January 9 is Vivi’s birthday \;w;/ The date’s cheeky, it’s when I reached ShB on him ingame. A year ago. JUST A YEAR. No other oc of mine had such an intense development process. I wanted to try writing a disaster, and, well....
Lemme have today as an excuse to ramble about his influences. Of course I didn’t merely lump these together, I kept realizing the likeness as time went on.
The concentration of unhinged blondies and literal idols is past the critical level, take cover, it’s gonna blow.
Spoiler warning for everything.
Anarchy Panty
Because his full name’s Vivien Fucksalot Rell x’D A good number of their tropes match perfectly.
This speech could as well be copypasted into his final battle with Emet:
Panty: You're right, I'm just a little bitch and I'm proud of it. But guess what, douchebag? That's not the point. News flash, I don't need special fucking powers to beat the shit out of you. You know why? Because I'm a bitch who doesn't give a fuck. You and your half-dead face can preach about hymens and demons and other weird words that supposedly mean shit, but that doesn't change the fact that if any of you fuckers get in my way, I'm gonna kick some twisted-ass ass. You hear me dick? I'm a hot bitch angel named Panty. And no matter what anyone says, I DO WHAT I FUCKING WANT!
Princess Ai
An edgy fashion icon that I'm still in love with. Brainstorming the visual styles for Vivi, I simply decided to indulge as hard as I can.
Howl
Howl gets his redemption arc, Vivi, uh.... Surprise, the entire ShB part of Fragments is his redemption arc of sorts. But he exists outside ShB as well. He’s not meant to be a goody two shoes. But hey, his drama queen moments are entertaining to watch.
Raha has a lot of Howl in his character too. With Vivi, he’s basically this, except he doesn’t swallow him.. Okay he does but in a different way *kicked*
Arataka Reigen
Because I’m physically incapable of writing a classic hero.
Vivi has a complicated relationship with his career and a pragmatic approach to most things in life. He also prefers words to violence, will fight only if that fails.
When confidence and persuasion carry so hard you don’t really need anything else. Vivi firmly believes in everything he says and does. He doesn’t derive any fucked up joy from being right, but he knows as a fact that he IS right.
Sakuma Ryuichi
Duality my beloved \o/ And dorkiness. Other than that, Ryuichi doesn’t have as much influence on his character, but the visuals?
I mean I literally use this shirt and necklace as an easter egg/homage. Gravitation triggered my queer awakening in the faraway 2006, might as well give it the acknowledgement it deserves.
And, lastly, the he.
What else do you expect from a character tailored for a ship \o/
Short. Sassy. Dorky. Gremlin. All of their direct likeness stems from ARR, while the more subtle parallels and extreme opposite values form later.
If Raha’s eccentric, Vivi takes that just a tad bit further, simply because he’s always been allowed to.
What Raha keeps repressed, buried deep down, Vivi embraces in full. He’s an unruly, effervescent spark of life, he’s meant to be Raha’s “manic pixie dream boy” according to tvtropes, to slowly lure him out of his shell and teach him confidence, the joy of living, and find a way to stop him from killing himself over and over again.
Words of praise and affirmation have no effect on them. Both are competent in some field, but never brag about it. While Raha has a severe imposter syndrome, Vivi knows he’s cool as a fact, which still doesn't mean he loves or values himself as he should. He just acknowledges and uses his status for his own benefit as openly as the world keeps using himself.
Destiny (affectionate) and destiny (derogatory).
Raha’s The Adult (tm) Vivi needs to stay somewhat stable. This’s the reason they don’t quite get along in ARR yet, Raha must go through that century of suffering that, despite all common sense, refines him into something delightful, Vivi must go through HW-SB to realize his priorities in life and frankly get fucked up enough to form a perfect chemistry with Exarch.
Raha has a moral compass that he may adjust at will, Vivi has none at all. How much more questionable would they be if they weren’t cute and charismatic :’D
They’re feisty and competitive towards each other, Raha especially so. Vivi has a red cloth effect on him. Forever wrestling for that imaginary control (yep, in bed too). On the emotional side, it’s forever “you matter, I don’t”. They’re mirrors of each other, reflecting some parts as they are, twisting others in most peculiar ways.
Vivi literally wouldn’t exist without Raha, both ic and ooc. So I daresay Raha has the most influence on his character, at the same time he’s his own guy enough to stay interesting. I’m so proud of him. I’m holding him by the scruff and helplessly shaking him in the air.
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Louis Tomlinson on his new album, struggling with fame and a One Direction reunion
The boyband star on his love of rock music, finding his own voice outside of One Direction, losing close family and fame's strangest moments. (By Neil McCormick @ The Telegraph)
“Do you mind if I smoke?” asks Louis Tomlinson, tapping cigarette ash into an empty Coke bottle. “The modern man smokes a vape, apparently. But I still smoke ciggies. I’m a judgemental fucker, and I hate vapers.”
He'd kidding, but the former One Direction boyband star certainly does like a cigarette, getting through half a dozen during an hour-long encounter in a hotel boardroom that reeks of stale tobacco. “Maybe I drink too much for a singer. Maybe I smoke too much for a singer. But it can be quite demanding, this life. So, for me to have those little vices, it’s important.”
Tomlinson is getting ready for the release this week of his second solo album, Faith in The Future. He seems both nervous and excited. “The lows are lower in a solo career, but the highs are higher,” he suggests. “Because you are not one of 4 or 5 anymore, you have to take full responsibility for everything, so it hits you at both ends.”
Scruffily unshaven, in gym wear and trainers, the 30-year-old hops up to open a window, while chatting away in a friendly and engaged manner. “I never really chose this life,” he insists, with a strong Doncaster accent (though he lives in Hertfordshire now). “I auditioned for X Factor and crossed me fingers. And now, here I am.”
In 2010, at the age of 18, Tomlinson and four other young hopefuls (Harry Styles, Niall Horan, Liam Payne and Zayn Malik) were assembled into a boyband mentored by entertainment impresario Simon Cowell. Although they didn’t win the talent show, their impish appeal saw them rise to become the most successful manufactured group of the modern era, achieving levels of fan mania comparable to the early days of The Beatles.
Together for five frenzied years, 1D have scored four number one albums, sold more than 200 million records worldwide, notched up over 21 billion streams, won seven BRIT awards and their final tour in 2015 grossed over $200 million (£173 million) in revenue. For a time, Tomlinson’s floppy fringe adorned teenage bedrooms all over the planet. There was considerable hysteria when 1D said they were taking a “hiatus”, citing exhaustion.
A reluctant solo artist: Louis Tomlinson (centre) was upset with One Direction's decision to separate in 2016
Tomlinson was the oldest member (two years Styles’s senior) with the shakiest voice but adored by fans for his genuine smile, wacky fashions and undisguised pleasure at being part of the gang. Styles had a cheeky swagger, Malik was the sensuous R&B singer, Horan the folkie-next-door, whilst Payne was a cocky Jack the lad (whose solo career has been a bit of a washout). As time went by, Tomlinson shed insecurities to get more involved in songwriting, helping push 1D’s pop rock side.
Faith in the Future (out on Friday) dials up the guitars, building on his chart-topping 2020 solo debut album Walls, inspired by Britpop and indie, the music of his pre-fame youth. “I used to spend all my Friday nights in this place called Priory, it was fucking unbelievable: £10 all you can drink! That’s been banned now. It was in that bar where I fell in love with guitar music.”
Although he retains a fondness for a big chorus, it is not a sound you would particularly associate with 1D. “I don’t relate to right-down-the-middle pop,” he admits. “But I wouldn’t say that was dumbed down in One Direction. Maybe I dumbed it down myself. Maybe I assumed I couldn’t be exactly who I was.”
Tomlinson was the last of the five members to release an album, and reveals that he was a reluctant solo artist, upset by the band’s decision to separate at the height of their world-beating success in 2016.
“It was a bit daunting. I’d just got to a stage where I really started to feel like I found my rhythm, I was enjoying songwriting, I felt like I finally worked out where I am in that band. And then it’s like: ‘Okay, well, now we’re going on a break.’ So there was a bit of petulance from my end, I was frustrated.”
He admits that he has felt competitive with his former bandmates and been jealous of Styles’s enormous solo success.
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me at first. Only ’cos I didn’t know where to place myself, and really my only point of reference was other members of the band. But it’s not surprising to me that Harry's the most commercially successful because he really fits the mould of a modern star.
"He’s not just doing music, he’s got film as well, and the (stadium) tour he’s done is unbelievable. It took me a while to work out where I stand. But I look on Harry like a brother, man. I have a lot of pride for what he’s doing.”
He says band members are quietly supportive of each other. “I’m sure the lads will text me when the album comes out, we check in on each other, we’re good like that. I bumped into Niall (Horan) at Glastonbury, and even though we hadn’t spoken all year, it was like absolutely no time had passed. Because we've lived through such experiences together in One Direction, this bond that we have is for life.”
Louis Tomlinson with his mother Johannah Deakin who died of leukaemia in 2016
Tomlinson has had other issues to focus on. In 2016, his mother Johannah Deakin, a midwife, died from leukaemia, aged 43. His parents separated when he was a child, and Tomlinson is estranged from his father, a hotel manager. He has seven younger half-siblings, one of whom, Félicité Tomlinson, died of an accidental drug overdose in 2019.
“I’m coping good, man,” he says. “I’m a glass half-full person because what’s the alternative? I’m not saying that there have not been some dark days, because there have. But I had a really lovely upbringing, and my mum was as good as gold.
“Even though she’s not here anymore, I wouldn’t want her to feel guilty for what happened. She wouldn’t want that to define my life and my happiness.”
He also feels a sense of responsibility to his family. “I’m the oldest of all my siblings, and I knew that I had to put on a brave face.” Nonetheless, Tomlinson, who is also father to a five-year-old son, whom he shares with his ex-girlfriend, confesses wariness when it comes to talking about it. “It carries its own weight emotionally and I’m wanting to escape that because I don’t want people fucking feeling sorry for me.”
He addressed grief on 2019 single Two of Us, but has consciously sought out more upbeat subject matter for Faith in the Future, on songs including The Greatest, Lucky Again, Out of My System and mercurial indie rocker Silver Tongues.
“I have become a bit of a soundboard for people’s grief, so I’m kind of stuck between a rock and a hard place. Because if I can help other people just from a little conversation about my own individual experience, that’s great, I really want to be there to help. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a burden.”
Tomlinson has been thoroughly enjoying being back on the road. “Performing live was always my favourite thing. I’ve had to build it back up, because I’ve never toured on my own, I had to relearn my craft and what the show needed. So it’s not as if I went into small theatres and thought, I used to play Wembley stadium, I’ve fucking failed! I was having too much fun.”
He jokes about not even noticing if there has been any change in the level of luxury as he has shifted from one of the biggest bands in the world to a solo artist determined to prove himself.
“Hotel rooms can be kind of lonely when you’re moving all the time, so it doesn’t matter how luxurious it is. I sleep on the tourbus, cause that’s where my band are, so its really social. It’s a fucking lovely tourbus!” Next year he will be back onboard, touring Britain’s arenas. “It’s all going the right way, and I’m thankful to be here, doing what I love. It doesn’t feel as manic as it did in One Direction, but I still get recognised everywhere I go, so not much has changed.”
Like many stars, he’s conflicted about fame. “It’s something I have struggled to deal with over the years. If I go to the pub with me mates and we’re having a drink and being social, it doesn’t matter if just one person stops and is like, ‘Oh it’s Louis, can we have a picture?’ It takes me outside of that normality. Just one photo can kind of bug me for the next half hour. But I’m still ambitious, and if that means raising the temperature (of fame) again, it’s a little bit daunting, but that’s the life.”
There have been some exceedingly odd aspects to being a boyband superstar. A strand of online fan fiction imagined a passionate affair between Tomlinson and Styles, which was subsequently depicted in a graphic, animated sequence on hit HBO series Euphoria. Another piece of 1D fanfiction is being adapted for forthcoming movie The Idea of You, starring Anne Hathaway as an older woman having an affair with a boyband star.
“It’s weird, all that shit,” tuts Tomlinson, disapprovingly. “But there’s not much you can do about it. I’d rather they didn’t, like, but it is what it is. I won’t be watching it.”
Tomlinson is excited about his new music, raving “I can imagine some of these songs being on albums by bands I would have listened to as a kid. It took me a second to find my feet after One Direction, and realise I need to be brave enough to embrace what I love.”
He says he thinks about success differently now. “Its all about musical fulfilment. When you’re one of four or five, it's hard to express yourself as an individual. This music is who I am.”
He still expects One Direction to eventually reunite. “When you look at it on paper, it’s like, ‘How the fuck’s it all gonna fit back together?’ We’re all making very different music, doing our own thing, all busy all the time. So I don’t see anything happening for at least another 10 years, but you never know. It looks pretty jumbled. But I think there is a world where it all kind of fits together.”
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what is funny about ad Reinhardt and yves Klein? i want to be let in on the joke
so yves klein was a color field painter, also known as those guys who just paint a canvas blue, all blue, all the same color of blue, and sell it for a shitton of money. actually when it came to blue, yves klein was kind of The Guy.
BLUE
but back before all the fame and the blue, he made “yves peintures,” which was a catalog of his monochromes, pictured here:
the joke is that it’s bullshit! it’s just squares of construction paper glued on the page with little titles written below them. even the preface isn’t a preface -- it’s just horizontal lines that he had a buddy of his sign with his name. one time yves klein and his art pals all hyped up a big big gallery show that he was opening. a solo exhibition! very exciting! all the critics and fancy motherfuckers showed up -- three thousand people came. with great drama, they were led into a completely empty gallery. “welcome,” yves klein said. “I call it THE SPECIALIZATION OF SENSIBILITY IN THE RAW MATERIAL STATE INTO STABILIZED PICTORIAL SENSIBILITY, LE VIDE (THE VOID).” he was, in every way, a total fucker who loved bright colors and pranking the art world.
meanwhile, ad reinhardt -- what’s ad reinhardt’s gig?
ad reinhardt’s gig is BLACK
more specifically, black-on-black grids of very slightly varying shades of black, applied in a very matte, powdery way that left the paintings with almost no sheen. it’s a pretty cool effect in person (if vantablack 2.0 had been a thing in the 50s, ad reinhardt would have busted a nut)
unfortunately, the way he did the paint makes the paintings incredibly difficult to maintain. if you touch one, the oils on your hands will immediately stain the painting, and it can’t be cleaned or repaired.
“no prob, bob,” ad reinhardt said to the flustered museum curators and collectors. “if you mess it up i’ll just replace it.”
“but what about our original ad reinhardt!” said the curators and collectors
“yeah i’ll replace it,” ad reinhardt said, “with the same original painting but not fucked up.” this caused some consternation
incidentally, he also made this small comic, which never fails to tickle me:
YOU, SIR, ARE A SPACE TOO!
one of my real favorite artworks in this vein is by robert rauschenberg, and i’m going to include the story of it because it makes me very happy. rauschenberg was an insane post-modernist -- one of his most famous pieces includes a taxidermy goat with paint thrown all over it and a car tire around its neck, that kind of thing -- and i love his piece titled “erased de kooning drawing”
so willem de kooning was the husband of elaine de kooning, who painted sick abstract expressionist portraits and was slamming hot
wow
willem was also an artist, and kind of a big deal in his own right, and friends with rauschenberg
one day rauschenberg calls him up like “hey i have an idea for a collaboration between us two art bastards. i need you to do me a drawing, in pencil”
and willem said “why”
and rauschenberg said “wouldn’t you like to know”
and willem said “why”
and rauschenberg said “because i’m gay, give it”
and willem said “that’s not a reason”
and rauschenberg said “fine, i wanna make a commentary on the value of art even after it’s destroyed and palimpsests and ephemerality and shit i guess, so i need a drawing by a famous dude to erase, and you’re famous”
willem de kooning said “okay” and proceeded to find the wettest, most difficult to erase grease pencil in his studio, which he then used to make several drawings until he came up with one he liked and sent it to rauschenberg
and to his credit, rauschenberg erased that motherfucker. he put in the effort. in a spectacular show of spite countering spite, he very nearly got rid of it all. look at this shit:
if that almost-blank piece of paper isn’t a work of art, i don’t know what is
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All bets are off: younger!Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!older!Commanding Officer! Reader
Summary: Santiago is a cocky lil fucker. Cocky enough to try to seduce his terrifying Commanding Officer? Come on, you already know the answer to that, don’t you? (No smut in this one so don’t get too excited! Let’s see if you like the concept and maybe I’ll continue it? 👀)
Warnings: very legal age gap, aged-down Santi (25), reader is older (age unspecified). Workplace romance technically - boss/subordinate. Flirting / steam / sexual tension; masturbation mentions. Erections. Hint of rank kink. Hint of femdom vibes. Alcohol. Swearing. Reader is subject of a bet. Innuendos.
Rating: mature for themes but no smut.
Author’s note: I love this concept though I haven’t executed it exactly how I hoped, hence why I was unsure about posting. BUT, this has been sat in my drafts for ages and you seemed to like the idea… so you may as well have it?! I hc that Santi has always been a cocky fucker and also that he would most definitely be up for a challenge, so I wanted to explore this dynamic a little bit. I’m not in love with how it turned out, but let me know what you think! 🧡
Reader description: fem!reader. mentions of having some light wrinkles, mention of being taller than Santi (easily ignored I think!). Reader called “ma’am”.
Gif: just ignore it’s not and imagine this is baby Santiago, okay? By @beydameron
“She’s terrifying,” Will shudders, still shaken, the man somehow paler and blushing following his semi-public humiliation. Moments ago, he had marched up to the bar and had attempted to woo you with nothing more than a cheeky quip and a swagger; one reminiscent of his younger brother Benny and not entirely Will’s usual style at all, the man typically more of a quiet, subtle hunter.
And you? His Commanding Officer?
You had eviscerated him, cutting him down to size right in front of everyone in the bar - the favoured military watering hole just off base. You had caused him to visibly shrink in front of the bar full of soldiers, generals, and civvies alike, armed with nothing more than your sharp tongue. And, oh boy - judging by the way Will’s licking his wounds, it had cut.
For now, Will has skulked back to the booth to join the other boys -Santi and Frankie- making his broad form as small as possible and attempting to blend into the upholstery of the booth.
Santi meanwhile, looks… invigorated, and he’s practically jostling to take his turn in attempting to win you over.
“Fucking terrifying, man,” Will repeats, still looking mildly traumatised, Frankie slapping him on the shoulder, his face crumpled in sympathy.
“Right?” Santi responds, arching a thick dark brow and grinning as if that’s a wholly desirable attribute. He stands, and there’s even an eager spring in his step. “I’m going up there.”
“Back out, man, it’s not worth it,” Will calls, as Frankie slices his fingers back and forth in front of his own neck, signalling Santi should abort his mission. However, it’s far too late for that. Santi is already sliding himself into the bar stool next to you, his boots hooked up on the foot rail and legs spreading wide.
Languidly, your eyes flick towards him and you exhale tiredly along with a single, slow blink. You are no doubt gearing up for a repeat performance; that is, primed to cut another overly-zealous, younger man down to size, and yet Santi is seemingly unphased. Perhaps even looking forward to it.
Pointedly, your movements minimal and efficient, you arc your head around to where Will is sat, looking back and forth at the pair -Miller and Morales, you recall- who attempt to disappear their chins beneath the lapels of their jackets the moment your stern gaze falls upon them. In contrast, however, their much more brazen buddy is contentedly taking up space next to you, sitting tall atop the stool and wearing a transparently cocky smirk.
Confirming your new companion is indeed part of that group, you transmit a steely glare across at their booth, at which point the two men -who find themselves so suddenly without necks- look to their friend helplessly and in horror. As if he’s caught in a blast radius and there’s nothing more they can do now. Too late. He’s done for. Dead to them now.
Well, he seems quite peppy for a dead guy.
Indeed, Santi fixes his eyes straight ahead towards the mirrored bar as you openly suss him out, a very deliberate pout emphasising his full lips. “Come to try your luck now, have you?” you ask coolly, running your thumb idly back and forth around the rim of your glass which rests on the bar, your sure palm cupped around it. “Didn’t I make enough of an example out of your friend? Or, is that you enjoy your ass being handed to you, because I don’t know where you did basic, but that’s not what we look for in our soldiers around here.”
Santi bides his time before responding, his tongue fleeting out along his lips and his lopsided flash of teeth signifying he’s a little too pleased with whatever shitty comeback he’s managed to muster. “Don’t worry about me,” he purrs, his voice deep and pleasantly scratchy from the smoke coiling around the bar. “I usually come out on top.”
“Oh? What a shame,” you respond levelly, and Santi’s cheeks drop his smile like a dead weight as he realises his flimsily charms are so far ineffectual. As he tries to figure out what on Earth you meant by that comment. But, before he can catch-up with you, you’re already moving on. “So, how much of the green stuff is riding on you getting inside my pants tonight, soldier?”
Shit. Santi clears his throat nervously, and rasps a hand over his day old stubble, raking the pads of his fingers and thumb roughly around the circle of his mouth.
You’ve figured out their little sweepstake then. The bet - which of the boys can come closest to wooing a superior - is in and of itself a juvenile thing. Something to kill the time. One thing in a series of ongoing trials where the squad aim to figure out who’s the best, fittest, strongest, ballsiest -whatever- jostling for their position and status in this newly cobbled together unit.
Call it team-building, or something.
Santi too is finding his feet. Testing his limits, in every sense. Right now, testing whether his capabilities extend to seducing you.
Santi sees no value in hiding the play however, even if it paints him in a less than appealing light. He has no doubt that you will’ve already seen just about every possible ill-informed and poorly concocted scheme or prank by now from your rotation of subordinates. You’re experienced, after your years of service on base and in the field - and, Santi imagines -quite vividly, and with an uptick of his lips- that you’re experienced in other ways too.
He knows you will have seen it all; or, nearly all because -Santi considers smugly- you haven’t met him yet. And, given that the world hasn’t quite beaten this young man down enough yet -has given him no reason to estimate his arrogance as in any way unfounded- he believes he can complete this mission. He believes he can be the one to win you over, with or without dollars at stake.
“The bet is a ruse, Ma’am. I wanted a reason to speak with you that the two dumbasses -over there- could get behind without too many questions,” Santi says, his tone subtly deferential but not feeble - still robust with confidence.
Then, in his next breath, feeling smooth as all fuck, he orders up a double scotch he can neither handle nor really afford, attempting to give off an air of maturity beyond his years - and salary.
You sip your drink, crunching a cube of ice in your teeth. “You know, soldier, many people find themselves quite capable of initiating a conversation without having to resort to gambling.”
Shit. You’re mocking him.
You’re mocking him, but he’s lasted longer than Will, at least. He still has a shot, and therefore, his smugness remains firmly in tact for now. Besides, he’s spent enough time with Frankie that he can handle a prolonged ribbing.
With a gummy but charming smile that creases his youthful skin, schooling his face as to where one day light lines will become deeper furrows, Santiago takes a sip of his drink, allowing his gaze to casually and openly sweep over you. You are sporting a crisp uniform and meticulous presentation. Your hair is scraped back from your face, which is lightly lined around your eyes and mouth, exhibiting your years in a way he finds he enjoys. Your expression is notoriously impassive and stern, your posture uninviting and closed-off, but Santi notices those soft, pillowy lips with intermittently quirked corners. Santi notices the way your eyes lightly dance with mischief on occasion. These details- the frayed edges of your composure- tempt him like a loose thread; one he feels he could unpick to unravel your sharp seams and to reveal the softness hiding beneath.
Santi imagines you’re soft beneath -has imagined your softness more than he might care to admit- but he can’t deny that your hardness and edge endlessly appeals to him too. Your confidence and competence which surpasses all of those around you and draws his eye to you time and again.
Santi tries to play it cool, to look half as assured as you. He tries desperately to exude a mysterious and rugged vibe despite his relatively baby-faced looks - the stubble, at least, doing him some favours in that respect. Even so, despite his best efforts and initial confidence, his tongue suddenly feels slack and heavy in his mouth as his eyes dance over you. He splutters a little as the drink he can’t handle burns his throat and sets his features into a subtle grimace.
Suave, you mother fucker.
Christ, he’s seen the Generals drink this stuff like it’s water. He’s seen Miller’s oddly poetic baby brother drink this like it’s water, but it’s not going down half as smoothly for him. Besides, he fucked up and forgot to dispose of his chewing gum, his jaw turning it over casually, writhing his proud chin.
Still, where he lacks finesse he excels in raw charisma. He always has that to fall back on, doesn’t he? His natural charm?
“Look, Ma’am,” he says, a hint more smoothly than his scotch went down, with a tone of deft respect he doesn’t even need to feign - after all, he’s familiar with your service record and your character, your demeanour. You’re fucking badass. “Sorry about my buddies. They don’t know how to treat a woman like you.”
You narrow your eyes at him and hum, a throaty, dragged out noise which sends his blood south, and you take a slow, deliberate swig of the last of your drink. Your lips glisten with the amber liquid as they curl into a thin, impatient smile.
Under the intensity of your icy stare, he can’t help but squirm his ass up against the stool, trying to adjust so that the pinch of his swelling cock isn’t quite so harsh against the interior of his jeans.
Fuck, did it just get hotter in here?
Santi knows that your tongue is sharp enough to cut, but he imagines it’s soft enough to do other things too. He’s imagined that a lot too, even if he knows he shouldn’t have. Maybe because he knows he shouldn’t have.
Shit - a woman like you- that sounded corny as all hell. Maybe even offensive?
Santi gulps, and tosses a telltale helpless glance over to Frankie and Will who are currently rapt at the scene before them, instinctively scoping an exit route.
However, you seem very content to let Santi squirm for a while longer, your eyes openly appraising him this time. Oh boy. Santi enjoys attention, but it’s never burned under his skin like this. Never caused his brow to break out into a sweat. It’s only moments, less than seconds, but it feels like your eyes have been on him for an eternity, especially when your gaze becomes hooded and heavy, dropping briefly down to the subtly tenting arousal at his crotch, his pants becoming so tight they’re almost painful.
Then, there it is. That subtle hint of softness in your expression. Soft, like maybe you’d tell him he was a good boy while you sat on his face and rode him, those delicious pillowy lips flushed and-
Oh God, pants too tight. Holy shit, help.
He swallows a whine, but whether you are wise to Santi’s bulge or not you do not let on, your expression virtually unreadable.
Instead, you exhale a slow breath, delicious creases forming at the corners of your eyes as your gaze narrows in scepticism, your tone dropped and dark. “I suppose you’re about to tell me how different you are, soldier?”
Fuck, I’d do anything you asked me to.
Santi’s mouth is suddenly dry enough with nerves that for a moment even his hasty, masking sip of scotch seems refreshing, and he rolls it eagerly over his tongue.
“How exactly would you treat a… woman like me? Whatever that means.”
Fuck, this is awful and terrifying and… he’s having fun. Despite everything -the sweat sheening at his neck and chest and heating the cool dog tags nestled against his skin, and the fact he’s throbbing against the seam of his too tight jeans- Santi smiles at you, a cheeky, happy-go-lucky smile which inches slowly over his face.
It surprises you. And this time you can’t exactly hide it. It surprises you because he’s not defeated; not yet. And this only inspires Santi to prove it to you - that he can come out on top.
In his mind, he knows exactly how this is going to end, and it’s going to end well -very well- for the both of you.
He fleets his pink tongue along his lower lip and risks a glance at your mouth. At the swell of your chest beneath your uniform, and you don’t wipe him off the face of the earth for it either.
Look, Santi’s not an idiot. His darkly intelligent eyes promise that much, even as his smug smile screams dumbass. He’s confident and he knows he can back it up, but he also knows that despite his competency and his considerable promise, compared to you he’s still a little green. A little hot-headed. A little rough around the edges. A little too dependent on a wing and a prayer, unlike than the level, tactical head you display on and off the field which he so admires.
And you… you’re the picture of control, of command. He understands why you’ve risen to your position. He understands, in turn, that he will need to work hard to impress you.
But Santi is hard worker.
And so… even though the odds aren’t in his favour, he simply can’t seem to help himself.
Delusions of grandeur, Frankie calls it.
Will calls it pushing his luck.
Santi? Santi simply calls it flexing his talents.
After all, he’s charming and good-looking, and he’s learning he can often get away with things because of it.
And if he doesn’t get away with it? Well, he’d be intrigued to feel the full force of your command come down on him just as much, if he’s honest. In fact, at this point, with his whole body thrumming and tingling and blood pumping south, he feels like he’d take whatever pleasure or punishment you’d be willing to give him. Sure, he knows he can be a smug-fuck and at times it can get him into trouble, but increasingly, he wouldn’t be opposed to being in trouble with you.
With a new-found confidence, perhaps from the buzz of the scotch or the feel of his big dick warm in his pants, he arcs a thick, dark eyebrow as he considers your question, rasping a hand through his sprouting five ‘o’ clock shadow. He looks a little too pleased with himself about something - as per usual.
“I have some ideas about that, Ma’am,” he grins smugly, and even though you sigh, half roll your eyes, you subtly shift on your stool, angling your body further towards him.
You look at him properly for the first time. Deeply, your gaze as cutting as he knows your tongue can be. Sweeping over the entirety of him with an impenetrable expression -hooded eyes, pouty lips, his sheened tan chest and corded neck, his sturdy muscled thighs- and still… Still with that infuriating, sexy-as-hell smirk on your pillowy lips. God, he could swear you leave a subtle sting beneath his skin everywhere your eyes snag, his skin humming like the neon bar signs for your touch.
He only wants more of you, this meagre distance suddenly infuriating. The air ignited and the bar suddenly stifling. His clammy palm smoothing up and down his own denim-clad thigh because God; his body is calling out for your touch and in the absence of it he has to feel something. Has to feel something because his skin is singing for you.
He so desperately wants to return the favour and leave a sting along your thighs from his stubble, if you’d like that too. Wants to make your body sing. Wants to turn your hard seams soft and reveal your frayed edges. To kiss them.
You don’t look as undone as he is. You barely look interested -not yet- but damn he wants to impress you - is so eager to. Especially as he studies your hands wrapped around your glass and idly wonders what they are capable of.
He’s seen you. Seen you pin men bigger than him in the training suite and… fuck, he would not mind having the opportunity to writhe under you, that’s for certain.
Some condensation pools on the rim of your glass and you swipe it up with the pad of your finger, bringing it to your lips and laving it away with your supple pink tongue, which he knew very well was capable of softness.
You hum contemplatively again, that delicious, husky sound, and then you slowly skim your tongue along your lips, captivating him. Your voice is thick with seduction when it comes back. “I’ll bet you have some ideas, soldier, but I prefer things my way. Can you handle that?”
Santi could swear all of the air is stolen from the room suddenly, as you speak to him like that. As you reach forward and your warm hand settles over his briefly as you lift his relatively untouched scotch from him, taking a sizeable swig down the hatch before slamming it on to the bar top, offering him a deliciously slow-inching smile.
Fuck, he’s sure you know exactly what you’re doing to him, and you are beginning to look pretty pleased with yourself now too.
Good.
This? This, this spark, he can work with. That spark signals that you may just be willing to play.
After all, you haven’t eaten him alive and spat him out… yet…
Maybe there’ll be time for that later. Holy shit, he hopes so.
Santi takes a controlled breath. Tries to steady his pulsing blood and quickened heart. Runs through his options. He’s already faring far better than Will had, but he’s not about to let his guard down any time soon - he’s already close to out of his depth and he knows it. He has to work extra hard to push his voice out, the sounds strangled in his chest. “I can handle that,” he offers with a suggestive quirk of his brow, fluttering his pretty eyelashes and pouting his full lips into the bargain. He’s not opposed to using whatever assets he has in his arsenal if it can give him an advantage. He knows he has to bring the big guns where you are concerned.
You look him up and down again, and you seem to be considering something, your brows drawing together to convey yet more scepticism. “I’m not sure,” you contest. “It’s a little inelegant to make a pass at your C.O like this. For the sake of a quick buck, don’t you think?” Shit, your voice is like honey, your tone dropped just a little lower in your throat. You sound thrillingly seductive, but nevertheless, you execute it with a precision. You’re subtle - a skill Santi has yet to finesse even if he’s trying dammit.
Indeed, even though Santi is burning up under your scope, to everyone else in the bar the interaction is mundane - not drawing any attention at all, aside from the slack-jawed looks from his buddies the booth over. It appears, to all intents and purposes, as though you are having a casual, polite conversation with a fresh transfer, especially when considered against the comparative drama of your public rebuttal of Will. You and Santi could easily be talking shop. Discussing AKs or frags or the barrack cleaning rotas.
“I told you, Ma’am. I don’t care about that - the bet is a ruse,” Santi half-whispers, as if letting you in on a secret, taking the risk of leaning slightly closer. Not pushing you too far though - he takes pains not to be pushy, waits to be invited to make his move. Is careful not to fracture the bubble of personal space around you. Careful not to disrespect you. He would usually be far more bold -if the signals are right, if his participant is willing- but there’s something about you which has him rigid, in more ways than one. Has him not daring to make any move which you didn’t okay. “I’m playing a longer game than that,” he adds, injecting a measure of subtle flirtation -as far as he can manage subtle- into his tone.
Well, your expression gives nothing away.
Holy shit, you’re hard to read and truly, he has no idea how this is going.
Oh boy, he kinda likes that though, so help him. It’s a change of pace for him, honestly - usually so certain of the outcome of everything- and he can’t help but relish it.
He can’t read you and right now, this could go either way. He knows how one scenario ends - Will is testament to that side of the bargain, but God, his mind is awash with wondering how the other option might turn out. About the ways you might relieve him of the hardness in his pants. About how you might make it worse before it got better.
“Tell me, Garcia,” you ask, and he loves the sound of his name in your mouth like that. “Why did you participate, then? Do you get your rocks off from trying to make a fool of your C.O? Something to brag about on patrols?”
He swallows thickly, and he sees your eyes dip with it. You don’t miss anything. You likely aren’t missing a single sign. You’ve likely clocked his lust-blown pupils, the nervous sweat dampening his shirt. The need-laden bulge in his pants, and his hitching breaths.
But it’s going okay, right? It’s going not terrible?
At the very least you don’t seem to have an interest, so far, in writing him up for his juvenile games, which was always a risk. A warning for insubordination or something wouldn’t look great on his record. Your wrath and intolerance for that sort of behaviour is infamous - and fair enough too. Why would you want to be hassled by a gaggle of heart-eyed recruits, incessantly chasing you in the hopes you will throw them a bone? You must have picked-up on the gossip across base by now, right? Likely even tired of it. The consensus is that you’re hot and terrifying, and Santi, for what it’s worth, thinks the latter makes the former infinitely more true.
Of course, Santi believes that he’s different from your other hapless admirers; for some reason. That he is more than a nuisance. That he has a shot.
Christ. How does he make you see he’s worth your time? He’d usually have a line. He’d usually have his naturally tactile nature to fall back on. Hell, usually his face and a smile would be enough. But for you, none of that is going to cut it.
“I’m not interested any of that shit. Straight up. But I am interested in you. Figured it’s a good reason to talk to you without my buddies knowing what’s up, and you,” - he nods subtly towards the table full of your superiors - “you can easily brush this off as unwanted attention, if you wanna be discreet.”
You scoff, and you nip your lips in between your teeth, seemingly to stifle a full-blown laugh. And suddenly, Santiago feels… silly, a rare embarrassment heating his skin. Doubt begins to creep in, and he has to admit that the whole sentiment sounded a lot more suave in his head.
“How generous of you,” you intone sarcastically, “to go to such lengths to preserve my reputation.” Santi gulps nervously now, waiting for you to knock him back once and for all now, brutally -bracing against it- but perhaps you’ve tasted enough blood for tonight. Perhaps you take pity on him or something. So, you simply ask him a question, a challenge in your eyes. One which only makes his embarrassment deepen. Fuck, you have a way of getting so under his skin like no-one else. “Tell me, soldier. What makes you think this is anything other than unwanted attention?”
His mouth twitches wordlessly around… nothing.
No words.
No comeback.
Just a crooked flash of teeth, a contraction of his cheek, a jutting out of his shapely chin in some attempt to claw back a shred of authority.
Is it? Is this more than unwanted attention?
He mines the evidence in his head, and it suddenly feels… weak. Shit, lying in his bunk at night it had been so easy to build things up in his head. He could have sworn you looked at him in some kind of way during drills, for example. Didn’t you check out his ass one time? Didn’t you smile at him just a little more kindly than you did at the others? But now that all seems absurd. Imagined. Wishful thinking.
He could have sworn that he had some reason to believe you might like him that was based on more than his personal fantasy, right? But now he’s coming up empty.
His mouth feels so suddenly dry, and he feels a cold sweat prickle over the back of his neck as your intense, beautiful eyes needle him, waiting for his response, facing him down. He’s never felt this before outside of the field. Stuff like this doesn’t phase him; usually. Talking to people? Making connections? Getting what he wants? Who he wants? It comes naturally, doesn’t it? No training required.
Fuck, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but the strange thing is, that he’s not even mad you’re making it difficult.
It’s… kind of a thrill? It kind of makes him want to please you more? To work harder for you. The man enjoys a challenge, after all.
However, even so, he’s all too suddenly bottling it, all of his confidence crumbling.
Inside he is screaming give her a reason. Give her a reason to want you, for fuck’s sake, but all he can do right now, outside of the comfort and distortion of his daydreams and fantasies, is to worry that he is bothering you. To worry that his attention is unwanted. To worry that the attentions he’d imagined you’d been paying him were nothing more than misjudgements on his part.
That he, in fact, is just another of your fanboys. No different.
Yes, his confidence is waning, and it’s disconcerting because this never happens. He can charm his way out of a paper bag, but you’re making him… shy or some bullshit.
He’d just thought…
He’d thought he had a shot, but not even he can come up with a damn reason you might be interested in him.
You’re so…
So fucking perfect.
“No really,” you press. “I’m interested to hear your thoughts.” You cross your legs, folding your hands around your knee and looking slightly down your nose at him. “You came over here all confident, so you surely can back up the talk, huh, hotshot?” A pump of your eyebrows. “I mean, to me, you’re simply a plucky young buck who’s figured out he has a pretty face and, likely,” you nod briefly towards his crotch, “an average dick with a basic understanding of how to use it. So, I’m inviting you to tell me, what am I missing? Enlighten me, sweetheart. Why should I want your attention?”
Santi laughs nervously, his forearm bracing along the edge of the bar and his hand gripping the rail until he white knuckles. You drop your chin then, looking up at him sternly from beneath your lashes, but if Santi was looking -if he could bring himself to look at you right now- he’d see a subtle crease of amusement at the corner of your eyes, your expression not as harsh as it may first appear.
He sees it eventually, when he drags his gaze back up to you, showing that he’s not willing to be defeated yet. It’s almost like you’re rooting for him. Almost like you see some potential in him and want him to succeed. At least, that’s what he’d like to believe.
He wants to tell you why he’s worth your time. Wants to lead with some bravado about the things his tongue could do to you. About the way he could make you clamp down on his cock. But, Christ, the words are dying in his throat and he feels… he feels like he’s under a microscope. He feels tiny, like you could crush him under your boot.
God, he thinks he might like that too.
In the face of his silence, you let out a long, exasperated breath. A sigh that indicates that he’s wasting your time. That he can’t keep up with you. Your voice is patronising when it comes back to him. “Shame. I’m sure there are other women on base who are a little more your speed, soldier. Who may even have time for your games. I, however, am a busy woman.”
Jesus, this is it. You’re fobbing him off. It’s the end of the line. He watches you push your empty glass further towards the barman with the back of your hand and a thin smile, clearly preparing to leave.
But dammit, Santi needs you. And he thinks he could be good for you too. He could be really good for you.
Let me be good for you.
So, if you don’t want games? Fine. Santi will cut straight to the chase.
In fact, he looks at you, and he suddenly feels like everything is very straightforward indeed. In fact, he feels like pushing his luck just a little further.
So, he stands. He takes a rousing swig and empties his scotch, but this time he finds it invigorating, just like you are. This time, his cockiness is back. This time, you watch it glisten on his lips and your mouth parts slightly, a breathy sound slipping out. He thinks about how he could shove the taste of it over your tongue with his, if you wanted that, and he smiles knowingly at the thought that you might like that, actually, given the way your teeth ever so briefly dig into the pillow of your lip.
“I don’t know,” he says with regained confidence, his eyes sparking with a gentle heat and not down-trodden yet. “There are other women on base but they can’t touch you. You’re beautiful as hell. Most interesting woman I’ve met. Terrifying but…” his mouth lilts into a disarming smile “…I like that. So, why should you want my attention? You shouldn’t. I know you damn sure don’t need it, but, holy shit, you have it. I know I’m still a young buck, with ideas above my station, but I give everything I’ve got, and I’ve got a lot to give. So, Ma’am, it’s your choice. It always was. I know there’s no game I’m gonna win with you. But, if you feel like giving me some attention I don’t think you’ll regret it. If you don’t, then I’m sorry to have bothered you, and I won’t bother you again.”
Santi nods then. Indicating he is done. You blink a few times, nostrils flaring slightly and the pads of your fingers snaking in a self-soothing gesture down your hot throat, as though the earnest nature of his flattery has taken you by surprise. Maybe even got you hot under the collar, a little.
You stand then, perhaps feeling the need to reassert your own authority, and the reminder that you’re a little taller than him makes Santi’s pants tighten again, so help him.
But, as you look at him with a gentle heat brewing in your eyes, he suddenly doesn’t feel silly.
Instead, he feels like he’s given a decent showing of himself. And, he feels like for once, he’s not obsessed with coming out on top. Not concerned with playing games.
“Santiago,” you purr softly as he dips his head and prepares to retreat from you, in a weighty tone which sinks all the way to his core - makes his dick full and heavy, and he looks up at you then, as though you’re about to give him an order, his whole body standing to attention out of habit. His eyes big and pretty as he looks up at you from beneath his long lashes. “Get your jacket, tell your buddies you struck out, and then go to my office.”
Santi’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, questioningly, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly around a hundred questions which come out only as stuttered syllables. “Wh- Y- d- Ah.”
You raise a mildly suggestive eyebrow, and it’s beautifully subtle, the way you dip your mouth ever so slightly closer towards the shell of his ear. “Forgotten how to follow orders, soldier?
Stupefied, he shakes his head until your lips quirk into an amused, self-satisfied smile. Then, you sweep out, without looking back.
Hell. Santi doesn’t know what this all means, but holy shit he wants to find out.
And so, willing his cock to soften enough that he can make it over to the booth, he gives you a head start before slinking back over to his buddies, hanging his head low as though in defeat.
“You crashed out, huh?” Will says bluntly, he and Frankie seemingly much more beer-merry than when he was last at the table.
“Yeah, fucking brutal. Look, gentlemen,” he says, gathering up his jacket and cap from the seat and giving Frankie a rousing pat on the shoulder. “I’m done, gonna call it a night, okay?”
He rasps a hand over his stubble, nodding decidedly at the men and barely waiting for their answer.
Will snorts. “Leaving with your tail between your legs, huh?”
“Shit, you okay man?” Frankie commiserates, words slurring together slightly.
“Yeah. Yeah. My ego is bruised, hermano,” Santi says efficiently but with little feeling, his legs already carrying towards the door and his thoughts already elsewhere. “See you in the AM?”
“Take it easy,” Frankie waves, about two seconds behind everything in his beer-addled state. Then, he turns to Will to see what he makes of it all.
Slowly, over a stunted series of moments, the smile drops from Will’s face, a deep frown taking its place. “Fuck,” he says, slapping a hand to Frankie’s shoulder. “Fuck, I bet he gets laid.”
Frankie’s eyes bug, followed by a slow blink as he contemplates his buddy. “No wayyyyy?”
Will just nods slowly.
“Fuck,” Frankie says, his voice extra gruff. “The little shit. I bet he does as well.”
THE END
Thanks so much for reading!
If you enjoyed this I’d be over the moon if you let me know! 😁 Comments, asks, and reblogs are always received with endless gratitude! 🧡
I have loads more Santi / Triple Frontier / Oscar + Pedro character stories. You can find all my masterlists in my pinned post. (Also my ko-fi link is there too in case you’d like to fuel me with caffeine through the long writing sessions!)
If you enjoyed this story and want more where Santi pulls against the odds, you might enjoy Gone(r) in 60 seconds; or Ride or Die!
Thank you! ☺️🙏🧡
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The MC Accidentally Kisses the Brothers
Due to incredibly popular demand (and because it’s a cute prompt).
Lucifer
It was just a childish prank, but pretty much all of Satan’s pranks were childish at their core (even the more homicidal ones).
This one wasn’t even that bad in the grand scheme of things. The angry boi was just trying to see if he could get Lucifer to fall down the stairs...
...admittedly, saying it out loud makes it sound much more cruel than intended. But this is Lucifer we’re talking about. A tumble down a flight or two wouldn’t leave him too injured… Unfortunately for Satan, he wasn’t the only one who took a tumbling.
The plan was pretty simple, put an enchantment on the stairs to the Conference Hall, lay in wait, and trigger it right as Lucifer was leaving a meeting. He’s always the last to go, so it should have been foolproof.
But the MC hung back to leave with Lucifer that day and just so happened to jump forward right as Satan was timing his step… getting themselves thrown down along with him.
Fortunately for them both, the firstborn’s reflexes were astounding. He was already holding the MC in his demon form and cushioning their fall before they could even hit the first stair. And it was quite a long way down…
By the time they hit the bottom, Lucifer had them fully wrapped up in his wings and Satan couldn’t what had happened until they unfolded… whereupon he saw the MC laying on top of Lucifer with their lips far FAR too close together for his liking…
Yeah, that backfired pretty hard and Satan was left fuming over it for days… Not that Lucifer minded in the slightest.
Mammon
Sometimes when Mammon does his photoshoots he brings the MC along as one part cheerleader, one part pit crew. It’ll be their job to hold onto his stuff, make sure he has enough to drink, and generally stand there and be impressed by his awesomeness until they leave.
Well that day things had been going well… until a particularly nosy worker started hovering around the MC too much for Mammon’s liking.
He tried to put it past him, since he had a shoot to do and all, but he snapped about halfway through when the guy kept trying to force a conversation with the very not interested MC.
Oh, he was ready to tell him off. He made the photographer stop mid-shoot just so he could march over there himself and give that asshole a piece of his mind! He was going to absolutely tear him to shreds and then-!!
Okay, that didn’t exactly happen because right as he got up to the MC, ready to start shouting, our lovable moron tripped… again…
But unlike the first time, where he more or less face-planted the floor, this time he smacked lips first into a surprised MC in front of the jerk he was trying to scare off.
… Yeah. He meant to do that.
And that’s exactly how he played it off, keeping his lips right where they were and flipping the other guy off so he’d leave them alone (which, thankfully, he did).
Totally what he intended to do and he'll swear so to this day.
Leviathan
… how in the world do you mess up the Kabedon?
Levi had seen the move done hundreds of times before in anime. It’s a very simple concept: put someone up against a wall, put one of your hands by their head, and just lean. That’s it. Not rocket science.
Levi had been mentally preparing himself for this moment for days… He may or may not have even practiced this (very simple) move in his room countless times. He genuinely thought he was ready to try it on the MC.
So, on one of those rare days he went to RAD, he gave it a shot. He waited until he and the MC were walking alone together, got them up against the wall, annnnd…
...rather than touching the wall next to them, his hand completely missed any sort of hard surface because in his panic he stopped them right next to a blind corner…
Naturally, his body fell forward some but since there wasn’t that much space between them by that point he uh… he… well he now knows their preferred Chapstick.
No matter what the MC’s reaction ultimately was, he leapt away from them like he just licked an electric fence and bolted.
His embarrassment genuinely cannot be overstated... He practically broke a window in his attempt to get the hell out of there and back to his room, where he didn’t leave for three days straight… Poor Levi...
Satan
It started out as easily one of the best days of his life.
The MC, the exchange students, and the Royal Court had all decided to surprise him on his birthday with a Devildom-style cat cafe… Kitties were on practically every surface around him!
Admittedly, Satan had been pretty distracted throughout most of his time there. There were just so many kitties for him to see that he sort of forgot about the MC in the process…
So in order to get his attention a little, the MC thought it would be cute to pick up one of the furry bundles and hold it in front of their face, doing that little thing where you pretended to “talk” for the cat and even waved one of its little paws at him.
They hadn’t predicted that Satan would find the display utterly, heart-meltingly adorable...
He attempted to plant a kiss on top of the furry critter’s head at the exact time that the MC brought the cat down their face entirely.
It took Satan a second or two to register that his lips were not, in fact, on a cat. And when he pulled back to see the MC’s shocked expression, the full gravity of his actions smacked him in the face like a falling log…
Cue a flustered rush to apologize while the MC hid their face back behind the confused kitty… Getting an accidental kiss in front of the prince of Hell and literal angels was pretty dang embarrassing...
At least the incident was taken in good spirits by most of the people in attendance (minus Luke, who was desperately trying to give MC his bottle of holy water like it was pepper spray by that point).
Though after that point, Satan noticed that his “guests” kept passive-aggressively giving him cats until he was literally so buried in fluff he could barely move… probably not related, though. Probably.
Asmodeus
It was another party night with Asmo and the MC at the Fall having a good time.
Now, Asmo was no stranger to Demonus and other assorted demonic beverages. You could say his tolerance is decent enough, but get a few too many in him and he does start to get a little off…
And a drunk Asmo is a very troublesome Asmo.
The MC, bless their heart, was pretty much playing the sober babysitter to their demon friend when Asmo decided that he HAD to leave the club and get cupcakes right then. Being the good person they were, MC agreed to go with him, as long as he promised to stay with them and not wander off…
But they somehow managed to lose him within three blocks from the club. All they did was check their phone for directions and the guy bailed!!
Little did the MC know, while they were frantically searching for him Asmo hadn’t run away completely… He had just decided it was a great idea to play hide-and-seek at 2am and hid behind a nearby building.
It was his drunken giggling that eventually gave away his position, but he jumped out from behind the corner right as the MC was rounding it. Naturally, they both to collided. If hugging hadn’t been an instinctual action to Asmo by they point, they would have fallen down…
All they did ended up doing instead was getting caught in lip-lock due to Asmo’s sudden vice-grip.
Apparently he laughed and laughed all the way back to the House but his memory of it is pretty hazy… He’ll just have to get the MC to reenact it with him a few dozen times, that ought to jog his memory!
Beelzebub
The MC was helping Beel out with his workout yet again and things had been going well.
Since Beel is pretty much a one-man army, his weights and routine are usually waaay too advanced for any human to be able to handle. So the MC is less his spotter and more a casual supporter/motivator than anything else.
And motivation was just what they were trying to provide with a fun little experiment of theirs…
Ever heard of the “carrot-on-the-stick”? Well they decided to try something like that… literally. Just replace the carrot with a roast ham!
They put ham on a fishing pole, set Beel up on a treadmill, and dangled it closer or farther away based on his speed. In theory, it wasn’t the worst idea in the world... but in practice…?
Well. Someone should have told them not to stand in front of him during this little trial...
Their motivation experiment did work for a few minutes… But soon enough Beel’s stomach got the better of his (marginal) self-control. They just weren’t expecting him to leap over the top of the treadmill...!
The smart thing to do would have been to drop the fishing pole or to just keep it still so Beel could grab the meat, but the MC reflexively drew the pole back behind them… thus putting them right in Beel’s path instead.
And that’s how they ended up caged under lord knows how many pounds of Beelzebub, thankfully kissing their lips rather than trying to chew them off…
Needless to say, Beel climbed off of them, red as a cherry, and the MC let him have that ham before the two agreed to never try this again. Whoopsie!
Belphegor
Belphie likes sleep.
Belphie likes cuddles.
Belphie likes cuddling in his sleep.
Really this was bound to happen eventually…
The MC and Belphie were having a nice nap together in the attic and there wasn’t anything nefarious about it. Just two people snuggled up together in the same bed.
...snuggled up very close together in the same bed.
So close, in fact, that when the MC finally woke up and rolled over some to reposition themselves, they felt the soft lips of their companion brush up against their own.
They, of course, had the appropriate reaction of shock and embarrassment to this… but this cheeky fucker just smirked at them and let one eye slip open.
“What…? Is that it? It’ll take more than that to wake me up…”
Never mind the fact he was awake the whole time...
He really should have expected that pillow to the head, but after they struck the first blow, it was on now.
Don't worry. As it would turn out, an impromptu pillow fight also wakes him up just fine. Who'd have guessed?
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Dream Baby Dream
A/N: So Charlie’s latest movie, Jungleland, is an ABSOLUTE MUST-SEE!! It’s so fucking lovely 🥺😭🥰 Whether you’ve seen it or not, I hope you’ll enjoy this little one shot, based on the below request that I got! It’s all kinds of angsty and smutty and fluffy. (Title is a reference to the Springsteen song played at the end of the movie!) **This fic is SPOILER-FREE**
Pairing: Stanley Kaminski x F!Reader
Warnings: smut, swearing, reader gets pregnant, gifs of Charlie in his underpants 😋
Request: This lovely request (p.2) for pregnancy/smut with Charlie’s character from Jungleland!
Word Count: ~3.1k
Important Note: The first line of this fic is a line Stanley says in the movie (scene shown in the gif above and in this gifset) – yes, loves, an actual quote. So if you’ve not yet seen this film but are a fan of Charlie Hunnam, I promise you this scene is reason enough, to watch if only just to hear those words from him... 🤤
***************
“I like the way they make my dick look.”
... Is he serious? Yes, definitely is. One drink was all it took, for you to know. He walks and talks like someone straight out of an old forgotten book or an obscure off-Broadway show. As if his whole life is imagined, yet for him the fiction feels so fucking real that it’s the only thing he’ll ever understand.
“I like the way they make my dick look”? What the fuck? You’d just paid him a half-joking compliment on his ridiculous sweatpants. But this is a man who takes jokes for the truths they expose. Mama always told you to avoid men like this—cons and crooks—men who crush their own hearts in their fists, steal their strength from the shadows, to run from their weakness. She knows best, and knows that you can’t. Knows that you turn to dust in their hands. But she’s not here to witness.
No, nobody is.
You take another shot, tossing away what little self-restraint you’ve got. “Dare you to tell me just how many times you’ve used that line.”
The fucker flashes you a smile. Cheeky smirk, the only kind that suits his style. Cheap as dirt. Just like his stupid ugly shirt. “Hey, if I had a dime...”
Rolling your eyes, you suck the sour from a slice of lime. Can’t seem to chase away your thirst. “How many times did that shit work?”
“Well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first...” he whispers, leaning close to take the lime in his own fingers, squeezing it without reason till every little pulp ruptures and bursts. “Wanna fuck you so hard it hurts.”
***************
Is it the best sex that you’ve had? Hell fucking no—not even close. It’s pretty bad. Probably the worst.
It’s almost gross. Feels like you’re stuck in a low-budget porno. Just a mess of theatrical thrusts. Heated groans, grating deep in his throat. Grabby hands. Somehow you know that he could fuck you so much better, though, if only he stopped trying to put on some kind of show. You doubt he even knows he can.
“Ugh, just—” you grit your teeth against each thrust. “What are you even doing, Stan...”
He groans out loud again. “Screwing you like a fucking man.”
That tasteless statement almost makes you want to laugh, but you bite back the urge. “No, that’s not how it works,” you mutter as his hips spastically jerk, massive dick splitting you in half. “You can’t—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he rasps, ravaging your ass with a rough series of slaps. Pulling your hair, making you arch your back, wrapping one hand around your neck until you choke. The sex is so damn close to being epic if this man would just stop acting like a joke. Like, really close, which honestly doesn’t seem fair. “You’re not supposed to talk when you’re taking my cock. Supposed to be too drunk to care.”
Oh God—he’s even dumber than you thought. He should’ve counted that you’d only had a couple shots. “Yeah, well, I’m not.”
“As fucking if,” he huffs, taking the hint that you’ve had quite enough. Reluctantly rolls off. Finally stops fucking you over. And that’s when you realize you miss it, although it feels strange to admit. He turns aside, tucking himself in tight under the covers like some kind of scorned lover. Spurned and burned so many times it makes him sick. “That’s bullshit and we both know it. Sober, a girl like you wouldn’t have touched me with a ten-foot stick.”
That gives you pause and breaks your heart a little bit. How is this man already getting at your heart, damn it? Mama would say he’s creeping in there with his crooked claws and all that shit. You can’t let yourself fall for his theatrics. Is that even what this is? Somehow, you sense the weight of more than just his body on the mattress; your heart feels heavy now, but not nearly as heavy as his.
“A girl like me? Seriously, what does that even mean?” you ask, reaching to run your hand across the faded scars and bruises on his back. Noticing how he flinches as if your soft touch is a savage attack. No doubt he wishes that you hadn’t seen. No wonder somebody so damaged really thought you wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot stick. “Stanley, you are honest to God hot. And plus you’ve got an almost-ten-inch dick.”
He reacts with a snort, and a shake of his head. Scooting out of the bed, shrugging into his hideous shirt. All the scars on his back and his heart safely hidden inside it. “Doesn’t matter if it’s big. Apparently I can’t use it for shit.”
Without bothering to put pants back on, he settles on the couch across the room. You move to follow him, unable to resist when he looks so cute sitting there. Raking your fingers through his ruffled golden hair. “That’s not a problem we can’t fix—come back to bed with that big dick. You just have to get out of your head. Just a bit.”
That’s a notion he’s quick to dismiss, though you notice he’s no longer flinching away from your touch—which means something, you’d bet. It must. Nevertheless, Stanley snickers at what you said, struggling to keep his facade firmly set. “Out of my head? Bitch, I live in it.”
You don’t doubt it. Just want him to try stepping out of it. “Just for a minute.”
Lucid blue eyes look up at you now like you’re seeking to push him past some lifelong limit.
“Damn, what’s it like in there...?” you wonder aloud as you comb through his hair. He’s a poem, a portrait of someone who doesn’t believe he’s a man. Soul has never known any true home. Heart has been locked away for so long that he thought it could never be freed. Head full of dreams, broken and bursting at the seams. His silence fucking screams. “What do you really want, Stan? Really need?”
And you can tell he’s scared, to dare believe you really care. “...Nobody ever asked.”
There’s a whole world behind his words. Woefully true. Yet a whole other world now opens up before the two of you, with yours. “Well, then I’m glad to be the first.”
Of course you asked. Of fucking course. You barely even know him now, but can already tell somehow... you want to love this man so hard it hurts. Truly glad that you were the first. Already want to be the last.
***************
Fucking months have gone by in the blink of an eye. And already you love him so much you could die.
He’s never fucked someone who ever gave a shit about him, so he gets a rush from knowing that you cannot live without him. And the feeling goes both ways, needless to say. He’s always looking at you like his first glimpse of the sacred light of day. And always seems afraid you’ll run away, no matter how wholeheartedly you reassure him that you’re here to stay. That he should never doubt it.
Still he’s just crippled with this unshakeable fear of fucking up and everything falling to shit, just as it always did. Of losing love now that he’s finally fucking found it. Stanley’s past is a ripple effect of the failures and losses that constantly kept him desperate and dishonest, and it’s fucking haunted. Can’t help but dread the day it’ll rear its monstrous head and make him pay for ever dreaming he could have the kind of life he’s always wanted.
The most that you can do is hold him close and fuck the pain away, and love him more than words can say. His dreams are beautiful, you tell him. They deserve to see the light of day. With you he never has to act like he’s some character straight off the page; he doesn’t have to be afraid to feel. To fear that all the demons in his soul are real, and full of rage, and fierce enough to kill him. ‘Cause now you’re finally here to hold him and to heal him.
All of his dreams once revolved around his intense bond with his brother. For so long, his heart never had room for another. He tells you often about Walter. The fighter. ‘Lion’ as it were. The whole life that they lived for no one but each other, till one day the champion boxer abandoned his gloves to vow love at the altar.
And Stanley is happy, that Lion has found a new family. A new life as boundless and bright as the sky. Such love as an overbearing older brother could never provide. Though Stan knows that the door’s always open for him, to be part of that family and part of that life... he won’t take Lion up on the invite. Tells himself that the home that his brother has built is too precious for someone so poisoned to set foot inside.
You fuck the poison and the pain out of his veins a little bit more every night. But you know it’s a big fight; you won’t try to push it or rush it. Just guide him and stay beside him as the shadow slowly turns to light.
So what’s left to dream now? Somehow your lover tells you his deepest secrets and desires without ever breathing a damn word aloud. Like the fire’s so fragile a whisper could blow it right out.
Tells you and shows you through passionate, powerful kisses, devouring you with the heat of his mouth. Through the touch of his tough calloused hands on your skin, softly treasuring every last inch, devoting his whole broken heart to the moment in such breathless silence... then driving inside you with vigor and violence, the lion inside him awoken and roaring out loud. Slow and gentle again, at the end. Once you’re both well and truly fucked out. The soft look on his face and his tender embrace expressing just how grateful he is that you taught him to fuck, and to love, without playing pretend.
Is it the best sex of your life? Hell fucking yes. Without a doubt. Every damn day, every damn night. Far and away the fucking best. The kind of sex starry-eyed poets strive and fail to write about.
Stanley Kaminski is a living, breathing, tragic, magic little poem. But he is also very real, thanks to the love that you’ve allowed his heart to feel. Beating so beautifully now that it’s finally healed. And he’s become your fucking home.
***************
“Babe, you up?”
You weren’t until he spoke. The sun is only barely just; as he so often does, Stan beat the day before it broke. But you don’t mind being awoken by the man you’ll always love. More so than ever now because... you have some news to share today, bound to blow him the fuck away. In the best way, you hope. And trust.
“Mm-hmm,” you hum, shifting in bed, lifting your head to see him seated by the window far across the room. Gaze lingering upon his gorgeous features gilded by the glow of dawn. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing at all, for once, he wordlessly responds. Smiles at you before he glances back outside, watching the sun begin to rise, as if its light promises everything he wants.
“Today’s gonna be good, baby,” he states, blue gaze so wild and bright he looks a little crazy. “I mean, I can see it. I can see our future when I close my eyes.”
It’s almost like he knows what’s coming, in the next moment. Maybe he does? Your souls are intertwined so close you wouldn’t really be surprised. “Well, looks to me like they’re wide open. Why you even gotta close ‘em?” you reply, stretching your arms out with a peaceful sigh. All set to break the news you would’ve shared with him last night, if only he hadn’t come home and fucked you so epically hard that you just went out like a light. “Stanley, I...”
“Shouldn’t have woken you up, actually,” he interrupts, somewhat unnaturally. Crosses the room toward the bed, to hold your head up, kiss you slow and deep. Then turns to leave. “Love you—sorry. Go back to sleep.”
You pause and blink your bleary eyes. “What? Why...?”
“...‘cause it’s a special day and I’m cooking up a surprise.”
Although that’s super cute... you don’t exactly like the thought of Stanley making food, to tell the truth. You almost puked, first time he tried. He has a lot of skills and virtues, but his cooking isn’t one of them, unfortunately. “Babe, I told you there’s no need to make a big deal of our second anniversary...”
“Yeah, but why’s that for you to decide?” he playfully retorts as he heads out the bedroom door. Shouting back at you down the hallway as he hastens away. “Besides, you’re gonna need something to build your strength up after getting fucked so good and hard last night. Stay put and don’t even try sneaking into the kitchen, alright?”
“Fine,” you sigh, figuring that you might as well listen. No harm letting your man do his thing in the kitchen. You just hope that he won’t be offended if you can’t hold down what he’s serving... especially now that your body’s especially prone to hurling, for reasons that he just unwittingly stopped you from sharing with him.
You can picture him trying to cook, looking so adorably domestic as fuck. So damn cute it hurts. Standing there over the counter in his fugly turtleneck shirt, glancing up every few seconds, just to make sure his girl doesn’t walk in on him while he’s busy at work.
Absentmindedly scratching at his lower back with his wandering fingers, as he shuffles over the cracked tile floor in his raggedy slippers. The ones that he stole from some random hotel years ago. Why he chooses to wear a long-sleeved shirt and slippers, when he can’t be bothered to put on a damn pair of knickers, even in the middle of winter... you don’t even know. It’s such a fucking Stanley thing to do, though.
You can picture the low-hanging hem of his shirt getting stuck in the top of his briefs as he scratches his back. While he just carries on with his business, oblivious, focused on whipping up some sad excuse for a breakfast that will most likely make you gag. Your man can’t cook for crap, and you’re certain that he’s well aware of that fact. So what gives? Where’s he going with this...? You wonder as you wait in bed, enamored with the image of him in your head.
GIFs by uuuhshiny
When he finally returns to the bedroom he’s holding a steaming white mug in his hand, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from grinning like a madman, for reasons that you can’t even begin to understand.
“Okay, listen, Y/N—before you say anything...”
You can already smell the unholy concoction he’s got in his cup, and you’re struggling so hard not to throw the fuck up. “Stan, is that what I think—”
“Hear me out,” he begs, squatting down next to the bed. For some reason he looks all at once shy and proud. “I want you to remember our first time together. The morning after.”
You nervously swallow and nod your head. He can’t really expect you to put that ‘breakfast’ in your mouth—doesn’t he know you’ll spit it right out? You just try to focus on the heartwarming words he just said. “Babe, you know I won’t ever forget. But is that...”
“Yes, it is. Kaminski’s specialty hot shit. The mess I used to make for Lion every day for breakfast. The only family that I ever had, until the day we met.”
You pause at that; is it just a coincidence now that he’s talking about you as family? Surely he knows somehow, what you’re about to tell him now. You want to just tell him already, so badly. “Stanley...”
“Just let me say this. Please,” he murmurs, shifting where he’s squatting on the floor, repositioning his knees. “Tonight I was thinking of taking you out to some nice swanky place I can’t even afford... would’ve tipped the waiter off to drop a little something in the fancy French champagne we ordered...”
Your heart stops as it hangs on his words. Why is he suddenly... down on one knee...
“But I thought maybe this would mean a little more,” he continues. “Baby, I cooked this for you, the first morning I ever woke to the most beautiful view... because a part of me already knew. I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted anything before. I was already fucking yours. I never would’ve made this crap for anyone but family—that shit’s sacred to me. And now I know, deep down, that’s what I always wanted you to be.”
“Stanley...”
“You had to dig through so much shit, inside of me, and stole my fucking heart right out of it. Still can’t believe you did. Still can’t believe you think I’m worth it. Scared I’ll wake up any second just to see that this was all some crazy dream.”
Your heart is bursting at the seams. “Believe it, baby. You’re worth everything to me. I’ll dig through all that shit again, if it means being with you in the end.”
He holds the cup out toward you like the treasure that it is. “That’s what it means. That’s what I’m asking you with this. Dig, baby, dig.”
You love this man so much more than you can believe. So much for him thinking that you would never touch him with a ten-foot stick.
Your hand dives straight into the mess to find the ring and scream out yes. Stan smiles and wipes the excess stuff off on his sleeve, then slides it carefully onto your finger as you shower him with kisses. Honestly couldn’t be happier right now that someone else is here to witness.
And he needs to know it, right this fucking minute.
After he takes your newly bejeweled hand in his, blessing it with a kiss... you take his hand in yours and press it onto the surprise that you’ve been harboring inside. Your secret little Stanley. “So... you know I had something to tell you as well, right? I’m not the only one who’s so happy about this. Happy to be part of your family.”
His eyes go wide, the brightest light you’ve ever seen. “Y/N...! Y/N, does—does this mean...”
You answer with a smile as big as his, and seal the promise with a kiss. “Dream, baby, dream.”
***************
Hope you enjoyed this!! Would love to hear if you did! 🤗💖
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other people suck
Summary: You’re tired of socialising, all you want to do is go home and eat your pizza. Bucky fluff ensues.
Warnings: none except for the fact that no one asked for this shit but i couldn’t sleep so here we all are again.
Fuck these shoes. You could feel the blister that had announced itself earlier in the night throbbing with every step. Admittedly, deciding to walk back to the tower might not have been the best idea, but the thought of having to endure some small talk (that you would initiate, because you couldn't help yourself) the entire car ride home made you want to fling yourself off the nearest building.
It was all Tony's fault. Every now and then, Tony would decide to throw a party because "we've all had a rough go of it lately" and "it'll be good for team morale". This is usually fine, you show up, mingle for half an hour, and then go up to bed. But this time, some fucker (Clint) suggested that the party be held outside the tower, so Tony looked at some options, bought three of them, and then sent out digital invitations that claimed that this was technically a team building exercise and not showing up meant that you were letting down the team. Somewhere between Thor smashing his third glass and Steve challenging Bruce to an arm wrestle you decided you were okay with letting down the team.
So there you were, a few blocks from home, your phone clutched in one hand, a greasy pizza box balanced precariously on the other, waitress-style, willing yourself to push through the pain. A pleasant breeze played with the skirt of your dress as you walked, and it was a welcome distraction from the small voice in the back of your mind suggesting that you drop everything to take a look at how gross the blister really was so that you could rate it on a scale of "not bad" to "amputate the whole thing".
When you finally reached the tower, you kicked off your shoes and tucked them under your arm, relishing the feeling of the cold tile underneath your bare feet. You thought about going straight to your room but decided on one of the lounges instead. Everyone was gone anyway, and the TV in there was great. When the elevator doors opened, you found the TV blaring, the light from it was the only illumination in the room.
"Hey, doll." The voice made you jump, and one of your shoes slipped, causing them both to fall to the ground.
"Jesus Christ, Bucky!"
His laugh was sweet, cheeky but not unkind as he asked FRIDAY to turn on the lights and made his way over to you.
"You alright?" He asked, the hint of a crease forming between his brows as he searched your face.
"Yeah, I'm always alright," you replied, bending to pick up the shoes that had fallen, and then cursing when you dropped your phone. Your head was throbbing and you missed the cool breeze you had walked home in.
He laughed again and picked it up before following you to the small kitchen off of the main room.
"Can't believe you brought me dinner, doll," he said, "I'm flattered."
"You wish," you replied, dropping your shoes purposely this time, and sliding the box you had placed on the counter further away from him.
"I do" he nodded, a hand to his chest. His stomach grumbled and you laughed at the impeccable timing.
"Help me find a bandaid? I've gotta put something on this festering wound of mine," you said dramatically as you opened cabinets and drawers.
He moved into the kitchen and pulled a box of bandaids out of small first aid kit sitting on a shelf in plain sight and you sighed, rolling your eyes at yourself for missing it.
"Let me help," he said, having watched you try to apply the bandaid and lose your balance, twice, reaching out for him to steady yourself against the second time.
You had barely nodded before you felt a hand on either side of your waist and Bucky had hoisted you up onto the counter.
"So doc, you think we should cut it off?" you asked, having examined the swollen mess and prodded it to your satisfaction, wincing every time. You swung your legs as he removed the white tabs covering the sticky brown latex.
"Definitely," he replied, his hair falling into his face as he bent down, stilling your leg with his metal hand. "There's no saving it."
You closed one eye and scrunched your nose as the bandaid came over the blister, and Bucky squeezed your calf in response as he straightened back up again.
"All done," he announced, moving to dispose of the small strips of waste.
“Thanks, Buck." You shuffled to the edge of the counter to prepare yourself to jump off but he was back at your side.
"I don't think so," he said, placing your arms around his neck and sliding an arm beneath your knees to lift you.
"Bucky, I can walk!" you huffed. He ignored your protests and carried you over to the sofa, dumping you on it before returning to the kitchen.
"Oh I know," he replied, throwing himself onto the sofa beside you, pizza box in hand. "That's exactly what I was worried about, sweetheart, can't have you running off on me now."
"Sweet- stop trying to butter me up, Bucky, the pizza is mine," you practically squawked.
"Give up, doll," he chuckled as he opened the box and took out a slice, handing it to you, before grabbing one for himself.
"Fine," you said around a mouth full of cheese, waving the slice in your hand for emphasis. "But you're getting the next one and I get to pick the toppings."
"It's a deal," he agreed, his own mouth full.
"And bring this closer," you grumbled in defeat, grabbing for the box.
"Stop fussing," he tsked, smacking at your hand. He rearranges the both of you, pulling you against his side with one arm, and you let him, leaning into his warmth, the pizza box now sitting in your lap. "Happy?"
You hummed around a new mouthful of pizza, and he picked up the remote control, searching for a new movie to replace the one he was watching when you arrived.
"You weren't at the party," you said, as the twentieth century fox logo fanfares its way onto the screen.
"Nah," Bucky said.
"Not worried about letting everyone down with your lack of team building?" you asked, using your free hand to make quotation marks.
"What are you talking about? I'm doing plenty of team building right here," Bucky quipped, and you laughed.
"Why'd you come home so early, anyway?"
"I dunno," you sighed, taking a bite and chewing as you thought. "I love everyone, and I'd die for them, you know that, but sometimes it's just like..."
"Other people suck?" Bucky offered, reaching around you for another slice, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, grateful for his understanding.
"Other people suck," you repeated, shifting against him and turning your attention to the TV.
*
When you woke up you were in your bed, a blanket tucked around you. You reached for your phone on your bedside table, squinting as your eyes adjusted to the light, and groaning at the notifications that lined your screen.
You opened a message from Steve - Tony agrees this still counts as team building and won't ride you about it later, which, as we all know, means that he absolutely will. Accompanying the text was a blurry photo of you and Bucky on the sofa, both asleep, your face on his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head and his arm thrown over you loosely. The pizza box lay discarded on the floor. Another unread message, from Bucky: Don't worry, doll. I haven’t forgotten, next pizza's on me.
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Lucky Kentucky ch. 1
Chapter 2
Hello there, this is my new Rockstar!Bucky x Reader fic. It was heavily inspired by my love of seventies mega rockstars, Almost Famous, Classic Rock, and a little bit of personal whimsy. I hope you enjoy, and read responsibly.
⚠️ WARNING ⚠️ : cussing, sexy times, drugs, booze, smoking, objectification, fornication, liberation, and a litany of other sordid topics and traumas.
Your name didn’t matter, at least not so far as you could tell. They called you Kentucky, sometimes if they felt cheeky, Bluegrass. You liked it, the first band that gave you that name was some shitty college band out of Detroit. They were convinced they were gonna be the next Led Zepplin. They called it quits three years later, a good old fashioned Rock n’ Roll suicide, booze, women, and drugs. The finer things always gets the best amateurs. However, their lead singer had a way with words, he came up with the nickname. He also wrote a beautiful song about a girl named Kentucky, who he just couldn’t swing, some big named country superstar sang the song and the last you’d heard he had been writing for the best of the best since. This earned you your title, Lucky Kentucky. A bit on the nose for your taste, but it made perfect sense. You kept following the music, you went to a band in L.A., the day you left, they signed a record deal with Sony. The next was a little English girl and her backing band, her first tour of England with you landed her a tour of the US faster than they could say ‘Burbon.’
You are what is known in the music business as a road manager, so far as you could tell, this was the job you were born to do. You made schedules, you supplied booze and other artifacts, you got hotels, paid off paparazzi, packed busses, and shoved half out of their mind rock stars on to stages in more countries than you could count, you couldn’t imagine any better life. You were the best of the best, you were who the record company called when everyone else had given up. You were a fixer, and an incredibly talented one at that. You had a gift for taking a mediocre side show band, and turning them into headliners.
So when you got the call from Tony and Pepper that you had to fix The Howling Comandos, you were shocked. They were big time, nothing like your usual fixer upper opener that you could make insta stars. They certainly weren’t your crowd, but you always had a problem saying no to Pepper, Tony’s company manager. Tony was a talented mixer, and a gifted album technician. So when he started his own label, it blew up pretty quickly. The comandos were the first band he signed. They had won Album of the Year their first Grammy season without even batting an eyelash. So once business started booming, Pepper took over the paper work, and Tony did what he did best, Fucking around with a mixing board. You had met them when you started working with Natasha and the Widows, a Blondie style punk outfit. They had a pension for eating men alive. Eventually, it got in the way of their success, so you stepped in and saved the band from total destruction. You and the starks had been thick as theives since.
“Tony, you mean to tell me, that the Commandos, the biggest artists of the decade, need my help?” You scoffed down the line, checking the Widows out of the last hotel of their tour with Greta Van Fleet.
“Yes Bluegrass, I do. Barnes is going through some existential heart break shit ‘cause ole bitch called of the wedding, and fucked the Guitarist of their opener. He’s been all drugs, booze, and sappy shit since, and someone’s gotta get the mother fucker back on stage. I’m Loosing money here Kentucky, something’s gotta give.” Tony sounded livid, there were very few times where Tony was as frazzled as this, so you knew it was serious.
“Alright, but I have conditions.” You sighed, you thought you could hear the sound of Pepper weeping tears of joy, but you couldn’t be sure. “I want the Widows to open, I’m not done with them yet Stark they’ve got some potential that still needs to be tapped. I want Frankie on security, I want Wanda for wardrobe and makeup, I want Vision for my techie, and I’m taking Peter as my Head roadie.” It was a big ask, but if you were doing this, you were gonna need the best possible team.
“Jeez woman, rob the treasure chest would yah? You want all of them? You just asked me for the entire roster. They’re on other tours! I can’t just- HEY! Woman don’t you-“ you heard a slap and an ow, and suddenly you were with the one and only Pepper Potts- Stark.
“Kentucky? You have a deal. You can have the Allstars in three months, everyone’s tours should be wrapping up, that puts you just in time for festival season. You up to it?” Pepper sounded like someone had just kicked her puppy. So you knew, you were the only one that could save the day.
“Virginia? Count me in. Give me the three months to plan and connect with the team and I’ll make sure James Barnes makes it onto that bus.” You could practically taste her relief through the receiver. What had you just signed up for.
————————————————————————
You’d done it. Six months, 7 bus rentals, 75 hotels, 107 plane rides, 20 festivals, 95 shows, 89 cities, and roughly 200 people later, you had managed to construct the American leg of one of the biggest and longest tours you had ever seen. All it took was two months, and 23 bottles of Jack Daniels, and you had done it. Now all you had to do was meet the band, and have your first tour meeting.
You had never been so nervous to meet a group of men in your life. Normally, these meetings we’re pretty laid back and informal. Lots of getting to know you, and goofing off. This time, you were in charge of a multi-million dollar tour that could make or break the band of the decades d ruin your career. No pressure. Needless to say, you were fairly nervous.
You were relieved upon arrival that the first people to make it in were the people who seemed to be the most reliable. Vision and Wanda were quietly whispering  to eachother in the corner as always, their hands gently intertwined as they surveyed the rest of their new subjects. Frankie was standing off in another corner looking like an immovable brick wall. His sunglasses firmly in place on his nose, looking scary as always. Peter was off with the widows flirting with their drummer. You didn’t think it would end well, seeing as MJ was a bit of a hot head, and Peter was akward and nerdy, but to your surprise, they seemed to be getting along swimmingly. Natasha and Carol were staring at a book full of something, if you had to guess, it would be song lyrics of some variety, and to your shock and absolute awe, Peggy had saddled up to Steve Rogers. Steve was the guitarist of the Commandos, and he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her company. Tony and Pepper were chatting with Clint and Sam the drummer and bassist of the Commandos, and Bruce Banner, your newly appointed second hand. James Barnes was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, well, good to see that most of you have arrived early!” You smirked walking to the head of the table with your big box of tour folders, Peter moving instantly to help you. “If I have not yet made your acquaintance, I am Kentucky, just Kentucky, you may call me Bluegrass or Lucky, but I will always prefer Kentucky. It has come to my immediate attention, that you sorry suckers were in need of a fantastic road manager, and here I am.” You survey the room as you spoke taking into account every face that you could see in the room and making sure everyone was following. “Now, where is James?”
————Some unnamed bar across town ————
Bucky’s head pounded. Wether it was from the booze or the pounding music he had no clue, but he could tell that it was far too early to be in this booth.
“You really went for it last night Barnes,” Bucky looks for the source of the voice to find that, Luke Cage, owner of the best bar in LA, was unloading boxes of tequila into his storage cabinets under the bar. “You shouldn’t have either, you’re late for your tour meeting.”
Bucky absorbed the information, and felt it melt out of his brain as if it were nothing more than an irritating ear worm. “How do you know about that?” He sighed running a hand down his face and slowly standing to grab his leather jacket.
“It’s sharpied onto your arm,” Luke chuckled pointing to Bucky’s right arm in just about the only clean space someone could fine. “Steve came in and did it last night before giving about a hundred dollars to let you sleep it off in that booth.”
“Of course he did,” Bucky scoffed, “the punk never knew when to leave well enough alone.” Bucky quickly slipped his sunglasses over his aching eyes, as he watched Luke slide a cup of coffee across the bar. “Goodbye Luke, your bar is the only thing I’m gonna miss about this town.”
“Goodbye Bucky, the free live music, and the fantastic tips are all I’m going to miss about you boys. I’ll tell Jess you said hello.” And with that final fond farewell, Bucky left Luke’s bar for the last time before he was trapped in a tour bus for six months.
The drive to Stark Records was as second nature to him as tying his shoes. He easily glided in between cars, making record time to his place of employment. He parked his bike next to a slot that occupied the sweetest little red corvette he’s seen in a good while. The tune in the reference catches his brain and he starts to whistle the chorus, wishing the artist formerly known as Prince was still around. He walked past Sharon, the desk clerk, giving her his customary wink and a smirk, stealing a sucker out of her candy dish and wandering into the meeting.
That’s when he saw her, the hottest piece of ass this side of the sunset strip. She looked powerful, she looked commanding, she was covered in tattoos and wearing the best looking little black number. She was saying his name. “Where is James?”
“Right here sweet thing, I hope I’m not too late to the party, I’d hate to miss anything that came out of that pretty little mouth.” Boy was it pretty, the full lips covered in a red shade that he could only seem to imagine smeared all over her moth as she panted his name.
“Ah, yes there he is. Hello, James. Just in time to-”
“James is my dad sugar, I’m sure we can think of something a little more clever for you to-”
“Alright then Junior if you don’t mind, I’m trying to conduct a meeting, and I will not be letting a drunken moron interupt my carefully planned work flow.”
Bucky’s jaw snapped shut as the people around him, some friends and some strangers, laughed at the clever lady’s little barb.
“Alright then, as I was saying, I’m here to help. I believe in the Peter Grant method of representation. The you-have-a-venue-you-want-it-filled-I-have-just-the-band-sixty-forty method.” She said, flipping her hair into a simple bun on the top of her head, which Bucky couldn’t find more attractive if he tried, “I have made hotel arrangements for every show, I have made bus arrangements, I have planned for added shows, and delayed dates. I have brought you the best opener I have, the best artists, roadies, security, and technicians I could scrape together, and most importantly, I have given you my time and my trust. I can make your touring life as easy and as simple as humanly possible, or I could ruin it. However, all I want is to get you out there, grinding again, reminding your fans the reason they love you. All you have to do, is let me work, and focus on the music. Can we do that?”
“Doll? I like the way you think.”
“Junior? It’s gonna be a long fucking six months.”
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Line Fine (Chapter 8)
>>>Catch up with the Fine Line Masterlist!
word count: 1.9k
story summary: Since you were kids you and Harry had always walked that fine line of friends or something more. Now, pregnant by someone else, you find yourself staying with your long time best friend after things go sour with your boyfriend of 3 years.
Singlemom!Reader x Harry Styles
chapter summary: You meet a new friend when Harry’s late to your appointment.
warnings: Language
a/n: Now that I got ‘In The Middle’ out of my head and published, it’s back to our regularly scheduled programming. Yes, I know I’m not funny...
>>><<<
You sat nervously in the doctor's office waiting room. Yes, you had been here a million times before for gynecologist appointments but never for obstetrics. The whole place seemed different now that you sat on the other side of the waiting room.
Your hands ran down your pants as your feet bounced up and down on the floor. Harry should have been here already. Your hands fumbled around for the phone in your purse. Pulling it out to check your messages again. No new notifications. No new messages. Nothing.
You knew he hated doctors offices but he promised you that morning he'd be there before running out the door to meet Mitch for something he said was important for the upcoming album. Your appointment wasn't until the afternoon so you didn't think anything about it. Figuring he'd be back way before you had to leave. When he wasn't, he called to tell you he'd meet you there.
Now, here you were absolutely alone. Sitting in a cold waiting room waiting for your best friend because your baby daddy couldn't be bothered to answer his fucking phone for almost 3 weeks. Rings of children crying beside you made your anxiety spike. The pediatrician section of the waiting room directly beside the obstetric side.
You silently cursed the fucker who came up with this layout. Obviously they'd assume every pregnant person would be comfortable hearing and watching little kids run around. You weren't that person. No you were absolutely petrified.
"First kid?" The guy beside you asked as he bounced the baby he was holding on his lap. Your head snapping to him as your anxiety raged through your mind.
"’S that noticeable?" You asked, your legs tapping faster on the floor as you stared a hole in the wall opposite of you.
Your eyes moving back to him when he let out a laugh. Your eyes racking over him.
He was cute. His dark hair piled in soft curls on top of his head. Light eyes that only had a slight trace of dark circles underneath of them.
No ring on his hand.
You smiled easily, sitting back in your seat. If Harry was going to be late the least you could do was chat up this guy.
"I'm Matt and this," he said as he leaned down to his baby's level, "this is Roman."
You moved forward in your seat. Your eyes blinking a few times at the baby in front of you. You were going to have one of these in a few months. The realization sinking deep into your mind as you stared at the child in front of you.
His dad waving his hand back and forth as you said hi to him.
"He's adorable." You said as the little boy continued to coo and talk up a storm to no one in particular.
"He's only cute when he's not fighting sleep." Matt said with a smile, his hand running over the top of his child's hair.
"They do that?" You asked with a slight panic. You thought all babies loved to sleep.
God, you had no idea what children did.
"Sometimes, they're curious little things. Want to know about the big world around them. This one is extra nosey." He said as he booped Roman's nose. His little baby hands holding on tight to his dad's as he squealed loudly.
A smile across your face as you stared at the baby in front of you. Maybe they weren't so scary. This one was definitely cute.
"You here by yourself?" He questioned, shaking you out of your trance like stare on his kid.
"Oh," you paused, looking around again only to see Harry still hadn't arrived. "My friend was supposed to be here but…"
"Mhh." He hummed, "his mom was supposed to take him today for his shots. She bailed at the last minute. Guess I should have listened to that whole "don't have a baby with someone you don't know" bullshit."
You laughed, shaking your head. A smile creeping on your face as you licked your lips.
"Guess I should have listened to that too." You said back not missing the way his eyes lit up as he looked at you.
"Know this is a bit weird, hitting on you in a doctor's office."
"Oh? That's what you're doing?" You said with a cheeky smile as you looked at him.
You still got it. You thought to yourself.
"Must not be as good at this as I used to be."
"No, you're doing great." You reassured. "My appointment is in 5 minutes though so you might want to get to the part where you ask for my number."
He let out a small laugh nodding his head as he handed you his phone for you to put your number in. Your fingers worked quickly to put in your information when your name was called.
"I'll be calling, Y/N." He said as you stood up from your seat. A bit giddy you'd been hit on. That was always a good feeling.
"Look forward to it."
>>>
Your legs hung over the paper lined table. Swinging them back and forth slightly as the very sweet nurse asked you a shit ton of questions.
"'M 'ere!"
The door to the room being thrown open. Harry standing there out of breath like he'd just ran a mile.
"This must be dad." The nurse said as she looked up from her clipboard.
"Oh no, this is, unfortunately, my best friend who was supposed to be here 15 minutes ago." You said with a hint of anger etched in your voice. Not even looking at him as he took a seat beside the table you were on.
"'M sorry. I lost track of time and-"
The nurse cut him off as she continued to ask you questions. Her voice ringing high in the room around you two as she tried to avoid a fight breaking out.
He shouldn't have said he'd come if he didn't want to be here.
You sighed as the nurse finally left the room. Your eyes on the ground as you reminded yourself to not be too hard on him. It wasn’t like he had to be here. This wasn't his baby.
"'M so sorry." Harry said as he stood up from the chair. His arms around you as you hugged him back.
"'S okay. Know you got stuff going on. You still made it." You said as you buried your head in his chest. His head resting on top of yours.
"'M still a dick." He said, making you laugh as you pulled back from him. Your eyes connected with his that were filled with regret.
"You hate doctor's offices and this isn't even your baby. It's really okay."
The door opened right as he was about to speak. Whatever words he was about to say quickly being shoved back in his mouth as he pulled away from you.
"Alright, Miss Y/L/N, let's start with the easy stuff. How have you been feeling?" The doctor asked as she shut the door behind her. Your eyes on Harry as she sat in the chair with wheels across from you.
"Uh, sick to my stomach a lot and really tired. Feels like I got a real bad flu some days." You nervously fiddled with the end of your shirt as you tried your best to not chew on your nails in front of the doctor.
"Real common for this time in your pregnancy. We can prescribe some pills for nausea."
She clicked away on her keyboard that sat in front of her, barely looking at you but you didn't mind. You were just trying to not have a full fledged panic attack in front of someone you didn't know.
Harry's hand reached up to hold yours from his seat when he noticed your nerves not settling. You smiled softly at him. Silently saying thank you.
"As for the tiredness that usually wears off around the second trimester and come back again in the third." She turned around to give you a soft smile as you nodded your head. Understanding the next few months were going to be hell on your body.
"You're 10 weeks, so we won't find out the gender this time but we can still get a look at the baby. Make sure everything's going okay. That sound good to you two?" She asked as she stood up from her chair.
"Yeah." You and Harry both mumbled out.
Your stomach churned as you laid back against the table. Your eyes followed the doctor as she pushed forward an ultrasound machine beside the bed. Her hands gestured for you to lift your shirt.
You were somewhere between nervous and excited to see the baby as the cool gel hit your stomach. Your breath catching in your throat when the wand hit your stomach.
Nothing coming into sight on the little screen.
"'S that normal?" Harry asked on the edge of his seat as the wand moved over your stomach.
"Oh, yes. Sometimes they like to hide." She said as the wand pressed deeper into your skin.
Your eyes moved over to the screen again when you heard Harry take in a deep breath.
There they were. Your future baby curled up in a little ball. You felt your eyes start to water when it did a little flip and started jumping around inside of you.
You couldn't feel the movement yet but know the baby was actually in there, moving around. Living. It made your heart swell with emotions you've never felt before.
"Wow." Harry mumbled from beside you. His hand over top of yours in an instant.
"This one's really active. No wonder your stomach is so sick." The doctor said as she moved to get another look at the baby from the side.
"That's normal, right?" Harry asked, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked intensely at the screen.
"I promise, I'll tell you if something isn't normal." The doctor said with a smile as she clicked a few buttons on the machine. Pictures printing out on the side of it.
Her wand pulled off your stomach quickly, handing you washcloths to wipe off the gel on your stomach. You felt an unfamiliar sinking in your heart as you wiped your stomach clean. You could have looked at your baby on that screen all day long.
"Healthy looking baby. That's great." The doctor said cheerfully as she handed you the pictures she had printed out. Harry craned his neck to get another.
"Only thing we have to do is keep an eye on your blood pressure." She commented off handedly as she cleaned up the machine.
"Wot?" Harry asked from beside you. A sinking feeling in your stomach setting in as you tried to telepathically tell the doctor to shut up.
It was only a tad bit high at the beginning of your appointment. Which you were sure was because of your anxiety and not anything more serious.
"Ah, see this one doesn't like to tell you things. Maybe you should be at the beginning of the appointments from now on." The doctor shot at Harry. Your laugh rung around the room as he nudged you with his elbow.
"Her blood pressure was a little high. It's common in the beginning. Only thing you have to be careful about is it not getting too high or when it drops back down, that she doesn't faint."
Harry's eyes widened as he looked at the doctor. His mouth practically on the floor as he stared from her to you. A very annoyed look across your face.
The last thing you needed was Mr. Overprotective hovering over you all the time.
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*busts through the door like I'm the Kool-Aid man* BONJOUR FUCKERS I'M BACK!!! It is I, the Theatrical Gay Anon™! I hope you're ready to endure my endless babbling for a bit cuz I've got lots to say holy shit. Consider this part 1 of like, 1000 cuz I think Tumblr got rid of the submissions feature. I apologize in advance for the spam hehe.
Okay, with that out of the way. Ms. Yehet-Me-Up, may I call you Sarah? Sarah, what the fuck!? I can't even rn. I I give you a simple suggestion, no expectations behind it. I say "Hey, don't you think it'd be cool if Zitao was in the Exodus Mall universe?" to which you said "Yeah, that'd be neat, I might do that. Perhaps make him work at an Irish pub or something" and then I flip out with gratitude and excitement thinking you're gonna do like, a DRABBLE. 500 words at MOST -Theatrical Gay Anon
Imagine my SHOCK, my STUPEFACTION, upon realizing that you wrote OVER TEN THOUSAND WORDS about Huang Zitao aka the wind beneath my wings, the rain to my drought, the corny joke to my Junmyeon. And not only that! But you did this A MONTH AGO. I could've been reading this for so long and I had no idea! How foolish am I? I can't believe you wrote all of this based off of a silly little suggestion I made. I feel like bowing over how not worthy I am Wayne's World style -Theatrical Gay Anon
NOW IN REGARDS TO THE CONTENT OF THIS MASTERPIECE OH MY GOD WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN!? I am floored by your preeminence. First things first, the title? Perfect. Full disclosure, I suck at titles. I've been writing for over a decade now and I'm still shit with titles. It's so hard to come up with just a few words to encapsulate everything you wrote but you do it SO WELL. The moodboard? Amazing. I've always loved that picture of Zitao and it fits so well with the pub setting -Theatrical Gay Anon
I'm afraid you've written "Fractions of Tomorrow" so well that I don't see there being a need for anyone to write anything else...ever. Stories? CANCELED. Poetry? CANCELED. Biographies? CANCELED. It's all over folks. Sarah has written The Best Thing Ever. We've peaked as a society. After I finish writing these asks I'm gonna become a hermit in the woods and make friends with all of the woodland creatures that inhabit it. -Theatrical Gay Anon
But seriously though, I love absolutely everything about this story. As a Zitao fan, I'm used to getting breadcrumbs. Not a lot of ppl write fics about him. I can count on one hand how many long fics of his you can find on Tumblr. But THIS?? This was no breadcrumb, this was a whole fucking bakery. And it all appeals to me so much oh my god? The sappiness of it all, the flowery prose, the rebellious rejection of cynicism, it's all so beautiful I want to marry it. -Theatrical Gay Anon
If I discussed all of the sentences in this fic that made me giggle with joy and kick my feet around I'd be here all day so keep in mind this is just a FRACTION of the ones I loved but I couldn't go without mentioning at least some of them so here we go. "It’s not his first time here, but it’s his first time paying attention" SHUT UP this line is go good it's so simple yet so nuanced I adore it. Seriously, why hasn't anyone hired you to write a screenplay? -Theatrical Gay Anon
"He wonders if you ironed the collar of your shirt to be that precise or if you simply move through the world without acquiring any wrinkles" God, this line is so CUTE it's DISGUSTING he's fond of the reader's un-wrinkled clothes that's such a specific thing to like and is totally the type of thing I've done with the ppl I've crushed on throughout my life. -Theatrical Gay Anon
"‘Zitao,’ he says finally. ‘Cute.’ You say" this is such a little thing but I love that you included his full name in this. I love his full name so much it sounds really pretty. Whenever I hear him refer to himself as "Huang Zitao" in interviews my heart soars. Hearing him speak Mandarin in general is a delight as well. It's an audibly gorgeous language and any racist who says otherwise can EAT MY ENTIRE ASS -Theatrical Gay Anon
"For someone who’s been in love for as long as you can remember she fights awfully hard against Baekhyun’s romantic nature" DEAR GOD I LOVE THESE TWO! I love these movie loving lovesick fools. I love that everyone in the world knows they love each other except them. I love seeing bits and pieces of their story throughout this written universe. I can't wait to see it all come together in Baekhyun's Exodus Mall fic. It's gonna be GLORIOUS -Theatrical Gay Anon
Also! I know you enjoyed my song recs that I thought fit perfectly with All Our Broken Places so here are some for when the Baek x Hitchcock fic drops. I know it's not done yet but I just *know* what it's gonna be like I can feel it in my bones. "Sidekick" by Walk the Moon and "Tongue Tied" by Grouplove. As for Fractions of Tomorrow I knew right away what songs I'd pick. "Dreams" by The Cranberries, "Jumpstarted" by Jukebox the Ghost and "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey -Theatrical Gay Anon
Gosh, this fic filled me with so much energy and joy I feel like a toddler on caffeine. But I really should sleep now though. It's gotten so late that I can see the sunrise peaking up sdksdksl. I'll see ya soon! I will be spamming you with more compliments about this fic once I wake up though! - Theatrical Gay Anon
Hi! I'm back. Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah, I was talking about some of my favorite lines from the story. "‘Hey man, how’s it going?’ Baekhyun reaches out and does a complex handshake with the man before you. ‘Oh, you know. Just working at the salt mines,’ Tao says with a laugh." I LOVE that you made Baek the one Zitao was close with. I miss the beef brothers so much. I'll never forgive SM for what they did to OT12. They were all such good friends 😔 -Theatrical Gay Anon
"‘I’m not sure.’ For a flash Tao’s eyes linger on you once more. ‘I think it would depend on the person.’ And then the bastard goes and winks at you." GOD, HE WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS! HE'S SUCH A SHAMELESS FLIRT I HATE HIM *narrator voice* This was of course a huge a lie, he in fact loved Zitao immensely -Theatrical Gay Anon
"‘Sweetheart, I’m everyone’s type.’" You've captured Zitao's unlimited confidence so well and that makes me really happy. It's one of my favorite things about him. The man truly loves himself and I think that's awesome -Theatrical Gay Anon
"Tao looks at you through his lashes, bending close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips when he speaks. ‘Words are just the appetizer, darling. I prefer to have an entire feast.’ 'Any other questions or can I grab your orders?’" ASDKDSDSL SO YOU'RE JUST GONNA SAY THAT PANTY DROPPER LINE AND GO BACK TO BUSINESS AS USUAL ZITAO???? HUH??? IS THAT WHAT WE'RE GONNA DO??? -Theatrical Gay Anon
"‘Oh, nothing.’ He looks like the cat that caught the canary. ‘I just love being right.’" Something I love about EXO fic writers (myself included lol) is that despite all of the different ways they'll write the other members, there is one member who is always written the same and that's Baekhyun. He will always be written as a cheeky little shit cuz he *is* a cheeky little shit. That's just who he is. Messing with ppl is a favorite past time of his. -Theatrical Gay Anon
"'So, love, huh? There’s not some girlfriend or boyfriend of yours waiting for you at home?’" Thank you for not being heteronormative with the "are you dating someone?" convo. I know it might not seem like much but I really appreciate it. -Theatrical Gay Anon
"The beginning of love is always a lightning bolt. If that’s all it ever is you never have to deal with being knocked on your ass by the resulting thunderstorm" OOF, this one got me. So very true. The beginning of love is so scary! -Theatrical Gay Anon
"I could argue that anarchy still is love. Love of your beliefs and love of a person or a place or a thing so much that you’re willing to fight for it" OKAY BUT PASSIONATE LEATHER JACKET WEARING ANARCHIST ZITAO IN A ROCK BAND IS SUCH AN ATTRACTIVE CONCEPT!!! There's nothing sexier than a bad boi that will hate capitalism with you! He'd probably be the one to give ppl rides to protests and stuff I LOVE IT -Theatrical Gay Anon
"If we say love is a feeling, who’s to say that we aren’t in love? If we decide it’s an action then which one is it? A kiss or a commitment or - maybe it’s nothing more complicated than putting words to the way I feel when you look at me?" Listen I don't mean to be dramatic or anything (wait, who am I kidding? I'm literally the Theatrical Gay Anon being dramatic is like my Thing) but if a guy ever said that to me my trans boi pussy would be open for business IMMEDIATELY
Alright, so, uh Final Thoughts. This may be my new favorite work of yours, and no it's not just cuz it's got my ultimate bias in it lmao. This year has been so shitty and it's made my depression + anxiety reach the highest possible levels but reading this, this love story filled with hope and certainty despite not knowing what the future will hold for them, made this year seem easier to cope with. Thank you so much for making this, it means the world to me. -Theatrical Gay Anon
ALRIGHT, LAST ASK AND THEN I'LL SHUT UP I PROMISE but I personally headcanon that Double Shot + Zitao stayed together till the very end. They didn't get married cuz they hate formalities but they got matching tattoos and even when they're old and grey you can still them clear as day on their wrists. When they're asked how they met no one believes their answer lol. And when Double Shot died of old age before Zitao he would sing her favorite song by her grave every Saturday -Theatrical Gay Anon
OKAY SO I know I said I was done and I know I've already sent in like, 30 bajillion asks but I'm curious does Yifan or Luhan also work at the Irish pub?? Or do they work somewhere else in the mall? Inquiring minds want to know -Theatrical Gay Anon
When I tell you this made my entire month (when you sent it weeks ago, I’ve been hanging onto these because they seriously bring me SO much joy holy crap) I am not remotely kidding j;oaisjdflkasdjfa
I am absolutely going to put on these song recs while I work on the next chapter!
a;osdfjlaksdfjasl the fact that you stayed up late to read this warms my heart so much. It reminds me of all the times I stayed up til the ass crack of dawn reading fanfics because I simply could NOT stop reading, so the fact that you enjoyed this like that makes me helllllaaaa emo 🥰
I just??? 2020 was indeed such a long year and affected my energy and creativity and honestly don’t really remember writing this hahaha. I kind of go into a fugue state with these longer fics and they just EMERGE. So to see you reflecting back some of what I wrote allows me to enjoy the process so much more. Makes writing and tumblr fun and I seriously wish everyone writing and creating could have someone as passionate and thoughtful and hilarious as you hyping them up 🌟 it honestly feels like a GIFT and I will absolutely keep writing this series and hoping to be worthy of it 😘
We will definitely get to see more of these two in the finale fic! I got into EXO after Tao, Yifan, and Luhan left so I’m not quite as familar with their personalities, but I could definitely see Yifan working at the US Bank haha. Business suit by day and partying/flirting by night. As for Luhan I feel like he’d work somewhere like the bookstore or the music store?? somewhere quieter and more contemplative.
Thank you again for sending this and for being you <3 I hope 2021 is a wonderful year for you and that you know how AMAZING you are 💖💖💖💖💖
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Being super horny with Colin Wilson that the sec just never stops
This man
This man right here
We love an intellectual hippie man
He definitely would want to do couples yoga
But he would see you in the downward dog or child pose and not be able to do the moves anymore due to his dick
Fucks you doggy style on the yoga mat and afterward tosses you a reusable bottle full of as y’all head to the shower
You and Colin are trying out a new local farm to table restaurant with Gabe and Mel (josty, jt, and burky were left with linea, jt is the one they trust tbh)
He has his hand on your thigh as soon as you sit down
His hand moves up under your dress when you guys get your dandelion green salads
By the time your entree arrives he’s stroking you gently through your underwear
When dessert comes (you and Mel are the ones who eat the shared deserts lets be real that’s not on the diet plan) his fingers slip under your panties and start stroking your clit
He goes faster and adds a finger in you
When the checks come he tries to make you cum while he chats with the waiter
You just have to sip your water to keep it under wraps
You do cum and get kinda irritated especially when he makes a show of swiping his finger into the whipped cream leftover on your plate so he can cover licking the finger he had inside you
Y’all fuck until 2 am that night and you cum multiple times
Colin has to get up and practice but he doesn’t care
Next is at the Mile High Dreams Gala
This cheeky fucker drags you into the bathroom, hikes your dress up, and fucks you from behind while you are bent over the sink
He whispers the filthiest things you could ever think of in your ear and makes you cum around him partially due to the thrill of getting caught
He cums in you (can y’all tell i have a thing for this yet lol) and gives you a perfunctory wipe with a paper towel before pulling your panties back up (don’t think this is good enough, PEE AFTER SEX this has been a PSA)
You have to splash some cool water on you to try and stop the sweating that beginning at your hairline
Colin sneaks out before you
You come out a few minutes later and no one is the wiser
This man will literally fuck you whenever wherever
join me for thirst night/week/forever
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Thoughts on why Harry is the loveliest and best? Now spill...;).
Anon are you the same one who sent me similar ask today ?
‘what makes harry styles special & what he means to me?’ Answer is same
My goodness are we really doing this !? again !? this can’t be good for my health. Anyway that’s very bold of you to assume I can form a coherent sentence to a question like this. If you’ve known me & gone through my blog for more than 5 sec, you know how far up his arse I am at any given minute. So this is going to be a bumbling mess, so cheesy & so extra but u asked!
Last chance to turn away. Block me now!! You’ve been warned.
Let me put it out there(as if it’s not clear already) that I have been in love with Harry Styles from the moment he stepped on X-factor stage, there was no doubt in my heart that I was utterly & irrevocably gone for this boy. Everything about him was perfect to my 16-year-old self, it was impossible for me to look at him for more than 0.03 sec without breaking into giggles like a moron.
He’s the most aesthetically pleasing of course, with his green eyes that shine like emeralds, hair that could put Rapunzel to shame, his 3000 megawatt smile that could save climatic crisis if we could only learn how to harness it’s power, I could write sonnets about his dimples(see what u did to me wattpad), but for me what makes him beautiful the most is his spirit, the that in spite of going through everything that he did at such a young age, he’s only become kinder, more confident, more compassionate & more present. Love Wins
For me he’s not just the cheeky one, not the cute one, not the curly one with huge eyes anymore, somewhere along the line he has stopped being just an object of fascination in every intricate fantasy I’ve ever weaved in my head. Somewhere along the line he’s become a constant presence of light in the darkest days of my life.
His voice is the one I respond to when the noises in my head become too much, his lucid eyes are the ones I want to look into when all the others I find around me are clouded. His hands are the anchors that pull me out onto the surface when I am far gone into my own self.
still here after that !?? woah mate you’re as mental as i am.
He is important. He’s brave. And he’s going to be fine. It never fails to amaze me just how humble & down to earth he stayed all through that shit storm. Rather than make me envious of his fame, his riches & his privilege like some other celebs, he makes me inspired. That’s how I know he’s doing fame right. Watching him grow & live this strange but fulfilling life is so amazing. I couldn’t be prouder.
Then there’s his overall persona. It’s a wonder just how much he is. How much space he seems to occupy wherever he goes. You can never look away when he’s a room no matter how huge the room is or how many people, he’s just too radiant & full of life to let peasants over power him. He’s giant stars & constellations wrapped into a teddy bear.
His devil may care attitude when it comes to his sartorial choices of clothing & giving zero fucks to people making assumptions about him is so inspiring in this age.
His voice. Do I need to write 17 books on this? There’s reason why harry sang most of 1D’s choruses, his voice is made to fill arenas. Tell me your toes did not curl at “Broke a finger knocking on your bedroom door, I got splinters in my knuckles crawling across the floor” & edges of your heart did not soften at “understand i'am talking to the walls, i've been praying ever since new york”. His voice is honey, caramel, maple syrup & all the warmth & the sweets combined into a scrumptious delicacy.
Then there are his lyrics. This takes a whole day & you’re gonna kill me if I start now. Should we arrange a topic call to geek the fuck over this ? Ring me up for a cuppa babe, we’ve a lot to talk.
His on stage charisma?? Hello??? I mean this Rob Sheffield’s quote only scratches the surface:
“Harry Styles, master of the power flounce. For a band that formed on TV, 1D are not done justice by video, because Harry is a performer you have to see live. The way he covers space is insane — imagine if Mick Jagger had the warm and benign heart of Paul McCartney, cast under a magic spell by Stevie Nicks, and you’re about halfway there…It’s like watching the footage of Secretariat running the Belmont Stakes in 1973 — he’s 31 lengths ahead of the other horses, but he speeds up madly for the final stretch because he’s so in love with being fast. That’s what it’s like watching Harry work a stadium. You instinctively think, “Dude, save some for later,” but the whole physiology of saving some for later is alien to the Harry lifeform. The harder he works to give every drop of his Harry-osity away, the more of it he has. Watching Harry spit water and touch his hair makes me want to be a better person.”
His Rolling Stone Quote. That’s it
Ending toxic masculinity automatically gets brownie points for any man:
Single handedly made kindness the new sexy. This could go on forever. If you took trouble to come to my blog, you would already know these anyway.
https://dailyutahchronicle.com/2017/11/07/harry-styles-walks-talk-kindness/
https://www.theodysseyonline.com/harry-styles-kindest-purest-human-exist
https://www.look.co.uk/news/harry-styles-good-causes-573946
https://www.iheart.com/content/2017-11-13-24-times-harry-styles-was-too-pure-for-this-world/
I have not included all of my favourite fan interactions, tons of stories him treating people with kindness & just being an adorable cupcake bcz well there’s not much you haven’t seen that many people did not cover already.
Some tidbit from Iz @harrysblacknailpolish
https://harrysblacknailpolish.tumblr.com/post/170992323093/some-weirdness-one-former-one-direction-fan-is
TPWK, TPWK, TPWK, TPWK, TPWK, TPWK
Then there’s this goofy hoe mother fucker:
Exhibit 1, Exhibit 2, Exhibit 3, Exhibit 4
He’s with us in every step
He loves us. Probably more than we love ourselves & more than we ever realise.
He taught me to be kind to myself & others, to make my happiness my priority, made me believe that I am worth. Without him I would never have come out & be myself everyday. For that I am forever grateful.
I will probably never love anyone as much as I love him. He taught me to love & somehow that is enough.
Sorry for the long post.
*pictures & gifs are not mine. Credits to the amazing owners*
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Venom Reading Order Part 2.
This part of the list covers all of Maximum Carnage to the The Madness. I’m going to start including issues with Carnage as well. Mostly because symbiotes are just nifty. Going forward each issue summary that isn’t a main Venom comic will have level of Venom differentiated, then list any other symbiotes that may be in it.
Part 2: What To Do When Your Awful Child Get’s Their Own Miniseries
-Spider-man Unlimited #1 (May, 1993.) No Venom. Carnage. Introduction of Shriek. The start of the Maximum Carnage event. Part 1/14
-Web of Spider-man #101 (June, 1993.) Venom cameo. Carnage. Maximum Carnage Part 2/14
-The Amazing Spider-man #378 (June, 1993.) Venom, full Story. Carnage. Maximum Carnage Part 3/14
-Spider-man #35 (June, 1993.) Venom full story. Carnage. Comfy symbiote pajamas. Maximum Carnage Part 4/14
-The Spectacular Spider-man #201 (April, 1993.) Venom, full story. Carnage. Maximum Carnage Part 5/14
-Web of Spider-man #102 (May, 1993.) Venom, full Story. Maximum Carnage Carnage. Part 6/14
-Amazing Spider-man #379 (May, 1993.) Venom and Carnage, full story. Maximum Carnage Part 7/14
-Spider-man #36 (May, 1993.) Venom, full Story. Carnage Not to be confused with the issue about 9/11 which I did read and which did make me cry. This one has Shriek slapping Cletus! Isn’t that nice! Maximum Carnage Part 8/14
-The Spectacular Spider-man #202 (May, 1993.) Carnage and Venom full Story. Maximum Carnage Part 9/14
-Web of Spider-man #103 (June, 1993.) Venom and Carnage, full story. Maximum Carnage. Part 10/14)
-Amazing Spider-man #380 (June, 1993.) Venom and Carnage, full story. Maximum Carnage. Part 11/14
-Spider-man #37 (June, 1993.) Venom and Carnage, full story. Some sexy sexy tortue followed by some sexy sexy trickery. Maximum Carnage Part 12/14)
-The Spectacular Spider-man #203 (June, 1993.) Venom, full story. The gang defeats the villains through the power of love and...patronization....and what feels bit like mind control. Or do they??? Maximum Carnage Part 13/14
-Spider-man Unlimited #2 (June, 1993.) Venom and Carnage, full story. Last issue of Maximum Carnage. Feelings, laughs, mystery, and the certainty that not a single mother fucker is going to stay dead. Maximum Carnage Part 14/14
-Venom Funeral Pyre #1 (June, 1993.) Venom vs The Punisher. Two whole ass idiots without a braincell between them. Part 1/3
-Venom: Funeral Pyre #2 (June, 1993.) Part 2/3
-Venom Funeral Pyre #3 (August, 1993.) A surprisingly tragic mirror made even more tragic by how the protagonist thinks it’s an opaque piece of glass. Part 3/3
-Daredevil #321 (August, 1993.) Venom cameo. A little cool off after MC and a sad mini. I think they might have accidentally got themselves coked up in this one. Part 1/3
-Daredevil #322 (August, 1993.) Venom cameo and cheeky inside jokes. Part 2/3
-Daredevil #323 (October, 1993.) Venom, main story. I think the coke wore off at the end. Part 3/3
-Venom:The Madness #1 (September, 1993.) The second time the idea of the suit being evil is bought up, but it’s actually just some sentient thermometer goo. The closest Venom gets to an actual villain-villain to date. Cool art style. Part 1/3
-Venom: The Madness #2 (October, 1993.) Venom befriends some toxic waste with a penchant for sexual harassment. Part 2/3
-Venom: The Madness #3 (November, 1993.) Venom gets dumped by a girl and is surprisingly reasonable and kinda cute about it. They release their friend, rapey thermometer goo, into the water table of a highly populated area. Part 3/3
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Banned - Modern Michael AU
after getting a couple of requests to do a part two to my modern Michael AU i decided why not? ya know because I'd die for it.
Warnings : NSFW, the plot is pretty much sex so i apologise.
Michael really wasn't keen about going to your parent's house this weekend, and honestly neither were you. They were a pair of uptight, snobby citizens; there would be no kissing, no touching, no breathing. Well basically anyway. When you were younger you'd always joke with your parents when they'd said "No boyfriends till youre 45" But they seriously meant it.
This whole trip was going to be hellish, in their house you felt like they had eyes everywhere you went, so even to sneak a kiss or two in the hall just felt wrong. Their whole way about things as parents was stupid really, you're a grown woman now, in university with a decent enough part time job, how can a loving boyfriend be so bad? Oh it could be, you honestly thought that your mum would combust into flames if she even knew the things Michael had done to you. But you decided to keep those topics of conversation strictly away from their ears, just incase they do decide to castrate him; Which could really put a damper on an otherwise perfect sex life.
This weekend meant Michael was on his beat behaviour, and looking his best; The perfectly styled hair that only came out at weddings, the pristine shirts Ironed to perfection, thanks to Polly. And finally, absolutely and utterly no swearing. He knew the drill, and you hated having to show a fake-ish side to your ruggedly gorgeous boyfriend but to save you both an earful of shit, you put up his good boy facadé.
This dinner was becoming longer and more painful by the minute, your mother nit-picking at anything she can about you, and your father interrogating Michael like a criminal. "So, what is it you actually do, Michael?" God he was keeping his cool throughout this, with questions about his family, his life and worse; his previous relationships. However, his hand was sneakily resting on your thigh as he spoke, grounding himself. "I'm currently studying Mathematics, sir, it's a very challenging degree and ive actually been teaching YN how to solve a few problems herself." He'd smirked, glancing over to you with a dazzling smile, Cheeky fucking bastard. "So you want to teach then?" your father questioned, spooning the remaints of his dinner into his mouth. "Actually, no, rather the opposite; I want to be an Accountant." he spoke confidently. "See, YN at least he has a sense of direction to where he's going." you scoffed, actually astonished at how little attention they pay you. "Dad, I'm studying Law, like I'll soon be a fully trained Lawyer, how is that no sense of direction?"
In an attempt to diffuse the tension slowly building at the table, your mother speaks out, pushing away from the table "Anyone for desert?" the full party being for. "Well, you never seem to tell us what you're doing, I'd assumed you'd dropped out of Uni." Michael goes to defend you, as always, "She does work very hard, i often come home and find her head in a book, reading away or planning a prosectution for mock-court. I really think she has this in the bag."
Michael, gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze, He rests his elbow on the table, his fork falling to the floor. Accident or not, i can see excatly where this is going, and if he gets caught, we're both fucked, and not in the way we want. As he bends down to pick the fork up, his fingers trail up and down my leg with him, before eventually pushing my legs apart, with no resistance whatsoever. "don't be silly," my dad speaks, im hardly hanging onto the conversation as Michaels fingers trace so delicately over my clit, "I'll go grab you another one, don't apologise."
Once my dad was out of the room, Michaels lips were at my ear, speaking deep and gravelly, as his fingers continue to tease "Babe, Later on I'm gonna take you to the bedroom and fuck you so hard that your toes curl, all while your parents are sleeping in the next room, hmm, i wonder how quiet you can be as i make you cum right in front of them."
My god that boy delivered, he sat there for the next hour, slowly pushing his fingers in and out of you, spending the last ten minutes alone just circling your clit. It was taking everything within you to keep quiet and you really felt close, so close. He'd fucking done it, you were coming around his fingers, him, coaxing it out of you in every way possible, makibg sure he could draw it out as long as he could. You clutch your head, giving a low groan. "Whats wrong?" Michael asks, his fingers still inside you. "I just have this banging headache, i think im gonna go lie down." You lie, you need to get Michael alone. Now. "Perhaps you should see her there, Michael?" your mum speaks. Perfect. His fingers are out of you now, and he picks the last bit up in is hand, and putting it in his mouth, sneakily licking his fingers in the process. You Fucker.
Once you're in your room, it couldn't be sooner that his lips were on yours, is hands were on your hips and his hair was now messy and looked like the man you loved. You were now unbuttoning his shirt, hands resting on his warm chest. "Michael, I need you," you moaned lowly into his ear. "You do, hm?" he teased, picking you up by your thighs, and dropping you onto the bed, there was a light knock at the door. Michael's eyes widened, doing up some of the buttons to his shirt. before he opened the door. "How is she?" your mother asked quietly. "She'll be fine, I've made her take some painkillers, I'm gonna take good care of her, don't you worry." Your mother smiled. "You are good to her..." she trailed on "we'll be heading to bed now, anything you need?" he shook his head, politely, greeting her goodnight as he closed the door, within seconds he was back on you again, his lips marking your neck.
When he was finally inside you, it was bliss, he was doing exactly what he said he would, giving you a hard fuck. You wanted him rough, like at home, you wanted him relentlessly fucking you with the headboard banging against the wall. And you were moaning in his ear, begging for it, pleading him to just thread his hand through your hair, and my god thd second his fingers were threaded through, giving the hair a rough pull as he fucked you harder, and your toes were curling, and you felt it, for the second time tonight, but he knew, slowing down to take drawn out thrusts into you, his lips peppering kisses along your neck. "I don't think you can stay quiet, babe." he teased, "Michael don't you fucking dare play this game with me now." he chuckled slwing down to a near stop, engulfing your lips in kiss, and before you knew it he was thrusting rougher again, pulling you back to the brink of orgasm.
And as you felt it wash over you, you couldn't hold in anything anymore, drawing out the longest loudest moan, with a kiss not even being able to supress it. "Fuck, Michael." but my god he was still going, harder and harder, and you could feel it building up again now, you were so sensitive, but you wanted him to cum, and just as you were both groaing out, him coming inside you, the door flings open.
Fuck. Your mothers face was red hot, she was shocked and could have nearly fainted. "Oh don't seem so shocked, Mrs LN, I've fucked her better than this before, your precious princess likes it dirty." And you could still feel him thrusting into you, fucking you now into the sheets, just for the hell of it. You'd never seen your mum run out of a room quicker, slamming the door behind her. "hmm, babe, i think we should make a move, before your dad gets in here, I promise ill make this all up to you in the car. You both scrambled like kids to pick up all your belongings and get out to the car, driving off as fast as light.
It was safe to say Michael was now banned from your parent's house. And out of spite he'd fuck you in the car as he dropped you off there, walking you to the door with a grin on his face. Making sure that he gave you a big kiss, as the door opened.
He'd always stay in a nearby hotel, just incase you needed him, and there had been more than one occasion of showing up at his hotel door, often wearing nothing but underwear, one of his tees and a coat, Him taking you in as many places and positions he could think of.
He was perfect to you, and even if he was a cocky bastard who actually fucked you in front of your mum, you loved him, and you'd let him do it again just to see the look in his eyes. You were his. and that was all that mattered.
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How Love Goes (Steter, Mortal Instruments AU)
Peter has seen the young warlock around the bookstore a few times before, usually browsing through the fantasy section while a Shadowhunter lurked nearby. He was handsome as far as warlocks go, little horns curling up from his forehead that only those with the Sight were able to see, and even then they were nearly obscured by his carefully styled brown hair.
The Shadowhunter with him wasn’t nearly so interesting, just a girl with distrusting eyes and the thick lines of Runes dotted here and there when clothing wasn’t obscuring them. The only interesting thing about her was the scent of an Alpha that clung to her, and there weren’t very many of those in California as a whole. In fact, there were only two and something told Peter that she wasn’t hanging around Deucalion.
Either way, Peter did his best to put the teenager out of his mind as he went back to the novel propped up on his knee. He had more pressing issues to worry about, like the fact that the Seelie Queen—bitch that she is—is demanding an audience with the leaders of certain groups of Downworlders. Peter would decline if he didn’t value his health and good looks so much.
Still, he finds himself tracking the boy’s movements from section to section until he reached the counter to pay for his finds. His jeans were tight in just the right way and Peter only felt a small flush of guilt as he eyed the boy’s round, perky ass. Of course, that’s the moment the boy decides to glance over his shoulder and meets Peter’s gaze head on.
And the warlock winks.
***
The next time he sees the warlock is as he’s leaving the Beacon Hills entrance to the Seelie Court, a small cove near the beach that Mundanes saw as a rundown hut. The boy was dressed to the nines in a shiny blue suit, hair stylishly messy and revealing those beautiful horns that glittered blue and green like a mermaid’s scales under the moonlight.
“Is your master sending you here in their place,” he teases, hands in the pockets of his own suit of charcoal gray. Black just didn’t look good on Peter, it made his aura something straight out of a Disney movie, and not in a favorable light either. “A chance for you to learn how the Seelie Queen is when she’s not happy?”
“Not quite,” the boy answers in a voice like honey. “I haven’t had a master since I was a kid.” Peter arches a brow, not subtle as his gaze moves from the boy’s horns to the ratty Converse he wore on his feet. “I’m six hundred years old. I know, it’s a shock to everyone that doesn’t already know.”
“A nice one, at least.” And the boy grins at him, cheeky and wonderful and Peter could live for that flash of white teeth. “I’m Peter.” He holds out a hand and the boy reaches out to shake it, a spark of something shooting through the wolf on contact and a static shock seems to rip through his chest as his eyes flash Alpha red. The boy’s eyes flash in return, fire bright before fading to their usual amber in sunlight.
“Stiles.”
***
Battles were hard things no matter your species, though why he was called to New York of all places could only be explained by the text his nephew had sent just twelve hours before. Sometimes it really sucked to like one’s family and their continued existence. And to make matters that much worse, the fight was on a goddamn boat and he was surrounded by all kinds of Shadowhunters.
The one good thing to come out of it was seeing Stiles in all his glory fighting alongside his Shadowhunter buddy. He was a force to behold, flinging spells every which way when he’s able or even just a bat with Runes burned into the wood to enhance its strength as he flings it left and right against the oncoming demons. The Shadowhunter wasn’t awful, he supposes, but he’s never been a fan of the Clave and all their rules.
After it was done and Derek’s reason for dragging him all the way here was rescued—a relatively young werewolf that had been meant to be sacrificed—Peter was intending to just go back to Derek’s apartment and sleep for seven hours and then go find Luke and have a drink. Things didn’t end up going that way, however, because Stiles was bleeding and his pet Shadowhunter looked ready to play a game of Murder Time with whatever had caused the deep scratch along the warlock’s cheek.
“I take it warlocks don’t have the best healing factor,” Peter snarks, sidling up to the pair with a smirk. The Shadowhunter went to step between the pair, but aborted the motion when Stiles touches her wrist.
“It’s alright, Ally. I know him.”
“So does everyone in the Institute,” Ally remarks, sending Peter a frown that more than hinted at I saw you at the Christmas party three years ago, you nasty fucker. And really, how was he supposed to know the punch had been spiked and that he’d end up banging a shifter named Peg in the women’s bathroom?
“Oh, that was you, huh? Very impressive, man.”
“I rather thought so,” Peter agrees, trying his best to ignore Ally. It wasn’t hard, not with the way the dawn light highlighted the small moles scattered over the left side of Stiles’ face in a way that made Peter want to follow that trail with his teeth.
“Peter,” yelled the familiar voice of Magnus Bane,” stop creeping on my protégé!”
***
So, it turns out that pale warlocks with amber eyes and magic bats are Peter’s type.
Who knew?
***
Stiles likes to smoke. It’s not really a big deal for Peter because Stiles’ just uses his magic to make the smoke scentless. Whenever Peter finds Stiles’ in the little park down the street from the school, the warlock is usually swinging slowly and blowing smoke rings. When he wants to show off, he’ll turn the billows of smoke into little ships or paw prints or, once, a triskelion.
Peter asked him why he smoked once, after he learned that Stiles had changed the cigarette’s taste to strawberries. “Because I like watching the smoke curl and dance,” he’d answered, doing just that as he turned the smoke shades of blue and bright red.
Sometimes he’d find Stiles just wandering through the town as though he was searching for something, smoke floating over his shoulder and grief in his scent. Peter never bothered him on those nights, just watched to make sure no one tried to sneak up on him while he was lost in his thoughts.
One night, the second one Stiles had ever spent with him, the warlock woke him up with a bitten off curse and it took Peter a moment to realize that the wriggling boy next to him was still deep in sleep. He writhed and twisted as though trying to escape, Polish rolling off his tongue as easy as English, calling and begging for his father to be saved.
When Peter had finally managed to get Stiles awake and convince him that he was safe, Stiles told him about the mother that had abandoned him after she realized her child wasn’t human; he told him about the father that fought and protected him through thick and thin until the man’s heart had given out. Then, in the early hours of the morning, he told Peter how his father had always smoked a pipe at night, how he’d blown smoke rings to Stiles’ delight and would always grin so proudly when Stiles managed to turn those rings into flowers.
After that, Peter never asked about Stiles’ obsession with smoking.
***
Their one year anniversary sneaks up on both of them and they only realize how momentous the day is when Stiles checks his Facebook and the memory of their first date pops up in his feed. Their first date had been the thing of legends, the one you tell future generations about because it had been perfection; a high end restaurant that needed reservations three years in advance unless you threatened to eat the owner’s pet rabbit (Peter wasn’t proud of that, but he’d stand by his choices), a walk along the beach to a blanket with chilled champagne and strawberries waiting on them, and the sweetest kiss goodnight to finish it off (followed by mind-blowing sex, but he’d save that until his kids were old enough to really embarrass).
Their first anniversary was just as perfect in a different sort of way; Pizza Hut delivery that they got free because Stiles glamoured their apartment so that the pizza was exactly thirty-one minutes late, a Parks and Rec marathon on TV that they could quote word for word (and they did, they even made a game out of it that was bound to become tradition), and a garlic-laced goodnight kiss that had Peter laughing because he’d never pictured this being how he and Stiles spent their anniversary during the first few months of them dating (followed by sex on the couch because they were too full to actually make it to bed).
After that, Peter swore that their second anniversary would be different and they’d at least have something fancier for dessert than a shared pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Stiles had laughed, baring the pale column of his throat, and he’d curled tighter around Peter as they attempted not to slide off the couch.
“This was perfect,” he said, flashing Peter that grin he loved so much.
And Peter really thought it was.
***
Turns out dating the best friend of a Shadowhunter has more drawbacks than Peter had originally thought. There were two of them in his apartment when he got home from his shift at the bookshop, just dirtying up his couch like they had any right to it and it took all his years of training not to at least growl at them in warning. Instead, he sets the new stack of books down on his kitchen table and turns to face his intruders.
“You know, normal people call before dropping by,” he tells them, arching his brows.
“You’re dating Stiles,” Ally says in response, as though that gives her every right to break a perfectly good window and climb inside using the fire escape.
“Is this the part where you tell me that you’ll kill me if I break his heart? Before you do that, you could at least introduce your friend.” The other Shadowhunter, a man around Peter’s age with hard blue eyes and blond hair that was slowly graying, looks unimpressed with Peter altogether. If he didn’t want to see me, then he shouldn’t have broken into my apartment.
“My name is Chris Argent,” the man says, all condescension and arrogance that Shadowhunters are well known for. The Argents were fairly high up in the ranks, the Inquisitor’s lap dogs from what Peter had heard. Still, they weren’t as prominent as the Lightwoods or the Waylands. “And I’m fairly confident that Stiles could dispose of your body with barely a flick of his pinky if he wanted to.”
“That’s lovely. Now, if you’d see yourselves out I’d be forever grateful.” He gestures at the broken window, already making plans to send that particular bill to the Institute or wherever these two were holed up.
“We’re just here as a reminder that Stiles won’t have to kill you himself, Hale.”
“Since when are Shadowhunters so concerned about warlocks? Is it some new fad or just something that happens when you hang around Magnus Bane for long periods of time?” Which reminds Peter that he needs to send Bane a fruit basket for not threatening him this way.
“Just remember that you’re outnumbered here,” Ally states, and the glint in her eyes tells him that she’s already thought up seven different ways to kill him slow should Stiles even sneeze wrong.
***
Magnus Bane wasn’t getting a fruit basket, but he might get a foot up his ass for breaking Peter’s window again when he could have just used a portal for God’s sake.
***
It’s three years later when Peter’s stumbling around the famed city of Alicante that he realizes just how much he loves Stiles. Dead bodies are littered all over the ground from the what would come to be known as the Dark War, there’s blood basically painting Stiles when he comes around the corner, but neither of those things stop Peter from grabbing the boy and just holding him.
He buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck, breathing in the heady scent of home and pack and mate. And Stiles was doing much the same thing, shaking as he tangles his fingers in the back of Peter’s ruined coat, clinging to him like some kind of shell-shocked koala as he worked through the panic attack.
Peter never wanted to let Stiles go again, barely managed to free an arm to wrap around his nephew and pull him close. This was his pack, his goddamn family, and the Fair Folk had nearly torn that away from him in one harsh sweep against the Nephilim stronghold. He’d nearly lost control of himself during the fight and the only thing that kept him anchored was that constant pulse under his ribs that said Stiles was still alive, Derek was still fighting tooth and claw.
He would kill the next person that thought they could destroy his pack, he would tear their heart out and feed it to his mate like a delicacy, paired with the finest wine he could get his hands on. Looking at the other two confirmed they felt much the same way, Stiles’ eyes flecked with gold and Derek’s blazing a bright electric blue.
No one would ever threaten them again.
***
Seven years later, Peter didn’t think Stiles was actually capable of shocking him anymore. Not after he’d learned about the warlock’s banishment from Peru (something about psychotic monkeys and trying to one-up Bane), or the fact that Stiles could change into a fox if he felt like it, or even that his father’s side of the family were made up of Shadowhunters that had ended up forming the Argent line (which, yeah, that connection cleared a lot of things up).
So, when he’d come home for lunch that day and found Stiles sitting on their kitchen table wearing only a silk tie and matching boxers with a velvet box balanced in the palm of one hand, Peter realized that there were still plenty of ways Stiles could still shock him. “So,” Stiles said, swinging his feet back and forth through the air,” you wanna tie the knot or not, old man?”
“I guess we should since the neighbors are starting to gossip,” Peter replies, and he takes a special interest in getting Stiles out of those purple boxers. He never did make it back to the shop that afternoon.
Now, was that the most romantic way to propose to a person? Probably not. Did Peter actually give a damn about elaborate proposals? Not really, but that didn’t stop him from standing outside Stiles’ window with a boombox blasting In Your Eyes with a velvet box of his own.
“You’re such a fucking showoff,” Stiles tells him as he comes outside.
“It’ll make sure all our stories are memorable, sweetheart,” Peter promises as he hands the box over. Stiles flicks it open and tilts his head back in a full body laugh that never failed to make Peter revel in his beauty all over again. He also manages a smirk this time because the delicate silver band has the Batman logo etched into it.
***
Their wedding turns out to be nothing fancy, just the two Argents and Derek attending with Deaton replacing a priest. Their vows were simple things, their first dance was uncoordinated because apparently Stiles is only graceful when he’s fighting, and everyone had tears in their eyes once it was done. Even Peter did, though he’d never admit that to anyone but his husband.
Peter spent the afternoon and early evening just trying to process the fact that the beautiful man sitting next to him, the one with the glittering horns and sweet-as-honey voice, was really all his. That he’d get to wake up every morning and see Stiles for the rest of his life; he’d get to listen to Stiles’ off-key singing in the shower, eat the unpronounceable Polish meals he whipped up for special occasions, and hold him whenever he wanted.
And Stiles seemed to be just as excited, unable to sit still even through the speeches the other three insisted on making. The Argents had managed to slip a few thinly veiled threats into their speeches, something about sticking tasers in Peter’s squishy bits if he ever even entertained the thought of leaving Stiles. Derek’s was by far the classiest of the speeches, though that didn’t take much effort.
“You guys really belong together, you’re the same level of assholes,” he had said, and raised his glass of champagne.
***
It’s not until they get home from a great honeymoon in Mexico that they realized they’d forgotten to inform Magnus of their nuptials. They realized that because the older warlock was sitting in the living room of the newly rebuilt Hale House when they returned home, and all the glitter in the world couldn’t hide the rage burning in those gold-green eyes of his.
“Really,” Magnus had practically growled,” you couldn’t even send a fucking text that you two were getting hitched? Couldn’t shoot me an email or just mention it in passing or even use smoke signals so I wouldn’t be blindsided when Derek talks about how nice the fish was?” He glowers at them from across the room (he’d broken another window and the glass was scattered deliberately across the hardwood floors), and Peter was legitimately scared the warlock might blast them into next month.
“Did you still get us a present,” Stiles asked, because he has no sense of self-preservation and he’s the world’s biggest asshole at the best of times.
Peter really did choose the perfect mate.
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15. For Harry please! Ty 💕💕
15. “No more!” - “Okay, fine, I won’t send you any more selfies.”
You regretted ever getting Harry a snapchat account.
You had originally done it as a joke - you knew that he would never actually use it, and the look of utter horror on his face when he saw the app on his phone was absolutely priceless.
But over time, he started to use it more and more.
At first it was fine. You had to admit that you got a hoot out of seeing Harry as a puppy or a unicorn or one of those strange dancing things that Snapchat did for the holiday seasons, but it got worse and worse until he was a full on addict.
It was at the point where you quite literally had to spend a full ten minutes a day just clicking through all the selfies that he’d send you. You’d come out of a fifty-minute lecture to twenty Snapchat notifications. Enough was enough.
“Babe, look, they added a new cat filter!” Harry called out to your cheerily as you walked through the front door, setting your satchelbag on the ground and expelling a soft grunt.
“Harry Styles, you sent me twenty two snaps. Twenty two! In the span of one hour! I thought you didn’t like social media!”
“This one’s fun,” he shrugged whilst flashing you the cheekiest of grins, causing you to groan loudly as you sat yourself down on the couch next to him. “No one can find me if they don’t know I’m on it.”
“But Harry...so many selfies...” You explained, sighing as he leaned over to press a quick peck to your cheek.
“But I get bored,” Harry explained again, nuzzling his nose against your skin. You knew exactly what the cheeky fucker was doing, and you weren’t going to let him get away with it.
“Harold, I’m staging an intervention! Give me your phone!” You huffed, causing him to gasp and hold his phone an arm’s length away from you as you reached out for it.
“Never!” He exclaimed loudly, grinning as he kept it away from you with his long-ass arm. You reached beside you to grab one of the cushions from the couch and swat it against his head - you heard him gasp, and suddenly you were being attacked from all sides by his nimble fingers ticking your torso.
“HARRY!” You squealed loudly, trying to grab onto his wrists and miserably failing as the air filled with both your giggles. “I CAN’T BREATHE!”
“Not my problem!” Your menace of a boyfriend replied, leaning his head forward to press his lips against your neck and blow a raspberry there, causing you to squeak even louder and kick your legs in the air, trying to free yourself from this cruel and unusual punishment.
“Harry please, no more, NO MORE!” You shrieked, tears in your eyes from laughing so hard. He took mercy on you, setting his hands against your sides gently and shifting his actions, pressing soft kisses on your neck as he brought his lips up to your ear.
“Okay, fine, I won’t send you any more selfies,” he surrendered, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you close to his chest. You slipped your arms around his neck in response, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” you laughed, pressing a thankful kiss to his cheek.
There was a pause.
“Am I still allowed to send you nudes?”
You reached again for the couch cushion.
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