, Or What Have They Done to the Capelet? 

This issue has several projects all of which you see here. These include a knitted colorwork hat inspired by a stained glass window designed by Hazel Tindall, a Cherry blossom embroidery done in stumpwork by Jane Nicholas, and a bag in blackwork by Melinda Shebring. And then we have the knitted capelet on the cover by Shirley Paden with an ornate lace and beads design.

Once upon a time, the evening capelet was a small cape. Like a cape, it opened in the front, often tied at the throat and might have a collar or ruff at the neckline. Its charm lay in its grace, the way it could be untied and swept off the shoulders as our heroine came in from the chill and onto the dance floor. It could be made of fabric or fur, or knitted or crocheted.  

Then, somebody came up with the silly idea of the knitted capelet as a tube on pulled over the head. Why? Possibly because it was easier to knit certain ornate stitch patterns circularly rather than back and forth. But whatever is gained in the knitting is lost in the wearing. To take off a tube capelet means raising your arms as you would to take off a t-shirt, hardly the most graceful of movements. It also means pulling an ornate, possibly fuzzy knitwear over your elaborate earrings, your delicate up-do, and perhaps your hat if you are really dressed up. Imagine for a moment what happens if an earring catches a strand of yarn as you pull this capelet over your head. Yikes! Doffing a tube capelet it at best awkward and risks chaos. In short, a silly design. Although here the lace pattern is so interesting that it is worth taking and using on something else.

In addition to these projects, there are several historical articles on Portuguese embroidery, on metallic yarns and fabrics, on Louisa May Alcott, and more.

You can find at you local yarn store, bookstore or online here: https://pieceworkmagazine.com/

#pieceworkmagazine #piecework #needlework #knitting #blackwork #embroidery #knittingpatterns #knittedcapelet #stumpwork #shirleypaden #melindasherbring #hazeltindall #janenicholas #knittedhats #knittedcapeletpattern #knittedhatpattern #sillydesign #costumehistory #dresshistory #fashionhistory #vintageembellishments #historyofembroidery #historyofgarmentdesign

[lexa-griffins]

yeah the mobster daughter au i mean 😭😭😭 sorry, is there a snippet?

No worries, I was just a little confused 😅

Here's a little snippet of what I have already written for it :D :

The whiskey burns in her throat and she detective grimaces at it. It’s the cheapest one they have and still far too expensive for her wallet so she forces herself to finish it, the barman giving her dirty looks as she does. 

Two dead cops, one house burnt to a crisp and a couple thrown to the river, all so clearly indicative of mafia activity it should be a open and shut case if there was any proof of it at all. Those are the reason she keeps coming back. She knows why the case ended up on her desk with few info on it, the little faith the department has on her abilities as a detective is not something new to her. So she keeps crossing into enemy territory every other night. Clarke lies to herself, says its so seek revenge for her fallen colleagues even if she barely knew their faces, justice for the couple whose lives were destroyed and tossed aside although she doesn't particularly care about people who were actively producing laced heroin and passing it on to already struggling addicts.

A big mass sits on the stool right next to her, forcing her legs to close as they make themselves at home. She stares at her watered down whiskey without much desire to finish it, pretending not to listen as a drink is ordered in a foreign language right by her side. She knows better than to start a fight here.

“Thought I had told you not to show your face here again Griffin.”

She signs at the bartender to bring her a second round, making it obvious to brute next to her she isn’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

“I’ve never been great at following orders Quint.” 

She takes the drink that’s place in front of her and forces another gulp of it down her throat. When she finally turns to meet his gaze he’s staring her down. He’s an intimidating fella, scars and tattoos that show where he belongs covering every inch of visible skin. By all means, Clarke should be terrified of him; he is twice her side and not afraid to kill someone with a batch with his bare hands, a rather gruesome aftermath to walk in on her first homicide case. But she isn’t. In fact, Clarke finds him pathetic, more brawl than brains, another pawn in a family that will dispose of him the moment he stops serving his purpose. 

“How’s your brother doing by the way?” she asks snarkily, knowing it’ll hit a nerve, “Hope the burns aren’t too bad.” 

Clarke grabs the glass intent on finishing with a swing and get out before shit hits the fan. He stares her with a murderous look in his eyes and takes the glass away from her before she can drink its content. The volume inside seems to have gone down but Clarke knows he wont try anything against her, not here. 

“You are very brave under her protection aren’t you detective?”

The accusation leaves a sour taste in her mouth. She’s not a pet but she knows she is seen as one inside these walls. It’s why she’s left mostly unbothered despite her job title, why all she gets are sneers  and empty threats.

“It’s getting late” with a pained gesture, Clarke pays for the two drinks in cash, making a point of not backing down in her stance when exiting her seat, “if you’d excuse.”

The cold hair hits her hard and Clarke takes a deep breath away from the smell of cigars and booze. Another trip that let no where. At this point she doesn't know whats she’s looking for or why she keeps coming back to Grounders. 

She’s nearing her bike, helmet secured under her arm when she reaches inside the pocket of her leather jacket only to find it empty of her keys and phone.

Shit.

“Looking for these Griffin?” 

Quint appears from the darkness of the alleyway where she parked, the keys of her bike dangling from one hand, gun in the other. Clarke takes a step back, putting distance between them as she tries to figure out an escape plan.

“You're not so brave now are you?”

A bullet passes by her, but not from Quints side. The shot goes right above her shoulder to enter Quint's heart. Fast and on target, a her trademark. 

Clarke rolls her eyes and fishes her keys from the dead man’s hands before turning to face her.

“You should not be out so late, love.”

#letter opened #its not all that exciting but we gotta start somewhere! #au: mobster daughter #my writing

[pawsomelestat]

༚༅༚˳ . ♱ . ˳༚༅༚˳ . ♱ . ˳༚༅༚˳ . 🦇 . ˳༚༅༚˳ . ♱ . ˳༚༅༚˳ . ♱ . ˳༚༅༚

ー Tear you apart. ー

masc reader | tw ; blood , knives , guns & gay

author's notes ; this is a fic swap w my lovely cutie sweetie honey little bitch jules so enjoy <3

Hunger was one way to put it, seemed more human to simplify the feeling rather than trying to explain what it was. You rised with the set of the sun, awoken by your burning crave for food and chaos.

The alleys echoed with the sound of your boots, your long leather coat flowing behind you in the autumn smoke as the red ash from your cigarette reflected in the puddles under your feet. The streets this time of night were only filled with drunken scum, the type that wouldn't be noticed. Perfect. But who knows what sort of poison laced heroin was swimming through their veins, the sweet taste would be spoiled with all that toxic waste.

You found yourself stood infront of a graveyard, usually the only people to be found there were old people which would die soon anyway. But at the dead of night it should've been empty, or at least hold a few teens that'd be easy to scare off.

Wandering closer, you noticed something.. A man. Alone, crouched by the side of a grave, all black clothing to match his curled black hair. Bloodlust had started to get the better of you, leaving all reasonable thoughts behind and corrupting your mind with the orgasmic thought of that delicious rouge spilling all over you.

As you crept closer, moving in such elegant strides you noticed him stand and reach to something on his hip, not turning around to face you but just being still. You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, pressing your body to his side, bringing your mouth closer to his shoulder.

"You can stay with whoever you're visiting tonight, I'm sure they've missed you."

You could almost feel the flesh under your teeth as you uttered a little tease into his ear. Just as you bit down, in one swift movement the male was a step back, facing you with a gun to your head. Now that you could see his face you realised tonight would be no feast, whited out with black clown marks. Probably some disgusting tasting junkie getting ready to stuff himself with halloween candy.

With both your hands ontop of his you pulled the gun down to aim at your chest, holding it in the middle and smirking.

"Well, shoot. Are you really as brave as you make yourself out to be?"

That comment slipped out as quick as the bullet did, his long finger softly pulling the cold trigger as you spoke. The bullet sent you a step back, blood trickling down your chest leaving a smirk on your lips.

Taking your ring and middle finger, you wiped off some of the blood staining your velvet shirt, pushing it into your mouth and licking inbetween your fingers. You let out a little chuckle, seeing your clownfaced shooter try his best to contain himself at the sight of your unbothered stance.

"Didn't expect that did you now?"

You whined out in a sarcastic manner, stepping forward and slipping the gun from his tight grip. You placed a brief kiss at the tip before pointing it as his chest and without hesitation.. Shooting.

To your surprise, he did almost the same. Took a step back, wiped the blood, then looked up at you and smiled. His wound took slightly quicker than yours to heal, leaving behind the delicious scent of his soul.

Your mind was a mess of hunger, surprise, interest and shock, sending you into a laughing frenzy. Doubling over from the burning sensation of hunger ripping down your throat and the laughter spilling out so manically from your glossed lips you felt something cold pressed against your back.

"When you get to hell, make sure they're saving a special place for Eric Draven."

This was the first time you'd heard your 'victim' speak, his voice was sarcastic and filled with false enthusiasm, his words just sending more chuckles out of you. You dropped to the floor, turning round to look at him as you hit the ground, his foot digging into your chest as he held you down under his boot. Gun pointed at your head, you caught your breath and looked up into his brooding eyes.

"You sound almost as delicious as you look, Eric Draven"

Saying his name as a tease, letting out once more a small bratty chuckle. As you heard the trigger twitch, you quickly pulled his foot, tripping him over and leaving him laying on the harsh dirt. You crawled ontop of him, staring lustfully into his eyes and lowering your body slowly to touch his.

Eric's breath hitched, sparking your playful interest more. You knew better than to play with your food, but who could resist when it was this adorably vulnerable.

You ran one of your hands slowly down his thigh, bringing your lips to his ear ane moaning, feeling his excitement from underneath you. Leaving rough kisses and nips running down from his ear to his neck, you admired the musky scent of the night that peaked your hunger so much.

"If you can never die, I guess you can't ever run dry either"

Words came out in an almost half whisper, pressing your lips just above his collar bone while you spoke.

"I already am dead."

"And I can make you feel better than life itself."

A low groan slipped from Eric's lips as your teeth sunk into his flesh.

Rouge. That flowing, heavenly nectar rushing over your tongue, it was like sipping the most expensive champagne. That orgasmic feeling, hunger being showered away by the most otherworldly taste. Rouge was all you saw, all your senses being overtaken by the red of his blood.

Eric pulled you by the hair, forcing you to stop your drinking and face him. Still moaning from the flavour, you came back to your senses, noticing the bloody wound fading back into skin.

You placed a long, passionate kiss on his lips, letting him taste his own fruit. Then you stood, hearing him gasp for breath and seeing his pathetic beauty underneath you. It made you chuckle, seeing such a dominant aura on a man that could do nothing under your seductive power.

"Come and find me soon, I'll show you just how delicious death tastes."

With that you winked, beginning to strut away, leaving the speechless man to comprehend what had just happened. You knew it wouldn't be the last time you tasted that sweet wine. And he knew it wouldn't be the last time he felt your deathly embrace.

author's notes ; TEEHEE I DID IT ,, didnt wanna leave it as a "see part 2" but thats just kinda how it went. well i feel like a total degenerate but yk 💪 submissive bbyg eric. jules try tell me vampires arent hot now.

#the crow 1994 #eric draven #vampire oc #eric draven x reader #fanfic #oc