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#i think the poem will be good when it's done
thomine · 1 day
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ready, set, aim
story. venti says confessing is simple, as easy as 1 2 3. you just need to ready, aim, fire.
details. venti / reader | 1.8k words | requested by anonymous & beta'ed by mimikyu + ekolu!! | this was reposted bc i accidentally deleted it oops.
extra. author's note + tags + links | ao3
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“Confessing to your crush is just like shooting an arrow,” Venti says after swallowing a mouthful of wine. It’s the second year you sought his help in exchange for a few drinks. However, since you’re the only student for his love classes this Windblume, he suggested rendezvousing at Angel’s Share in the evening. You were going to take the tab but he said this was just a session of two friends catching up, and he earned a quick buck from performing so he could afford to pay the bill.
As typical of him, he draws an imaginary bowstring, aims, and fires at you, winking to top off the act.
Your heart is shot—it’s not the first time Venti hits bullseye either. He’s chipped your walls with his arrows—unknowingly or not. From a muted life, you think you hear the birth of a melody in your chest. 
Badump.
Badump.
It only plays for him.
“But I don’t know how to shoot an arrow,” you mutter, playing with your frail and smooth hands under the table. They’ve never held a weapon. Years living on the sidelines meant you’ve done nothing.
Barely had a friend, never stayed past midnight, and you’ve never fallen in love. It was too dangerous, too exciting, too anything.
The first time you sang was when Venti invited you from the crowd in front of the fountain. Your performance was horrible, but his vocals miraculously blended with yours, soothed the crowd and salvaged their mora.
You’ve sought him ever since. Stepping out of your comfort zones never felt unfamiliar with him.
“I’m not saying it literally, silly,” Venti jokes as he tips his head back to finish his wine while yours remains untouched. Alcohol might not be what you need when he causes your world to spin, yet the red liquid gleams as he pours himself another glass, catching your curiosity. “Heard of the phrase ‘ready, aim, fire’? Confessing follows these simple steps.”
A laugh slips from your lips. Not only is his analogy cute, it’s funny he claims they’re simple. To his credit, he is a marksman as he is a bard. These things come easier to him than they do to you.
“You never mentioned these steps in your class last year,” you note, swirling the liquid in your glass, observing its deep translucent red that shifts to purple under different angles. It’s like Venti’s eyes that appear blue against the bright sky when he performs, but in seclusion or moonlight, it glows green.
Right now… it’s green. Undoubtedly. A green that reminds you of spring; of new beginnings.
“It’s a love poem writing class, not a love confession class,” Venti quips. “I would have charged double if that was the case. Speaking of lessons… didn’t I grade your poem you submitted last year? We can start with that.”
You blink.
He smirks as he leans forward. Crap. He’s caught you staring.
Flustered, you grab your glass of wine and gulp it down. Your throat burns. How does Venti appreciate its texture? It does give an excuse for the heat accumulating in your body though, you’d give it that.
“It wasn’t a proper love poem…” Carefully, you set your empty glass down. Venti merrily pours more for you. “I was just practising how to use parallels and metaphors.”
“It was a finely written poem. Maybe you should teach me how to write once in a while, hm?”
“No, no…” you shake your head and swallow the portion he poured—he refills it seconds later. “If I was as good as you, I wouldn’t need to ask for help… again.”
There’s a pause.
“I didn’t know you had trouble writing a poem. You only seemed anxious about delivering it,” Venti says.
You nod. Your hand instinctively reaches for your glass without thought. 
“Well, I can’t do both.”
The burning sensation hogs your thoughts from meandering to anything more depressing. Just one more swing of your glass to your lips—your grip tightens, but the glass remains on the table.
“...My poem didn’t feel good enough,” you admit with a sigh. “This is my first time being honest with how I feel.” You press your palm against your forehead. “Plus, I don’t know if he’ll like it. He’s…”
You.
The bard who all of Mondstadt praises. He’s able to command words capable of wrapping people’s eyes with a veil of hope. He’s able to construct tunes that touch someone to the point of tears. Your words, in comparison, will not make a dent to be remembered even if your feelings behind them changed your whole world.
Venti chuckles, tapping on the wooden table. You straighten your back.
“The essence of a poem is the emotions,” he states, voice firm. “Prose is merely wrapping paper. It’s the gift that matters.”
“What if…” you bite your lower lip. “What if the gift isn’t what he wants to receive?” you whisper as if out of breath.
The bar is loud. Hooligans roar and boast of their achievements as laughter bursts from every corner. There’s clanging, banging, and cheering. You barely heard yourself over the wall of noise, which is why you’re surprised Venti reaches for your shaking hands—with a hold so tender—and fosters a smile.
“The only way to know if you’ll hit bullseye is to try.”
He lets go, curious in the wine he barely touched while you’ve at least emptied your’s twice. Embarrassingly, you’re the reason the bottle only has a few sips remaining.
“Are we ready?” Venti asks, practically sparkling. His glass has been emptied and you expected him to drink the bottle clean, but he holds his gaze on you. His smile is dangerously sweet.
“F—for what?” you say.
He gets up from his seat and extends his hand.
“We’re learning how to aim an arrow straight to the heart!”
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Ready.
Venti stands at the plaza, strumming his lyre to the crowd of kids. With the setting sun as his backdrop—dashes of pink, purple, and orange—the stage is spectacular. You’re behind the pillar, occasionally peeking past its structure to catch glimpses of the performer who has captivated his audience. Your grip on your letter tightens.
“When it comes to a confession, you have to catch them at the right time,” Venti instructs as he walks along the night streets of Mondstadt. His shoulders bump into yours whenever you sway, the result of alcohol sloshing inside your stomach.
“And what do you mean by ‘the right time’?”
“When your heart is ready.”
“How will I know?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m serious, Venti.”
“Pray tell, why do you seek the answer so earnestly?”
“If I don’t, it’ll haunt me.”
“I think you already have your answer.”
Today is the day.
Aim.
The music fades. An applause follows shortly, mixed with high-pitched cheers. You stroke the letter, anxious. When a kid shouts for an encore, you’re unclear if that’s a blessing to have seconds more to think this through or a curse to stretch the anticipation thin.
“Is there a manual? Do I need to have nice scenery?”
“I quite like when the sun is setting,” he says. 
You let out a soft gasp. “You do? Are confessions nicer at twilight?”
Venti shrugs. “The liminal space between day and night—romantic, don’t you think? But what’s of greater importance is to have you and the person fully present.”
He stops walking to turn and graces you with his ever-changing coloured eyes.
A blurry figure passes. It’s a mother dragging her child away from the plaza. He whines, using his whole body to resist his mother’s pull, but his mum persists. 
Venti should be smelling the surrounding flowers or counting his cash—most importantly, he’ll be alone. If you’re not quick, you’ll miss this moment.
You set your sight on the banks of the statue of Barbatos. 
It’s empty.
“Greetings,” a voice says. 
You bump into the pillar and groan in pain. The person grabs your shoulders, preventing you from stumbling backwards.
You turn and are caught in blue eyes that shine like stars against the darkening sky.
“Venti! You gave me a fright!”
“Sorry,” he giggles before checking you for wounds. His touches leave you in a trance, and a gentle gale strokes your face, its comfort like a hammer crashing the pile of worries you had. The rising moon spotlights him. Maybe it is the trick of moonlight, but the ends of his teal braids glimmer. 
“What’s this?” Venti asks. “Is that a letter?”
You place your hands behind your back, pressing yourself against the pillar.
“Nothing,” you utter.
He places his hands on his hips, unconvinced, and questions again, “Then why are you hiding it?”
“It’s not important.”
He raises an eyebrow, a playful grin stretches across his face. “Not of importance? More reason for me to take a look, don’t you think?”
“Well…” You bite the insides of your cheeks. This was not the plan. You want to burn this letter and bury its ashes so as not a single speck gets found—
“I’m just playing,” he laughs. Your chest lightens, relief the letter isn’t a point of focus anymore. However, edges of his lips pull up, mischief in his eyes. You swallow. “The real question is why are you hiding behind the pillar?”
“I’m not hiding!”
“Then why not join the crowd when I perform? I was heartbroken to see my number 1 fan being so shy… unless… you wanted me all to yourself?”
Your cheeks burn.
“I knew this wouldn’t work.” You stare at the ground, lifting yourself to your toes, preparing to sprint. “I’m sorry, I should—”
Venti grounds you by pressing your shoulders.
“Calm down. I have no clue what’s going on.”
It’s your turn to be in disbelief. 
“Really,” he pats you and that soft breeze returns. “So… why are you behind this pillar?”
A shiver runs down your spine. It’s not from the wind or the stone pillar. It’s from the way his eyes glint, like a pirate towards his treasure. 
You bite your lips and swallow.
“And when that person gives his full attention…” Venti comments, his sentence hanging in the air.
There is only one thing left, and you both know what it is.
Fire.
“I like you.”
After sleepless nights, you found a suitable rhyme. The poem in your hands encapsulated everything you wanted to say unwillingly compressed into 5 stanzas, stitched and glued with emotions, yet nothing could beat these simple words.
(Simple. It rings in your head according to the way Venti said it at the bar.)
You think you see the night sky twinkling in his irises.
His smile grows into a smirk as he leans forward. He tilts his head, and as you stare into the window to his soul, you can’t deny the way his gaze falls to your lips.
Your heart thumps widely—badump, badump, badump, badump.
There it is. The tune your body learnt to hum whenever you’re within his influence. It reaches a crescendo when you close the gap between you and him. Your heart plays a melody you never want to end.
When he pulls away, he whispers into your ear.
“Bullseye.”
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pluralprompts · 2 days
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I am not a system, but I have many friends who are and have researched specifically DID due to having those friends. I'm curious your opinion on me writing these prompts - as I don't intend to invade a space intentionally made to provide positive content to communities that I'm not a part of.
Firstly, you can do whatever you want forever, so jot that down –
Okay, okay. On a serious note, I think it's fine. Some disagree with me, especially when it comes to DID, but I don't think someone has to be a system, have any specific disorder, or be of/have any particular identity to write about these sorts of things. I am much less concerned with the identity of the author than I am how the character of a particular identity is written. That is to say, I am interested more in variety of plural and system representation, especially when it comes to positive or optimistic views on our lives*, than I am worried about whether the one(s) writing that representation are plural or a system, too. I care more about if the author is making a well-intentioned effort than if the author personally knows they're a system and openly identifies as one.
* I am comparing, of course, to the two main portrayals of systems in fiction: that we are evil (serial killer trope), or that we need to be fixed (fusion treated as the inevitable, and only, way for us to recover and live happy lives). There are ways to approach these tropes that avoid simply perpetuating stereotypes or disableism, and I would hate for anyone who relates to either to be told they cannot read or write about experiences similar to their own, so I am not saying these should never be written – but at the same time, with these being so prevalent, and so often without nuance, I am naturally more interested in fresh takes that show more pleasant sides of plurality, or at the very least more relatable struggles, than just more of the same.
With this in mind, I don't see singlet writers of plurality as an enemy. Rather, I see any inclusion of plurality in creative writing – from a simple OC kept to oneself, to a poem shared with a writers' group, to a bestselling series – to be normalizing plurality, introducing the concept to some and serving as a reminder of its existence to others. I'm someone who finds representation to be very important to progress, and thus I consider anyone who offers respectful** representation to be an active ally to plurals and systems. I would rather have a singlet writer make some mistakes while creating representation because they don't have personal experience with the subject than have less representation overall; if you're willing to write a character as a system, I'll be glad to see more representation out there.
** When I say "respectful", I don't mean it has to be sanitized or perfect. I just mean that it's done with research, and avoids relying on stereotypes, treating us like a horror trope or, again, like we inherently need to be "fixed" by final fusion – by becoming as singlet-like as possible. Again, looking for good intentions, here.
Besides, people who are presumably singlets will keep accidentally writing systems anyway, regardless of what I think. Seriously, do you know how often I keep coming across this? Sometimes I just sit and wonder how many of these authors are plural, and how many of them know it. Especially considering how often writers describe their characters as "acting on their own".
And on a similar note, I don't want anyone to feel pressured to out themselves as a system in order to write about plurality (especially considering writing about it can be part of someone's questioning journey). I've seen how that's gone down in places like the queer community (*cough* harassing authors into coming out even when it may not be safe for them to do so *cough cough*) and am not interested in repeating it here. You do not have to tell anyone if you are a system – and you do not have to tell anyone if you are a singlet. You have a right to privacy about your identity and what goes on in your life, no matter the subject matter you write about.
In the end, these prompts are for anyone who wishes to write about plurality. Or even wishes to write in general – I'm well aware that many of these prompts would work for settings in which everyone is a singlet! If you want to write them, you're welcome to. If you mess up, that's okay. It's pretty difficult for even systems to write about what it's like being us, sometimes – you won't be alone in that just because you're a singlet.
(On that note, there are plenty out there who would be happy to give more specific advice if there's any particular details or story beats you want feedback on! Cannot recommend @writing-plurals enough for this.)
Thank you for the ask and for your interest in writing about plurality. I wish you luck in whatever it is you're looking to write!!
TL;DR: it's fine lol don't even worry about it, just try to avoid stereotypes and negative tropes about us, and maybe ask around for a plural beta reader or sensitivity checker if you're worried.
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princessbiteme0o0 · 2 days
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Um this is like my first time asking but I have an idea which I really like so here I am asking!
So basically Ted is in theatre school with you and he your in the same class and you were paired up to do a scene of Romeo and Juliet. And there was a kissing scene you had to do.
In the evening Ted and you do into the theatre empty to practice the scene and you were really scared to do the kiss and he helps you out and then it slowly from a kiss gets more passionate and deep then… you two ended up doing the dirty in the theatre.
but during sex, he becomes more dominant and degrading like “imagine you took me like this infront of the class next week? You would look like a total whore.”
AHHH I HOPE ITS OK! and if you do it then I will give more ideas defo 💗
I adore you (and everyone that asks), having said that- this is BY FAR my favorite one 😭 Shakespeare is one of my favorite writers, along with Poe.
Thank you, Nonny and thank all of you that enjoy my writing!! It genuinely makes me SO HAPPY to see people enjoying and appreciating my writing.
Mainly for my home girl- @writingduhh 🩵🩵🩵
Having said all of that…
FIRST OF ALL- I don’t think Ted has a kinky bone in his body; I think he’s a cute lil vanilla baby, but fuck it we ball. MINORS DNI. I FEEL LIKE IT SHOULD BE OBVIOUS AT THIS POINT.
Warnings: smut, slight bullying, degradation, praise, sexual tension, arguments, (kinda enemies to lovers), slapping (not abusive- purely sexual), choking, spit kink, spanking?, fingering, p in v, creampie, breeding kink, unspoken daddy kink?, melodramatics, ‘pup’ and ‘puppy’ used (don’t judge me) but no pet play, As always, let me know if I need to add more 🩵
Shakespeare in Love (Teddy Nivison x Reader)
—🩵—🩵—
She thought she was far over having to work with him on this play. She thought it would be a simple one and done; that maybe he’d have a simple two or three liner part. However, the moment she read the names next to each character, she felt her heart drop to her stomach. There it had been, in big, bold letters:
Tybalt- Kyle Jean
Capulet- Chris River
Juliet- (Y/N Y/L/N)
Romeo- Ted Nivison
She still remembers the anger that she felt at him for even auditioning, the rage directed at the casting director, the dread she felt at knowledge of the script; but like any good actress, she played it off.
So now, she sat on stage, reading over the script while waiting for mister always late. Had it have been better (and easier) circumstances, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the door to the auditorium swinging open. Her eyes lifted and met his gaze, smirk and all. She felt a heated anger drop to the pit of her stomach, but that smirk caused a different kind of warmth to drop between her thighs. Rolling her eyes where she knew he could see, she stood to her feet while looking over the script once more.
She was a tall woman, she knew that, but he was so much taller. His shadow lingered over her and when she looked up at him, he wore a goofy grin, eyes boring into her. “You ready, Pumpkin?” He asked in a mocking tone that made her eye twitch for a moment.
“Don’t fucking call me that.” She grumbled softly, glaring up at him. He reached his hand out and his fingertips ghosted over her bare shoulder and down her collarbone.
“Why not?” He pouted lightly, fingertips brushing up her neck now. “I know it feels good.” He whispered the second part, winking at her and she raised her hand to slap him, before the director scolded her.
“(Y/N)! Let’s save our emotions for the audience, hmm?” He shouted over the talking students in the room. Everyone went quiet and turned their eyes to her, making a warm blush flood her cheeks.
“You’re so cute when you blush for me.” Ted teases softly, pinching her arm.
Today is going to be a long ass day…
—🩵—🩵—
She watched on with fake love in her eyes as Ted read off his lines like a beautiful poem, especially for her. He took her hand in his as he continued, voice warm and welcoming, as if it were a soft pillow for her to lie back on-
“If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” The words weren’t his, but the look in his eyes and the way he said it so clearly to her made her body grow warm. My character, it’s just his character speaking to mine.
“Good Pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do not touch, and hand to hand is holy palmers kiss.” She spoke skeptically, eyes watching his every move. As he moved his body closer to hers, she had to fight the urge to step back. She could practically feel the magnetic urgency trying to pull them together, but she denied it, craving the comfortability in safety. His hand carefully raised to her jaw, cupping it with a gentle palm.
“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” His voice was softer, careful almost, as if he was afraid of her pulling away. Taking in a sharp breath, she paused a moment, seemingly forgetting her lines- though she was quick to steady herself.
“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.” She placed a careful hand on his chest in an attempt to push him away, but he slipped an arm around her waist, fingertips resting in the small of her back. She knew it was coming, yet the more he touched her, the harder it was to keep up the boundaries she held.
“O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.” His words were a deep rumbling whisper as his other hand slid up the side of her body. His fingertips gently massaged a path up her shoulder, her collarbone, just to rest carefully on her jawline. His thumb carefully ran over the apple of her cheeks as she struggled to find her line once more.
“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.” Her mouth ran dry as he leaned forwards ever-so-slightly. She felt heat strike through her body and liquid heat pool in between her legs.
“Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.” His voice is deep rumble that vibrates her to her very core. When he leant down and pressed his lips carefully to hers, her world suddenly burst into vibrant colors, warmth immersing the room in the fireworks that flew between them. Both parties had a difficult time pulling apart, but she managed to pull away, only to realize she had a firm grip on his hair. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ted struggled to get his line out without stuttering, “Th-Thus from my lips, by then, my sin is purged.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers for even the slightest millisecond of time and his grip around her just tightened; until the director and everyone else in the class clapped. “That was absolutely stunning.” The director calls out. Almost instantly upon realization that they weren’t alone, they quickly tore apart from each other- she was blushing madly, while Ted just wore a look of confusion.
—🩵—🩵—
It was a few hours after practice and most of the staff went home, while she sat on the stage, silently going over her lines. She was reading through every detail, looking for every emotion. Lying back, she laid the script over her face, mind still flying from the previous events of the day. Suddenly, she heard the sound of footsteps and a soft shift of air around her as whoever it was sat beside her.
“Ted…” She grumbles, without even moving the script from her face. She knew it was him- of course she did, she hates him. His scent filled her nostrils and tempted to distract her.
“(Y/N)…” His voice is gentle; hearing him say her name like that was a surprise. Reaching up, he gently pulls the script away from her face. When her pretty eyes meet his, he smiles softly and just watches her for a moment. “Can we talk?”
“Hmph.” She lets out a soft puff of air and crosses her arms.
“(Y/N).” His voice is still gentle, but this time it takes on a warning tone. She looks back up at him through her lashes and sighs. Rolling her eyes, she moved to sit. “Now that you’re situated… Why do you hate me?”
“Can we just go over our lines, please?” Her eyes are silently pleading, but he just slowly nods with a soft sigh of succession.
“Where do you wanna start-“ He’s quickly cut off as she basically launches at him, crashing their lips together in a heated kiss. His mind is telling him to pull away, but everything else is telling him to pull her closer. His hands grip her hips, tight enough to leave bruises and he helps her climb into his lap. Pulling away, he looks up at her with a small smirk, “If you wanted me that bad you just needed to tell me.” He teased gently.
“If you want me at all, you’ll shut the fuck up.” She growls lowly. Raising a brow at her, he reaches behind her and places a firm slap on her rear.
“You better check your attitude with me, Sweetheart.” A squeak left her lips when he spanked her and she jumped, making her grind forward against him. Ted bit back a groan and closed his eyes. “Princess…”
The warmth in his voice and the tempting softness in his eyes made her melt right there in his lap. She was careful and hesitant with each movement she made. Exploring the new territory was terrifying, but it felt so… Right. Her lips traced along his neck, kissing and sucking every exposed inch of skin she could reach. Her canines would occasionally scrape over a patch of skin and her tongue would dart out to soothe it.
“You feel so good… Being such a good girl for me.” Ted mumbled, eyes closed and simply enjoying her sweet touches.
“You taste so good, Teddy.” She mumbles against his skin, tongue flicking out over his pulse point. “Makes me angry how good you feel.” Letting out a deep, breathy chuckle, he pries her away from him and lays her back on the stage.
“I know, Honey, I know…” He coos, pulling her shorts down her legs. His eyes settled on the wet patch on her panties, light hitting it and making it glisten in the most tantalizing way. His mouth watered at the sight. “Why don’t you let me make you feel good? Hmm? I bet you taste as beautiful as you look.” A high pitched whine leaves her lips and she grabs for him to try and pull him close again, but he denies her, instead moving his hands down her thighs and massaging the skin there. His thumbs kneaded her flesh, making her relax for him.
“There ya go, babes… That feel good?” He hums, hands creeping just slightly higher. A soft moan of relief leaves her lips.
“Yessss…” She hisses out softly, eyes fluttering shut.
“You seem to be carrying quite a bit of tension here…” He says smoothly as his hands move to the inside of her thighs and slowly creep higher. “But I think most of your tension is held here.” His fingertips brushing against the wet spot on her panties made her body jolt and a mewl sound around them, the sound bouncing off of the walls.
“Ted.” She whimpers, making him chuckle.
“Oh yeah, you’ve got so much tension… Right here.” As he finished his sentence, he gently pressed his thumb to her clit, making her back arch away from the stage and up towards him.
“Teddy!” She cries out in a lewd beg, hips moving against his hand in a desperate attempt to gain more friction. His thumb just continued to move in slow circles around her throbbing bud, making her cunt clench around nothing.
“What’s wrong, Hon? Hmm?” He teased, watching as her wetness continued to soak through her panties until she was dripping on the stage floor.
“I- I can’t- ‘S too much!” She cries out, nails digging into the skin of his forearm that she held onto for dear life. The confidence in his eyes flared and changed to a much darker expression, pupils blown wide with lust.
“Aww, does it feel too good, Pumpkin? Can’t handle feeling so good?” He mocked her in the most condescending way, but it made a whimper leave her lips as her eyes flashed open and met his. “You’re going to lay there and take it like the filthy slut you are.” He growls lowly, free hand slapping the outside of her thigh hard enough to leave a hand print, but her squeal morphed with a lewd moan of desperation.
“Yes Teddy… I- I can take- take it.” She stuttered out, legs shaking. His degrading hit her body like a truck, making her head go fuzzy. Ted nearly lost it when he saw the pure submissive state that she had slipped into, her eyes staring up at him innocently.
“Look at you, Princess…” He mumbles, pushing her panties aside and slipping his middle finger into her. Her breath caught in her throat and her lips parted in a silent moan. Her eyes locked on his as he curled his finger upwards to hit her most sensitive spot. “So fucking pretty.”
“Ted-“ She tries to speak, but he quickly shushes her. He slipped his ring finger into her as well and placed his free hand on her abdomen, very gently adding pressure. The feeling intensified for her and she cried out a sob, body shaking.
“You know I won’t let anyone else touch you now.” He mumbles, working his fingers faster and harder. “You’re mine now. Mine to degrade, mine to praise, mine to fuck… Mine to protect.” As the words continued to fall from his lips, her chest swelled with a new, overwhelming, uncertain emotion. Her cunt tightened, just as her chest did when she realized what emotion he was evoking in her.
“Ted I-“ He’s quick to cut her off.
“No, Shhh… Trust me, (Y/N)… Let me make you feel good, then you’re free to go back to hating me.” He speaks softly, eyes watching her face, rather than her body.
“No, Ted I want you.” She whimpers softly, her voice so soft and so weak. She sounded so innocent. “Please.” A warm smile broke out across his lips and he nodded, pulling his fingers from her and popping them in his mouth. A low groan rumbled through him, and he closed his eyes to savor her taste. When he pulled his finger free from his mouth.
“So fucking sweet.” He growls, literally ripping her panties from her body. “Because of course, the world’s biggest brat has to have the sweetest little pussy I’ve ever tasted.” He unbuckled his belt and yanked it off, folding it in half. Ted used the folded leather as a riding crop, slapping the outside of her thigh. “Spread ‘em, Cupcake.”
A smirk crossed her lips at the opportunity so clearly in front of her. Shaking her head, she huffed out one simple word, “No.” Ted grabbed her ankles and yanked her towards him. Giggling wildly, she wrapped her legs around his waist.
“Mmh, maybe I just won’t let you cum…” She whined at the idea, pouting and smacking his arm, making him use his free hand to hold hers down. “Maybe I’ll just stuff you with my cum and plug you up. Let you throb around a silly toy instead of me.”
“Teddy!” She basically begs, tears of frustration welling up in the corners of her eyes. He let out a warm, hearty laugh at her response and slowly dragged the belt across her abdomen, using it to brush her shirt slightly upwards.
“Aww, poor Pup wants me to breed her?” He asks, raising a brow as his free hand carefully massages her hip. She quickly nodded her head and her hands made a little grabby motion for him, a high pitched whine leaving her lips.
“You’re so precious, Honey.” He hums, undoing the button on his slacks and pushing them down -along either his boxers- just enough for his cock to spring free. Biting her lip, she watched as precum dripped from the tip and fell onto her thigh. Her eyes slowly went up his body to settle on his, boring into his soul.
“I wanna taste you, Theo.” She fluttered her lashes at him in the prettiest, most sweet and innocent way she could.
“As tempting as that sounds, I don’t think you deserve that treat today, Puppy.” He hums, gripping her legs and placing them over his shoulders and leaning so close to her that his lips brushed against hers and he whispered, “You only get what I chose to give you.”
The second that he finished his sentence, he buried himself to the hilt. A cry tore from her throat as her back tried to arch, but couldn’t as he pressed further forward, basically bending her in half. Her hands flew to his back and her nails bit into the fabric, nearly tearing the threads apart piece by piece.
“I’m gonna fill you up until your pretty little body can’t hold anymore.” He growls lowly, biting her lower lip. His words made her cunt tighten around him in an attempt to draw him in even closer. Drawing his hips back slowly, she drew in a sharp gasp when his hips lurched forwards, burying himself inside of her once more.
“Teddddyyy nnngh!” She chokes out, body trembling beneath his and he chuckles darkly, mouth attaching to her.
“What’s wrong, Cupcake? Can you not take it?” He mocked, cooing in her ear as he quickened his pace, fucking into her harshly and caging her in with his arms beside her head. She wildly shook her head, grappling for him with her nails nearly shredding the fabric of his shirt.
“P-please- ta- Ahh~ take it off.” She stutters out, gripping over little moans and whines. Ted found it impossible to resist her pleas when they sounded just so pretty. He kept his eyes on her face as he felt her nails dragging down his back.
“That feel better, Hon?” He mumbles and she buried her face in his neck.
“Yessss…” She hissed, teeth biting into the skin of his neck. “Oh God, Theo…”
“If I’d have known that you’d stop being such a fucking brat, I would’ve fucked you sooner.” He growls, sharply slapping the outside of her thigh as he changed the angle of his hips, making her let out a shaky sob. Tears fell down her cheeks as her vision clouded. Ted smirked as he hummed, watching the way her body morphed and changed position with every thrust.
The way he filled her so full, made her mind fuzzy and her thoughts fade away. Her cunt tightened around him as she threatened to fall over the edge, “Please Ted!”
“I dunno, Pumpkin. Do you think you deserve it?” He asks, halting in his movements, making her so frustrated she nearly screamed.
“Please, please, please, I’ll be so good, I swear. I’ll be so so so good for you Theo, please.” She begged and pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Gimme a kiss then, cutie.” Before his sentence was even complete, she launched herself forward, capturing his lips on hers. While she was distracted, he slipped his hand between the two of them, thumb massaging quick circles on her pretty little bud, picking his thrusts back up. His ministrations, made her let out a squeak against his lips as the band in her belly stretches so tightly that it could break at any second.
“Go ahead, Honey. Cum for me and I’ll fill you up. How’s that sound? Want me to fill you up? Get you all round with my babies?” His words were all that she needed, her world exploding into stars and butterflies as her orgasm hits her like a comet hits the earth, shattering her every nerve. Ted watched as her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ and her eyebrows pinched together. He held eye contact with her the entire time, reminding her to breathe as she rides off the effects. “There ya go, there it is. You alright, Sweetie?”
Her breathing began to steady as overstimulation kicked in, “‘M good, Teddy… I wan’ it.” She mumbles as he helped her move her legs from his shoulders to around his waist. His thumbs gently massaged her hips as he slowly picked his thrusts back up.
“I know, honey… Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got ya.” He speaks calmly, watching her as she starts to come back to attention. “There ya are… Welcome back to reality, Sweetheart.” He chuckles softly, giving her a goofy smile. A giggle punctuated by a soft moan leaves her lips and she smiles up at him, her own hands gripping his biceps and rolling her thumbs over his skin.
A soft groan leaves him and he lets his head fall to her chest as he struggles to hold it together. “My God, you’re so fucking tight. Gonna squeeze the life outta me.” He grumbles, placing gentle kisses over her chest as he lazily rolls his hips against hers. Her fingers gently card through his hair as she mumbles her own praises to him.
“You feel so good, Ted. Ya’ make me feel s’ good.” She hums, locking her legs around his waist as he starts to lose his pace. Lifting his head with the little energy he has left he gives her a questioning look.
“You sure you don’t-“ But she was quick to cut him off.
“Cum for me.” She whispers in his ear, placing a careful, open mouthed kiss on his neck. Right when she spoke, her pussy clamped down on him, making his eyes roll back in his head as his hips stutter and he bottoms out inside of her.
“Mmh, fuck…” He growls, filling her to the brim. “So good for me… Takin’ it so fuckin’ well.” His head falls to her chest and he mumbles something into her shirt. Whatever he said made him blush, the tips of his ears going red. She gently cups his jawline and lifts his head to look at her.
“What did you say, Theo?” She asks gently, thumb running across his lip. He paused and just stared at her for a moment, silence floating between them.
“I can’t believe you never realized how in love with you I am.”
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mechieonu · 8 months
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"You can be an angel!" and it's double meanings currently make me go insane bc for crowley, it sounds like an invitation he should want bc he's "good enough" for it and someone's deigning to give it to him, (but we ALL know that's the last thing aziraphale could MEAN it as) but to AZIRAPHALE it's the chance to do something that's never been done before. it's not about bringing crowley back into the fold as a former disgraced prince of heaven but to make the place perfect for the both of them and for everyone, bc it's clear that heaven has an institutional problem, and wouldn't it be perfect if they could be happy together in a place they made their own? but i don't think he realizes that they already have a place like that
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lunar-lair · 1 year
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so i have two (2) submas poems for you on this fine day. they are both in the exact same vein but the first works with the interpretation that ingo is truth and emmet is ideals and the other is vice versa. enjoy :)
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They are black.
And white.
And yin, and yang, and fire, and electricity.
Alone they are all color,
Or the lack of it.
Together, they are all and none,
Everything and nothing.
Grey, mixed together by the gods.
Mixed together by the legends.
Mixed together by the princes.
Mixed together by the boys themselves.
Grey, mixed.
They should have never been black and white again.
They never thought they could be.
They thought the gods the legends the princes their very own small learning fire-red and electric-yellow hands would hold it, hold it firm and steady and tight til the day their bones rotted in the earth.
They are black.
And white.
And god,
They are not grey.
The god,
What have you done?
What has your kin wrought?
Wrought law breaking undefinable, a curse neverending.
They are black.
And white.
And yin and yang and one and the other and they are alone.
There should have been no such thing as alone for the two of them.
One without the other is a terror they never thought they would face.
A dancer without their feet.
One without the other is a singer without their voice.
A piano without its bench.
A musician with no instrument.
A conductor with no train.
A trainer, with no Pokemon to care for.
Things that are easy to lose, things they never thought could compare to them, and yet and yet and yet.
Worthless, useless, missing missing missing.
The singer is without their voice.
The dancer is without their feet.
The bird is without its nest.
The musician is without their instrument.
The fire is without its electricity, staticky and bright. The electricity is without its fire, solid and warm. The grey has been impossibly, irrevocably, intrinsically torn, torn at the seams by a vengeful god, a vengeful world, one that wishes to defy all law. They are without their voice and their feet and their piano and their bench and their backyard tree and their lantern and bird and they are torn terrified
Frozen.
They are frozen.
Rotting slowly in the frigid cold of their separation, frostbitten and decomposing, burning and broken and alive.
Tears fall and turn to ice.
One dragon.
Two, and a hollow shell.
Grey, and the wretched mechanisms used to cleave it apart again.
Grey, and the horrible day it faded away.
Grey, and the horrible day one became everything. Everything they'd known, everything they'd remembered, every ideal they'd held.
Grey, and the horrible day one became nothing. Nothing of what he'd ever known, remembering nothing, knowing only the truth of this empty world around him.
The hollow third rests in the air. In their minds, on heavy shoulders, in ice grey eyes.
It is rotting them from the inside out.
Ice. Ice fire cannot melt, ice electricity cannot break.
The ice that rests betwixt their ribs. The ice that burns behind their eyes.
Omnipresent. Ever reminding of the other of themselves of the other. Ever wailing of the grey and its horrid misplacement, in the crevice of time, in the crevice of space, and truth and ideals and the chaos god, the Almighty himself.
The Almighty himself, who made them grey. The Almighty himself, who made them everything and nothing yet again. The Almighty himself, the bastard, the betrayer, the summoner of ice, forever and always and now and then.
Almighty Sinnoh, what have you done?
Arceus, what have you wrought?
Grey, never again.
They are black.
And white.
That is forever their binding fate.
---
the god has torn them apart.
the god,
and his devil,
and his right hand men.
grey, wrenched impossibly into two.
grey, forced apart again into black and white.
grey, forced apart into ideals without truth,
forced apart into truth without ideals.
the fire rages without its static.
the electricity fizzles out without its flame.
the man in white mourns a brother lost.
the man in black wonders what is gone.
two princes once tore grey apart,
extracted black from white and white from black,
fought over one half and another,
and a hollow shell followed.
that was right.
that was natural.
that was a result of an argument ill made.
that was the consequences of ideals and truth, at war.
ideals and truth were one.
ideals and truth were a mirror.
ideals and truth were in harmony.
the twins were grey, a perfect shade.
but the god said no.
why?
why must you pilfer perfection?
why must you take it,
from our warm hands and our bright eyes and our grey, grey hearts?
they beat as one,
in time,
a dancer and their step,
a bird and their song,
a piano and their bench,
a time made and a beat kept.
but the god said no.
forsaken.
forbidden.
forgiven, for it was not his fault.
for the living, as they are.
the man in white mourns a brother lost.
the man in black wonders what is gone.
and the electricity fizzles out,
whispering into the night.
and the flame burns all around it,
crying out at the sky.
sinnoh.
arceus.
god.
what is the meaning of self-inflicted blasphemy?
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catilinas · 2 years
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every day i cry and weep over lucan never getting to write the death of cato the younger into the pharsalia :(
#it’s not even a lost text i can hope will be discovered one day :(((#genuinely i think if it Had been written it would have absolutely massive influence on a) latin lit Esp Tacitus#and b) the uhhhhhhhhhhhh american revolution#like cato already has such a weird and also Huge literary afterlife. but imagine if he had a sexy death scene too. like plutarch is good#but if lucan had got to do it plutarch’s version might not even exist! or would be completely overshadowed!#rip to neoplatonism but i don’t care#i want to read abt my favourite historical figure ripping his own guts out (with a conquerning swordhand) in lucan’s sexy dactylic hexameter#(this post v much thinking abt prev reblog like cato can’t grow as a character or even keep Living bcs he is the republic and the republic#Fucking Died. oufghfhjg i want to see lucan’s version soooooo bad)#(like i DO believe in the Twelve Book Pharsalia Ending In Cato’s Suicide. but ALSO how the fuck would/could lucan keep the poem going after#that…………………… cato funeral scene WHEN. give it necromantic vibes. immediately#wait actually yeah. Show Me What Happens To His Corpse. unite the Caesar Leaving His Enemies Unburied#and Caesar As Double Of Erichtho and let caesar reanimate cato/the republic. consider: it would be sexy#like i don’t think lucan would have done that at ALL but I Would. these tags are now pharsalia book 13 fanfic. thomas may wants what i have)#(although thomas may DID also add unnecessary necromancy via time travelling lucan drinking julius caesar’s blood.………..#pharsalia enjoyers united by this theme)#suicide mention —#pharsalia#beeps
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mejomonster · 1 year
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I'm such a nerd. I'm so into this contemplation of if physics rules exist at all that the books going for now.
Also, in another life (or who knows maybe in 10 years in my own) I could be Wang Miao, which may make his pov hit me more intimately than it ought to. I also did what he did while liking art on the side, I also focused more on practical and problem solving rather than theoretical whys.
Also. I'm very curious of the authors science background.
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pipedreams13 · 1 year
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I discovered Richard Siken’s poetry a while back and I don’t believe I’ve ever read something so raw and beautiful. Every one of it is a fucking masterpiece like jesus fuck i. am. in love.
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Scheherazade was the first work of Siken’s that I read and I just knew that I couldn’t leave it there. His words coiled around my heart and stayed there, rusting in my blood.
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I’ve had a distaste for poetry for a good bit of time (you can thank school for that) but i do remember the first time i fell in love with a poem was when i read ‘The Raven’ along with most of Poe’s work.
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The next significant one to come after Edgar Allan was My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roethke, months after my unexpected interest in poetry. I'm not quite sure why i remember it so distinctly.
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I’ve read more since then, some of it downright terrible and some, like these, stay.
“So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.”
-Robert Frost
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A single word,
you turn my heart into a beating grenade,
The metallic circle of death clinging to your fingers,
winking as my flesh catches flame.
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coprinellus-cluster · 2 years
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realizing i have spent an entire semester inside my house not interacting with people 🧍‍♂️
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mikkaeus · 2 years
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I’ve been trying to get into siken & vuong but I don’t really understand how to read poetry lol. Is this stuff meant to actually make sense or is it just vibes and then move on? Are you meant to just keep reading it until it does make sense? 🥲
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vote2 · 2 years
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okay okay absolutely hate when (p much solely ig and tumblr) poets joke abt or just say that all their work is first draft no editing cause then youre stuck either reading it and its bad and youre like "yeah i can tell would it kill you to place more effort in it esp when youve curated your entire online presence around it -_-" or its good and it feels like when popular artists post a half rendered drawing and call it a sketch
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imthatwannabeauthor · 26 days
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I need to walk into the ocean with small open wounds. I need it bad.
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kaicubus · 1 year
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Distraction | Xavier T.
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warnings ✩° : mutual pining, angry(?) confession, teasing, competition, cursing, rivals to lovers, both reader and xavier are 17-18 years old, fluff but also a tad spice.
pairing ✩° : xavier thorpe x fem!reader
premise ✩° :  on the day of the annual poe cup, you're put against your academic rival, xavier thorpe, and you don't want to lose. however, he has other plans of  getting the upper hand with you and knows exactly how to get his way. hes knocking out two birds with one stone, if you will.  
word count ✩° : 3.4k
authors note ✩° : this was done in literally a few hours bc i’m obsessed and it needs to be addressed.
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The rules were simple.
They always have been. Follow what the people in charge told you and don't disappoint. If you disappoint them then you disappoint the whole community and what good are you if you're a disappointment. It was hard not to see school, ground zero for being the best, as a competition. In fact, you thrived working towards a goal of being superior than everyone else; maybe it was due to the fact that no matter what was put in front of you, you could understand it and write it off as done as soon as you wrote your name. However, there were some things you didn't get at times and that frustrated you.
Over the time you’ve known him, it’s been test after test, assignment after assignment, obscure experiment after obscure experiment to prove to this seemingly effortlessly perfect creature that you’re better than him, only for you to miss his mark by one. point.
“Maybe you should think less about being better than me and more about the material, Y/n.” Xavier would say, “But don’t worry, you ALMOST got the same score as me.”
It wasn't his snarky comments or obviously stronger memory than you that made you over the top angry, no, it was the fact that you couldn't understand how he was doing it. Nothing made sense and the feeling of not knowing made looking into his stupid hazel eyes, gazing at his sharp and defined side profile, and wispy long hair all the more annoying. Everything has to have answers. So why did he make your throat tighten every time you spoke to him? Or your face flush with dark shades of pink and red? It had to be anger. There was no other explanation.
All of the rivalry would eventually lead you both up to the annual Poe Cup. A boat race amongst four teams, five members from each house all stuck together on their respective hand crafted boats each representing a different Edgar Allen Poe poem.
You're on The Black Cat team while Xavier’s on The Amontillado team. For a whole week you spend with your team, preparing for the race and to utterly destroy Xavier because this will finally prove to yourself that you’re good at him at something.
“You ready to beat the shit out of Xavier, Y/n?” Your friend who knows your rivalry with the guy smiles at you, “Once WE have that cup he has to realize that all he is to you, is dirt.” She was right.
“Relax, F/n, why ruin my chances with excitement when I can take all of that and shove it in his face at the very end.”
Your other team mate taps you both on your shoulders, “You guys ready? It’s almost time.” With that, you watch everyone file into their boats, Xavier included, and so you and your friend make your way into your own seats. However, just before you adjust your headband on your head, you decide to catch a glimpse of the destined losers on each side of you. Though no one else is important right now other than seeing him, so you give a side eyed glance in Xavier’s direction.
To your surprise, not only is he already looking at you, but, “Is he laughing at me?”
Your friend looks towards Xavier as well and scoffs, “Yeah,” She confirms, “Looks like they all are. Fucking clowns.”
As you chew on the inside of your cheek out of anger, a sudden whistle blows from Ms. Weems accompanied by a large megaphone that amplifies her voice as she speaks.
You can tell out of the corner of your eye that ever since your friend had rudely thrusted her middle finger into the sky for all the jesters to see, Xavier hadn't stopped looking at you. His eyes, laser focused, burned into the side of your head and it only made you more anxious for the race. You bite your lip ever so slightly and fight back the urge to look at him too.
Thankfully, you're saved by a gunshot that explodes into the air and suddenly your team gets pushed into the water.
Of all things, why should you be thinking about Xavier Thorpe and what he has to say or look at you for? All this time, you've convinced yourself that you could care less what he thinks of you. After all, the reason you're trying so hard to be better than him is the very reason that motivates you every day to get up and face him. Otherwise, you'd be locked away in your dorm with nothing to do but attend class and repeat the cycle. In a way, he was your reason to wake up.
“Y/N! Duck!” Your friend suddenly snaps you out of your mechanical like motions of rowing as hard as possible. Wasting no time, you dodge the flying axe coming your way by a hair. “What the hell?! Y/n, focus!”
“I am focused, F/n.”
“No, you're not. You got that lost look in your eyes. Stop thinking about Xavier and maybe pay attention to all the objects being thrown around at us? So you don't die, and most importantly, so we can win this for our hall?”
For the rest of the distance from the starting line to the other end of the lake, you try not to look behind you as looking behind you would only distract you from the prize. All of your team puts in their all in rowing as fast as they can together in sync, each arm pushing at the exact same second as everyone else to really glide through the water. Despite nets being tossed, siren students diving under boats and tipping them over, and very small fire crackers being thrown into other boats, three teams are left remaining to the next stage of the race. Getting the flag.
“Go go go!” F/n pushes you up, “Get the black flag. We’ll be waiting here to look out for anybody.”
Not wanting to waste anymore time, you nod and start sprinting directly into the old, creaky forest. Dry leaves crunch under your feet in threes, making their crinkles the only noise in the entire forest. That’s good, you think, that means no one else came yet. Quickly jumping over logs and rocks, you make your way to the flag destination, only to see that your black flag is missing.
“What the—”
“Hey,” a voice calls out from behind you, “Looking for something?”
The cheesy line doesn't go without an eye roll as you turn around, “Xavier.”
“You don't seem too happy to see me.” Your rival stands with a shit eating grin on his face, comically extenuated with crimson, drippy paint.
You're quick to reply, “I'm not. You took my flag which I need to win this. So hand it over, Thorpe.”
He raises his hands and allows you to charge up to him just close enough so that you're barely touching the tips of his pointed shoes with your jet black boots. “What? Who says I have your flag? I JUST got here in case you hadn't noticed.”
“I actually haven't noticed. Because why would I stop to care about where you are?”
“You seemed to care when we first started.” Xavier leans down and twists his head slightly, just enough for you to be caught off guard and step back, “I saw you looking at me.” His tone makes you shrink back.
Heat rushes to your face in a fleeting panic and almost immediately, your chest twists your rib cage hard enough to squeak out, “I WASN'T LOOKING AT YOU! YOU were looking at ME!”
Xavier raises his brows and chuckles, “I remember differently.”
Of course he has to be cocky now. “Look, Xavier. Just forget this and let me go. Your gross sweat is getting all over me.”
“Oh is that so?”
“YESNOWLETGO.”
He snickers at your flustered nature but decides to go the extra mile and tease you further, “You do realize that we all have to get back, Y/n, its kinda the whole reason why we made it here. Though it looks like its just the two of us.” He turns to both of his sides and then directs his attention back to you, “I’d say we have a little time.”
Again, you emphasize, “WE don't have time. Unlike you, I actually WANT to win. Xavier, I don't know what your deal is or why you're so obsessed with me and making me look like a complete and utter fool, but once I win this for my team, it ends. Do you understand me?”
Xavier exhales deeply, “You know, for someone who’s so high strung and smart, you're really dumb, aren't you?”
“What?”
He steps forward, causing you to back into a tree. You can feel the roughness of the tree bark as it etches its way across the backside of your suit, causing a mildly discomforting feeling that shivers throughout your skin. Before you can move forward, Xavier steps closer, basically eliminating any means of escaping.
“Why am I so obsessed with you? Is that what you think this is? Obsession?”
You look up at him to find his naturally tall stature hunched over to be at eye level with you. Surely, if anyone to walk into the scene, they’d think you two were stopping the competition just to make out. Even though Xavier’s hand is firmly pressed just between your ear and shoulder and he was just over an inch close to you so that your noses are barley touching, it’s not like that at all. Yet, at least.
“That’s what I just asked.” Your eyebrows stitch together bitterly, “Can you not hear, clown? You don’t understand how hard it is for me to watch my reputation die because of you and your perfect grades and your perfect art. What makes you think you can just parade yourself around to be better than me?!” The questions leave a burning sensation in your throat.
“Reputation? Grades? Is that what this is about?”
“YES! Are you DENSE?!”
Instead of matching your violent glower, you watch as the clown leans his head to the side in laughter. His lips parting just enough so you can see his sharp teeth laugh at you too, “Y/n, did you just call me dense? What is that? An insult? At least I’m not the one who always scores lower than me.”
Embarrassment? Anger? Nervousness? Why was his laugh the thing to make you feel weak now? Maybe the first two are theories, but the third is a definite fact. Your eyes are quickly drawn in by his hazel pupils, curious and dilated as they stare back at you. For a moment, the silence between you two isnt filled with hate or rivalry, but peace. That is until he lets out a breathy laugh after getting a good look at your calm face for once.
“Y/n, cat got your tongue? Or do you just not have anything else to say to me other than ‘I hate you’ and ‘stop being better than me’?” He points a finger to your feline head accessory.
"Shut up.” You bark, “Dumb isn’t really a good insult either. You are so full of shit—"
Xavier moves closer, now toe to toe with you and just a breath away from your face.
“God, Y/n, cant you see that I like you? All this time I thought it was so obvious. I mean, how are you going to tell people you're the smartest person in the room when you cant even pick up on subtle hints that basically spell it out for you?” He says, “Or are you too busy to notice anyone other than yourself?”
His words cause your heart to pound once, twice, and before you know it you can’t hear anything but the thumping in your chest and the soft winds surrounding you both. Xavier parts his lips again, determined to give you the answers you've been so desperately searching for. 
“Do you know how fucking exhausting it is to pretend I hate you back, just to have the opportunity to talk to you?” His tone is exasperated and shallow, but he doesn't break eye contact with you, “You seriously thought all those times we got close was because I wanted to be ‘better’ than you in some subject?” Almost like he doesn't believe you, Xavier shakes his head in disapproval, “The only time Ive wanted to prove to you I'm worth something is now.”
His confession only fills your head with more questions, “That doesn't even make any sense! How can you say you didn't actually want to be better than me when that's all you did?” You feel the heat saturate into a dark pink that settles into your cheeks, “And why are you telling me all this now? Why are you so adamant on telling me that you—”
Xavier doesn't even acknowledge your questions, he just continues to hold a burning tension between you and him, focusing only on one thing.
Fuck.
Maybe its the fact hes so close, or that he told you hes liked you all this time, but right now it feels like nothings stopping you from telling him too. It just feels so right.
Before you know it, your mouth opens on its own, your bottom lip trembling for just a second. Xavier’s eyes trail down to your lips, then back into your eyes, and a small smirk pulls the corner of his ivory painted skin up.
Without another second to lose, Xavier tilts even closer than he thought he’d ever be to you and cups your cheek, finding the courage you both need to pull you into an unexpected kiss.
The pastiness of your rival’s white face paint rubs against your dewy skin as the taste of him spreads across your pallet, rough, warm, and agonizingly slow. With a gentle hand, you bunch the back of Xavier’s thin yet airy suit and fall into him, curving just enough so he can extend his hold on you.
Xavier knew that he wanted to touch you. It’s basically been his dream ever since he got close to you and seemingly hurdled himself into being your rival. But he’d never admit that. Or maybe, now he would. Gently, Xavier clasps onto your hips more carefully, securely rubbing his fingers against the skin tight latex uniform you were forced to wear which gives him enough grip to hook his desperate palms onto your body.
You break away for a second, just long enough to look at his face and how mesmerized he is by you and just how fucked you are in this downward spiral of messy feelings and requited love. Love you are much too afraid to commit to. But, Xavier pulls you back into his lips and makes you forget all of your worries, even the one you're supposed to be most worried about. 
The kiss practically captures you for what seems like an eternity, erasing all memory of the Poe Cup and time spent hating Xavier's guts only to now realize that that hate may have been fueled by a painfully simple crush. But you wouldn't admit that either. Though, now there’s no other explanation to the methods behind your madness.
Soon enough, your hands find their rightful place in his long, messy hair, scooting his jester cap off easily. Had you known his hair was this soft before? You always told yourself you didn't care but now it was too hypnotizing not to twirl your fingers in. In fact, it’s practically asking you to grab it and play with it, screaming at you to touch it, touch him.
Xavier’s hips press into yours, giving you the go ahead to adjust your position so that your thigh is comfortably resting atop his hip. The stance feels too natural to be normal, and you're both caught off guard by it. Yet, you continue to taste him and feel him up close without another thought.
Nipping at your bottom lip, you can feel Xavier let out a sigh of relief, as if kissing you has been something on his mind for years. Only half of that could be true. Still, his victory cheer makes you do your own version with a quieter huff.
You give the roots of his hair a tight squeeze before your shoulders relax and another sigh escapes from your now open mouth. The force of his lips smashing against yours pushes you back successfully, leaving each part of your body to surrender to his. For once, you let it and as much as you hate to admit it, whatever he was doing was working.
When he finally pulls away, your breath is harsh and so is his. No matter how hard you could try, looking away from his hazy eyes was not an option. Just like the fog around you both, his gaze is inescapable and suffocating. You knew kissing your rival was a bad idea, but neither one of you want to move your hands from their proper places on each other.
Just then, a distant voice calls out to Xavier that snaps you out of your absentmindedness. “Shit,” Xavier curses softly against your lips, “Thanks for that Y/n,” he pulls away, much to your hidden displeasure, “But...I have a cup to win.”
Suddenly, it all comes hurdling back.
“FUCK! THE RACE!” You tear yourself away from Xavier, breaking the warmth between you both, and scramble to find your flag, “YOU CONNIVING SON OF A BITCH. YOU DISTRACTED ME!”
“I hope you don't mind but I actually sort of hid it.” He grins slyly at you, straightening his suit with a swift rub on his chest, “No rules, remember?” He pulls out a flag from behind him and snickers. Has he had that this entire time?
A flash of surging anger fumes inside of your chest, but Xavier just smiles. In his mind, it’s almost laughable how you fell for his devious yet successful confession slash plan. It was too good to pass up. And judging by the sour pout on your face, it worked!
“Y/n,” He chirps, “Was I a good distraction?” He can’t help but ask.
You avoid his gaze and turn your head to other possible directions your flag can be in, “You're the worst, Xavier.”
He runs a hand through his brown hair and smooths it down, “Right, right. You hate me. But I got you pretty good, didn’t I?” He picks up his jester cap and lazily smashes it onto the top of his head, “I'm gonna go, but, you should totally meet me in my dorm tonight? At 8?”
He makes his hasty exit before you can reply, leaving you breathless and weak in the knees—mostly tight fisted and furious, but still, weak in the knees.
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“So, Y/n. Do you want to explain why you...left for so long..?” Your teammate asks, kind of scared to ask in the first place but confusion was eating her alive. How fitting.
Instead of answering, you reply with strong and swift robotic motions that quickly thunk your boat along the shore line, taking a good chunk out of the grass and soil. Unfortunately, half way through your synchronized rowing, some water kicked up into the boat and soaked your costume. You didn't care though. All you wanted was Xavier.
And his head on a stick.
Sounds of congratulatory cheers erupt from the crowd as Xavier and the rest of his jester-like teammates hold up the Poe Cup trophy together.
“Bitch.” Is all you can say when all your other teammates wash up next to you, sad, defeated, and soaked with murky lake water.
“Well get them next time, Y/n. Don’t be so hard on yourself!” Your friend smiles happily.
Yeah. Tonight.
7K notes · View notes
emprexxluxaic · 24 days
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PICK A CARD: THINGS THAT PEOPLE FIND ATTRACTIVE ABOUT YOU.
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⠀ׅ ♡⠀࣪ emprexxluxaic ⸺ your angel ׅ ࣪ 𝅄
note: after a long time, I finally have a courage to do a reading for all of you. I hope your doing great mi amor and please do enjoy this another reading for you 🤍
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PILE ONE
first thing is your body figure, through the way you stand. you might be in the taller side for most or whenever you walk it's like reminding them a model in a runaway or just have a nice pair of legs or it is just simply long. it also feel that you have a nice taste in fashion, you may love fashion and different hair colors— a rainbow hair color can be best and find it good for you. ² I see that you take a great amount of effort to look nice and presentable for other people, they like how you look good and as well as how you look neat and clean in your appearance. if you ever have a back tattoo they also love it, they love seeing it cuz it may have a nice design or meaning. I hear that you make tie your hair in ponytail style and people find it attractive specially for woman. some here are good at letting go and cutting of people who causes chaos and heartache in your life, people find it attractive cuz not all has the ability to cut ties in a person who you got attached and have bond too. it could significantly define that you were good at dealing problems or any negative emotions of people giving them such an advice which can bring a huge factor in you towards the other. you could be also a future oriented, you like to keep in track about your plans but doesn't tell most of the people unless you trust them will of your heart. great hands is what I'm hearing, it not you love to write things that need to be done or your just good at calligraphy. in social, I feel you were may often alone but doesn't mean you were lonely, you just enjoy your life alone which other do like and adore in you. you take a pride in being alone is important in you so it brings you to realization of what are your thoughts and are you and all.
extra message: forest, boots, good shape of nails, journals, a cat, orange, near water, beaches, carving, meditating, walking around and alone, enjoying movies.
﹏ ✿𝆬  like, reblog & follow mi amor ⬞ ࣪ ࿀
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PILE TWO
these amazing amount of people love hearing your thoughts and voice, you can be a great singer, has a hobby of singing or just great speaker and advisor for people. for what I am seeing, they find it attractive in your eyelashes — natural or not, probably it suited for you. you were positive and it spread to people which brings light and love, you could be a happy person as well. I don't know why but they love it when you close your eyes or while you fell sleep cuz you look good or cute for them. I feel as well that they find it attractive in way of your sitting — your back is straight or it define elegance and for some you seat in such a boyish way I guess. You have a nice shape of body or they find it attractive how you love your body figure, for most it is a bikini body. you might be someone interested in journal or writing down your thoughts. they find it alluring when you take a pride in your art cuz it likes you make efforts in creating them or it makes them feel awe cuz it was cute or something. they also think that you have a nice hair, how the curl define your own face or how long your hair was. like I said you can be a singer not just that but also a good music taste or you actually create music, you may write poems and actually quite good at it. your soft hearted self bring impact to others, they love how good you are to people.
extra messages: heavenly beauty, flowers, rainbow, heart to heart conversation, able to see what is good and bad in people, hands are pretty, positive in body, flower hair clips, thighs tattoo.
﹏ ✿𝆬  like, reblog & follow mi amor ⬞ ࣪ ࿀
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PILE THREE
They feel attracted to you when you wear things or clothes that has lavender/ purple with it. It suited your skin color or they just love how best you look in that color— they may think that your favorite color is purple. You could have have dark long hair— this could be resonate with for most or you enjoy dying your hair in different shades. I could hear that it feels they find it attractive in how you dance whether it just for fun or something— probably they love it how you make face while dancing in to beats of rhythm. You too as well may have a nice foot or nails, maybe it is well shave or your foot nails are pretty— all in all they just love staring at it. If you ever good at cooking or creating dishes they also find it attractive, like how does it possible you got the chef's hands on you. Big butts as I guess, wearing tight shorts or pants, you got a nice ass I think. If happened your butt aren't that big, they feel attracted about your hips or how your waist probably whatever size you are, you got curves. I feel that you can be a soft spoken , how feminine you are or how you show kindness and gratitude towards people. You may also has a habit of resting your hand in your chest when you do it they feel comfort and you are honest in what are you saying to them.
extra message: mermaid curls, diving or swimming, hands on waist, good at massaging, nice pair of hand, inner beauty.
﹏ ✿𝆬  like, reblog & follow mi amor ⬞ ࣪ ࿀
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529 notes · View notes
irndad · 11 months
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in every other life- s.r.
a/n: my soul is in this mf fic. there's a lil sexual tension lol! this is a behemoth of pining. so much fucking pining. this guy needs you like air wtf!! ALSO the poem is from a book, the lover's dictionary by david levithan. summary: the love of spencer's life is also his best friend, and she goes on a few dates. he does not handle it well, internally. ft. metaphysics by our dear genius boy. wc: 3.3k (holy shit)
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While he recognizes that no direct injustice has actually been done to him, he can’t help but feel that it’s so unfair. 
Because Spencer had never actually wanted much of anyone, actually. He was too much of a child through his entire education, and he’d found anyone that he’d even consider had almost instantly had dismissed him. He’d grown used to a life where companionship wasn’t a desire that crossed his mind. 
But he wanted her. 
His lovely friend, his coworker, who was the kind of lovely that it feels unfair you’d ever have to take your eyes off of. She’s the best person he’s ever met, the sort of wonderful you read about but never convince yourself you’ll ever see. He knows the shape of her, has her form memorized from watching, waiting for her to step into the office every day.  
It was only a matter of time until he wasn’t the only one with his eye on her. 
She’s actually absurdly easy to want. There’s nights where they watch something, often what he picked, Doctor Who or some other science fiction which would be great if he could focus on anything but her. Her warm disposition ruminating his too-small apartment with a kind of light that follows his every movement. He’d adore her even if she wasn’t, but it’s impossible to ignore how beautiful she is- the kind of pretty that you hardly expect to see in real life. 
“Hey you,” her so-sweet voice is what breaks him out of his daydreaming, and he looks up at her lovely face smiling down at him. Fondness seeps through her tone, and it’s everything he can do not to preen that her first thought at seeing him is one of pleasure. 
“Hey back,” he says, greeting her with a warm grin of his own. “How was your weekend?”
It’s a calculated question. 
She had canceled their weekly movie night. He’d tried not to look too disappointed, like the idea of her next to him on his couch, of her nimble fingers raking through his unkempt hair while something nice, but far less wonderful than his company played in the background wasn’t all that was keeping him going. These days, and he knows it’s likely delusion, that she sometimes seems to gaze back at him with a similar sort of desperation, hooded eyes and tenderness. 
It’s a liminal space, those nights. How can people be two things at once? You cannot be both in love and not. In the low-light of his place, under his blanket- it’s like Schrodinger’s experiment. She can’t love him like a friend and more at the same time- it resists the laws of physics. She is his best friend, a fact he knows as sure as gravity and the elements, and believing anymore than that- it’s asserting an impossibility. 
When they’re alone together, though. It seems like the impossible exists. 
But she’d canceled it, something she hadn’t done for the months they’d been engaging in their little tradition. So there had to be a reason. She sits next to him, her desk next to his. 
She looks a little disheveled, only in an adorable way- but a little like she’s been busy, like her flow is disrupted.
“It was good! I finally went out with that guy Penelope’s been begging me to let her set me up with.”
It’s all that he can do not to freeze up. 
Penelope has been trying to get her to go out with her friend Ben, which Spencer thinks is a stupid name, by the way, and secretly he’d been so, so pleased when she had brushed off the invite. It’s a dangerous thing, hope. He tries not to have too much of it, tries to savor the thought of her, of more for moments of particular vulnerability. It’s treacherous, to want her the way he does. He knows he can’t let himself feel it all the way. 
And logistically- romance is not a reason for a valid reason for him to be panicking the way he is, but all he can think about is the physics. Two opposite things cannot be true at the same time. 
“You know, studies suggest that even now, the majority of couples are meeting in person or through friends over any other medium.” 
It hurts to say. She’s part of a couple, one half a whole that he doesn’t complete. 
“Seriously? I’d have thought it’d changed by now. I guess it’s safer to date someone you know.”
She’d date someone she knew? Is that what she prefers? 
“How did it go?” He hears Emily ask, and this conversation is already the bane of his existence.
“Guys, it really wasn’t a big deal! We got dinner, it was just a little thing.”
Spencer isn’t experienced in dating, but he does know that dinner is a serious date. Coffee is a smaller thing, but dinner-
Dinner means she got pretty for him. Probably picked out a dress for the evening, spent time on a carefully manicured look. Spent hours of her precious, rare, time on him. 
It’s not fair how much he fucking hates this guy. 
“Dinner is not nothing!” Penelope squeals, and he would love to share in her excitement, except it kind of feels like a piece of his heart is being shredded. 
“Dinner means coming up to my place, have coffee, oh look who doesn’t have her hair done-“
Please kill me, he thinks. Please. 
“Oh, that definitely did not happen.”
Thank god. 
Except he can’t miss her flush, how her expression shifts- and he has the sickening feeling he’d be hearing that guy’s name again. 
When they all settle around the table, her doe eyes focused on gruesome images that were the exact antithesis of her spirit, he couldn’t help but feel that even if it hurt, there was finality. 
The cat was out of the box. Two things cannot be true at once, and so only one is- she does not love him, at least not the way he does. 
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Ben, is not in fact, going away. 
If he had more willpower or self-preservation, Spencer would keep his distance from her, but the truth of it is that as much as he wants to be the person she turns to, her smile is most of why he can stand his job anymore. 
It’s a Tuesday, and everyone is grumbling about being pulled in early in the morning, but he’s just happy to have a reason to leave the house.
“Spence!” He hears her excited voice carry, the pretty sound picking his ears up at once. “I got you coffee. It’s hazelnut, and it’s like, 90% sugar. You’re gonna love it.”
She beams at him, and he takes it in his hands. Their hands brush, and he tries so hard not to notice how soft her hands are. Her name is on the cup, and an unconsenting fantasy of her name meaning that he’s hers creeps into his mind before he can bat it away.  
But her cup says Ben. 
“Thanks,” he says her name, tries to sound measured and friendly. “Coffee date?”
She preens, and god, if this guy doesn’t get how lucky he is it might be thing thing that actually sends him over the edge after all these years.
“Just a quick thing, we were just in the same place and he bought me a coffee, I’d already gotten yours.”
If there’s two roles he can fill and he doesn’t get to pick, if he’s stuck with friends, he’s gonna be great at it, and he’s gonna be grateful. Because knowing her is a grace in itself, the kind of thing you should could yourself so lucky to have. 
“He sounds like a great guy,” he hears himself say, “I’m glad you’re doing this.”
It’s the right thing to say. He’s sure of it. The thing he’s not sure of is why the smile she offers him doesn’t reach her eyes. 
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The next time he notices the cracks in their relationship, it’s when they’re out. She’d suggested this bookstore-cafe kind of thing, and he’d jumped at the thought, all of his favorite things in one afternoon. He’d felt foolish spending so much time picking out his outfit out, wearing the blazer she’d once complimented-he’d actually stuttered so hard in thanks that Morgan laughed for a full minute when she left the room- but she always looked beautiful, and he knows he sometimes pales in comparison. 
“Oh, I love this one!” She thumbs over the spine of a thin book of poetry. She’s wearing a forest green sweater that hugs her frame, and a bracelet hangs on her delicate wrist. He loves looking at her, though he tries to conceal it. His goal of being a supportive friend includes trying not to make it that known how gone for her he is. 
“I don’t read too much poetry,” he admits, “But I’m sure you have excellent taste.” 
Her keen eyes skim through the pages intently, clearly seeking out a specific passage before stopping, gaze alight with recognition. 
Her tone is molasses-sweet when she begins reading, and his heart skips a beat.
“When I say be my lover,” her voice hitches, reverent of the quote and he is reverent of her, “ I don’t mean ‘let’s have an affair. I don’t mean Sleep with me. I don’t mean Be my secret. I want us to go back to that root. I want you to be the one who loves me. I want to be the one who loves you.”
It feels impossible to look away from her, doe eyes practically sparkling in the low light of the shop, and there it is. His heart’s in his throat. Of all the things you could have told Spencer he’d experience, hearing her lovely voice wrap around the words be my lover in hushed tone, in sacred sweetness, would never ever be one he’d guess. 
He’s not sure how he feels about the multiverse theory, but right now, he can feel all the versions of himself pressing right up against him. Can see into lives he doesn’t get to live, lifetimes where his love isn’t a buried, worn-out tattered thing to keep his ever-frigid chest warm. Versions of himself that in this very moment can smile back at her, warm and open and kind, and kiss her perfect smile. 
Because he would be her lover. He would come home to her, spend the rest of his life building a home that she could fit  into. It’d be easy, actually. She’s easy to imagine- nights of laughing in a shared kitchen, evenings where her company is a fine wine, sipped at leisure with the comfort of knowing it’s never going to slip from your grasp. 
“I like that,” he says, voice too vulnerable for his own good, eyes unable to tear from the eye contact. “I really like that.” 
In the root of it, he already is her lover. He is the one who loves her. She’s just not his. 
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It comes to a head on a Friday. It’s a few weeks from he book shop, and the air feels heavier between them now. The last handful of Fridays he’s sat with the ghost of what used to be their plans, empty time lingering where in its’ place used to be her company. 
He doesn’t know if she’s been with Ben. He tries not to think about it. 
The sound of her voice lingers in his mind, sweet and bitter in his mind like old lemon candy, the kind his mother would save for special occasions. He’d spend any amount of money he had to hear her lovely voice say those words to him out of the context of a poem. 
At work, they seem almost normal. Like one of them wasn’t desperately in love with the other; like a genius and his lovely, incredibly empathetic, kind best friend. In the field, their actions flow together seamlessly. She is always the first to listen and to understand (and god, isn’t it intoxicating to have someone meet you in understanding) and there is nothing to suspect is off.
But there’s still a cloud lingering. The poem- the soft melody of her voice curling around the words, the request of it all, the way she had sounded so wanting- and then, there’s Ben. 
She doesn’t mention Ben to him, of course, but Penelope does. Penelope, all bows and bright colors and cheeriness keeps bringing the absolute worst news to Spencer with a smile on her face. 
He’s taking her out for drinks! Oh, he’s reading her favorite book, do you know what it is?
This anger isn’t an emotion that he’s familiar with. A roar of possessiveness, the bite of it not tempered at all by rationality. Has he touched her?
It seems almost a tradition at this point when she shakes him out of his jealous storm of thought.
“Spence?” she muses, “You alright?” They’re alone at his desk, everyone having fled for their own evening and weekend plans. This was one of the Fridays that she had agreed to spend with him, and he wonders if he’ll be able to handle the scent of her shampoo so close after such a lapse of the sensation. Will all of his judgement go where he can’t follow?
“Yeah,” he says, tucking his papers into his bag, “I’m excited for tonight.”
His place is actually a short walk from the office. He’d been embarrassed to show her the place at first. It’s all function over fashion, and a bit cramped, but she’d looked at as though it was made of something more, something good. She didn’t even tease him. It had actually been her idea, to start these movie nights. 
Ironic, really. 
The walk was pleasant, the weather a little frigid but still nice, and she looks beautiful under the setting sun. It’s incredible to him, how her lashes catch the light and make her irises look like polished stained glass. His favorite color. Through the looking glass of another life, he sees a version of himself that gathers her up in his arms. In this daydream, she grants him one of her smiles that seems to carry its’ own light, and leans into his body like it’s the only thing that keeps her steady. It’s so clear. On the other side of the veil, he kisses her reddening nose, and keeps her warm himself. 
In the here and now, Her coat is long, and hangs low by her ankles. It’s an elegant thing, like the woman who wears it, and Spencer would be grateful for a lifetime of just looking.They stop in front of his door, some invisible force stopping him from entering. 
She sheds the coat inside his home. It smells like the candle she got him for his birthday, a reminder of her grace. He’s saved a bottle of wine for them, a sweet thing for the sweetest thing he’s known. 
“I’m sorry,” she speaks the warmth of the beverage on her tongue, and it should feel abrupt but it doesn’t.
“What for?” He can’t imagine what she would have to apologize for. 
“I know things have been…off between us,” she says carefully, considering the phrasing of each word. He watches her with a reverence, his hazel eye brimming with affection with nowhere to go. “You’ve been so great through it.”
Her legs are thrown across his own, and she’s dangerously close to sitting in his lap, but not exactly. He’s missed having her this close, the last time she’d been in his orbit was before she’d had reason to be gone. She smells floral. He fights With limited filtering through his already treacherous mind he thinks, He can’t take this from me. I still get her like this. 
“I’m not entirely sure what it is.” 
She slowly shuts her eyes, go for a moment to somewhere he can’t follow. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold. 
“This whole Ben thing.”
“Oh.”
Logically, it always had to come back to this. Someone else had the good fortune to know her like this, to be the person she reads poetry to in deep meaning to. 
He’s been stealing moments from someone who’s not his to take them from. 
“I don’t even know how I wanted you to react.” she murmurs, staring at the rim of her glass. 
“I just want you to be happy” His voice is something low, grit in the sound of it. His hand rests on her thigh. There’s warmth blanketing the room and he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her all the time. 
She laughs, but it’s not her normal laugh. It’s tinny and a little bitter. He pushes his luck, and reaches out to brush the side of her face, moving the hair but still holding her face. Her breath smells like strawberry wine and temptation. 
It feels different tonight. Low light and tension that could be sliced with wire. Every part of her is in reach, and something in the air makes all of this talk of relativity, of physics, moot. 
Like maybe he’s not in the only world they don’t end up together. 
Her face is warm and soft under his touch and he loves the sight of her. He’s never touched her like this. Every point of contact feels electric, addicting. 
“What is it? The Ben thing?” He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to hear. What he wants, is for her to tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore, that she picks him-
“I only went out with him the once.”
“What?”
“I told Penelope I was still going because it made her happy and she said I couldn’t keep going to your apartment and reading you poetry and call that romance.”
Romance? 
Wasn’t it romance, though? 
Her eyes widen in something akin to horror. 
“Shit, Spence- I’m sorry, that is so fucked of me to say-“
“You,” he tries to say calmly, “aren’t going out with Ben.”
She blinks. 
“No?”
He has spent so much time living in other lives, existing in the minds of versions of himself he wasn’t lucky enough to be. Drinking coffee imagine a life colored in her presence, falling asleep yearning for the presence of something lighter than what he has to carry. 
He can’t exist in two places. That was the entire basis of the experiment. 
He moves his other hand to hold hers, and somehow she’s shifted to being on top of him, and he looks up at her with unwavering desire. 
Spencer isn’t good at wanting people, but it comes naturally with her. Less of an action and more an urge, a course of motion to which he is at the mercy of. This is what leads him to close the gap between them, and kiss her. It’s 
Her delicate fingers run through his hair, and she can’t be close enough, please, and he could spend the rest of his life kissing her, actually. He probably will spend the rest of his life thinking about the soft sigh he pulls out of her. 
“I want it to be me,” he manages to say through shallow breath, still so close that his lips brush hers every other word, “I want to be the one you pick. I want it to be me.” His hazel eyes seem to shift in the moment, swirling with emotion. 
She brushes a lock of his overgrown hair out of his face. He normally shaves when he sees her, but he’d been so busy that he’d forgotten, and felt embarrassed of it now. That is, until she runs her index finger along the edge of his jawline.
It’s then she leans down and kisses him again, pliant and good, his hands around her waist. He breathes a prayer into her mouth, one that hopes that she never ever comes to her senses about him. 
“Spence,” she says, her voice golden silk, a kindness.  “There was never anyone else to pick.” 
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ilycosy · 3 months
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❝ DO YOU MIND ? ❞ | LUKE CASTELLAN
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pairing : luke castellan x child of calliope!reader
summary — being the child of the mother of all muses, you're used to affections. boys and girls flock to you like you're a sweet, lovely thing, but they soon drop it when they realize that you're nothing like a muse. what happens if the camps precious, golden boy starts talking to you?
warnings : reader is a little toxic under their politeness, reader is also described to be feminine but there's no specific prns! luke is also kind of obsessive? he wants reader so bad.. not proofread (that's for babies /j)
aノn — i haven't written in a long time so bare with me, nor have i written for the pjo fandom ever (though ive been in it for a while..) this is also vv self indulgent (daughter of calliope here <3) so sorry if this isn't relatable ♡ lowercase intentional :)
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being the child of the mother of muses has always been annoying— you've never had a break to just be. whether it be people chasing after you, or people who envy the attention you attract. there was always something, which you resented extremely.
if people were asked about you, they'd have only good things to say. you're beautiful, lovely, polite; but not a muse. it sometimes got annoying that it mattered so much to people, having others constantly talk about how you were never romantic.
you seemed to be uncomfortable with it at the very least, very few felt the resentment you held for love. those few could never confirm it though, having you reassure them that you're just a private person. ("there's no need for grand things, dear. i love you without such things." you'd say, through gritted teeth.) which is what might have drew luke castellan to you.
he saw through the politeness, observing you almost ever since you got claimed. he can picture when you got claimed, your embarrassed smile when an apollo girl had written a song for you. publicly performing it, you had lit up; literally. you were fifteen then— nothings changed in these past years.
luke can't remember all the times you've been confessed to, having songs, poems, even paintings done of you for your affection. but he can remember all the times he watched your facade crack; the way your smile stretched too wide to be real, your eyes dimming when you realized it was just another confession, or how you seemed to never interact with aphrodite boys anymore.
he finds it amusing mostly, how could such a pretty thing resent something people would kill for? either way, he finds himself being drawn in like you're a siren. the way your eyes darken at the mention of your mother, how you reapply gloss whenever you're nervous— he could go on really.
"are you going to eat that?" he finds himself asking you before he can stop himself, pointing at the yogurt bowl right next to your plate. he has half a mind to make sure he doesn't clam up when you look up at him, fluttering your lashes.
you gently push the bowl towards him, continuing on your morning like the best swordsman in the camp isn't talking to you. he pauses for a moment, licking his lips as he thinks of a reason to prolong this conversation.
fate seems to be on his side though— his brother, chris, being to busy talking to clarisse to even glance his way. he sits down, looking across from you as he eats the yogurt. he almost forgets that staring is rude.
"do you mind?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him as you take a bite out of your crossiant. somewhat annoyed by the curly haired boy, your leg bounces steadily. "do i mind what?" he asks, like he's stupid— for some reason, you can't help but let your annoyance take over.
"why are you here," you start, pointing at the empty table. void of friends, you always sit alone until somebody claims they're in love with you. "you usually sit with your brothers and annabeth."
he shrugs at your questioning, not being able to find it in himself to hold back a teasing remark. "you know where i usually sit?" he asks with a small small, but the glint in his eyes show a certain smugness that gets under your skin.
you smile back at him, stretched too far and there's a bite in your voice hidden under honeyed words. "bye castellan," you croon sweetly. "hope you find your way back to your seat!" is all you give him, a morsel of fake attention that sends him reeling.
the next day, you wake up a bit later than normal. rising from your bunk around nine means you've missed breakfast, a deep feeling of anger surges through your core in a flash before you stretch and get dressed for the day.
when you leave the hermes cabin, you're stopped by a familiar figure. tall, brown hair, and a stupid smug grin. "hey angel," luke almost sings with how pleased he sounds with himself. "i have a presant!"
he reveals a crossiant and cold coffee, the faint warmth of the once fresh crossiant eases the deep feeling in your core even more though the coffee makes you want to vomit. "i don't like coffee." you state, taking a bite of the baked good. "but thank you, castellan."
he barely has time to respond with a you're welcome or an im sorry before you're smiling, too wide for his liking, and walking away. he debates following you, trying to talk to you like he's desperate for a friend. but he decides against it, wondering how to keep a conversation going with somebody that hates being sought after.
a week passes of the same routine— luke catching you at odd moments during the day, offering you little things to keep you around for a moment longer. you find it annoying, but keep a pleasant attitude anyways, it certainly helps that he's not bad to look at.
a small rumor spreads through camp, luke castellan having a crush. it barely takes the day for people to speculate that it's you.
it almost disappoints you, not having expected the camps favorite to fall so easily— doesn't he have any other girls? you debate on telling him that you're not open for relationships right now, having been in so many already, you could very easily blame any one of your exes.
but you don't have the chance to reject him the next time you see him because he's talking already, smiling at you like you'd fall so easily. "do you wanna help plan an activity with me?" he asks, offering you a delicious smelling tea.
"why would you want me to do that?" you question him, almost allowing yourself to have a genuine lazy smile but you just force a docile confused tilt. you sip on the tea, the once tart raspberries are now sweet in the tea mixing with a hibiscus flavor.
you're too busy drinking to notice him begin talking, he's mid laugh when you tune in. "— maybe you could help with setting up the theater?" he suggests, you pretend like you know how you got into a full conversation with him by subtly trying to exit it.
"why not have the apollo counselor help?" you say sweetly, setting the tea down and turning your full attention onto him. he feels sick to his stomach at how you look at him, soft features with a sugared tone. your eyes look at him like he's below you, like he's a nuisance, and for some reason that might be his favorite part.
he searches your face for a moment, glancing at your cold eyes before he chuckles. "maybe i want to spend time with you," he smiles like a cat, curling on his face with a pride that shouldn't make you as heated as it does. "i think you want to spend time with me too, yeah?"
you almost roll your eyes at his suggestion, but unable to squeeze out of this one without being mean, you agree to help him.
it only takes a couple weeks to fix up the theater due to the lack of counselors wanting to help, so it's safe for the younger kids to have a play— after that, it's back to the apollo children to plan. you sit back on the stage floor, sipping on a water bottle as you bask in the cold dusk breeze. "do you mind?"
a voice speaks from behind you, rasping slightly. you don't even have to look to know who it is, "no, castellan." you say, because you can't think of a reason for why you would mind.
luke sits himself down next to you, his knee brushing yours as he looks down at your water with a stare that could only be described at halfway pathetic and endearing. "here," you say, handing him the bottle. "i don't need you to die of dehydration on me."
he takes it gratefully, drinking it almost empty in three big gulps that make you roll your eyes with a small scoff. "did you just scoff?" he questions, an odd excitement in his voice.
you quickly try to deny it, hands coming up to animate how you didn't scoff or anything of the sort. but he already has a grin like he's drunk of the noise, "you definitely scoffed! that was so funny," he says with a loud laugh that makes you shush him, afraid of other campers hearing.
"i don't know why you hide that." he mumbles on your hand, fighting the temptation to lick it so you release him. those thoughts subside when your pretty eyes look up at him in confusion, "your annoyance." he clarifies.
"im not annoyed," you say, a bit defensively as you pull your hand away from him. "bit rude of you to say that, castellan."
he rolls his eyes in response, one of his arms coming behind you to rest on the stage. you can feel the ghost of it barely grazing you, "you're definitely annoyed," he says matter-of-factly. "you're almost always annoyed, or angry."
you fight back a scoff, but then give up. rolling your eyes you turn to him, searching his face for how he noticed, why he's doing this— but you come up with nothing. "why do you care?" you almost snap at him, drumming your fingers on your knee.
"i don't," he says like it's obvious. "im the same way." there's a beat after he says it, a silence that seems more comfortable than awkward like it should be. admitting his anger to you felt like a breath of fresh air, because he knew you'd understand him.
you bite your bottom lip, turning to face him. "that hatred," you start, almost in disbelief that you finally have the opportunity to talk about this. "it doesn't go away huh?" the question is phrased more like a statement, barely asking for confirmation.
he nods, not speaking as he watches you. there was no need for an explanation on what the hatred was, he knew as soon as you began talking. the gift from your mother was never really a gift to you, a burden of what it means to be a demigod is all it was.
you never knew what was genuine, or what was your mothers doing. but you felt a sense of ease with the hermes boy, nothing like all your previous relationships. "do you think it's bad," you mumble, almost ashamed.
"do you think it's bad that we feel this way?"
your question is softly spoken, genuinely interested in his opinion. he feels himself almost feel guilty for you, but he can't lie. "no," he wraps an arm around your waist. gently bringing you closer. "i think we might be the only ones in the right."
he says it with such confidence, a lack of guilt or unease in his voice that it makes you smile. not a sweet one, but a prideful one. one that could reflect the pride of a god, finally validation for the deep seated resentment that almost quenches that thirst for revenge.
minutes of silence pass by, the sun fully set as you lean your head on his shoulder. inhaling the pine and deep smell of his cologne, you hum. "are the rumors 'round camp true?" you ask.
he feels a small blush creep up his neck and ears, spreading across his face as he realizes that you heard about those. he never meant for his half-brothers to over hear a private conversation (said private conversation was in the bathroom, luke washing his hands while chris talked loudly about how he could get clarisse to go on a double date if he'd just ask you out already.)
"uh," he laughs awkwardly, his fingers drumming on the soft skin of your waist. "do you mind?"
you can't help the small smile that spreads across your face, "no." is all you need to say before his wet lips are on yours. hungry and desperate for your attention, which you give him without another thought.
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