#as always.. blue eyes (disparaging)

[sleepynegress]

*sigh* Featurism...

So, I woke up to this shit on the Twit app and I've only hit on this issue before, but today I'm digging in. Colorism is something that is not addressed often enough, but intersected within that and even more rarely spoken about, is the issue of featurism. The young actress above just got cast as Juliet in the latest big staged prestige production of Romeo and Juliet, opposite Tom Holland. And as usual the blue-checks, everybody else including "black", and even Black regulars are all-in on the cruelty.

...But I want to breakdown a nuance that is too often skipped over when this happens. The two people named with her, give away the featurism game, here; a particularly nasty form of often internalized racism. I guarantee if the young actress looked like this?

She'd definitely still get racist attacks, but the particularly nasty shit I'm seeing attacking her looks wouldn't come. In fact, I could see some people thinking they are defending her with "but she's pretty!" or more specific... "obviously she's mixed" comments. -Something pretty much every Black woman with features that don't align with a narrow perception of blackness hear often (and we'll get to why I specified women in a minute). And don't get it twisted...

These aren't exclusively nor standard white features either (see: the many ethnic features w/in white ethnic groups that also get hit to a lesser and non-racialized degree such as large "hook" and/or Romanesque noses for example, which is definitely about anti-semitism, anti-Romani sentiment, and other disparaged/discriminated against ethnic minorities in Europe) and yes, blue eyes are naturally occurring within non-mixed and dark-skinned Black people due to a mutation called Waardenburg syndrome. But there is a REASON why fetishizing even certain ethnic features within the African continental diaspora has been a thing for a long time...i.e. "the dopest Ethiopian" from the Tribe Called Quest lyric is pictured as this:

and this:

and not this:

...despite them all being Ethiopians of various tribal ethnicities.

A wide-nose, a tighter curl, coil, or zig-zag pattern of hair, fuller lips and often, but not always (because I've given examples above where features "mitigate" skin color) darker skin. Zendaya is grouped with Tracey and Francesca Amewudah-Rivers, despite being both lighter in skin color and having a Black parent and a white parent because her nose isn't what has become the standard surgical look...that too many celebs have. This includes the ones who got so-called "ethnic" work or just a slight 'refinement'. No, her nose is born w/it, made for that good African air, as I call it. Nostrils prominent, nose bridge wide:

I went make-up free as well, because even make-up practices these days, go for that narrowing highlight technique i.e. just below it's subtle.

Sza is a an example of it taken to extremes, even with the Hollywood standard "ethnic" refinement she did get.

The thing is... I don't blame or attack her for that. Because you see above that is just a taste of what happens. Lil' Kim was relentlessly bullied by the men in her life for her ethnic features for her whole life...and that is why she is off-limits to this day for me when it comes to all the work she's had done.

...And this is where I explain why I specified men being mostly exempt. It's because "Blackness" including all the physical features associated with it, is by default masculinized. ...Which is why Idris Elba is considered one of the most handsome men in the world, w/o the caveats that even Lupita Nyong'o often gets. Nobody calls Samuel L. Jackson ugly. He is even idolized and fetishized by a specifically white male gaze for how culturally "Black" he is perceived to be for all the wrong reasons, his signature "motherfucka" for example (and I could go off on a whole other tangent here, but digressing). All this to say... Featurism sucks. It's not talked about enough. Blackness in all variations is Beautiful. Tracy Chapman looking as young she does?? Hell, mark it down to both her dark skin (a natural UV protector) and not messing with her given features (and being a lesbian, men will age you. lol -I got jokes-):

P.S. THANK GOODNESS for Tems and her rising prominence as a beauty as well:

P.P.S. Even Jay-Z the billionaire rapper has had the comments over the years about his lips and nose, hence that lyric in Beyonce's Formation.

#featurism #I only just scratched the surface #but man this shit needed to be scratched #colorism #racism #meta #tom holland #romeo and juliet #tracy chapman #lil kim #tems #jay z #sza #zendaya #francesca amewudah-rivers #francesca amewudah rivers

[theflowerofhumanity]

Razor Valentine

It all began after an incident just outside the Bridge that sent one man to the morgue and sent Spock to Sickbay. The Vulcan the first officer of the ISS Enterprise didn’t spend much time there. He rarely needed medical attention, not only because he was tall, strong, and intimidating on his own but also because he, like the captain, was usually accompanied by his personal guard. In this case, he’d been attacked from an angle and so failed to unsheathe his own dagger in time to avoid having his upper arm gashed by his attacker. He had debated on the necessity of visiting Sickbay at all after dispatching the man. The last thing Spock wanted to do was spend any time around that drunken butcher McCoy, especially since he always had something disparaging to say about Vulcans. But the bandage he’d wrapped around his arm quickly became saturated, green blood oozing down his sleeve and onto the floor, so it was with some reluctance he made his way to McCoy’s lair.

Happily, the doctor hadn’t been there at all. The sharp-tongued head nurse had taken charge in his stead. You would have thought, to Spock’s slight amusement, that she was the superior officer the way she ordered him to “strip” and to “sit down on the damn bed”. I don’t care what happened, and I’m not going to ask, she’d told him. In fewer than sixty seconds, she had staunched the bleeding and rebandaged his wound much more competently and securely than he had.

Spock spent that brief time considering Christine Chapel. The way her platinum-blonde hair curled subtly around her chin framed her long features perfectly. He had a very un-Vulcanlike preference for blonde, human women, and there were plenty such women aboard if he wanted to admire one from afar...or, more improbably, take one as his lover. Until now, however, he could count the number of encounters he’d had with this blonde crewman on one hand. He rarely had any reason to be here, and he avoided interacting with McCoy whenever possible. Her work in Sickbay likewise kept her quite busy. There was always someone who needed to be metaphorically stitched up and sent back into the violent world that was the Enterprise. In short, their paths seldom crossed.

Something about the curiosity and low-level, thrumming excitement he’d felt when Christine Chapel’s fingers skimmed against his skin made him take particular notice now. He had remained seated on the bed for a few more moments after she had dismissed him. His deep-set brown eyes met her crystalline blue ones as she said, “Well, are you waiting for an official discharge, Commander? I’d advise you to leave while you can.”

Flexing his wounded arm, he picked up his stained and discarded uniform shirt from the floor and swept past her. At the door, he turned to get a better look at her long, shapely legs only to find her looking back at him as well. Her top teeth had sunk into her bottom lip. The gesture made her look surprisingly girlish and vulnerable, and the sight made Spock want nothing more than to turn back, pin her against the wall, and taste those lips himself. It wasn’t logical. It was...instinctual. Instead, he simply inclined his head and went on his way.

Since then, both Spock and Christine Chapel had made a point of manufacturing reasons to run across one another for a few seconds here and there. This contact always occurred while both were on duty, and they seldom exchanged anything but a heated glance or, on Christine’s part, an occasional smirk or a sassy one-liner. Both of them knew what being wanted looked like, and both could read it all over the other. But Spock also knew that the dance was just as alluring as the end result. As a Vulcan, he had a great deal of patience, even in a world that didn’t much value that virtue or any other. He would stay alive and wait.

@multirptrash

#*rv #i wanted to get something up but could never come up with a specific scene in the present #so I'll leave that up to you! hope this is enough for now <3 if not let me know

[atom-writings]

Hi!!!!!!

Can I request the main 8 with a poet/writer s/o?

The main 8 find their s/o's poems or writing about them and it's like how much they love them !!!

(hopefully this makes sense :D have a nice day!

Also your writing super coolio )

hetalia allies + germany with a s/o who's a writer

1.6k words ~ gender neutral heacanons + mini scenarios

tw: swearing, thats it!

a/n: i believe this is after the cutoff so its only 6 characters sorry! also ty :)

America

Alfred may not seem like it, considering his less-than-stellar attention span, but he can be quite an avid reader if he wants to be.

In fact, when he was travelling the western frontier, he often wrote poems himself.

He loves your work, (he’s always the first one showing up on release day!) but he doesn’t love how much time it takes away from you.

Seeing you exhausted and frustrated after a long night, trash can filled with discarded drafts, just breaks his heart. He’ll make sure your office is always stacked with 

Alfred wasn’t usually so easily swayed by cheesy romances, despite his sweet soft for them. But now, reading your book, he couldn’t help flushing at every interaction his favourite couple had.

The one he was reading now, well, it just took the cake. Spending the day wandering East Potomac Park? It was something out of his dreams- just endlessly… familiar?

Wait, hadn’t he done that recently with you?

Oh.

He set the book aside, burying his face in his hands as he blushed wildly.

Guess the blue-eyed, blond love interest hero was a bit more than a stereotype after all.

England

Ah, a writer. Arthur has long admired the literary arts, having many a classic writer come from his home. Yes, he’d quite enjoy someone like that.

He loves reading your work, regardless of what it is, but he’d prefer you read it to him. Then he can get all of your silly little notes along with it. Just for him <3

Although he wouldn’t appreciate you spending all day working. He’s not needy usually, but by the time you two go to bed, he’s DESPERATE for your attention.

He tries not to disturb you, though.

From the moment he picked up your work, he could tell where your inspiration for the main love interest came from. Sandy-haired, green eyes, tall but not too tall, always how you had described him.

Of course, that made his reading even more of a joy.

The only thing that bothered him was how the protagonist described themself. Always dismissed, below-par, never worthy of his love. Now, that just wouldn’t stand.

So he began to write as well. In between the margins, on attached papers, on the sides, everywhere. Correcting every disparaging thought.

Then when he finished, he handed the book back to you, with a cheeky comment.

“It was absolutely wonderful, my love.”

Whether you ever saw the notes or not didn’t matter. He had made the book even more perfect, at least to himself.

France

As said before, Francis is a very artsy guy. Very artsy. Although he’s not always skilled at making art himself… so having another artist would help with that.

He’s absolutely the number one collector of your works. Every scrap, every trashed draft, every misprint, he’s keeping everything.

He’s also pretty ok with how much time it takes! It gives him time to relax, or maybe even join in working on creative projects.

Although he would insist on regular breaks. Fortunately, Francis is a hedonist at heart, so those breaks will always provide much inspiration.

True beauty is rare. Living for so long had proven that time and time again for Francis. It isn’t natural, it isn’t easy, and it never lasts. But…that doesn’t make the pursuit of it any more meaningless.

Even more rare than its existence, is the constant presence of it.

But when he read your poems, venerating and elucidating your own feelings, he felt as if he had found it. God, it was beautiful. Your words, unlike any other’s he had read in his many years, made him feel as if he was falling in love all over again.

Instantly, he was transported into your shoes, viewing himself in a light that had never been shone on him before.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself now. It felt wrong- wrong to not give absolute reverence to this piece of art.

If he had had access to the Louvre, he would’ve kept it there. But, well, his kitchen wall would have to do for now.

China

Finally, some good fucking talent. He's very excited about his S/O being an artist! He's not much of one himself these days, but it's good to see the youth catching up to the old masters.

As much as he loves you, he's very opinionated. Everything you write he either LOVES or HATES. Though he's always excited to show off his favourites of your works, he's very proud of you.

Though he absolutely is not stand by while you spend all day sitting around and writing. Get off the couch and come with him, you're never gonna write anything real good if you don't have any life experience!

Because of that, he's gonna be a little hesitant to cater to you while you're writing.

Your last work was good, to be sure, but nothing like this. Your newest release blew him off his feet with ease, captivating him with every turn of the page. One of his favourites, he thought to himself, that'll be one he'd have to return to.

The only problem was that it was almost over already. He wasn't that much of a fast reader, was he? Well, I guess it's easy to go quickly if you love it.

And love it he did, to the very last page. Wait, this is the last page, isn't it? Why are there three more?

He flipped through them, his eyes quickly widening as he read the last page.

A love letter? To... him?

“Is this in every edition?” He asked you shakily, looking to you for reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“That's...”  He brought a hand to his mouth, covering his blushing cheeks  trying to hide the tears welling in his eyes, “That's such a waste of paper...”

Russia

Frankly, Ivan doesn't care much what you do. The most exciting part of you being a writer to him is just that you'd need to spend plenty of time at home.

But he'd always read your work. (Especially rough drafts, he's really good at being blunt but not mean.) And as time goes on, he'll fall in love with your talent more and more. Despite his country's many famous writers, he thinks none of them stack up to you.

He wouldn't mind how much time you dedicate to your craft, but he'd make sure to take good care of you while you're writing. He's truly very worried about you withering away in that desk chair of yours...

“Oh, I absolutely loved the part where-“

Ivan had been ranting for hours, going over every single detail that had caught his eye. Every time he thought of something new, it would lead to another excited train of thought. But there was one thing they all had in common... he really loved one character.

”He's strong!“ He'd gush, ”He's kind, and loving, and I just want him to have a happy ending!“

You let him explain over and over again how much he looked up to this character, wanting to change to be more like him in every way.

But it wasn't until he calmed down a little bit that you felt it was time to reveal the truth.

”Yeah, you know... he's based on someone I know.“

”Really? Who? I must meet him!“ He clasps his hands together in excitement.

”You, you big dummy.“

He pauses for a moment, his smile fading. He looks upset for a moment, trying to figure out how.

”But... but I am none of those things.“

”You are to me. I mean, whenever I thought about you... I'd just write that character.“

He laughs awkwardly, “You are joking, right?”

“No, of course not. You're strong... and you're kind....” he shifts away from you, tears welling in his eyes, “You're loving... and... and I'll give you a happy ending, ok?”

Before you can react, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist, burying his face in your hair.

”Promise?“

”Promise.“

Germany

Ludwig would definitely love a S/O who writes. Mostly for one specific reason, though. Writers, well, they see the world in a different way. Whether that be in a more romantic, more objective, or more sympathetic way, he doesn't care. He wants to talk things through with someone like you.

He wouldn't be a total fanboy, but he'd still love your work.  Although, he might not show it the way you want... it's hard for him not to criticize. He wouldn't be too harsh though!

He wouldn't mind how much you get sucked into your writing either. He knows what it's like to be dedicated to your craft, and he won't bother you too much.

Ludwig had never been an emotional person. Never, not once, throughout his many years was he truly moved to tears by fiction. Art depicting real life? Of course, many times. But he simply never found fiction as compelling as reality.

That was, of course, until he read your own works. Now, going through what you had so effortlessly created, he couldn't help tearing up at nearly every turn of events.

The way you were about to put him into the character's shoes without him even realizing, forcing him along the same journey they had gone through. It was... stunning, to say the least.

But when one of the characters began to fall in love, it was like nothing he had experienced before. Not because of any significant jump in quality, but just because... you had written it.

For a moment he sat in silence, pondering the book when he realized.

Was this what it felt like for you to fall in love with him?

It sent a chill down his spine. No, he didn't feel any differently, not at all. But... he had assumed you couldn't possibly love him as much as he loved you. Except... now?

Well, if this was how you had felt. He couldn't possibly let you go anytime soon.

#heta tag #hetalia imagines #hetalia x reader #ivan tag <3 #arthur tag #aph russia x reader #hws russia x reader #aph england x reader #hws england x reader #alfred tag #aph america x reader #hws america x reader #yao tag #aph china x reader #hws china x reader #francis tag #aph france x reader #hws france x reader #ludwig tag #aph germany x reader #hws germany x reader #not proofread at all

[princess-of-purple-prose]

Yoo Joonghyuk vs. Online Shopping

In which Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk disagree on what Yoo Joonghyuk’s post-scenarios wardrobe should look like.

786 words; read on AO3!

“And now that you don’t have to worry about blood showing through, we can get you some other wavelengths of light in your closet, too,” Han Sooyoung says breezily. Yoo Joonghyuk, who had been tuning her out for a good ten minutes, finally feels some faint alarm bell go off in his head at those words, and he pauses his game to turn to look at what she’s brandishing a finger at: her computer screen, filled with rows and rows of images of… trendy modern clothing.

“What,” he says.

“Colors, Yoo Joonghyuk, colors,” Han Sooyoung says, rolling her eyes. “I’m saying you can branch out with, like, a blue shirt or two. Maybe green if we’re feeling adventurous.”

“Why would I do that.”

Han Sooyoung’s mouth slants at his flat tone. “Well, you’ve always kind of stuck to permutations of your outfit from scenario one, and the black coat... I mean, it’s hot, yeah, but is it even practical anymore? Let me tell you right now: we’ve all noticed it isn’t sweat-resistant anymore.” Kim Dokja, sitting away from the other two at the dining room table, makes an indeterminate sound—possibly a smothered protest, possibly a chuckle. “You can’t only ever alternate between that and lame tracksuits and identical goddamned black sweaters, is what I’m saying. You suck all the light out of the room just by standing in it.”

“Yah, Sooyoung-ah, give his face some credit, too,” Kim Dokja calls. Yoo Joonghyuk glares at him, and Kim Dokja beams—first at Yoo Joonghyuk, then at Han Sooyoung. “See! He’s doing the face right now!”

Han Sooyoung sighs gustily. “Either help me get this idiot a new wardrobe or just shut up, Kim Dokja,” she calls back, unnecessarily loud for the scant distance between them, before following it up with a disparaging mutter about Kim Dokja’s tastes that Yoo Joonghyuk doubts he was meant to hear. Or—no, actually, Han Sooyoung absolutely intended for him to catch the derisive comment on his chuunibyou tendencies.

Han Sooyoung turns away and points demonstratively at the screen. Yoo Joonghyuk stares wordlessly at it, then at her. She sighs again, with less affectation this time. “Listen. It won’t kill you to expand your wardrobe, is all I’m saying. Actually do some justice to that physique, why don’t you?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips tighten. “I like my coat.”

Han Sooyoung looks up to squint at him quizzically. “I know??”

“And I like black,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, still toneless.

Han Sooyoung scoffs. “We’ll get you a new coat if it matters that much, dumbass. But you—”

“And,” Yoo Joonghyuk glowers, “I am going to continue wearing both.”

Han Sooyoung visibly restrains herself from putting her face in her hands. “I’m not saying you can’t keep the fucking coat, okay. I’m just saying—begging—for you to wear something other than identical black turtlenecks. Fine, I won’t put you in a crop top, but we’re going to get you in something brighter than navy blue if it’s the last thing I do, you hear?”

“No.”

There's a long silence, broken only by Kim Dokja cheering under his breath at whatever mobile game or webnovel it is that he’s been entertaining himself with.

“No to…?” Han Sooyoung prompts, voice hovering at a precarious edge between incredulity and unbound fury. “Answer me, moron. No to what? To buying a single piece of clothing that doesn’t look like it came from that shitty dragon’s shitty merch line? Is that what you mean?” 

Yoo Joonghyuk is silent.

“... Stop bullshitting me, Yoo Joonghyuk.”

“...”

“No, are you serious?”

“...”

“You know what? Fuck you. What the fuck do I even try for,” Han Sooyoung says spitefully. She navigates away from the page she’d been on with great vindictiveness, muttering with bloody intent. “Goddamn protagonists and their one-note wardrobes, who do you think you are, you clow—” She jabs a key so hard it’s difficult to believe in its continuing functionality. “I’m getting you cargo shorts.” 

Yoo Joonghyuk nods and settles back against the couch, clicking resume with his controller. “That’s fine.”

“What the fuck?!” Han Sooyoung cries over the renewed sounds of Mario Kart pinging through the room.

“It’s the pockets,” Kim Dokja calls without looking up from his phone.

“It’s also Yoo Joonghyuk!” Han Sooyoung shrieks, flailing her arms at him.

“You don’t have to get the cargo shorts,” says the man in question.

“Fuck you, obviously I have to get the shorts now!” Han Sooyoung shrills. Yoo Joonghyuk sighs. Kim Dokja, apparently less absorbed in his screen than it would seem, snickers.

“Just for that, Kim Dokja,” Han Sooyoung promises darkly. “I’m buying you shorts too.” He looks up, protest hanging off his lips, and she growls. “Khakhi ones.”

#orv #yoohankim #omniscient reader's viewpoint #yhk #yoo joonghyuk #han sooyoung #kim dokja #my writing #orv fanfic #my posts #kay talks #silly little snippet that i wanted to get out!! :DDD #all i ever do is put #yoohan #on a couch

[deansmom]

I know nobody here really cares that much, but since 1989 (Taylor’s version) came out my fyp has been all about her & Harry, and so many of the videos are like “GASP was Harry one of the bad boyfriends?!”

And as someone who’s never felt any type of way about Harry, I think I like or at least respect him a little bit more after the vault tracks? Especially “is it over now?” Because I’ve seen a lot of clips of this man talking about Taylor over the years, and I’ve never seen or heard him say something disparaging or complaining about her writing songs about him. In fact, I’ve only ever seen him be like “hey, it’s her life and if she’s written anything about me, I’d be flattered. She’s so talented.” And this isn’t a new reaction, like there are interviews from that year where he says something to that effect and honestly?? Pop off, Harry.

They’re friendly enough that I’m sure he’s heard these songs before, or at least knew that she had some less than flattering ones in her back pocket, and was still like “yeah, no, I’d be honored. Are you kidding?” Like he was 20 or something when they were together and 20 year old boys are awful and shitty and apparently he’s talked about the fact that he’s a bad boyfriend before, so I love that this entire time he’s shown a level of emotional maturity and respect for her that fucking John Mayer refused to. It would’ve been so easy for him to be a dick about it, and he never was! It seems like he just went “I treated you like shit. You’re totally valid in this. Go off, queen.”

I’ve been laughing imagining him listening to the vault tracks and the “if she’s got blue eyes I can surmise that you’ll probably date her” line and being like “fuck, bro. She really called me out like that on main? Damn. I should send her flowers or something.” And then “now that we don’t talk” I can literally see him hearing the line about her mom and going “aw, Andrea. I always liked her. I hope she’s well. Fuck it, somebody send her flowers too.”

As somebody who knows nothing about him and never really got into 1d or paid close attention to his career, only passively enjoyed his music, I think these song’s coming out vastly improved my opinion of him 😂

#Harry: she didn’t look THAT much… well actually- yeah okay. I see it. maybe send an edible arrangement while we’re at it. #like a respectful & kind public response??? literally no other man has afforded her?? pop off Harry #it’s giving he’s been to therapy! it’s giving he’s self aware and apologizes first! #he still seems to be a shitty boyfriend but at least he’s aware of it now Lmao #personal

[missmaywemeetagain]

Read Need Your Love Tonight ✈️💙🔥 NOW with early access HERE!

It's 1961 and we're headed to Hawaii for the U.S.S. Arizona Benefit Concert! ✈️ This one is an older woman and Elvis, so buckle up, babies! All the pics are from the day/night of the concert, just cuz I know a little visual stimulation never hurts...😏

SNEAK PEEK:

Finally, after what seems like forever, the main event begins. Your eardrums are blasted out by what must be at least two full minutes of young girls shrieking at the top of their lungs. Rightly so, you think as you watch the tall drink of water that is Elvis Presley strut onto the stage. You are blessing your lucky stars above for the divorce settlement because you are so close, you can see just how deliciously handsome the man is in person.

And, boy, is he.

Even having seen his perfect visage in movies on the big screen truly did not hold a candle to the broad-shouldered man in the glittering gold jacket standing on the stage before you. There is almost an innocence and perhaps even a nervousness in his deep-set dreamy blues. His dark hair is coiffed just perfectly and you watch his leg jiggle as he takes the microphone. A wave of heat rolls over you, flushing you from head to toe, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with the temperature in the arena.

There is a boyish playfulness to him you do not expect of the seasoned 26-year-old entertainer. He is indelibly charming and likable, not afraid to laugh at himself or the insanity of the crowd around him, but it’s not in a disparaging way. It’s more like he still can’t quite believe it’s all for him.

The reason he’s always fascinated you becomes obvious now that he’s right in front of you. He is a walking contradiction—delicate feminine features in a sharp masculine package, a deep low drawl coupled with a light warbling tenor. Singing lyrics that make you think the dirtiest things and then he turns around and does a spiritual. You have whiplash in the very best way.

You’re so distracted by his essence and the hypnotizing way he’s working the crowd that you almost forget about your sign. When One Night croons out of him with the promise of his “sweet helping hand,” a fire lights under you and you fumble around at your feet and flip the sign up for him to see.

Come on, come on, come on, you think, tapping your foot. Look over here.

At this point you will accept anything from the singer—a wink would suffice. Anything to let you know that you’re not just a washed-up divorcee who’s too old or ugly to find happiness with anyone else. Even if that happiness is just for one night because of one small moment, it’ll be worth it.

He’s so consumed by the song, his eyes closing and the rhythm pumping through his whole body, that you’re not sure he’ll see you. Your fingers grip the sign anxiously. You’d rather not have to hold it up for the rest of the concert, and you are kicking yourself for not remembering earlier, but you’ll do what you’ll have to do.

The end of the song comes, to which he adds a toe-curling groan, and when he opens his eyes, they land on you. A bolt of lightning strikes inside you, filling your veins with a scorching desire at the way those pretty eyes fall on your sign. You wait with bated breath as he reads each word silently, “Am I too old for you?” He gives you a quick cursory glance and then starts to walk away.

“Thank you,” he says to the crowd as screams fill the arena. The opening chords of Are You Lonesome Tonight start to play.

Fitting song choice, you think a little bitterly. Well, at least he saw me.

You find yourself fighting back tears, the split-second moment feeling anticlimactic and dissatisfying. A bit of a punch to the gut, really. It’s the dismissal that really stings, though your logical brain tells you he’s concentrating on his work and your sign is likely no more than a short distraction.

Suddenly, Elvis stops. He turns back towards you and steps in your direction. Your breath catches in your throat when he points at you. It is as if his finger is connected to you by an invisible string, and you find yourself sitting up taller and leaning forward on the edge of your seat. Then, he tilts the microphone away for a moment, his infamous lip curling up into a delicious boyish smile.

“Never,” he says, looking you straight in the eyes.

...

Want early access?🎉 Click HERE to join!

(It'll be available here on the weekend!🌸)

@atombombbibunny @yesimwriting @uselessbutinteresting @mirandastuckinthe80s @dark-as-love

@domaniquessidehoe @im-lame-irl @allybrooke05 @hangmanswhore

@jazmin2211  @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff  @tiredbuthappy   @saintmagx

@kvcssghbjbcd @butlersluvbot @babydollie43 @vainbimbo @meladollsims @wstelandbaby @dre6ming @normatural @ash-omalley @xcallmetaniax @galvz-42 @thejezebel @fullmetal-falcon @robinismywife @dre6ming @seaweedbrain00 @amiets2 @mslizziesblog @heisatroubleinapinksuit @calusussss @dont-feel-so-good-peter @rainydayz101 @pizzaisrelationshipgoals  

@liaaacantwrite @kittenlittle24 @kaitaesupremacy @butler-trouble @eliseinmemphis @russian-soft-bitch  @tattywood

@sassanoe  @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23 

 @littlebitofgreen @paigevis @bugg06 @xhannahbananax03 @artlover8992

@18lkpeters @frozenhuntress67 @girlblogger2002 @kendralavon7 @misspresley 

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

@precious-little-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @ amydarcimarie @idontwanttoputanything  @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj @claire-elvisgirl @everythingelvispresley @louisejoy86 

#1961 was a goooooood year #need your love tonight #elvis smut #elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #older reader x elvis #sugar mama request #if you’re looking for trouble #you came to the right place #austin butler elvis #✈️💙🔥

[mushroom-jack]

Tompercy Character Reference

Having finished another tompercy WIP with no plans for another one in the works, here is another reference post for the tumblr girlies. These are the characterization bios that I made a while ago in order to get a grasp of their personalities, motives, and have something to reference for their physical appearance rather than always CTRL F-ing A Study of Resonance. This post will be linked in my pinned; I hope it gives interesting insight as to how I see these characters :)

Percival “Percy” Ignatius Weasley-Prewett

Born: August 22, 1976

Appearance: wavy red hair, brown eyes (to match Molly), tortoiseshell glasses. Has freckles, eyebags, and acne, but is practiced at glamoring his face. Otherwise, his features are fairly unremarkable. Blushes easily. Lanky, average height, not particularly athletic. Dresses to come across as respectable, high-class, and sophisticated – wears a variety of colors in order to conform to seasonal fashions. When not a wizard, he is partial to knit sweaters/sweater vests, slacks, dress shirts, and peacoats. Casually, you may find him in his usual slacks and a crew-neck university sweatshirt of some sort. 

Personality: earnest, determined, and prideful. Interested in proving himself and earning the respect of his family and peers, but not through hiding who he is (slight superiority complex + rampant self-esteem issues). Wishes he was brought up in a respectable pureblood family. Intensely autistic; doesn’t understand most casual social cues and prefers strict formal etiquette rules, wishes to stick to his routine and dislikes sudden change, fascinated and enamored by his academic fields of choice, prefers interacting with competent adults rather than peers, and is shockingly lonely despite generally preferring solitude. 

Has a continued guilty-complex about most things, including pursuing his personal ambitions rather than giving into his parents’ wishes, not being a perfect brother to his siblings, and his continued association with Tom (whatever form that might take). Feels everything very strongly, but especially shame. Ultimately a product of his childhood: his perception of his parents’ pride forcing their entire family to live in poverty and discouraging him and his siblings from seeking out opportunities, being the only person with his flavor of autism in his household and therefore never being understood or really respected by the people around him, and having insane middle child syndrome… affected him!

Generally takes after his mother in pride, stubbornness, self-righteousness, and the way he likes to run his household. Jealous and admiring of Tom in equal measure. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle

Born: December 31, 1926

Appearance: coiffed dark brown hair, dark gray eyes with silver flecks (though they are dark blue in ASOR), aristocratic features; high cheekbones, long eyelashes, straight nose, sharp jaw. His skin is smooth and fair. He’s tall and well-proportioned; overall he is exceedingly conventionally handsome and aesthetically pleasing. He carries himself very fluidly, like water, and has generally practiced all his movements to perfection, as if brought up in a very aristocratic pureblood house. He dresses well and classically, mostly in grays, greens, white/cream, and black. When not a wizard, he is partial to leather oxfords, blazers/waistcoats/suits, cashmere sweaters, and also slacks. Casually, you may find him in jeans and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. 

Personality: exceedingly prideful, intelligent, cunning, and ambitious; a textbook Slytherin in every universe. Believes in the value of a meritocracy – disparages nepotism and similar methods of gaining power, but values intelligence and competence in others… so long as they agree that he is still better than them and admire him accordingly. Such is his pride. Bookish and hungry for knowledge, and dislikes (but sucks up to) authority unless he determines that the figure is Worthy of His Respect. Perfectly willing to play a role in order to get what he wants – power – even if that means playing nice with purebloods he doesn’t give a shit about. Generally reaches a point, eventually, where he decides that he is now the most powerful wizard in the world and is therefore the ultimate authority, and may as well be God (usually around age 17). After this he will never respect anyone else as an authority ever again, unless they repeatedly beat him in duels (both physical and intellectual). 

Intensely autistic also; hates when things don’t make logical sense, dislikes the unexpected, fairly asocial, and has great difficulty relating to and empathizing with (and therefore having sympathy or compassion for) other people – most of whom he sees as unintelligent, weak, too ruled by emotions, and easy to manipulate. Ultimately a product of his childhood, where he was demonized by every adult figure in his life, shunned by all his peers, surrounded by death and suffering in his various forms (hunger, disease, cold, and war), and yet was smarter and more talented than everyone around him and also had literal magic. Even upon going to Hogwarts, he was called slurs and shunned purely for his background, and never seen for his true talent and skill until he started hurting people… which positively enforced for him that hurting people was effective for getting what he wants (power and respect). 

Thinks he likes Percy best when he is being subservient; actually prefers when Percy is being intelligent, ambitious, competent, and witty – which are the things that he likes Percy for and was fascinated by in the first place. Will never really view Percy as an equal, but likes him well enough, and finds him intelligent and interesting. 

#tompercy #a study of resonance

[jean-vi]

Another Life | Jean x Reader

Pairing: Jean Kirstein x Marley!Reader Inspiration:  “ what if when he sees me / I like him and he knows it?” - When He Sees Me from Waitress Summary: Ice cream leads to a run in with an unexpected visitor Genre: Fluff, Angst Warnings: Spoilers for Season 4! WC: 3.1K A/N: I know. This could not have possibly happened. There are continuity errors. I have too many thoughts so sometimes it’s discombobulated. I apologize in advance for any funky stuff!  Other: Masterlist

    “Those guys are odd.” Your friend muttered next to you. Sarah was shorter than you and blonde. She didn’t have any trouble in the dating scene for certain. You, on the other hand, had some issues. Maybe it was your personality or the way you dressed, but you were determined to change something, anything. You had been alone for long enough. 

    “Definitely.” You tilted your head and watched the group departing from the newest ship arrival. It was a sunny day in Marley and you were just waiting in line to buy ice cream. “Let’s just get our ice cream and leave. I want to visit the new boutique shop.” You declared. “They’re trouble.” 

    “Uh…well, trouble is coming this way.” Sarah murmured. 

    You turned around to see the group eagerly making their way over, with a couple staying behind to look on in embarrassment. 

    “Ugh, must be newcomers.” Sarah scoffed and twirled her parasol. It was uncommon for you to make your way to the sea, but when you woke up this fine day you saw the blue sky. Not a cloud in the deep blue hue and you couldn’t help running across the way to shake Sarah awake. Sarah and yourself lived a bit further away from the main town. The rolling hills of the Marley seaside allowed for blissful views of the ocean, with a hint of salt in the air, while keeping away from the common folk who frequented the town. 

    Your parents were new money and had just acquired the yellow-ish, cream colored, house on the hill. You could see the dot of it in the distance. It was among a few other lavish houses sprinkled along a dirt pathway. Next door was Sarah’s baby blue house. You always envied that her house was just a little bigger and her clothes just a little nicer. Still, you enjoyed coming into town more than she did; it was often a drag to convince her to join you. 

    “Newcomers indeed.” You stiffened as they barged their way through the crowd. One was a man with short, gray, hair, but he seemed too young to truly be gray. The next was a tall man with a hat on. His hair was light brown and he had stubble along his jawline. You found yourself quite interested in him. The last one of note was a woman with reddish brown hair in a ponytail. Her eyes were impossibly wide as she stared at the ice cream. 

    “Have you never seen ice cream before?” You asked, against your better judgment. The group was strange. They seemed overjoyed, confused, and excited to be in town, but there was something wrong. Their eyes were sad and it began to bother you. Sarah seemed to be having none of it. She looked away and tossed her hair. 

    “Of course she’s seen ice cream before. Don’t be stupid. She’s probably just enjoying herself and you’ve pointed out her flaw.” Sarah explained pitifully, as if explaining the situation to a dog. She often recited the story, as if her view was the perfectly correct, omniscient narration. 

    You furrowed your eyebrows. You truly hadn’t meant to disparage the woman, but she honestly seemed so genuinely enthused that it lit a match of curiosity inside you. You turned back and grabbed your cone with a short thank you. 

    “No.” The woman finally spoke. The gray haired man was looking away sheepishly and the brown haired one was staring you down. “This is my first time seeing it and trying it.” The woman continued.

    She spoke with such conviction and poise that it took you off guard. 

    “For having never seen ice cream before, you’re taking it well.” You said with a smile and you felt Sarah tugging on your arm. 

    “Oy, oy.” 

    You heard the low voice of a much shorter man. He was holding onto a boy who was holding onto a purse. 

    “That’s not your money.” The man said. 

    “Just leave it.” You heard some others in the group mutter. Then you heard Sarah, out of the blue, start shouting. 

    “He deserves punishment.” Sarah exclaimed and that set off a riot. You backed away from the crowd and tried to pull Sarah with you. The girl was already in the thick of the crowd, though. 

    “Come on guys, it’s okay, all is settled.” You tried to calm the crowd, but you were shoved roughly to the side. 

    “Kids need punishment to learn not to steal.” A man said gruffly. 

    “I disagree!” You began, but then you saw the short man and the others in the strange group take off running with the boy. 

    “Hey!” The crowd screamed and a few tried to chase them. By now, you’d lost Sarah in the mess, but you supposed she would be okay. You’d never seen her so…blood thirsty. She had a look in her eyes like a peasant watching gladiators. 

    “Oh my,” You muttered to yourself as you made your way onto a quieter street. “I don’t think I’ll be getting to the boutique today.” You took off your hat and placed the back of your hand on your forehead in exhaustion. “She’s a brat.” You found yourself saying, and it was like a switch was flipped. Yeah, Sarah had never been the kindest person, as much as she tried to convince you otherwise. You dropped your hand slowly. 

    You glanced around, hoping to see a head of golden hair–mostly so you could avoid her. You seriously needed to reevaluate your choices and values. Then your mind went to that woman at the ice cream stand. Your ice cream was long forgotten, but that woman stuck with you. She was so excited over such a small thing, an everyday occurrence. You frowned to yourself. Well, that was just regular old living, what was she so happy about? 

    You looked in the direction that the group had run. There were still a few men stampeding after them, but they quickly gave up when they turned a corner. You would not be so easily suaded. You wanted to know what their deal was. 

    So, it wasn’t exactly like you to go sneaking around. Sure, you were of a curious nature, but you’d never ‘snuck around’ for your answers. Now, however, you found yourself snooping around a random street. The footprints were fresh, new. You took careful steps to avoid ruining the pattern. You tucked yourself behind a corner as they filed into a house. 

    That’s not just any house.

    This was Kiyomi Azumabito’s house. You bit back a gasp. Now what would these strange newcomers be doing visiting the ambassador of Hizuru? You heard a crunch of gravel next to you. You’d never felt your heart beat so hard. Everything was pounding, through your ears, through your chest. You swear a person could hear you a mile away. Then, you felt the presence of the person and they leaned against the wall. You couldn’t breathe. 

    “Girl from the ice cream booth?” 

    You froze. You didn’t recognize that voice and the dialect was…not strange, but there was something a little off. It wasn’t that the man didn’t speak well, but he just spoke differently than the Marley people you usually knew. His vocabulary was rough, not derogatory, but definitely not dripping with sweetness. 

    You slowly turned to stare at him and the expression on your face must’ve been otherworldly because he barked a laugh. It was the tall man with brown hair.

    “It’s not a booth.” You sputtered out, at a loss for anything else to stay. “It’s a stand because the man there has to stand behind it.” 

    He seemed further amused by the statement and he put a palm to his forehead. “Ah, my bad. I’m new around here.” 

    “I can see that, Mr…?” You trailed off and he looked at you curiously. He seemed to mull over whether or not to tell you his name. “What? Are you top secret or something?” You joked innocently. “I can see you must be an important person, though.” You gestured to the Azumabito house. 

    “Oh, no, nothing like that.” He shrugged off charismatically. “You can call me Jean.” He pushed off the wall and offered you his hand. 

    You really were a magnet for trouble, huh? First Sarah, now this stranger who may or may not be dangerous. To hell with it. You were tired of playing it safe from a house on the hills. You grasped his hand with vigor. 

    “Y/N.” 

    “I like it.” Jean chuckled. “And I like your style, Y/N.” 

    You found your cheeks heating up and you quickly turned to cover it up. Jean knew, though. He knew he made you nervous in a sort of girlish way. If only you could see the devilish grin on his face. 

    “What are you doing here, Jean?” You asked. 

    “Nothing important, nothing of interest.” He chuckled. “Say, why don’t you show me around?” 

    “While you leave your friends? I think they’ll miss you.” 

    “Don’t worry about it. We’re in a recess of sorts. Our friend has gone missing.”

    “I see.” You rubbed your chin. “Do you need help finding him?” You had barely noticed the setting sun or the chill that was setting in. 

    “The others have got it handled, I’m sure.” 

    “Okay then, Jean.” You eyed him suspiciously, but started walking. “Come on, I’ll show you the harbor.” 

    For all you knew, he could be an enemy, but all the papers claimed that besides the missing ships sent to Paradis, the island remains contained. The man also wasn’t wearing an armband of any kind and while you never harbored negative feelings towards the Eldians, it was another sign that you should just trust him. He probably took the long way around from the other side of Marley or something and just wanted a tour. You weren’t sure why he chose you, but he seemed confident in your trustworthiness. 

    You walked down the side street you entered on and turned down the main road. Headed for the water, you strolled casually while doing a bit of window shopping. 

    “The town is great for socializing and shopping. There are always the latest fashions because of the port. This place was also one of the first settlements to be built because, well, port.” You gestured to the ocean in front of you. It was golden hour. The soft hues of the fading sun were painting the streets orange and yellow. 

    Jean made a noise of acknowledgement as you reached the street where the harbor met the town. You’d never been listened to for this long, at least not in recent memory. You enjoyed listening to others’ stories, but it was hard to find happiness in staying silent. Sarah liked to fill the air with her words, because she must believe that her word is the most important. Her life was infinitely more important than yours. That was the idea. 

    “Say, do old buildings have strong structural integrity?” He wondered as he surveyed the wooden beams of the homes. 

    “That’s an odd question, Jean.” You tilted your head. “But I guess they do since they’ve stayed for so long.” 

    “Good, good.” He nodded slowly. You eyed him again with more suspicion, but continued on. 

    “Now, the harbor is mostly natural. The additions made are the piers and boats. You should try some seafish sometime, it’s sublime and the freshest you’ll find.” You said cheerily. 

    The brown haired man found your tour guide-esque style quite charming. On top of that, you seemed like a very aware person, and friendly. He’d noticed this trait at the ice cream booth–stand. You’d been aware of Sasha’s interest in the sweet treat and without judgment asked if it was her first time seeing it. Of course, it was your friend that had twisted the wording. And that blush, earlier. Well, it was almost enough to make him nervous as well. 

    “I guess I must try the fish.” He said as you walked along the stone wall. 

    You smiled and closed your eyes. “Mhm.” You hummed, then you blindly leapt onto the wall. 

    “Hey! What are you doing?” Jean’s eyes widened and he instinctively went to balance you by placing his hands on your waist. You slowly opened your eyes and placed your hands over his. 

    “I do this all the time.” You smiled. “And is this any way to touch a girl you’ve never met before?” 

    He instantly ripped his hands away and red adorned his cheeks. You let out a little laugh and then opened your hand to him. You twitched your fingers, beckoning him to take it. 

    “I was mostly kidding. Join me.” You instructed. 

    Now, what other choice did he have? Jean, still a little embarrassed, took your hand and hopped on the wall. 

    “I like to stand here and just pretend I’m a bird flying over the ocean.” You closed your eyes and breathed in a deep gust of sea air. “Come on, try it.” 

    So he did. The man threw his hands out and closed his eyes. Then he could see it. He saw, so vividly, what you were describing. It was like he was taken away with the wind, soaring over the ocean. He saw home. He saw the walls and the innocent families behind them. 

    “I understand.” He said quietly. You were all creatures looking for freedom. His home’s boundaries were just smaller than yours. You donned a knowing smile, but Jean wasn’t your enemy. 

    “I’m glad.” You said, opening your eyes and dropping your hands. He followed suit. The sun was setting rapidly over the horizon now. “Let’s go. I have one more place before it gets dark, but it’s a little walk.” 

    “I don’t mind walks in good company.” 

    “Me neither. I hated walking with Sarah.” 

    “Is that your friend?” He asked as you lazily headed towards the hills. 

    “Yes, the blonde one. You know,” You ran a hand through your now windswept hair, “I am starting to realize more and more that most of my friends aren’t really people I enjoy.” The path turned to dirt and the dirt became gravel. “You and your friends seem close.” 

    You longed to be able to laugh like how you’d seen them earlier, or somehow understand when it was time to make an escape without having to talk through everything. 

    “We have been through a lot together.” Jean answered vaguely. 

    “Hm, I guess I understand. But you and I, Jean, will always be fundamentally different, right?” You’d been slowly piecing it together. You tilted your head a little blinked. You’d put two and two together, you weren’t dumb. What you really wondered was why he’d come all this way. What you didn’t expect was his horrified expression. 

    “Are you going to turn me in?” He finally managed. 

    You turned around promptly and continued your trek up the hill. He raced to catch up with you. 

    “Only if you give me a reason to. Your blood isn’t enough for me to care.” You decided. “I will tell you a secret of mine, since I know one of yours. We’ll make it even, so you feel better, okay?” 

    He seemed apprehensive at best. His adams apple bobbed uneasily as he thought it over. 

    “Go on.” He said quietly. The wind was softer up in the hills and though the grass swayed, it was eerily quiet. The fading light made it harder to see where he was stepping next. He really did just follow a Marley woman blindly into the hillside. 

    “My distant relatives are Eldian. We passed as if we were like everyone else for centuries and finally I was left with no descendents directly Eldian.” You felt confident in your ability to speak in the secretive valley of the hills. “But my lineage is still tainted, even if we don’t have to wear the armbands.” 

    “This secret could get you killed.” 

    “As could yours, Jean.” You argued. “A secret for a secret, a life for a life.” 

    To your surprise, he smirked. The man stretched his arms and then yawned. 

    “Now where is this thing?” He said. 

    “Turn around.” 

    Below him was the twinkling town. The lights flickered on one by one and bells rung on ships. A clocktower’s pendulum swung back and forth. The houses on the hillside were alight and joined the array of artificial stars. He was at a loss for words. 

    “Isn’t it beautiful?” You asked, stepping forward to join his side. You felt him staring, but you continued to look at this beautiful town you called home. The wind blew wisps of hair on your forehead.

    “It is.” He breathed, turning back to the city. “Hey, wait,” He paused and squinted. You frowned and tried to search for what he was looking at. 

    “What? What do you see?” You demanded as you began squinting as well. 

    “My friends. They’re…on a hill?” He pointed and you followed the line of sight. 

    “Ah.” You took a step back. “You wish to meet up with your friends again, right?” 

    “Yes….join us?” 

    You shook your head sadly. “I cannot. Our journey ends here.” You couldn’t join him, as much as you wanted to. You weren’t allowed within 20 feet of that camp. Your family would say you were trying to muddy the lineage again after they worked so hard. 

    “It doesn’t have to.” He suddenly grasped your hand. His cheeks were rosy pink, but it could’ve been a trick of the light in this darkness. You slowly, and sadly, removed his grasp, slipping your hands back together in front of you. A respectful gesture, but he looked taken aback. 

    “I don’t want our time to end, Jean, but something is coming. I feel it in the sea air.” You sniffed. “We will be parted for a very long time. You won’t see me again, most likely.” 

    Jean was just staring at you now, as if trying to capture this moment in his mind as much as he possibly could. And you were too. The sight, the smell, the way the gravel felt under your shoes. 

    “I see.” He murmured softly. “Thank you.” The man started, “for taking the time to show me around.”  He turned to go, but, as if an impulsive spirit thrust you forward, you wrapped your arms around him. 

    “In another life, Jean.” You whispered.

    The man smiled and breathed out softly before pulling away. He leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

    “In another life.” 

To be continued…?

#aot #snk #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #jean x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirstein x reader #x reader #fluff #spoilers: season 4 snk #aot x reader #snk x reader #jean #marley!reader

[hstylesloverr]

PROLOGUE.

stranger things!harry x mayfield!yn

masterlist.

-

Y/N Mayfield was very different from her mother and sister. From the physical to her personality. People in California were making (and whispers are now being heard in Hawkins too) that Y/N and Max's mother had cheated on their father and that Y/N was an illegitimate child, or was adopted. Her mother and Max had that beautiful reddish hair and blue eyes, pale complexion and freckles. Y/N, on the other hand, had gotten everything from her father: chocolate brown eyes and golden hair. Y/N's personality was also quite similar to her father's, both of them were easily irritated and had severe anger issues (though at least Y/N was learning to control them).

While you might think that Y/N and his father would have some kind of affinity, everything changed when he left her mother and them. One day, he just got up and left. Without looking back, without saying anything. It was a very hard blow for all of them, especially for her mother.

Y/N was about 12 years old when she met Neil and Billy. It turns out that Neil and her mother had met at a cafe and hooked up. Soon they had both discovered that they were in the same situation: they were single parents. It took less than 6 months for them all to move into a nice Californian house together. Soon Y/N discovered the strange and violent nature with which Neil had raised his son, and that Billy himself had acquired.

Billy enjoyed being disrespectful to Max, he liked to tease her and make disparaging comments about her. Of course, this was done when Y/N was not in sight. God knew that if Y/N found out about the things Billy said and did to Max, Y/N would kill him with her bare hands. However, after living in California all their lives, their mother and Neil decide to move to Indiana because their financial situation was not the best and certainly not Billy and Max's attitude at school. So they bought a nice house in Hawkins, a remote and quiet town, and in a few months they changed their whole lives and settled there.

If there was one thing Y/N hated more than anything in the world, it was meeting new people. Her extremely shy and closed personality did not allow it. She was not like her mother: kind and always ready to lend a hand. Or like Max: sarcastic but funny. Or like Billy: charming and knowing how to win people over. That's why Y/N was very panicked when they arrived at Hawkins, especially when the course had already started a month ago.

Little did she know that meeting new people would be the least of her worries in that town.

#harry styles #as it was #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #stranger things!harry #stranger things imagine #stranger things #aesthetic #paige reifler #paige reifler harry styles

[nsfwordwitch]

Kinktober 2023 Day 28

Prompt: Body Worship

Pairing: Astarion x nonbinary tiefling Tav

1541 Words

🔞Adults Only Blog🔞

Astarion finds Weft kneeling on the floor of their temporary home, Weft's family's country house, surrounded by haphazard piles of clothes. An uncharacteristic state. "What are you up to, darling?" he asks from the doorway. They look up at him in surprise.

"Going through the clothes I brought from home. Figuring out what I want to keep. Some of it doesn't really fit anymore, some of it is the sort of stuffy horseshit I wore while working. Some of it is stuff I wore when I went out partying." They gesture at the pile directly behind them, and Astarion spots some beautifully patterned fabrics.

"You have some lovely pieces here," he says, pushing things aside to crouch beside them.

"You're welcome to anything that fits."

"Hm." He picks through it, noting how little they care that he's ignoring their organization scheme. "Perhaps. Though I'm not interested in anything some stranger came onto."

They flinch. He may have gone too far. "So much of it just brings up bad memories. You know? And not just the party clothes. I think…I think I was having a really bad time, right before the tadpoling. Looking at all this just makes me think about how…worked up I got about the way people saw me. Um. What people thought of my body." They sigh and hold up a stately blue waistcoat. "It was my job to be likable. To make a good first impression, to be charming, to be everything to everybody. And to do all that, while looking like me."

"Darling," he says softly, and places a hand on their knee. "The way you look? It was only a help, surely."

"Oh, people were attracted to me, easy, but likability is an uphill climb when you're a tiefling. People see that first, and I had to work with it. And I always had to assume people knew about...." They gesture vaguely at their crotch. "I slept around enough it wasn't worth making a secret of it, so I went through life feeling like everyone saw me as a freak. It was a hurdle I had to overcome."

"Oh, nonsense, you love your body, you told me as much the first time I saw the whole thing."

"I love it, it looks like this because I want it to. It's everyone else who has mixed feelings."

"Well damn everyone else!" They blink at him in surprise, seeming to come out of a reverie. He puts a hand on their cheek. "You're not a freak. Well." He smirks. "You're a bit of a freak, but not for how you look." They stick their tongue out at him. "Your body is perfect, Weft. However you want to be, that's the way you should be."

They smile and knock their forehead into his. "I know. You're right. It's all just a bit much to face all at once. Remembering how things used to be just makes my skin crawl."

"Then forget the past." He presses on their knee and they turn toward him, away from the trunk of old clothes. He takes their hands in his. "You will never need to worry about a stranger's opinion of your body again, I swear it. With the usual caveats," he rolls his eyes and wriggles his head around, "unless I die tomorrow or get mind controlled again or you decide to leave me."

"Not if I can help it."

"No, and I pledge the same." He squeezes their hands. "Do you have any idea how insane you sound when you disparage your looks?"

They laugh. "I mean, I'm being realistic."

"You truly, literally are not."

"Come on."

"How can you be this in denial? Have you not looked in a mirror lately?"

"I have, that's why I'm feeling so wretched!"

"This room must have a curse on it, we should move to a different one." He stands and pulls them up with him, leaving the piles of clothes behind. They cross the hall into a matching bedroom, with only a bare mattress in the bedframe. He holds them still, a hand on each shoulder, and gives them a hard look. They smile sadly at him.

"Sorry, scenery change didn't do the trick." He clicks his tongue in frustration.

"My beloved. May I undress you?"

They hesitate. "You may."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Sorry, I'm sure."

"I'll go first." They've both just been wearing different silk robes around the place, and he drops his to the floor and kicks it aside. He sees Weft's eyes rove his body and he thrills at it. He's so glad that he can be pleased by their attention again.

He reaches for their robe and they laugh. "Hold on, it's freezing in here." He turns and lights the fireplace with a spell. "Thank you. Alright, you may."

He steps close to them and draws a hand up the edge of their robe. Slowly, he slips their right shoulder bare and circles behind them. He presses his cheek to the wing-like ridges on their shoulder blade, and his hand continues around the collar of their robe. His other arm is wrapped around them, holding the robe in place on their chest. He places a series of kisses across their back, settling on their spine.

His free hand snakes into their robe in the front and he traces his fingertips across their right breast, making them shiver. "Do you know how remarkable you are, my love?" He squeezes, pressing his fingers into their soft flesh. They lean against him, the base of their tail on his pubic hair, and his cock twitches as it hardens. "There are so many people in this and every world, but not a single one is just like you."

He moves around them, letting their robe fall to the floor. "You, who took the body you had and made it the body you wanted." He takes a breast in each hand and draws his face between them, then back, with his tongue tracing a line that barely touches each nipple. His mouth travels to their sternum and he licks up the ridges of their chest, to the muscles leading to their neck, landing on his usual biting spot. He kisses softly at their never-quite-healed wounds. "Your marvelous, strong body, that's gotten you this far, and will get you further."

Their breathing gets heavy as he kneels down, his hands moving slowly over their stomach as he goes lower. He looks up at them from his position by their cock, and his hands trace over the bumps at their hips, the tattoos on their sides. He grips them tight. "Would you like me to show you how grateful I am to share your body?"

They take a shaky breath and thread their fingers into his hair. He leans into the touch, his eyes closing in pleasure. "Do you really want to, my darling? You aren't just doing it to make me feel better?"

He lets out a throaty laugh. "Do not ever doubt that I want one of us penetrating the other, dearest." He grins an impish grin at them and they laugh. "I'm not being metaphorical, Weft. I am truly grateful for your generosity, for all the sex certainly, but…your blood. The safety of your arms. A place beside you. You give me so much. I adore you, utterly." He sighs and leans against their thigh. "You should feel like the most beautiful person alive, because you are. I want to make you feel that way."

He feels a potent cocktail of love and lust rising in him, and he opens his mouth against their thigh, drawing his tongue across their skin. They let out a cry and press him closer. "Astarion, I want you to fuck me."

"Ah, gods, yes." He pulls them down to lay on the floor, guiding their legs around him. He rests their calves on his shoulders and reaches down to their entrance. His stomach flutters. How do they make him feel like every time is the first time? He teases at the entrance, and gets their tail curling around his ankle as a reward.

His eyes are locked on theirs, and they're panting, watching him. His chest feels like it may burst. He thrusts his cock into them and they both moan at once. Their hands move to their breasts, massaging them. The sight makes his head spin and he thrusts into them harder.

"Don't hold back," Weft cries. "I want to make you come."

"Weft," he whines, nothing else to say, just needing to say their name. They're moaning below him, rocking into his motions. He gets lost in the feeling of them around him, their soft backside landing against his hip bones and their legs so close to his face.

He comes into them with a shudder, and they gasp in pleasure when he does. They slip their legs off his shoulders and slide off his cock, then roll up to pull him into their arms. He melts into their embrace, buries his nose in their neck.

"I love you," he mumbles into them. "That's all I wanted to say. That's what I wanted you to know."

"I do. Gods I swear I do."

#r-18 #baldur's gate 3 #kinktober 2023 #oc weft #astarion #astarion baldur's gate 3 #once again I have not strictly stuck with the prompt because I entered a transgender blood craze

[yizukikhons]

Wilder Things(Or The Sea Takes, But D's Give)

Garp

Garp had known there would be trouble before he even entered the East Blue. It was his grandsons 17th after all, the day he would try to set sail, his chaos no longer contained to one sleepy village and the surrounding wilderness. But now, looking down at a scrawny recruit with eyes just a touch too bright to be normal, he knew that it was far more than he had anticipated.

Garp probably should have taught him more about their true nature, demanded promises to behave, but the boy had always been too stubborn for his own good. He took after his father in that, a fact he was simultaneously proud of and disparaged. Luffy had always acted on his instincts, following the rituals of D's with an almost religious fervor; but instinct would only get one so far, and the half-claim he had left on this pink haired brat was threatening to tear the poor boy apart, his gift undeveloped and weak with no one to nurture it.

'Well', Garp thought as he took the two recruits off of the Marines hands. 'I guess it's my responsibility to clean up this mess.' His grandson had better be prepared when he caught up. He had earned himself a Fist of Love.

He met the shining eyes of Koby and bared his teeth in a challenging grin. The boys eyes widened in recognition before a similar smile drew across his face

#one piece #monkey d garp #captain coby #monkey d luffy #helmeppo #he's just mentioned #original stories #one piece short stories #Fae D's #Fae and Fairies

[gokartkid]

yukierre university au

“This is so fucked,” Pierre complains, rolling over on his dorm bed to hang off of the end, putting his hands on Yuki’s head.

“What is,” Yuki says absent mindedly. He’s working on an assignment, typing furiously away at his laptop.

“My grades just came out,” Pierre drums a rhythm onto Yuki’s shoulders, watches his hands pause on his keyboard, “for that mid-semester test I told you about.”

“The one that you didn’t study for?” Yuki looks up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey,” Pierre points down at him and tries to look serious, “don’t look at me like that. It’s never gone badly for me before, remember—“

“You’ve never failed a test ever except in 3rd form and it’s because you vomited halfway through the test,” Yuki recites, rolling his eyes, “I know Pierre. Don’t you think this might be karma.”

“Karma!” Pierre pushes himself up to look mock offendedly down at Yuki, “what do you mean karma? I haven’t even done anything wrong.”

“Sometimes,” Yuki looks back down at his laptop and squints at the screen. Pierre collapses back down, leaning his cheek onto his hand to watch him, “you just need to be humbled Pierre.”

“Humbled! Why do you hate me?” Pierre shakes Yuki’s shoulders, just to hear him laugh and try push him off halfheartedly. He keeps typing diligently through the assault, “I am very humble. So humble!”

Yuki makes a noise, disparaging, and Pierre gives it up, letting go and rolling back over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He turns his head to stare at Yuki again, the profile of his face in concentration, brow furrowed. He keeps poking out his tongue to lick at his lips, pink and wet. His face is lit up with the shifting colours of the screen as he flicks between tabs. 

“You should get blue light glasses,” Pierre says absentmindedly, reaches out to poke at Yuki’s cheek. He leans away and back, swatting at Pierre’s hand, “you’re always looking at your screen.”

“It’s because I’m studying,” Yuki says patiently, “because I want to pass.”

“Ugh,” Pierre blows air out of his mouth, “you’ll pass. Of course you’ll pass Yuki, it’s only a first year paper.”

“You’re the one who made me go to that party yesterday when I wanted to work on this!”

“And you had fun, didn’t you?” 

Pierre pushes out his lower lip when Yuki looks at him, unimpressed, tries to make his eyes as big as possible. 

“You’re hopeless,” Yuki finally says, and shuts his laptop, “you want to get snacks from the dining hall?”

“Fuck yes,” Pierre says, and hops off the bed, “I thought you would never ask.”

#finding it soo hard to write long stints rn. take this!!!! #yukierre #yt22 #pg10 #university au #my fic #if anyone wants to send me any prompts ever. i'll take them. short form is all ive got LMFAO

[rizlowwritessortof]

Sunshine

This fic was written for @deanwanddamons Three’s a Crowd 3K Followers Challenge. My quote - “I mean, accidents just don’t happen accidentally” will be in bold. My trope - Opposites Attract (Rich girl/Blue collar Dean). And my Third Wheel - Parents (in this case a very snobbish disapproving mother). Sian, I hope I did your Sian Special justice! 😁

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2952

Warnings: Nothing but the usual smut

The awesome dividers are from the amazing @talesmaniac89​ 

“Dean, you look like a stalker.”

Dean geared back in his chair, shooting his brother a disparaging look. “Just appreciating the scenery, Sammy. Unlike you who can’t tear their eyes away from that fascinating research.” His eyes wandered back to the girl in line at the window for coffee, the breeze stirring her hair and the skirt of her sun dress. “How can you not notice her? She’s a beauty, and she looks like a classy chick.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, classy chicks always go for guys like us.”

Dean smirked, looking at Sam with challenge in his eyes. “So you don’t think she’d be interested in me?”

“No way. Looks like a little rich girl, and I bet that’s her mom with her, in the Jackie O suit, all that’s missing is the pillbox hat. She’d shoot you down before you even got close to her daughter.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, we’ll see about that.” Dean rose to his feet, turning after a step to look back and shake his head. “By the way, nice fashion assessment, Samantha.”

“Shut up,” Sam fired back, bitch face aimed at Dean’s back as his brother’s bow-legged stride carried him closer to his target.

You waited patiently at the counter for your coffee order and your mother’s cup of tea to be finished. It was a gorgeous spring day, the sun warm on your shoulders, and you watched, trying not to roll your eyes as your mother pulled a tissue from her purse and disdainfully brushed at some invisible thing on her chair. She hadn’t wanted to stop at an outdoor coffee spot, but you loved to sit outside and enjoy coffee here. She’d live. Your mother needed to loosen up.

You shook your head, watching her gingerly perch herself on her chair, and you couldn’t help smiling. Not that you didn’t love her, but you were glad you had moved far enough away that you didn’t have to be under her scrutiny every day. The barista came to the window with your order, and you payed them, leaving a generous tip. You turned, coffee in one hand and your mother’s tea in the other, and collided with a tall man, gasping as both drinks hit the pavement, splashing all over the previously pristine white of your dress and the denim he was wearing.

“Oh, damn, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”  You stood there, mouth open, eyes slowly scanning upwards as he spoke.

Your gaze made its way over his solid chest and broad shoulders, finally reaching his face. Your brain nudged you to close your mouth, and you did, finally nodding and forcing words out. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” My God, he was a stunning man – perfect hair, sexy lips, long-lashed eyes that were a stunning shade of green.

“I’m really sorry. Tripped over my own feet. Let me buy you some more coffee.” He grabbed a handful of napkins from the counter, bending to dab a little at your skirt, handing them to you as you reached for them. “I’ll pay for your cleaning bill. Sure you’re okay?”

You managed to smile up at him, and his eyes lit up. “I’m good, I promise. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

You returned to the counter together, reordering your drinks, and Dean paid, offering to bring them to your table. Your mother watched, her expression tight and disapproving, as you approached. “Mom, this is Dean. We had a little collision and he gallantly offered to buy our drinks.”

Dean placed your mother’s tea in front of her, nodding towards her as he spoke. “Ma’am. Nice to meet you. Sorry for the trouble. I’ll pay for the cleaning bill.”

You sat down, thanking him as he set your coffee on the table. “Thank you, it’s really not necessary. It was an accident.”

“No, I insist. I can – meet you back here in the morning? I don’t have any cash on me today, but I’ll still be around tomorrow, if that works?”

You deliberately ignored your mother’s glare as you answered. “All right, I can meet you here, around 9? I come here for coffee most days, anyway.” You smiled up at him and he returned the favor, nodding in agreement.

“9 it is! See you then.” With another nod to your mother, he turned to walk away, and you happily watched, finally turning back to your mother’s reproachful stare.

“Mom. Please stop. He feels bad about what happened and he’s trying to be nice.”

She cleared her throat and picked up her tea, taking a sip before speaking. “He seems rather disreputable.”

You rolled your eyes in response. “Mother, anyone not in you and Daddy’s club seems ‘disreputable’ to you. I think he seems very nice.”

“I am concerned about you, living in the middle of this city, being influenced by all the – eccentric types who live in this neighborhood. You should have gone back to school like we wanted, gotten your masters degree instead of this job of yours. You should be dating a suitable boy by now, thinking about your future. Instead, you’re wasting your time exploring and absorbing all sorts of God knows what kind of ideas, and by the time you realize we were right all along, it may be too late. We would like you to come home.”

“That’s not going to happen, Mother. You and Daddy need to accept that and accept that I’m living my life the way I want to, not the way you have tried to dictate. And don’t threaten me about my trust fund, I don’t want to hear it. Just drink your tea and let’s try to enjoy our day.”

Sam looked up as Dean approached their table with a grin. “Guess who’s meeting little rich girl here tomorrow morning?”

His younger brother shook his head with a wry smile. “Yeah. Very smooth, Dean.” He stood, grabbing his laptop to head towards the parking lot, and Dean swatted him on the shoulder as he walked beside him.

“Takes planning. I mean, accidents just don’t happen accidentally, Sammy.”

Dean arrived a little early the next morning, settling in with his Americano and his phone. He wanted to be there when you showed up, watch you walk into the seating area, take in your presence, enjoy it all before he approached you. Hopefully you’d show up without your mom. She was definitely not a fan.

When you came around the corner, he almost choked on his coffee. You were wearing a flowered halter dress, your toes tipped in red to match, your eyes shining as you said something to – unfortunately – your mother. You walked directly to the counter, and he debated, then headed your way.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said quietly, bending close to your ear, and you turned to him with a smile.

“Dean! Good morning! Looks like you beat us here. We just couldn’t get going this morning.”

You put a hand on Dean’s arm as you talked, not mentioning the fact that the reason you were almost late was that your mother had argued with you for over an hour about coming at all. You had finally put your foot down and told her you were going, but she insisted that if you were meeting this ‘shady character,’ then she was going to be there.

Your drinks were ready, so you paid the barista and handed your mother’s tea to her with a pointed stare. “Please just go sit, Mother, I’ll be there in a minute.” Obviously displeased, she took the cup from your hand and went to the same table you had occupied the day before, disapproval clear even though not a word was spoken. “Sorry about that. She has very antiquated ideas about – well, about everything. Including letting her daughter lead her own life. You’d think I was 16 years old.”

Dean laughed softly. “I get it. She’s just trying to protect you. Gotta admit, though, I was hoping you’d show up without her today.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills. “Here. For the cleaning. Like I promised.”

“Dean, really, you don’t…” You stopped as he shook his head and pushed the money back towards you. “All right, if it makes you feel better. But it’s really not necessary.”

“I think it is. Anyway – it was really nice meeting you. Maybe someday I’ll come this way again and find you here.”

“Maybe…” You looked up through your lashes at him. “Or maybe you can meet me, say – in one hour? The bookstore on the corner. In the basement. I’ll put my mother in the reading lounge with a cup of tea and then I’ll meet you down there. If you want.”

A slow smile curved his lips, his eyes warm. “Oh, I’ll be there, sunshine.”

About 45 minutes later, Dean entered the book store, wandering until he found a sign reading ‘Vintage Books’ pointing the way to the stairs. The basement was huge, filled with bookshelves, tables and bins full of used books, grouped by genre. Dean smirked to himself, thinking how much Sammy would love this place.

There was no one down there, so Dean walked around, picking up a book here and there, killing time. He had made his way to the far corner of the room, engrossed in reading the back of a book, when you walked up beside him. “Figures I’d find you in this section,” you teased, and he grinned, glancing at the sign – ‘Erotica.’

“Huh. Thought this was the ‘Historical’ section,” he responded with a grin, and you laughed softly.

“Right. Of course you did.” He replaced the book on the shelf and turned towards you, his eyes moving over your features, waiting. The room suddenly seemed airless, and you moved a step closer, stretching up to kiss his lips, soft and tentative. When you stopped, looking up at him, his tongue darted out over his bottom lip before he put his hands on your upper arms and pulled you close, his lips sealing over yours in a searing kiss that sent your pulse racing, heat flushing through your body. When your tongues began to mingle, you raised your arms to clasp around his neck, his large hands guiding you, moving you until your back was against the bookcase as his body pressed close. He was a solid mass of muscle, working man’s muscle, smooth and taut and powerful, and being pinned by him like that sent an electric zing right to your clit, making you moan.

He finally lifted his head, both of you panting for air. You looked into his lust-darkened eyes for a moment before putting your hand on his chest and pushing lightly. He took a step back and watched as you reached behind your neck and untied your halter dress, bringing the ties forward and letting the floral fabric fall to your waist, baring your breasts. Dean’s jaw clenched as his eyes devoured you, and then he looked into your eyes, waiting for your slight smile to tell him it was okay to continue.

He ran calloused fingers over your soft curves, staring almost reverently, before cupping them in his hands. You gripped the shelf behind you as he strummed his fingers over your nipples, watching them stiffen into hard little nubs. Your head hit the bookshelf behind you with a thump as he took a nipple into his mouth, his tongue teasing, flicking, lapping at you until you felt dizzy. The throbbing ache between your thighs intensified as he began to suck gently, and you blushed at the sounds forcing their way from between your lips.

He finally pulled back, blowing over the spit-slick bud, making it tighten even more. “Fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, then moved to the other side, and you whined, your fingers gripping his hair.

“Dean, ohmygod,” you whispered, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile as he continued to tease at your nipple, his hands gripping your waist. He nibbled at the peak, and the almost-painful throb in your pussy was more than you could take. “Please… Dean, please. I need…”

He pulled off your breast with a soft pop, raising up to his full height. “What do you need, sweetheart? I’m more than happy to help.” His beautiful green eyes were almost black with want, but he was going to make you ask before he went any further.

“Need you… inside me. Fuck me, Dean, please,” you begged, and he clenched his teeth, pulling in a hissing breath as your hand found the aching bulge in his jeans. “Please.”

He nodded, and the expression on his face made you clench around nothing, almost desperate now for him. He pulled a condom from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth and then fumbling with his button and zipper, sighing in relief as his cock was finally freed from its confines. He shoved his clothes down far enough to free himself, rolling the condom on as you watched, wide-eyed and wanting.

Dean pulled at the skirt of your sun dress, lifting it out of his way as his fingers stroked up your inner thigh. You moved your legs apart, reveling in his surprised moan at finding no underwear barring his way. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, his large hand kneading at your pussy, your hips pushing into his touch.

“Took them off before I came down,” you whispered, then gasped as he slipped two fingers inside you, his thumb swirling around your swollen clit. He found your sweet spot in no time, and had you trembling and on the edge so fast your head was spinning. He pulled his fingers free, leaving you panting and clutching at the bookshelves until your knuckles were white. “Please. Dean, please!”

He leaned in to kiss you, stealing what little breath you had left, his hands moving around to the back of your thighs to lift you, letting you wrap your legs around his hips. “Hold on, baby,” he ground out, waiting until you were clinging to his neck before moving a hand down between you, angling his cock to your entrance and pushing in slowly.

There was a silent, quivering space of time as he held you, waiting for your trembling body to adjust, the sensation almost overwhelming. When he felt you begin to relax against him, he gripped you tight and pulled back slightly, then drove up into you, groaning, “Fuck, sweetheart, you feel so damn good.”

He continued to move slowly, and you clutched his shoulders, leaning in to breathe, “Fuck me, Dean,” into his ear. The moan that you got in response made your cunt squeeze around him, and with a soft growl he began driving into you, your body braced against the bookcase behind you, your legs clamped around his hips. He was punching breathless cries from you with every thrust, and you could only hope that no one else had come downstairs, because the blissful tension in your body was building to the point of oblivion. “Dean… aaahhh… I can’t…”

“Come for me, sweetheart, just let go. Squeeze that pretty cunt around my cock, come on…” His rhythm was faltering, his voice desperate. He buried himself deep inside you, holding himself there as he shoved his hand between you to rub rough fingers over your clit, and you bit your lips to smother the scream trying to escape from your throat as you came. Dean began to move again, his head buried in your shoulder, pistoning into you hard and fast as he worked you through your orgasm and reached his, bucking against you as his balls drew up tight and he exploded.

The throbbing of his cock inside you sent another wave of heat through you, and you clung to Dean with all your strength, your body shaking. He raised his head, looking into your eyes for a moment before kissing you, slow and deep, until you quieted. Then he took a step back, his hands on your waist as he lifted you slightly, pulling himself free and sending a shudder through you.

He set you on your feet, supporting you until he was sure you were steady, a soft smile on his face. He moved away for a moment, grabbing a tissue from a nearby desk and disposing of the condom, putting himself back together before coming back, a wistful look in his eyes. “I wish we had more time.”

You smiled back, your eyes closing for a moment as he bent to place a gentle kiss to each nipple before pulling your dress back up and tying the knot behind your neck. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He put a hand to your face, that same tender look on his face. “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. Glad I – um – ran into you.”

You laughed quietly. “Me, too. Maybe sometime you’ll be back this way when my mother isn’t here. Maybe we could run into each other again.”

Dean grinned. “That’d be nice.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to her. “Put your number in. Next time I make it this way I’ll give you a call.”

You did as he asked, then stepped close and stretched up for a kiss. “Maybe we’ll go for coffee.”

“Maybe we’ll do a lot of things.” He kissed you again, cupping your breast and squeezing gently.

After the long, lingering kiss, you stepped back reluctantly. “I’d better go. She’ll be getting impatient.” You reach for his hand. “Take care of yourself, Dean.”

“You, too, sweetheart.” He watched you as you left, then looked at his phone, smiling as he saw your number and the name next to it – ‘Sunshine.’

Tags for my lovelies:  @saenalife​    @deanscarlett​    @jensensgotyoudean​    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis​    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog​    @geeklibrarian​    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid​     @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​    @mrswhozeewhatsis​    @littlegreenplasticsoldier​    @sleep-silent-angel​    @darcia22​    @winchesterprincessbride​    @ellen-reincarnated1967​    @eyes-of-a-disney-princess​      @deanslittleangel2y5​    @melanie451​        @spectaculacular-sammy​     @bookchic20​    @jodyri​    @selma-jean-blog​           @savingapplepie-eatingthings​    @kittenofdoomage​    @masked-maiden42​    @lean-mean-deanwinchester​    @ericuhlorain​    @undecided-garden​    @ceeceewinchester​    @typicalweirdbookworm​          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit​    @youtoldalie​    @tanithlowisabamf-blog​    @deandoesthingstome​    @jxackles​    @nerdwholikesword​    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic​    @kreweofimp​  @gabavaldman​    @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog​    @darkx143​    @disassociativedogma​    @ioanashalala​    @jencharlan​    @deansthirstblog​     @dorky-and-i-know-it​    @mischief-maker1​    @winchestersandwordprocessors​    @percussiongirl2017​    @bringmesomepie56​   @akshi8278​    @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester    @torn-and-frayed​    @sandlee44​   @wingedcatninja​  @evansrogerskitten​   @emoryhemsworth​  @peaceinourtime82​  @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior​  @sarcasmqueen74​   @maliburenee     @mrsjenniferwinchester​

#sunshine #deanwanddamons3Kfollowerschallenge #dean fic #dean x reader #dean smut #dean fluff #fluffy smut

[raytm]

@dupliciti continued from here. ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

his anger is incandescent, animus that simmers to the surface and pours into the long, cavernous cracks in his mask, seething in fervor. she yearns to dip her fingers beneath it, wedge them into the fissures and peel off this pretender’s mask and laugh in his face, horrible and shrill. he believes himself at liberty to bask in indulgence and she, she is the acrid reminder that he can never have peace, it would always be transient, always leave a lingering taste of bile in his mouth. he would be waiting for the other shoe to drop - always, always. she was a portent of it, in the grand scheme of things she is so very insignificant in contrast to him and yet here he is, deteriorating because he’s moored himself in some pleasant, humdrum domestication. pain burgeons from the point of impact, sharp and with intent and she does not wince, rather, her features soften around the edges, a fondness that is debased by her being its wielder. “ It appears you are merely more familiar with this one.” she speaks of him like he was a novelty, not a person - not a human, something for her to sink her teeth into and relish the piquant flavor of. that was what it meant to wear the skin of another, if she had dedicated herself further to studying him perhaps her imitation would have been more persuasive. “ it would seem.” his voice dips, a hum of rumination that ebbs and flows alongside the thrumming pain, the bruising pressure, the barely stifled rage. sparkle isn’t bothered being at the epicentre of his wrath and whilst she had no particular fondness for pain she does find his faltering rather amusing. she sees him, lucid and denuded, his writhing insides that desperately grasp for a modicum of flippancy. she’s truly upset him, ruffled his plumage until he was a mess of disgruntled resentment and brazen assaults. “ and I told you I still considered visiting in spite of that.” half - mast eyes gaze into him, through him, gelid, purling water. through the soft lowering of lashes she is a cruel bastardisation of the man sampo had come to hold so very dear to him. she wondered how he might fare at the tavern, drowning in a fool’s revelries, he wasn’t a particularly jocund man so she believed he would loathe it. things just kept getting more and more complicated for poor sampo koski. It would be truly disparaging for her not to be present at his little farce of normalcy. It was a fool’s game after all, he knows that - he should know that. “ and yet here I find you - pretending, pretending - pretending.” the blue of gepard’s eyes distorts, dilutes, putrefies into bleeding red, his pupils blown wide, dark and billowing. “ maybe I should tell you the same thing,  i thought you were a better actor than this.” 

#me chanting; FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. #dennys parking lot time. #* ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ 𝑆𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐾𝐿𝐸. › 𝐢𝐜.

[tenjiiku]

by the window seat

On snowy days, you had been trying to recall the name of a song while nibbling on a warm sweet potato at a stand outside your local library near a bus stop.

The tune was long forgotten but the memories you’d embedded within its chorus were still fresh in your mind. However, no matter how hard you tried — no matter how much you concentrated and disassociated — you could never quite put a name to the melody.

But that only happened on snowy days.

You can’t quite remember what you would ponder on the other times.

You owned a horrid memory, your brain always choosing to keep the most inconsequential and idiosyncratic information. Knowledge of the North Sentinel Islands; the glare of the woman you had momentarily tripped on in the subway; a boy tickling you during the first grade daily homework check-up line: they all hide in your brain, uncovering exactly when you do not want them to.

But on snowy, frigid days — something about the coldness makes you warm enough to forget.

On snowy, frigid days you can feel close to twenty-one. On snowy days, you learn to ignore and reminisce — in tandem.

You choke on your mouthful of hot sweet potato when a paw places itself tenderly on your boot. As you cough rather unattractively — (was there any other way to cough?) — the small culprit shrinks, but remains looking up towards your warm snack.

When you could not breathe; looked close to death with watery eyes, flushed cheeks and a sweaty forehead; when bits of potato fell from your mouth into the fresh winter snow; when the bus had arrived with its riders gawking at you without a hint of report;

That was the first time you had met him.

“Ma’am, here.” His voice is smooth and baritone, old and mature — like a fire in the forest.

He holds out a light blue handkerchief, you grab it without even thinking of him and bring it up to your mouth. You cough into the soft cloth, shutting your eyes as you try to catch your breath paying no heed to the forest fire of a man.

When you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is the discolouration on the left side of his face.

It was quite disparaging of you, but he looked beautiful. He barely spares you a smile and does not acknowledge his gift.

You cannot speak.

When you blink he is gone along with the bus.

Riders who had gotten off stare at you as though you have murdered their first born, and suddenly a sense of anxiety washes over you like clay. You stare at the potato clenched — practically mushed — in your right fist. The small cat at your feet scratches your ankle, so you set the half-eaten potato down at its side.

The feline takes it and goes away. The ojisan running the stall takes his supplies and leaves as well. Bus goers come and go, however, they too, do not stay for long in the cold.

But you stand there in the snow, the colour blue reflecting in the palm of your hands and cheeks. A tune plays at the top of your head, it had started the moment you gazed into his aquamarine.

You walk home in a daze.

.

.

.

Exactly one week and three days later after your shift, you find yourself with two potatoes in your hands, and the man, standing underneath the infamous bus stop roof a metre away.

You walk up to him with a purpose. He looks at you the second you make your first step towards him, and suddenly you become an otter walking on land losing your footing. You trip, but pretend to pass it off as an intentional motion into a bow.

“Tha— thank you.”

You stutter like an idiot, holding out a potato for him, not even introducing yourself before offering your gratitude. A bird who has not migrated to warmer lands for whatever reason lands next to you; courageous and everything you are trying to be.

The man continues to gawk at you, forest green eyes setting the snow around you on fire. You can feel the sweat on your cheeks perspire.

After a moment he replies, “There is no need.”

His voice is mellow and deep exactly how it was when you first heard it. Your stomach twists with a foreign type of feeling. You feel like throwing up.

“Please,” you exclaim, bowing down towards him again, “Please, you— you must accept. I cannot eat both.”

When approximately ten seconds pass with no reply, you crane your head up lightly to notice that his eyes have never left your frame and he is lighting a cigarette. Your cheeks warm at the attention and you look back down once more.

The flickering of a lighter and a deep inhale is heard, before he finally asks, “Why?”

You decide that his retort is an indication of you being able to stand up straight, so you do and stare at the potatoes in your hand accusingly. You open your mouth, close it, then give your reply.

“I— it’s too much for one person.”

You think that is a reasonable concern. Though, as you watch as the man’s eyes flicker to your boots, you do the same and find the same feline creature from last week at your feet once more.

“She looks pretty hungry.” He states.

When the cat scratches at your boot shamelessly, you can’t help but agree with him. Then, when you ponder on it more — he seems familiarised with her. You crane an eyebrow in question.

“Oh— you…?”

He exhales from his cigarette tapping the butt to get rid of the ashes, “She had stopped coming in Winter but I suppose after the other day…”

He trails off, and, luckily, your brain synapses were operating to put two and two together. Your eyes widen out of surprise and guilt. You furrow your eyebrows, looking at the cat’s pitiful expression.

She’s been coming back for me.

The cat’s small purr takes you out of your compunctious reverie. His eyes on you only enhance the guilt you feel. Or — that was a lie. His perfect gaze increased your anxiety because you were anything but perfect.

“It’s still too much for her,” you stammer out, still looking down at the cat.

In your periphery, you can notice the man tilt his head, a hint of a smirk resting on his lips around a cigarette. It falls when you put one potato in your mouth, sideways to hold it. You break the other one in half, placing the one without the napkin down at the cat’s feet.

You take your potato out of your mouth. The other, now only a half of a whole, you hold out towards the amused man.

“Here, take half.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. He holds his cigarette still, in his right hand. You chew on the inside of your cheek, slightly shaking the half in his face to remind him that you are indeed, real.

He snaps out of his trance, finally giving you his first eye-creasing smile. A heat begins to simmer and flicker inside of your stomach at the sight.

“Thank you…,” he looks down at your chest, “L/n.”

You widen your eyes, gazing downwards to notice a workshop name’s tag you received from work still clipped to your shirt. You look back up at him — his smile has yet to fade. With hot cheeks, you rip it right off and release a shaky laugh.

Blinking up at him, you await, for what you do not know.

But, apparently, he does.

“Inui Seishu.” He introduces himself. You give him a wry smile, and the feline who had caused this conversation rests between the two of you.

The sound of the bus coming down the street is loud and obnoxious. Inui-san looks down at his watch, looking all too dashing in his winter trench coat.

He spares you one more glance, potato in hand. “Thank you,” he gestures towards it, bowing towards your unassuming frame.

“Yeah— yeah,” you murmur, returning the gesture. You let him be the first one to leave before you stand back up. He embarks on his bus, leaving you and your new cat friend by your boots. The bird that had once landed by your side flies away with the bus.

That should be the end of it, you conclude.

.

.

.

The next day and the days to follow, you come to the realisation that you come to conclusions far too soon.

For, without fail, you would meet with Inui-san at the bus stop at 5:45pm. Either Inui-san was punctual or you had gotten yourself a stalker. The idea did not displease you as much as it should have, perhaps because Inui-san could have very well come to the same conclusions regarding you. He hadn’t gotten a restraining order, and you hadn’t gotten tired of staring at his face, so you surmised that a mutual connection over Sakura (the cat you would feed) and baked sweet potatoes was something both of you subscribed to.

You still have not managed to remember the song, but you think you do not want to anymore. Especially when your mind is currently tasked with making simple, casual conversation with Inui-san who was terrible at doing so.

“I’m so tired,” you huff, staring at a stop sign.

“Hn,” Inui-san grunts, staring at you. You refuse to look back at him.

Burying your face into your scarf when a particularly cold gust of wind passes by, you sigh — a cloud of frigid air leaving in your wake.

“It’s so cold, is it not?”

Inui-san retorts a stagnant, “I am warm.”

This is typically how Inui-san works himself around small talk. In these trying times, you wonder how he used to be in his youth. How he had gotten past twenty eight years of his life and did not know how to carry a conversation was startling to you.

“Inui-san,” you turn your head to glare at him, “You are being rude.“

His lips crook into a smile, his tone somewhere between a laugh and a huff when he speaks next. His eyes seem to soften the more he stares at you, and the longer it goes on a terrible fever rises in your stomach once more.

“Am I?”

Crossing your arms, you decide to look back at the stop sign to think without gazing at his lovely face.

You sigh, “Yes. You are. Stop being rude to me.”

Sakura was not present to fill the awkward silence, but you do not think you need her presence anymore. Standing in quietness with Inui-san was also quite nice.

You feel him shift and fidget beside you. Curiously, you turn your head. With furrowed brows and a soft voice, he says to you sincerely, “My apologies, L/n-san.”

Gaping at his probity, you feel sweat begin to perspire on your forehead in -3°C weather. Inui-san was always so serious, much more serious to you. He’d take everything you say to heart. It was much too cute for you to handle. So to distract yourself from swooning, you decide to change the topic.

“Inui-san I am younger than you,” you remind him as you adjust your scarf, and you see all too well how his eyes follow each and every movement your hands make.

“What would you like me to call you?”

You ponder for a moment, forgetting once again how sincerely Inui-san takes your ridiculous statements. Your cheeks warm as you mumble, “I— whatever you like.”

He steps closer to you. You, instinctually, take one step back. When he takes another move towards you you look behind you to find yourself at the edge of the sidewalk. Not wanting to get hit by ongoing traffic you stay put. When you note his hand coming towards your face, you shut your eyes — not wanting to know what comes next.

“Y/n-san,” he calls you by your first name, placing the hand he had lifted on your shoulder, “my bus is here.”

Slowly opening your eyes, you are welcomed by his Cheshire grin. The engine of the bus finally makes its way to your senses and you turn your head to notice that it has, indeed, arrived. A wave of humiliation washes over you — what the hell were you expecting him to do anyway?

“O— okay?!” You unintentionally shout, still high on embarrassment.

Inui-san stares at you like you stare at Sakura. He probably thinks of you the same way, a pitiful creature not knowing her surroundings. His hand squeezes your shoulder and you absolutely despise your brain and stomach for flipping the way they do. Inui-san’s eyes are creased from the way he smiles at you, and a pathetic part deep within you figures that you embarrassing yourself is not too bad of a price to pay to see such an expression bloom on his features.

Inui-san washes away any of your concerns with a single glance, pursing his lips when he states a solemn, “Goodbye Y/n-san. Get home safe.”

You nod dumbly, and he laughs deep from his stomach at this. It is profound and makes your cheeks hurt. When he takes his hand off of you and walks to his bus, you only wish he can put it back.

All you can do is wave at him when he watches you from the window seat.

.

.

.

Seishu did not think much of you when he first met you. Truthfully, he had not expected anything in return for giving you his handkerchief. You were struggling, so he had helped you.

You were entertaining and boisterous, everything he was not. He would not have the courage to tell you this, but he found himself enjoying your meetings. He had mellowed out with each passing year, your presence was invigorating.

Still, he pondered on one question. Now three months into this routine, he inquires.

“Do you not have any place to go, Y/n-san?”

You pause in drinking your coffee, blinking as you gaze up at him. Seishu’s eyes soften at your meek expression.

“Why do you ask?” You ask. Your tone of voice was so quiet and small, Seishu would miss it if he was not listening. But he always pays attention to you.

“You are always here,” he states, a bit colder than he wanted to be, “I hope you are not waiting for me.”

But a selfish part of him hopes you are. He hopes you feel the same way he does. He hopes he also warms you with his presence. He hopes you also want to hold on to him.

Your eyes widen cutely, he finds his chest tighten when you exclaim, “How— how presumptuous!”

You don’t say anything. Seishu bites once more.

“Are you?”

“What?”

His lips waver into a smile, “Waiting for me?”

Seishu relishes in your embarrassed expression. A more sinister part of him is delighted he had the capability to elicit such a reaction from you. Before he can continue to tease you further, his bus arrives.

You bid him farewell before he can. “Good— goodbye!”

His eyes slightly widen, and he smiles at the way you fumble with your scarf — a habit you had when you felt sheepish. Seishu nods, deciding to leave you be and let you relax.

He watches you from the window seat, as the bus embarks home. He knew it would be mellow when he finally arrives. But — he finds himself craving the warmth of two small hands and a quiet voice rather than his destination more.

.

.

.

Yesterday, during a 2AM shower after coming back from a late night drinking party, Seishu thought of inviting you over to his home. Maybe it was because of the alcohol and weariness he was craving some type of human connection. In situations like these, he would bed with some nameless woman he’d met that very night — but he found himself repulsed by the floral perfume floating around the mixer.

When he realised he was craving the scent of sweet potatoes and the sound of a peculiarly small voice, is when Seishu began panicking.

He had gotten soap in his eye, laughed at the pain, then decided against it. He surmised he would still meet you at the bus stop as always, and he would pretend he had not thought of you in the shower like a normal, functioning man.

But then you appeared in his sight, bundled in your blue-coloured scarf and large knit mittens, and Seishu found himself backtracking all over again.

He wants to hold you when you smile the second you spot his frame. He pinches his thigh.

He approaches you first, stoic and intimidating. You rock back and forth on your feet, without a care for your surroundings, greeting him twice.

He wants to hold you. Seishu bends his four fingers into his palms until he hurts as punishment for thinking that again. You hand him a coffee and tell him thanks for paying for yours the last time. You giggle when you tell him how they spelled his name wrong, pointing at the cup with a finger engulfed in the cotton of your large mitten and Seishu wants to hold you.

“Come with me,” he says, breathlessly, wrapping his leather glove around your softer one that holds his coffee cup.

“To— to where?” You murmur, eyes dilated and glossy from the cold weather. Seishu wants to hold you.

“My motorcycle shop.” He begins dragging you to his bus, not looking back out of fear he would shamelessly give into his desires.

“Okay.” You whisper quietly. Seishu could die.

.

When you arrive at his garage, Inui-san lights another cigarette to calm himself down. His hands shake as he unlocks his shop, your timid frame waiting for him to patiently let both of you in.

The coffees you hold have grown cold from the weather. Inui-san turns to you abruptly, startling you at his engorged eyes and tousled hair.

“Place your coat anywhere, I’ll heat these up.” He murmurs to you gently. You sheepishly nod, handing him the drinks.

Inui-san owning a motorcycle shop is still a surprise. For someone so refined you had naively assumed he was a typical businessman. Placing your winter garments on a table full of tools and other necessities, you adjust the behind of your dress, gazing at all the bikes with awe.

Inui-san comes back quite soon, tapping your shoulder to snap you of your daze. You turn and smile as he passes you your now warmed cup of coffee. Without saying a word, he gestures towards a secluded bench behind several bikes. You wordlessly follow him, sitting beside him in the small wooded area. His knee hits yours and butterflies swarm in your chest.

After a moment, you quietly ask, “Why do you not ride a motorcycle if you own so many of them?”

Inui-san chuckles, and you purse your lips at the sound.

“It’s not as enjoyable in the Winter. I like to keep warm in this weather.”

Tilting your head towards him, you gaze at his side profile. The beautiful discoloration hypnotises you to stay closer to him.

“Why not a car?”

Inui-san swallows the sip he had taken from his coffee, long fingers holding it by its lid. He thinks, and you await his answer. Inui-san would always ponder before speaking, you would sit in silence forever if it meant he was taking every single one of your silly inquiries with strong intent.

He laughs again, which bleeds into a sigh, “I was part of a biker gang in my youth, so I suppose I have a stupid sense of loyalty.”

You don’t show a hint of surprise at this revelation on your face even though it is one. Inui-san stares at you expectantly, almost as if to say Will you accept me? My past and my present? It almost makes you want to cry laughing at how such an intimidating man with intimidating features can be reduced to feeling such insecurities and being so nescient.

So nescient of the fact that you would take Inui-san in any way, so long as he would give himself to you.

“Oh…,” you hold back your amusement, lips twitching to smile, “I don’t find it stupid. I think we all have some silly sense of loyalty to something nonsensical.”

Feeling daring, your eyes wander to his right hand resting on right knee. You place your smaller fingers between his longer ones, admiring the way his eyes widen in surprise and wonder at your action.

“I admire that a lot, Inui-san.” You whisper. A blush enraptured on his beautiful features and a warmth blooms on your own at the sigh.

“You are not… surprised.” He sounds restless, like he has discovered water in the middle of a dessert. A type of apprehension you are all too willing to soothe.

“Actually I… think I can see it. You, a yankee.”

Inui-san looks away from you, closing his eyes. He pulls at the long sleeves of your dress, practically whining. You laugh.

“Ahh, how embarrassing.”

You laugh and laugh. Inui-san smiles at you, you note from your periphery. When you come back down, his voice is lower than before — almost as though he was sharing a secret between you both.

“I’d thought I’d matured as an adult, what a shame.” He seems to almost chastise himself, feigning hurt. You elbow him softly in his side and smile when his mouth twitches into a tiny grin.

“What— what I mean to say,” you take a deep inhale to stop yourself from laughing to death, “Inui-san you are very handsome.”

Though you did not think of your statement before you said it — you meant it truthfully. However, when Inui-san openly stares at you with the most devious smirk you have seen on him by far, your brain begins to replay what exactly you had uttered. Now, it is your time to be humiliated.

“I mean— handsome as in, refined! You are very intimidating, Inui-san— I mean that in a mature—,” when Inui-san leans in unbelievably closer, pushing your head against the side wall, you trail off, losing your sentence, “… way.”

A large hand cups your face. Inui-san’s mint breath wafts over your features and your knees tremble a little at how positively warm he is. It is all too pathetic how a single glance and touch from him can set you on fire.

“Y/n,” he murmurs your name slowly, deep voice now all too close to your ears, lips so close to your own they almost touch. You want them to.

“You talk too much.” He says.

“I’m sorry,” You practically whimper, and Seishu is too concerned at how much he enjoys hearing your voice like that.

Brushing a stray hair from your face, Inui-san looks all too dashing. His eyes flicker somewhere below your nose, and your face heats up at the intention. You want him to. Your feeble fingers clench onto the soft material of his coat, and Inui-san smiles like he did the second time you met him — like a fire in a forest, he rasps against your lips.

“Don’t be.”

When his eyes seem to say, ‘Can I?’ you all but give a single nod, and his lips attach to yours.

They kiss you with a passion, with precision. They kiss you in the way that you know Inui-san is kissing you, and you never want it to end. You want to burn in his fire forever.

When it seems to end all soon, you whine embarrassingly. Inui-san only smiles at you, half from pity you presume and the other half with love. Pure love.

“So beautiful,” he breathes against your neck as he leaves small kisses on the column, “so beautiful.”

“Inui-san,” you mumble, breathless. He pulls back, looking deep within your flushed eyes.

“Seishu, call me Seishu, love, please.” He almost seems to beg. You can’t help but smile at his wants, and he smiles as you do.

“Seishu-san I think I really like you.” You confess.

The way he holds you like you are made of porcelain, the warmth of his touch, the yellow lighting of his motorcycle shop — you never want anything more.

“I’m glad,” he pecks your lips, and grins when you laugh, “I really like you too.”

Like a fire in the forest, like a sahara in the snow, like the tune of a song you cannot remember, like the warmth of sharing a half sweet potato. You never need anything more.

#inui x reader #inui seishu x reader #inui x fem reader #writing

[blindbet]

@pavocelus sent a message . . .         there was something hauntingly familiar about watching someone disparaged for a background they could not help. the frostwind stellaron couldn’t quite put his finger on it, this dread and unease that welled in the pit of his stomach when he overheard someone call adventurine an ‘avgin’ like they would refer to the dirt beneath their shoes. it wasn’t any of his business, but there was an unease which came with watching his ( frienemy ? ) companion brush it off like it was nothing.   (   some whispered part of kaeya’s fractured mind heard the word in the same tone, grit out like venom between an ugly scowl   “   abyssal   ”   …   “   khaenri’ahn   ”   …   “   sinner.   ”   )   but he doesn’t voice any of his concern, instead, after seating himself at aventurine’s side – all flowing feathers, elegant repose – a quick flick of his hand the floor beneath the offending brute is slicked with ice, followed by a clumsy, painful fall.

           𝐡𝐞'𝐬   𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝   𝐭𝐨   𝐭𝐡𝐞   𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥   𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬   -   the   hissing   disdain   of   displeasure   juxtaposed   from   offending   lips.   his   kind   have   always   been   renowned   for   this   -   and   aventurine's   heritage   is   a   blatant   sign   upon   his   features,   those   gorgeous   hues   burning   bright   even   behind   his   glasses.   his   nature   too,   is   a   creation   of   such   birth   -   the   silver   tongue,   the   social   finesse...   even   when   his   brand   burns   like   hot   coals,   even   when   his   eyes   attract   only   hatred...   the   stoneheart   meets   it   all   with   a   graceful   smile,   a   lilting   purr   -   because   that   was   just   business,   and   aventurine   had   long   since   learned   how   to   weaponize   his   'short   comings.'      kaeya's   pull   is   gravitational   -   and   he   is   a   planet   in   the   other   man's   orbit,   lounging   against   the   booth   at   his   back   with   unfettered   ease,   as   if   the   hissing   of   his   kin's   name   hadn't   crawled   beneath   his   skin.   he   sits   close   enough   to   the   other   -   nearly   pressed   against   his   side,   for   they   had   such   fun   with   their   hateful   flirtationship,   and   aventurine   was   tactile   enough   to   enjoy   the   cold   that   emulated   from   his   body   -   that   he's   certain   the   other   can   see   the   minute   tick   in   his   jaw,   the   way   gloved   fingertips   flex   against   his   thigh   -   and   the   manager's   lips   art   parting,   ready   to   spew   his   own   version   of   venom,   when-

           an   amused   noise   whispers   through   his   throat,   the   distraction   allowing   enough   for   aventurine   to   cant   his   gaze   in   kaeya's   direction,   before   smirking.   flourish   has   the   younger   reaching   up   to   pluck   off   his   glasses   -   bearing   those   bright,   light   sucking   eyes   to   the   dim   lighting,   blue   rings   so   vibrant   that   they   glow   in   the   corner   booth.   aventurine   -   as   gracious   as   always   -   offers   the   offending   party   a   rueful   smile   -   that   dissolves   into   a   haughty,   blatant   sneer.   that's   right,   he   thinks,   slave   beats   worm   rolling   around   in   the   dirt.   

           ❝   that   looks   like   it   hurt.   ❞   clucks   his   mock   sympathy   -   before   without   even   standing,   aventurine's   hand   flings   forth,   and �� from   it,   a   bundle   of   credits,   dispersing   themselves   about   the   downed   parties   body   with   a   rain   of   'clinks,'   ❝   when   the   doc   asks   how   you   got   the   funds   to   pay   for   the   bill,   be   sure   to   tell   them   it   was   from   the   generosity   of   an   avgin.   ❞   and   then   his   attention   turns   to   kaeya,   the   swell   of   a   gloved   hand   pressed   to   his   cool   chest   as   the   gambler   looks   up   at   him   with   that   tell   tale   gaze,   and   smirks,   ❝   neat   trick,   little   stellaron.   ❞   thank   you.

#pavocelus #𝐕𝐈. [ . . . ] answered / #𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. [ . . . ] verse / i. main