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murmiss · 14 days

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Yandere Simulator.

(accordingly, inspired by the game Yandere Simulator)

Pairing: Ghost/You, Price/You, Gaz/You,Soap/You, Graves/You, Konig/You, Alejandro/You, Rudy/You, Horangi/You. Valeria/You. (I assume that this is not all, since the idea is taken from the Yandere Simulator, in the harem version).

Warning: College, city and certain places and people are fictitious, the education system is fictitious, OOC is possible,My personal headcannons and character vision.Different ages, mention yandere,mentioning mental problems, etc.there may be mistakes in words, English is not my first language.

Summary: Inspired by the game Yandere simulator, where you are the main character, a simple girl in in which different guys with different types and characters are interested, and of course, there is Yandere.

you can express your opinion :)

1 part.

You were born into a simple, extremely ordinary family. Your father was a banker, walking around in his favorite stereotypical outfit: a strict gray suit and a tie, as an indicator of masculinity. Every morning, Mrs. Attwoord, getting up early, cooked breakfast, her children's favorite scrambled eggs and sandwiches, collected breakfast and, like a loving housewife wife, escorted her husband to work, leaving an imperceptible trace of a kiss on his cheek, and carefully tying his tie with her elegant fingers. Next comes the younger brother, the "heir", as his grandmother affectionately calls him, although you sincerely do not understand it: what to inherit? Your father has no company, no business, no fancy house, what can the son of a simple bank employee inherit? But it's not the point that matters. Next, after her brother, the middle daughter Eliza wakes up- an exceptional beauty, with glossy wheat hair, a doll's face- almost a copy of her mother.Eliza was a promising dancer, but she was not a good singer, but she danced perfectly, performing a light bunch of moves to some loud song at every party. Then, at the very end, you woke up.

Usually, it was the last ring of the alarm clock, which you heard through the veil of sleep, not wanting to miss the outcome of the battle between Harry Potter and some fairies. But your mother's shriek, tired of trying to wake you up, let out a loud shriek, forcing you to jump up from your seat and rush to the bathroom, showering and washing up at speed.Standing at the mirror and looking at your exhausted eyes, your hands reached for a small cosmetic bag and your favorite concealer, which, as you hoped, would hide not only the sins, but also the dark bags under your eyes. Next was eyebrow gel and lip gloss - you didn't have much time to put on makeup, and you didn't see much point in it, because you weren't going on a date. In terms of clothing, your choice fell on a skirt-shorts in a large pleated dark blue color, beige T-shirt, which for convenience you tucked into the skirt, a light cardigan for warmth, and complemented the image of black capron tights, which at least somehow but added to the image of completeness. And on your feet you left comfortable sneakers.

After stuffing notebooks and stationery, house keys, lipstick, hairbrush, and perhaps a sketchbook into her backpack, the girl quickly went down to the first floor, grabbed a sandwich from the table, and hurried out of the house, to the excited cry of her mother: "Honey! You forgot your breakfast!"

But the bus, you know, won't wait for you to finish, so you sped up and headed for the bus stop, but when you saw the damn bus in the distance, you immediately broke into a sprint, running like a marathon runner and mentally cursing.

"If you leave now, asshole, I'll put a curse on you!"

And thank God, as if hearing your pleas (curses), the driver waited for the girl in distress. Almost jumping into the bus, skipping the steps, you plopped down on the only free seat and relaxed exhaled, leaning back on the back of the uncomfortable seat. A couple of stops later, leaving the packed bus, or rather, the mechanical inferno, the gates of the college appeared before your eyes. The college was a historic building that people had equipped as a "place of knowledge". Antique patterns, massive doors made of pure wood, high ceilings - all this looked really intimidating and mesmerizing. Passing the gate, you looked at the students with interest: here were girls in brightly colored dresses excitedly babbling about something, here was a group of guys, six people laughing, and here were just loners walking towards the building with headphones in their ears. There were huge trees growing on the college grounds: pine trees, mighty oaks, and even flowers. The place was indeed beautiful. But soon after you took your eyes off the beauty of the place, you noticed that there was already five minutes of class going on! As you rushed into the building, you slammed into someone's strong chest. When you looked up, trying to catch your breath from a short jog, you saw a guy, tall, sturdy, and wearing a half-face mask, which was a little weird, because it wasn't quarantine period or anything. Well, maybe it's an image of him, you thought. Realizing you've been staring at each other for a few moments, you mumble.

-Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there.

You didn't? That's the stupidest excuse ever, to be honest, because it's hard not to notice a big guy like that. The guy nodded, but didn't answer, and, feeling rather awkward, you threw another "sorry" and rushed further into the classroom. And good thing the teacher was late. Entering the classroom, you noticed a guy who sat with an improvised slingshot in his hands, made of two pencils and a rubber band. Oh, yes, you know this jerk - John MacTavish, a Scottish guy, explosive in character, but at the same time the soul of the company and incredibly cute and dorky guy. Noticing you he waved his hand, removing his backpack from its place and beckoning you over. Shaking your head, you quickly climb up to the top and plop down on the seat next to him, pulling out a space-print notebook and a couple of pens.

-What have you got there? When did you start liking Cosmos?- John asked with interest.

-I borrowed a couple of notebooks from Eliza,-you said, sighing, and put your elbow on the table, propping your head on your hand and staring at John, who was fastening erasers and pens with little rubber bands.

-What are you doing?

-Sword-with a serious face John answered, causing you to raise an eyebrow and ask: "A sword?"

-Yeah, the guy pulled out a little man made of erasers from his pencil case and happily demonstrated it to you.

-God, John...-a slight laugh escaped your lips.

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tadpolesonalgae · 7 months

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Dark!Feysand x f!reader: Bloodied Wedding Bonds[***]

A/N: Anything relating to dark!feysand, I am 100% down to write it :)

Warnings: Forced marriage, fingering, smut, making of bargains?, sacrilege, squiring, non-con

Word Count: 4,211

It’s not your place to ask questions.

You know it’s not.

But when your clients are the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, it’s a little difficult to keep your mind from wondering. A failing marriage? Marital disputes? Hedonism? None of your business. Your job is to please them, and that is all you should be focusing on.

From the fact alone that they’ve been continuously visiting you, asking after you for nearly a year now, seems to be enough evidence you’re doing well. You’d hope so. Anything they ask for, you give. Anything they want to try, you let them. Anything.

So when your High Lady tells you of a scene she—both of them would like to try, you obey.

————

You try to suppress a shiver as you step over the temple’s threshold.

A slight breeze plays with the hem of the elegant white gown that had been left on your bed, the veil fluttering across your concealed features, hiding the light dust of cosmetics you’d applied—a tint to your lips and cheeks, nothing else.

You jolt when you receive a pinch on the ass, but relax when his familiar wash of night finds its way to your senses. Powerful arms wrap around your waist, a strong, male chest pressing into your back, his chin curving over your head, “you look lovely, dear. White suits you well.”

A smile tips the edges of your lips as you twist your head, peering up into his violet gaze, “and here I was, thinking it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony,” you tut. His eyes gleam in the darkness, the corners of his mouth curving, “I simply couldn’t resist.” His hands grip your waist, and you’re flipped around, the swell of your breasts pressing softly into his chest, “you look so pure in white. I’m having a hard time not forcing you to take your vows bare.”

The shiver that runs down your spine is as real as he is, pleasure warming your skin as you lean in to him. “Isn’t a wedding all about intimacy?” You ask, smiling coyly, “I’m sure you’d be forgiven, Lord.”

A sound of deep, male satisfaction rumbles in his chest, arms tightening and you feel the delicious press of something hard over your abdomen. “Such a tease, aren’t you, darling?” His hand slides lower, cupping your ass and your spine arches. “Only for you two,” you murmur over his soft lips. Breath warms your mouth as he chuckles quietly, “good to know you’re a loyal whore.”

You bristle at the term, but he gives you an apologetic look, “wife.” Amusement glitters in his gaze and you wonder at the sincerity of his correction. “I’m not your wife yet, Rhysand,” you taunt softly, giving him a rueful little smile. This time his laugh is sincere, “I love that about you, you know?” Your smile fades as you peer at him curiously.

Naturally over the months you’ve developed a bond with them, but the kind you’re expected to have with all your clients. To make the transactions easier. You work better if you’re more attuned to them.

“What is it you love, Lord?” His smile widens as he spins you round, walking with you down the aisle, “that you think you have a say in whether you wed us or not.” You laugh at his joke and his arm squeezes you tighter. Pressed to his side.

The High Lady appears at the end of the aisle, and breath catches in your throat. Clad in a silky blue that borders on violet, she’s regal. Hair tied back and curled, a few strands framing the soft, beautiful planes of her face. Lips a rosy red, awaiting patiently as you’re led toward her.

She greets you with a kiss, and you follow obediently. Mouth parts over yours, her tongue sliding in. Rhys’ hands release you, yielding to his mate as he steps around to her side, leaning against the altar as he watches hungrily, arms braced on the hard surface.

“I’m sure he’s already told you how delicious you look in white,” Feyre comments, pulling back a little. You move after her, capturing her mouth again. She hums disapprovingly, but doesn’t scold you for it. Though she does land a light pat to your behind. A small sound whines in your throat; her kisses become more eager. Firmer.

It’s only when Rhys’ hands land on your hips you realise she’s been walking you backward, pushing lightly while keeping attached to your mouth so you drop into his lap. Your spine curves automatically as you feel the hot press of his cock against your backside, winding your hips lightly to give him some friction. Groans rumble at your back, and you melt between them.

Feyre’s tongue strokes over yours and you slide your hand over the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as Rhys moves your hips to his pleasure, using each other as you like. Her teeth nip your lip and you whine, jolting in a way that has Rhys moaning roughly. She’s getting rougher.

Nails bite into your hips; you hiss. The High Lord’s mouth opens over your shoulder, kissing and licking up the bare skin until he’s beneath your ear. Feyre’s fingers skim up your front, working in sync with her counterpart as they hook beneath the straps of your dress. The cold air bites at your nipples as the fabric falls away, quickly encompassed by her hot, wet mouth. Moans spill from your lips as you look down at your High Lady. Her round, blue-grey eyes watching you as her tongue does all sorts of wicked things that should not be done in a temple.

“Feyre,” you whimper, fingers tangling in her hair as she lightly pinches your nipple. She hums; Rhys’ hands slip between your legs, hooking them over his thighs. You lean forward, bracing on the altar beneath you as your spine curves, heat rubbing over his cock. Rough groans grace your ears in response, his hips buck, pushing you forward. “Such a fucking tease, aren’t you?” He grits out, finally putting his teeth in you.

Your eyes widen, then squeeze shut, tugging Feyre closer to your chest, praying for her to copy his movements. A squeal breaks from your lips as her canines scrape the sensitise skin, slowly trailing lower, lower, lower. Hands push away the white fabric with ease, and her mouth opens over your lace-covered heat.

You gasp—they usually tease you for much longer. But she’s giving in so quickly. Thrown off balance, grappling for stability while her tongue dances leisurely over your cunt. “Feyre,” you pant, “what are you—” Pushes underwear to the side. Tongue flicking over your clit.

Rhysand’s hands snake around your waist, grazing up your front. Pinches your nipples. “Don’t think,” he whispers softly at the shell of your ear. His fingers flick deftly over your sensitive skin, urging you to give into them, “just feel.” And by the Mother, you do.

She pushes your legs wider, pulling back only to remove the offending lace then her eyes are drinking you in. You open wider for her, and she moans softly. “Want my mouth, sweet thing?” She asks, pads of her fingers pressing on your inner thigh. Heavy puffs of breath exhale from your lungs, fire warming your veins with addictive pleasure.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes locking onto hers, “please.”

Her lips curve upward, making your muscles go weak with the dark promise. Canines scrape over your throat, and you’re dragged back to Rhys, so your attention is elsewhere when she bites your clit lightly. You whimper at the pleasure, hips bucking for more. She smiles over your cunt, teeth grazing the sensitive bud. One of Rhys’ hands glides up to cup your throat, tipping your head back, then sliding higher. Covering your eyes.

In the dark, it’s so much better. Imagination runs wild, infinite endings to this path they’ve sent you down. You can’t prepare for when Feyre bites and nips at that sensitive part of you, can’t tense for when Rhys pinches your nipple, tugging. Can’t keep in your soft yelp when one of them smacks between your thighs, the wet slap reverberating off the holy walls.

“Filthy thing,” Rhysand croons, and you flinch when two thick fingers slide between your legs. Feyre’s pulled away, making way for him as he plays with the wetness that’s coalesced there. “Rhys…” you plead softly, wanting him to slide up to his knuckles, curling against that spot he’s had memorised since the first time he’d touched you.

“What do you want, and how badly do you want it?” He purrs, circling your entrance teasingly. Your head tips back onto his shoulder, cool breeze washing over the exposed skin of your top and bare thighs. “I want you to fuck me with your fingers…” you breathe, panting with need.

His hand retracts, smacking down on your tender sex, catching your clit beneath his digits. You flinch, moaning sharply. “How bad, birdie?” He repeats, soothing the pained area with gentle rolls of his fingers, Feyre’s pink tongue helping with the stinging. Muscles melt, and your legs spread wider. “Anything…” you stammer softly, the word catching between your moans.

A low snarl of approval reverberates through his chest, picturing how his lip is curling to showcase perfect, sharp teeth. “Anything?” He repeats, intonation quirking with malevolent interest. “I wonder, how far would you really go for an orgasm?” He laughs lowly, closer to a growl, really.

“I’ll crawl wherever you ask me to,” you answer, and he snarls with approval. “Such a clever tongue,” he croons, fingers sliding down to your centre, again oscillating around your entrance. “Would you promise that to us?” He asks.

You nod drunkenly, too focused on how close his skilled fingers are to where you want them to pay close attention. He’d told you to feel, so you’re feeling.

Rhys hums at your back, then his fingers are retracting, spreading you wide for his mate as she dives back in, tongue lapping and flicking eagerly, suckling your tender clit.

“What about your cunt? Would you promise that to us?” He asks, hunger dragging beneath his question.

“It’s yours anyway,” you moan, spine curving as her tongue swirls over your sensitive bud, dropping lower to push against your sopping hole. He snarls again, and you know he’s pleased. “So well trained, aren’t you, little lynx?” He spits, hand still keeping you in darkness.

“What about you, then? Think that’ll be good enough?” Arousal spikes your pulse, Feyre’s precious little tongue pushing into you, desperate to taste you; be inside you in some way.

“Yeah…” you moan sweetly, winding your hips in encouragement as your clit begins to tingle with heat. His hand smacks down again, Feyre leaving just a moment before. You jolt, not knowing what you did wrong. You open your legs wider in attempts to soothe whatever wrong you committed, hoping if you accept more pain it’ll please him.

It’ll please you, too.

“Say it,” he snarls softly, teeth scraping over your ear as he again spreads you wide for his mate to sweep in. “Promise yourself to us. Prove you’re worth the orgasm.” Sweet pleasure blooms in the pit of your belly, pulse picking up at the danger. “I promise,” you whisper, the words a pained breath from your lips as he pinches your clit, Feyre’s tongue pushing into your hole. “More,” he growls, the demand making your hips buck.

“You—…I’m yours—! All of me…completely!” You whimper between your heavy pants. “I promise! I’m yours!”

His mouth fashions itself into a feline smile beside your ear, fingers finally circling over your clit, void of that edge of pressure. “Yeah? Mine and Feyre’s? Promise you’re ours? Belong to us?” Your heart flutters in your chest, fluttering between your legs, too. “I do…!” You whine, hips bucking, hands fisting atop the altar, “I do…I do! I do!”

Fingers and fangs switch place. Breath whooshes from your lungs.

Her teeth circle your clit, tongue flicking out, just as he sinks in up to his knuckles, dragging the pads of his fingers over those spots that make dark and light swirl in your vision. Eyes roll back into your skull, pleasure finally taking you by the throat as it slams you down. Spine arches, toes curl, mouth drops open.

No words come out as your body tenses, then melts, turns hot and liquid as you flow. Lap at the edges of your skin. Burning. Burning from within as fire scorches your blood, singeing your insides with pleasure so intense it blocks out the sting of the bargain, the promise not registering in your mind.

They hardly let you come down from your high before you’re being roughly tossed onto the altar. Barely a second passes between that last flutter of your cunt and the kick of pleasure as Rhys lines himself up, and slams in to the hilt.

The cold stone bites into your back, despite being covered by a veil of cloth. Light burns your quick-adjusting eyes, before being eclipsed as Feyre parts her thighs over you, smothering you as her heat covers your mouth, clit perched atop your nose.

Sense again leaves you, just the feel of Rhys slamming in, deep enough you can feel him in your stomach, pounding you into the sacred stone. Feyre’s hands tangle in your hair, roughly pulling you against her hips as she grinds over your face, her arousal making the drag over your mouth and nose easier, so she slides back and forth. “Stick that tongue out for me, birdie,” she moans, nails scraping over your scalp.

The words hardly register, pleasure numbing your senses while your eyes remain shut, basking in the wet glide of her heat over your lips; nose. She snarls, lifting up only her knees, looking down at you over her shoulder, landing a harsh pat to your cheek. Her fingers bite into your jaw, gripping tight, “open.”

Pain stings up your spine, buzzing in your head as your body follows her order, while your mind scrambles to keep up. Something had overtaken your will. Something had stolen your autonomy.

Heartbeat spikes, and you land three hurried taps to your High Lady’s hip.

Never once have you used your safe word with them. With others, yes. But never them.

Anything they’ve wanted, they’ve gotten. But right now, you’re panicking.

It’s the first rule of your occupation—under no circumstances are bargains ever to be brought into the establishment. They’re never to interfere with the relationship of prostitute and client. They’re too powerful to be messed with; you’ve always stood by that rule.

Feyre pulls off you almost instantly, Rhys’ hips halting a second later though his hands span the tops of your thighs. Panic blurs your mind as you push up onto your elbows, peering down your body. A dark ring of ink had ingrained itself on your stomach, outlining the circle of your belly. Fingertips drag the dark imprint, and you feel a little sick.

“Get rid of it,” you whisper. Your eyes flick to the High Lord’s, his own gleaming with something that has you shrinking back into yourself. Something dark and malignant.

“Rhys…” you pant softly. Breath catches, arms slide over your shoulders, Feyre’s thighs propping you up. Your head tilts backward, exposing your throat as you meet the blue-grey of her eyes. Rosey lips lift into a quiet smile, “you’re ours, now.”

A shudder that’s unrelated to the temperature shivers down your spine as you shake your head. “No…” you breathe. “No…we can’t—… Bargains are—”

“Shh…It’s okay, sweet thing.” Feyre strokes hair from your face, “it’s okay. You won’t get in trouble for serving us.” You simply stare at her, flicking from one blue-grey eye to the other, trying to recall the words of the promise.

“What—… What…?” In your mind, you’re trying to piece things together, broken bits of conversation. “No. I…I can’t, Feyre.” You look at her beseechingly, but she simply continues gently stroking your hair. Your attention turns on Rhys. He’s High Lord—he has to listen. “Rhys,” you say, voice managing to come out even; firm. “Rhys I can’t—… This is a line I can’t cross for you. Remove it.”

Violet flickers, stars winking out in places as he puts you under a hard stare. You raise your chin: this is something you can’t back down on. It’s a bargain for goodness sake.

“You would disobey your High Lord and Lady?” He asks. You blink.

“It’s not a matter of obedience. It’s a matter of respecting my autonomy. I do not want this bargain mark; I don’t even remember the terms. Remove it.” You sit up fully, back feeling cold as your arms wrap protectively over your front.

“You promised yourself to us,” he replies, eyes narrowing on you. “In return for your orgasm, you promised we could have you.”

Breath halts in your throat, eyes stilling on him. This can’t be happening. Fingers fist over the skin of your upper arms. “Free me from this bargain, or I will refuse to have you as clients. Either of you. It is well within my rights to do so,” you say firmly, despite how hard your heart is hammering.

The edges of his mouth quirk, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Lie back down,” he says, as if you’ve said something funny.

“Rhysand!” You snap, defensively pulling up the straps of your thin wedding gown. “This is serious,” you hiss, “you do not make a joke out of things like—”

“Lie down.” Violet drops to icy indigo, eyes hardening as your own widen, muscle complying wilfully. Grey-blue peers down at you, and your brows curve. “Feyre…” She smiles softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Why are you smiling?” You manage, swallowing bits of your fear, “this is serious.”

Her thumb brushes your lips, pushing on the lower one gently, “you’re our wife now.”

Her hand grips your left gently, slipping that unique sapphire ring onto your forth finger—it fits, like magic. “We’ll do this properly another time,” she murmurs, cupping your cheeks. “Get you a proper ring, have a proper ceremony,” she whispers, thumbing away the wet streaks that are beginning to roll back into your hair. “But you’re ours now. That’s all that matters. So you don’t have to worry about being in trouble with that brothel, okay?”

Rhys’ hands tighten on your hips, slotting himself closer between your legs, his length resting hot and heavily over your wet cunt. Eyes tear away from blue-grey, piercing into violet, “stop. Stop that. You can’t do that.”

He smirks, drawing back, letting you feel the slow drag of his cock over your cunt. As it drags down to your centre, tip pushing at the soft dip between your thighs.

You shiver, eyes going teary as you stare at him. “Rhys…” you whimper. Nails digging into your palms while Feyre keeps her hands over your shoulders, pushing you into the stone of the altar.

Rhysand groans at the sound, pleasure drawling from his mouth, rubbing the tip of his cock over your wet heat, bumping your clit. “Say that again, little lynx,” he orders. “Beg for me.”

The bargain crackles over your tummy and tears roll back. There’s no way out of this unless they release you. “Rhys…” you repeat, tongue forming the word all on its own. Adding the pleading undertone, too. As if you want it as much as they do.

Feyre’s eyes latch onto yours, hands cupping your cheeks as she leans down, kissing your glossy lips—glossy and smeared with arousal from her own cunt.

“How does it feel?” She asks softly over your mouth. “Tell me what it’s like having him inside you.”

More tears roll as your jaw opens on its own, ready to answer her question. “Feels good,” you whimper, brows curving with fear. “Filling me up.”

She makes a quiet sound of pleasure and intrigue in the back of her throat, before she’s planting another kiss to your lips, then—

Oh, gods.

“Open up for me,” she murmurs, thighs parting above you as she crawls to be above your face. “Let me feel that sweet tongue of yours again. She always makes me cum so well.”

Rhys presses in a little deeper, just so his head is inside your warm heat, pushing a whine from your lips.

Your mouth opens for her, tongue pressing over your lower lip so she can glide over you with ease, swipe her clit over the rough wetness of the hot muscle. She moans at the sight, lips lifting into a distinctly Feyre-like grin, “good girl.” Before her things widen, and she sinks down onto your mouth.

Tears roll back into the cloth that’s coating the altar as she uses you for her pleasure. Rhysand’s hips drag back, then push in roughly, shoving you further up the stone. Feyre winds over your mouth, finding her pleasure on your tongue.

“Go on,” she goads, sweetly. As if she isn’t degrading you to just a toy for her to put her cunt on. “Start licking. Like you mean it, too.”

The wet muscle flicks out and starts licking at her heat, just as Rhys picks up the pace, graduating from rough pushes to heavy poundings, slamming himself into your pussy until he’s buried to the hilt, creating a bump in your tummy.

Your High Lord groans, his hand splaying across the bulge in your abdomen, pressing down lightly as he fucks you into the sacred stone. “Such a lovely, warm cunt, huh?” He drawls, free hand gripping your hip. “Perfectly snug fit,” he snarls softly, “like you were made for us.”

Feyre whines as you suckle her clit, knowing well what types of sensations get her heating up, winding that coil tighter so she can soak your mouth. Your tongue pushes at her entrance, and she grinds against your face, hands playing with your nipples, pinching and flicking lightly while your own hands grip her thighs.

Rhys thumbs at your clit, drawing an embarrassing whimper from your throat. They both moan in response, Feyre tightening over your lips, needing to come on your tongue, needing to have her sex fluttering from your mouth.

His cock touches all those lovely spots, kissing and dragging over them, the slight curve enabling him to abuse them over and over, until you’re at the edge again.

“Come on, sweet thing,” the High Lady hums, grinding her hips over you, clit swiping over your tongue, sinking her entrance onto your nose as you suckle the sensitive bud. “Make me cum, won’t you? Make it so I’m coating your face, yeah?” She moans, and you cry beneath her.

Rhysand continues pounding into you, and with the feel of him inside your heat, the pad of his thumb playing with your clit, and her fingers on your nipples…you shatter.

Whines and moans spill from your lips, hips bucking wildly, trying to keep up with him while he slams into your cunt over and over until you’re being send scattering into overstimulation. He twitches inside of you, just as Feyre cries out, the liquid of her release spilling into your mouth just as Rhys does the same into your cunt.

You cry at the pleasure, white robe still adorning your skin, though it’s crumpled and wrinkled now. Fourth finger burning beneath the brand of the sapphire wedding band. Skin tingling where the bargain ink marks your skin.

Feyre moans loudly, the sweet sounds of her pleasure bouncing off the temple walls as she squirts, splashing over you as your eyes squeeze shut, continuing your attack to her sensitive, puffy clit, nipping at it whenever you can.

Hot spurts of Rhysand’s cum spill into you, both his hands gripping your hips to keep himself as deep as possible. “Such a good, well-behaved cunt,” he drawls, thumb swiping over your taut bud, muscles jerking at the sensation. “Think she’ll drink all of that up, huh? Keep it nice and deep? All tucked away like the greedy thing she is?”

More tears fall at the demeaning words, but there’s no time for sorrows as he pinches your clit tightly, making you flinch. “You’re forgetting part of your services, little lynx,” he purrs, making you whimper into her heat.

Reluctantly, holding back more tears, you manage to lift your shaky legs, bending at the knee so you can cross them round his hips, like you would normally do with whichever was between your legs that occasion. He groans with pleasure as you tighten your hold on him, keeping his cock deep inside your cunt.

The two of them lean forward, meeting above you as they taste one another, Feyre’s hips rock over your mouth, easing out her aftershocks while Rhys grinds himself against your heat, the tip of his cock dragging over that sensitive spot repeatedly.

You can’t stand the way they now touch you, with possessive ownership. Soft pathways trace onto your skin beneath their fingertips, as if stroking a pet to sleep.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022

Feysand Taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza

#Bloodied Wedding Bonds[***]#[***]#Feysand #Dark!Feysand #Feysand x reader #dark!feysand x reader #x f!reader #Feysand x f!reader #feysand x reader smut #dark!feysand x reader smut #dark!feysand x f!reader smut #October

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lavenderbexlatte · 7 months

Text

day 3: mirror sex

stray kids 1.5k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Bang Chan NSFW

🖤 warnings: undernegotiated kink, implied consent, themes of negative body image🖤

🎂 happy bang chan day~

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

Truly, these are the dangers of not pre-booking a place to stay.

Last-minute travel isn't usually your thing, but an unexpectedly long weekend means that there's finally time in your favorite guy's backbreaking schedule for a little getaway.

But last-minute travel, with no hotel booked, means love motels.

They're not as creepy as they sound, not usually dirty or weird. Inexpensive, yes, and usually a little older than the resorts and boutiques that most people prefer. They get a bad rap just because of the connotations, but like, people have sex in all kinds of hotels.

You think it's kind of cool, honestly. Homey, in a weird way.

The person at the front desk is a nice older lady, and she doesn't even blink as she asks if the two of you have any plans this weekend.

"Plans outside the room, I mean."

She winks. She's not subtle, but it's sweet.

And now, in the elevator, Chan is looking around in unmasked horror. Taking in the garish burgundy interior, the thinly-veiled adverts for sex workers taped to the walls.

"It's not that bad," you say.

"It'll be fine for two nights," Chan replies, sounding as if he doesn't believe that at all. "Anyway, we're only sleeping here. We'll have stuff to do."

"Oh, come on. We might as well put the place to its intended use."

Chan scoffs, as if the idea of using the sex motel for sex is ridiculous.

"As long as the room's clean, that's all I care about," you continue. "It's a hotel. Whatever."

"Whatever," Chan agrees tentatively.

He's still lying to himself, but he does relax a little.

When you get to your floor, things are extremely normal. Nondescript hotel decor, the faint smell of carpet cleaning solution and lemon furniture polish. Cleaner than other places you've stayed for far more money, honestly.

The room itself is at the end of the hall, which you like, for the privacy, even though there are only five or six rooms on the floor.

You let yourself into the room, and it's as clean and fresh as the rest of the hall. Again, about as good as it gets in terms of a cheap hotel.

"See?" you say.

Chan looks at you, clearly unimpressed.

"What? It's clean. I'll check for bedbugs, but other than that..."

He points upward.

There is a giant mirror stuck to the ceiling above the bed, but nowhere is perfect.

"Even that's clean," you joke.

The surface of the glass is spotless, no fingerprints and not even any dust that you can see from down here. Chan still looks unhappy. Cleanliness is obviously not his concern.

"Don't be a downer," you say.

"Why do people like that?" he grumbles.

You've set your bag down on the armchair in the corner of the room, rifling through it for your toiletries to set out in the bathroom, but you humor him without looking. "Like what?"

"The mirrors."

"In the room?" you glance at him. "Isn't that, like, the sex motel cliche? The heart shaped bed, the red lights, the mirrors?"

This room only has one of the above. Pretty tame.

"It just means you have to - I mean, you can already see your partner, why would you need-"

"You're really thinking about this," you interrupt.

He is. He really is, standing beside the bed and staring up at his own reflection pensively.

"It's so you can see yourself," you add, walking past with your armload of cosmetics.

From in the bathroom, you hear his answer, still pouty.

"Why would I wanna do that?"

Oh, here we go.

"Some people get off on it," you say.

He scoffs a laugh, humorless. You're being generous by not calling him out, here, because he's being self-deprecating. You hate that.

"I'm gonna terrify myself in the middle of the night," he says.

That might be true. He's a little bit of a scaredy-cat. But that's beside the point.

"That's not your actual problem, though," you reply, as you come back into the room proper.

He shrugs.

"Haven't you ever been curious?" you ask.

"About what I look like?" he shoots back, glancing back up at the mirror. "Done. Wow."

"I mean during."

Immediately, like flipping a switch, his ears flame pink. "Not really."

"No? Never?"

He looks at you pointedly. He knows what you're doing. You're not subtle, so that's fine.

"We should find out," you say, grinning.

It's a challenge, now.

Your gorgeous, gorgeous boy hates how he looks. That's common knowledge for anyone who's tried to get him to take a photo together, or shop for clothes, or compliment him on a new haircut. Most of your mutual friends just ignore it. But sometimes you just can't stand it.

He would never be the type to want to see himself in the mirror in the throes of passion, uninhibited. Which is exactly why he needs to give it a try.

"How easy do you think I am?" he accuses, correctly.

"I dunno." Instead of bothering him more, you flop down onto the bed yourself, feet still on the floor, staring up at your reflection. "You tell me."

The bait is laid, and like always, his insatiable ass can't help it. You two haven't had proper alone time in what feels like forever. He nudges between your knees, standing over you as you lay there on your back. You already like the look of the scene in the mirror, the way that his reflected form looms, the way it makes you look small.

"You know," Chan says, "We could put this place to its intended use."

You grin at your own words recycled. Great minds and all that.

"What an idea."

"Just an idea," he assures you.

He drops onto his knees, nudging you up the mattress to make room for himself.

You almost lose track of your own plan, once he kisses you. Hands roam, clothes are lost, the ease and comfort of something you've done so many times. For a while, it's just an encounter like all the others. His hands that know you, his warmth and presence and attention.

And then you remember, suddenly, once you're nude and he is too, and he's asking you how you want it.

"You on your back," you say, trying not to smile at your own ingeniousness and reveal the plan.

"You got it, baby."

He flips over, and he's settled fully into the pillows with you halfway onto his lap before he looks up. He looks up at the ceiling, and he realizes.

"Wait-"

"Gotcha," you smirk, settling fully on top of him.

He could very easily just knock you over and change things up, or he could ask you to stop, and of course, you would. But he doesn't. He just flushes, red again down his ears, his neck, and he covers his face with his hands.

"That's not gonna work," you say, peeling his fingers away from his eyes.

"I can't believe you tricked me," he says pitifully.

"I did no such thing," you reply. "But now that we're here, why don't we play a game?"

"Something tells me I won't like this game."

"Here's the rules," you say.

You pause long enough to rise onto your knees, to seek out his length - desperately hard, revealing that you haven't freaked him out too badly - and line him up.

"I'm gonna make us feel good. And you...have to look."

Chan pouts, putting his full lips to good use. "I'd rather look at you. Don't you want me to look at you?"

He punctuates it by running his hands up your back, hips to shoulder blades, soothing attention from gentle fingertips.

"I think you should look at yourself," you tell him.

"But-"

"Actually, no. I think you have to look at yourself," you decide.

He peeks upward. His flush deepens.

You're not sure why he doesn't like what he sees. From where you are, it's stunning. His slim body lines, the sharp cut of his face and his dark eyes against the bleached-white hotel sheets. Distractibly, biteably pink and embarrassed.

"If you don't look at yourself," you add, dropping your hips just enough so that he can feel you, "I'll stop."

He looks overdramatically betrayed, like a dog when you take their toy away to throw it. It's cute enough that you reach down to squeeze his face in your hand.

"That's the game," you say.

"Fine."

His voice is an embarrassed squeak, but that's consent, baby. You trust him enough to know that although he hates losing, he's not going to yes you to death if things are actually feeling uncool.

Permission granted, and his eyes dutifully trained on the ceiling, you ease yourself down onto his waiting length.

Curiously, once you're seated and he's swearing through his teeth, you tilt your head up to look at yourself, too. The angle isn't as good to see you, but you've got the gist of it. Your spread thighs, your arched back, the little bit of motion as you grind on top of him.

Nice.

"Don't we look good?" you ask, sweet as can be.

He nods against the pillow. "You look-"

"Not me," you tut. "You're not supposed to be looking at me."

Chan swears. You wait.

"I...I look..."

After a second, he swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Pity.

You pull back up onto your knees. His wet cock slips free.

"I told you the rules. Keep looking at you."

#kinktober 2023 #kpop kinktober #stray kids fanfic #bang chan fanfic #bang chan fanfiction #bang chan smut #stray kids smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #skz smut #skz fanfic

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ctitan98official · 3 months

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Anonymous: If you don't mind, could you make a small thing where Y/N is infected by the cadou but they're more like the lycans who can turn into something similar to a varcolac (is that how you spell it?) but they aren't (as) feral as other lycans? This can be with Donna, the Dimitrescus, and smother Miranda?Like, normally they look a bit more like a lycan but can transform into something similar to a varcolac without losing their humanity and going feral like other lycans.

Ha! Smother Miranda. Yeah, I can do that. And yes, varcolac is spelled correctly! I came up with different set ups for each lady. Let’s get into it!

Alcina:

Alcina was scared to death when she first saw your mutation after the cadou implantation. Not because of how you looked, though. She was worried that you would become ill because of it.

You told her you felt fine and actually had a lot more strength now.

You didn’t even realize that you could transform into a varcolac until you became angry one day.

You had overheard some maids spreading nasty rumors about the family and you just… Shifted?

When Alcina eventually sees this new form… She likes that feral look in your eye. She might need to see it again… Purely to make sure you’re okay, of course!

Donna:

Donna is a kind woman. But, don’t mistake that for weakness.

When you are first found by her on the Beneviento grounds (Destroying her flowers)… She scolds you.

Who is this tiny, angry woman? Why is she yelling at you?

Your sudden need to be accepted by her makes you shift into your mostly human form. You wave shyly and tell her you’re sorry.

The blush on Donna’s face, smh. Good thing she was wearing her veil.

Once you apologize… Donna invites you in for tea.

See? She’s fair, but feisty too.

Mother Miranda:

Miranda performs the cadou implantation herself. She is worried that something will happen, but you reassure her that you will be fine. Also, this is the only way you will stop aging. For Miranda, going on without you is not an option, so she relents.

The procedure goes well. Miranda is happy that there have only been some cosmetic changes to your body (She thinks).

When you shift for the first time, Miranda worries that your mind has been overtaken by the cadou.

However, you startle yourself back into your more human form. You explain that you have all of your memories, you just can’t speak in your varcolac form.

Miranda’s just so relieved that you’re still you. She hugs you tightly.

Bela:

Bela adores everything about you. The strength you possess but are able to control, the soft fur that covers you in your varcolac form. All of it. You are the love she’s dreamed about for so long.

Bela enjoys cuddling up in your fluffy fur and reading to you.

She also likes… Brushing you? Weirdly enough? It’s calming.

She likes to hear about what it’s like when you shift. How every sense becomes more in-tune with your environment.

Being a fan of literature (I bet she read Twilight XD), she can’t help but be charmed at the idea of falling in love with such a powerful but caring person.

You and Bela are so deeply connected.

Cassandra:

Honestly, what drew Cass to you in the first place was how different you were compared to everyone else.

You had been shunned a lot for your appearance, but Cass… Loves it.

Once she finds out that you can shift into a varcolac, she insists on teaching you how to hunt more efficiently.

She’s a great teacher, and she obviously knows what she’s doing. She’s so graceful. Sometimes, you get distracted watching her instead of paying attention to what she’s saying. Okay, a lot of the time.

Cass doesn’t mind how much you appreciate her beauty.

Daniela:

Dani’s reaction to finding out that you can turn into a varcolac is so heartwarming.

She immediately gushes about how you can turn into a “Puppy”. She goes over to pet your fur and asks if she can ride you. Ha.

You huff out a laugh (As best as you can in this form!) at the unfortunate phrasing she used, but Dani just rolls her eyes. As much as she enjoys sexual innuendos… This is serious business! She wants to see how fast you can run.

You lie down so she can climb on and she squeals excitedly.

The two of you have wild adventures together, and with Dani, it’s always sure to be a blast.

Masterlist

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princessprettyprivilege · 7 months

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The “My GF is Stunningly Gorgeous” Makeup

When I’m painted by number 🥰

Time attempted: 02:35hr

Tools recommended: triangle makeup puff (for diffused, natural finish), angled powder brush, powder brush

Prebase:

I massaged COSRX Snail Mucin Essence into my face with my facial massage attachment on my new brush and heated facial massage tool, along with my cold cream and Clinique cream last night.

I moved the excess down my neck & décolleté. This morning, my face was still tacky from the essence so I didn’t rewash my face.

Base:

*I “warm up” everything on the back of my hand to avoid cakeyness.

First, I squeeze out the tiniest dot of L’Oréal True Match Lumi Glotion in Deep to be mixed in with my MAC Mattifine Primer because I’ll be using more of the tint in areas that require more coverage and sweat first, like my nose, temples, philtrum, around my nose and my outer face.

Squeeze out another dot of L’Oréal True Match Lumi Glotion in Deep with my ELF Power Grip where I need to glow and a tacky hold for under my eyes and eyelids. My eye area is especially important for my eye makeup selection, so I use a little more.

Lastly, use 2 dots of Lumi Glotion with either matte or dewy primer on your neck for the tint to stay cohesive.

Eyes

Apply 3 in 1 tint on eyes, or dust lids in your natural lid color. Corresponding shimmer or deep matte, then eyeliner in brown or black that corresponds with your skin tone.

Foundation.

I use 2 tiny scoops of Clinique Age Transformation Cream to create a natural finish, (I got it for free in a sampler, wouldn’t go out & buy it) along with a pump of Smith & Cult Microblurring foundation in 460 Warm (discontinued) on the back of my hand, then pat it heavily with my makeup puff.

**I now use IT Cosmetics CC+ Nude Glow Lightweight Foundation + Glow Serum in Deep in place of the S & C foundation + Clinique Cream.**

Pat lightly to not disturb my primer base from inner corner to outer face, then distribute it across my face, patting in more to dark spots.

My foundation still doesn’t cover the texture of the spots, but that’s fine, it’ll look unnatural if I went further.

The point of my foundation isn’t to cover my natural skin fully, but to disguise dark spots while allowing my natural skin to show through.

Concealer.

Keep in mind, I have an oval face. I use my Smith & Cult Cancelled V-Line concealer in 260 Warm (discontinued) to sculpt 2 faint lines from the side of my nose to under my eye & upwards. Pat in carefully & lightly as to not disturb foundation or base.

The effect is brightened eyes with a highlighted, slimmer face that’s enhanced with warmth & depth.

Contour.

I use my Essence Baby Got Bronze cream bronzer in Mocha Me Crazy as contour for my nose, below top of cheekbones, and forehead. Blend into hairline and temples. I used to use it generally, but I found it doesn’t add angles to my face well, or if I did it well, it would disturb my facial harmony by looking gaunt & longer.

I follow up with my Black Radiance powder contour and sculptor in Medium to Dark.

Blush.

I use 2-4 rouges and blushes for a healthily flushed effect in layers, since my skin tone isn’t 1 color. I LOVE SHADING!!!!

I swirl 2 dots of LBCC Bloom of Roses Liquid Rouge at the highest point of my cheekbones, patting in with a makeup puff. It’s a pink that’s very faint, but you can go in with more layers.

My 2nd blush is LBCC Superior Rouge (limited edition, no longer sold) and I swirl 2-3 dots downwards mimicking the flush after exercise on my cheekbones.

My 3rd blush is Elf Putty Blush in Bali, and I sweep across where my cheek contour goes.

My 4th blush is Colourpop Serum Blush in Hibiscus (discontinued), and I barely squeeze out any product, patting in 1 dot above the ELF putty blush.

Pat lightly. Use Bare Minerals Original Veil Powder with powder brush, swirl on back of hand for even distribution, sweep across where I applied. Brush away excess.

Time for powder blush. I sweep the darkest shade in COVERGIRL Instant Cheekbones Contouring Blush in Peach Perfection only on top of my cheekbones.

Next, I go in with my PINKFLASH blush color 07 on top since it best represents my healthiest cheek color, and sweep downwards until I see it strike under my eye in natural lighting.

Highlight.

Since my PINKFLASH blush has shimmer in it, along with my contour highlight, I dust my Sephora highlighter palette (discontinued) in the pink, gold, and light gold shades.

Add in places where light strikes on eyelids.

Lips.

Hydrate with lip balm on Q tip, wipe excess. I use LBCC Bloom of Roses Liquid Rouge on my lips, cheeks & eyes since it’s a multipurpose product. Apply any clear lipgloss over.

If I want to wear lipstick, I’ll wear brown lip liner beforehand and blot in pink lipstick to allow my 2 toned lips to show through.

Maximize the pretty!! 💖💖

#high maintenance #pretty privilege #princesskhalyiah #high standards #expensive taste #femininity tips #pretty privilege notes personal

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sojuyae · 11 months

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uhaw (tayong lahat)

summary: (And if his fingers graze at his lips in the quiet of the night as it twitches from the memory of today, then there’s no need for you to know.)

chuuya nakahara / reader

notes: suggestive themes, fluff, late ‘finally-free-from-the-uterus’ day gift for my chuuya, this fic was supposed 2 be yandere sob sob, not proofread

"Close your eyes, let me take care of it.” Chuuya huffs, his brows furrowed as sweat races on the side of his face.

His fingers hold your jaw, thumb gently brushing over your cheekbone leaving a trail of warmth in their wake, seeping through his leather-clad hand. You feel an unwavering focus on your face as he traces its lovely shape, drinking in your appearance and committing it to his memory.

He looks divine this way, you think. With the way the sunlight is seeping through the curtains, shining upon the once unseen dusts and veiling his form as though he descended from the heavens himself.

“Don’t move.“ he says, his hand abandons your jaw, now resting at the juncture that connects your shoulder and neck. His grip doesn’t loosen — rather, it tightens further. The mafioso then pushes you swiftly to the soft cushion of his swivel chair, the cotton upholstery tickling your skin as he leans closer to you, his form blocking the sunlight.

So much for your birthday.

His breath hits your face and —

“Chuuya...“ Your voice breaks the silence. His stomach easily filling with flutters as an outcome of the velvety and sweet sonant that leaves your tongue.

"[Name]," He replies, and you're uncertain if it's truly your name; he draws on each vowel with a degree of familiarity and reverie that you wonder if he had mistakenly uttered a divine being's epithet rather than yours.

(He whispers your name late into the night like a prayer, every syllable that comes out of his lips keeping him grounded when his hair sticks to his forehead from sweat and his stained hand trembles upon the duvets.)

“Chuuya,“ You repeat, this time however, its hinted with a tone of seriousness. A fissure that pierces him out of his stupor.

“You don’t know how to put on a lipstick, do you?“ Chuuya’s face falls comically at the jab, face reddening as his hand that had been holding the cylinder tube freezes in the air — and you’re right, the lovely tubed pigment is still retracted.

“Did I not tell you to close your eyes?“ He grunts, before twisting the decorated bottom of the cosmetic, a soft ‘click’ reverberating in the silence of the room. A delicate and sweet scent permeating the stagnant air.

Smiling to himself as you let out a grunt before closing your eyes shut, curved lashes pressing against your skin. His hand returns to your cheek, the soft pads of his gloves pressing tenderly on the side of your face. Only now does he understand the time and patience women take when applying cosmetic to their faces. His eyes narrow when his hand abnormally starts to quiver as the colorette nears your lips. God, is it supposed to be this nerve-wracking? He can clearly hear his own heartbeat thumping against chest.

He gulps hard, watching as the tint melts on your lips, feeling the softness of them through the tubed pigment, letting out a shaky exhale. (He’s full aware that his own lips can’t pigment like one, and only now does he weigh the cons of buying a lipstick for your birthday — it’ll have more privilege in touching and feeling you than he ever will!)

The lipstick he bought for your birthday slides effortlessly as he applies the exquisite color of coral, making sure to get every nook and cranny, watching as it flows similarly to that of a paint. Breath being stolen away from him as he worked, the supple of your mouth blooming with every swipe of his fingers, a rosy color shading them bewitchingly. He daubed them gently, his gaze following each stroke with unrelenting concentration.

You soon feel his warmth leave you as does the tubed cosmetic, the sunlight regaining it’s place in the room through the curtains as he leans back. You are to pull back your eyelids — when an all too familiar leather glove cups the top of your face, covering your field of sight.

It happens so fast, it is one of those days when Chuuya chooses his mind over matter — there is no line of thought that encompasses his head when he presses his lips against your tinted ones. The motion so tender and loving — a motion too human for him to act upon.

You can smell his perfume — a combination of vanilla, pine, and cinnamon components, the scent wafting in your head. The beat of his heart matching yours, a memory that won’t easily be forgotten.

He can feel the creamy texture of the lipstick, confident and sure that the matte finish of the cosmetic is now smeared and has unbalanced the subtle color of coral all over your lips. Chuuya makes an attempt to concentrate more on his most innocent fantasies, this kiss, is only the tip of the iceberg of his imagination.

Suddenly, too sudden for your liking, he pulls away, warmth leaving you yet letting you regain your eyesight in the process.

You stare at him, wide eyed and mouth agape as you watch him turn around, composing himself with his back facing the window as he coughs awkwardly in his fist.

“I-I, ahem, I had put too much lipstick on your bottom lip,“ He explains hastily, and had it not been you, his words would’ve come out as incomprehensible.

Finally, finally, his form faces you, yet his eyes avoid you actively — darting back and forth at the floor and the earthly toned walls. ‘Has the floor ever been this shiny?’. God, he looks like a kid who got caught eating something they were forbidden to. “I wiped it away with my gloves, I hope you don’t mind.“ He says, and your eyes drift to his lips.

And you smile knowingly, eyeing an unnatural pigment in his lips.

Had he known more about cosmetic, particularly lipsticks, he would’ve known that there are transferable and non-transferable tints.

And the lipstick he bought, belongs to the former.

---

“I did not know you also liked to put on lipstick, Nakahara-senpai.“ Higuchi hums to herself absentmindedly. “Is it a new style?” Fixing herself tea. “What brand is it?“ She probes further, unaware of the redness on her superior’s face.

“Get to work!“

#bungo stray dogs x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #screaming and crying #i wish this man was real #goodnight #i giggled and kicked my feet in the air #bungou stray dogs x reader #chuya nakahara x reader #bsd x reader

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celira · 6 months

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day 17

"Skin hunger" is a curious name, at once evocative and clinical, sordid and distant. Not as the Third defines it– literal and grotesque– but an almost poetic turn of phrase, as if calling someone touch-starved needed a reupholstering. A euphemism for euphemism.

Harrow checks herself reflexively. It is a superfluous gesture. Her skin is covered, every inch, if not by cloth then by paint, if not by paint then by veil or hair or ceremonial layer befitting her station. Nothing is amiss. Except.

Today, she held Gideon down under the effort of six constructs, both more and fewer than she's needed before. Through them, they exerted her will, kept Gideon's thrashing form at a safe distance. Routine. Events of a day like any other. Except.

The difference is: before then, Gideon shoved her forearm through a ribcage to her left, made an abortive grab for Harrow, and managed to drag her fingers along her neck.

It would have been objectively better if she'd actually gotten enough purchase to wrap her hand around Harrow's throat. Harrow would then at least have had the grounding threat of asphyxiation to focus on instead of the awful, awful brush of warmth.

It was thrilling. It was unbearable. She recoiled and strained back toward Gideon at once; the equal and opposite reactions briefly rooted her to the spot. In that instant, Gideon nearly heaved herself back to standing; but Harrow brought the full force of her fascinated revulsion back into her theorems, and with them, Gideon hit the ground like a verdict.

Harrow considers her neck. Paint is a largely cosmetic barrier. She can still feel through it, though logically, she knows anything that touches her makes contact first with pigment and medium before reaching epidermis. Her nerve endings reach beyond their immediate occupancy, though.

She places one fingertip at her larynx, swallows, feels it shift. Her own touch does nothing. What affront that someone – apparently anyone – else's can inspire such a riot. Rebellious neurons, impertinent ganglia, opportunists and heretics; the violence of her body against the bulwarks of faith still surprises her.

So her skin now voices its wants, appetite awakened by the contact. Her body files a well-written dissent. It is a self-defeating affliction. The cure may or may not be worse. Trials call to be conducted.

But she's not here to research. She has worthy work to do, and this is but one more misstep to set in its proper place.

Harrow applies another layer of paint and steadily does not think about hunger pains.

#the girls are fighting #whumptober2023 #no.17 #trope #touch aversion #the locked tomb #the locked tomb fanfiction #tlt fanfic #tlt fanfiction #lira does a thing #griddlehark #harrowhark nonagesimus #gideon nav

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504py · 1 month

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about 。𓆝 𓆟 𓆞⋆｡˚ 𓇼

soapy, soap, sabon, and/or whatever other variants there are!

pronouns are she/he/they

born in 2005, cancer

psychology student

filipino

my blog

i like writing and drawing, so i'd like to get insanely good at both while indulging in my fandoms and get some recognition for it along the way!

one day, when i'm good enough, i'd like to start working on and publishing any of my original works. that is ultimately my end goal and at the top of my bucket list for sure.

my ask box is always open for anything related to me and my blog, and so are my dms! i'm terrible at making friends, so i'd like to get better at it LOL.

i do not have any other active social media besides tumblr!

trivia

my favorite musical artists are ew&f, malice mizer, and newjeans.

my favorite artists are shinichi sakamoto, yusuke murata, yoshitaka amano, and thores shibamoto.

my favorite games are pikmin, yakuza, and resident evil.

my favorite anime are skip to loafer, dungeon meshi, pluto, and jujutsu kaisen.

my favorite manga are palepoli, golden kamuy, veil, and innocent.

my hobbies besides writing and drawing are marine biology, cosmetics, and cooking.

i can play the bass and ice skate.

spongebob is my number one hyperfixation of all time.

#navigation ->#🫧#is my art #🛁#is my writing

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nbchr · 5 months

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i feel like the line between cosmetic surgery and life saving surgery basically has the integrity of a wet paper napkin and sheerness of a veil

#txt

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is-there-a-filipino-legend-yet · 1 month

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I think Apex Legends might be dying for good...and that might not be a bad thing.

EA has laid off a lot of employees, and most of the original crew for Apex is gone. There's been TWO major hacks during its entire lifetime, one of which just happened during a tournament recently.

The game is broken, unoptimized, and way more harder for new players to get into.

The new skins and cosmetics and events are very thinly-veiled cash grabs. EA would rather listen to the whales who spend tons and tons of money on the game without thinking twice.

The lore makes no sense anymore. There are more characters than what the current writing team can deal with. Shipping should have never been canonized, and some fandoms are better off with uncanonized popular ships (see: YeeHan Overwatch and HeavyMedic Team Fortress 2)

I want to love Apex. It's introduced me to the first nonbinary character who was a human and not a robot or an alien or a monster. It helped me find great friends. It helped me cope with many dark times. It's just not the way it used to anymore.

#Apex Legends #Apex Critical #banter of legends

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voidendron · 12 days

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the boy's turn 🥺

wolf gave me (A Lot) of help with getting some cosmetic mods set up so now I've got both twins <3333 (I'll Probably remake Soren now that I understand the mods eeee)

the twins have the exact same face types, but the veil gives Var the saddest, wettest puppy eyes and i adore it ajksld;jkld

(Var uses he/it)

#baldur's gate 3 #half elf wizard #voids ocs #oc: varkhal #half elf varkhal

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tadpolesonalgae · 8 months

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Tamlin x reader: The Aftermath of Spring - Drabble

A/N: I believe there is a positive correlation between the summer-y air that I’ve been granted access to and the sudden increase in fluffy fics—couldn’t tell you why

What have I done?

You groan as the memories come flooding back to you—how he’d taken you in that cave. Even with the pleasant soreness between your thighs; the slight ache in your head and jaw, you can’t fully summon the feeling of regret that should be more prevalent in your current state.

The High Lord of Spring had been courting you for a while now, inviting out to luncheons and requesting your presence at the dining table. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t enjoyed it immensely: spending time with him.

Upon receiving your first invitation from him, you had become rather flustered, tripping over your skirts and bumping into your bedposts as you hurried to beautify yourself, scrambling for the plentiful supply of cosmetics that lined the interior of your various draws. You’d settled on a slight tint to your cheeks, along with a shade that didn’t look too unnatural on your lips, finishing with a slightly darker colour than your skin tone to your eyelids.

You’d stared at yourself for long enough to be labelled as vain by any male who had no concept of hygiene, and managed to make it to his requested spot on time without appearing out of breath. An excellent start. From there on, he’d extended his arm for you to latch onto, as he took you on a personal tour of his gardens—the ones kept private to most of his Court.

They were dazzling as you had expected, unable to keep the wide smile from your lips, despite your attempts to remain as unruffled and dignified as possible. He hadn’t seemed to mind, though, not once frowning at your open display of adoration for his fine garden, nor making a thinly veiled remark that you’re well accustomed to in the higher ends of the aristocracy.

The date had been wonderful, and he’d led you aside for some tea and scones—which were fluffy without being dry—with petit glass trinkets of cream and jam o the side. You’d wished to indulge in more, but had feared appearing gluttonous before him, so had relished and savoured the last morsel. To add to his charm, he’d made certain you had safe passage home, giving you nothing more than a slight incline of his head as you had curtsied. Not even a wisp of desire to be found in his emerald green eyes—as if he’d purely requested your company out of an interest in you; not your body.

He’d left you feeling rather giddy, if rather flustered, and that night, you’d dreamt not of the usual odd assortment of things that once day has risen one is no longer able to make sense of, but rather strolling again through that lovely garden, discussing botany and the charm of wildflowers where they are unwanted.

It was the third luncheon with him when you’d witnessed his grin—that he had, admittedly, tried to conceal by turning to look at a statue of two frolicking lambs. It had been so boyish, so un-High-Lord-like you’d had to fan your face to keep from blushing. He was surprisingly debonair with his kind smile and gentle but relevant anecdotes.

You’d talked long into the afternoon, empty cups of tea settled on their bespoke dishes—a strangely personal touch you found had you warming to him even more. He’d discussed his fondness for the fiddle, and you had laughed genuinely as he told you tales of his youth when he’d been about town and swindled a drink or two out of some drunken merrymaker’s pocket in payment for his tuneful services. Heavier subjects had begun to crop up, though you did not find yourself dreading them. Rather, Tamlin had spoken of his time spent as a foot-solder, competing with his comrades in competitions for the lewdest limerick.

“You have enjoy poetry?” You had asked.

Once upon a time, members of the higher classes had been expected to be well versed in classical literature, familiarising themselves with the works of the greats from an early age to appear sophisticated and well-spoken. Now, lessons were devoted more entirely to memorising the arms of houses, lineages from prestigious bloodlines and the politics between families. If it were none of the aforementioned, it would be sessions on etiquette. Needless to say, you’d hadn’t anticipated his genuine interest in the subject.

It had been a month of courting when you received your first sonnet from him, and t had left you more flustered that his initial request for your company. And so the back and forth of epistles had begun.

There was, you have to admit to yourself, a certain memory that seemed to make a habit of slinking into your mind when you were at the brink of sleep. It had been a moon and a half since he had begun courting you, and once again he’d been escorting you through his gardens, taking route past the roses you so adored—red, white, and lovely yellow.

“Do you have an aptitude for thinking on your feet?” You had asked, peering up at him from a rose. He’s raised a brow, but nodded his confirmation. “Your sonnets are so marvellously put together! I can’t help but dread the time it must take you to construct each lovely line,” you muse, standing straighter as you lock eyes properly—a rather reckless move on your part, but a necessary risk you had justified. You didn’t want him to think you too eager, lest he lose his interest.

“And where is this going?” He asked, eyes sparkling as he took you in amongst the flora. You offered him a sly smile that had his lips lifting in helpless response.

“He asks with anticipation,

The route of the conversation.

She was quite curious,

He thought her injurious;

She sought out his improvisation.”

Tamlin blinked. Regarded you. Then grinned. It was a wide smile, full of mischief and humour as he shook his head. “It doesn’t count if you have to think about it, Lord,” you smiled playfully and challenge lit his eyes as he regarded you again. Paid more attention—you’d caught his interest.

“Her skill of beatification,” He said slowly, as if debating the words.

"Is cause for great celebration.

She let him see her,

His heed grew deeper;

Her charm was no perturbation.”

You rose a brow, inclining your head to him. You were poised to open your mouth, but he stepped forward, and your tongue fell dull at his proximity.

“There once was a maiden so sweet,” he said softly, watching you endearingly.

“She swept the High Lord off his feet.

He was so charming,

But she was disarming,

That she became all he would seek.”

There was no way for you to conceal your flush at his words—the flattery. You swallowed, about to return his rhyme when you were regrettably interrupted. Apparently, something urgent had come up, and your High Lord was needed to resolve it. He’d offered what seemed to be a genuine apology, taking you gently by the arm as he had someone call for a carriage.

The door was open for you, but he had taken you carefully by the hand, eyes latching onto your own as he raised your knuckles to his lips—soft, and surprisingly warm. It had been enough of an encouragement you’d taken your second risk that day. You’d taken a brazen step forward, feeling the onlookers shift with a mix of amazement and indignation, but Tamlin had stiffened at your intimate approach. You offered him one of your innocent smiles, then murmured your reply back to him.

“There once was a girl so adored,

She swept her High Lord off his paws.

He was so beastly,

And she was quite feast-ly,

That he really did wish she had whored.”

You drew back, curtsying low as your eyes had flicked up to meet his own. His eyes were wide, lips parted in pleasant surprise. As you had turned to step up into the carriage, you’d heard the faint huff of breath from him—and you knew he was chuckling.

————

The Great Rite had come and passed now.

Would he continue his pursuit, despite now knowing what awaits him?

A foolish mistake on your part. You should have resisted him. Should have insisted to keep some mystery to yourself. Males only took an interest in females if there was some kind of allure to them. You needed that element of secrecy, or he would think of you as every other woman—nothing to distinguish you from the crowd.

But as you drag yourself out of bed, feet settling into comfy slippers, fretting over your past decisions, you spot a sage green envelope sat atop a silver tray. The seal is silver, baring the Spring Court insignia. You know instinctively who it’s from.

With trembling fingers, you peel back the wax, uncovering the letter: it’s another sonnet.

You scan the contents, heart thumping in your chest as you read his words:

‘Am I to say you are a lovely glade,

Dappled in the shade of emerald leaves?

Thou art more than milk and honey hath made,

The gilt threads of our souls the mother weaved.

If the golden eye of heaven did close,

Enough light would be shimmered from your form,

To sustain the seeds and others like those,

Past the eves of twilight; on until dawn.

Celestial bodies, and those divine,

Would leap to waltz a rotation with you.

My Court, my territory, those are thine,

Genuflect as I would before you, too.

Between you and I, let me make this right,

Soon full feather and softest delight.’

A heavy breath blows from your lips as you press the letter to your chest. It seems he hasn’t lost an ounce of his affections. You can hardly restrain yourself as you hum sweet tunes from your memory, skipping and dancing across your room until your handmaid peers in to enquire about the noise.

All it takes is for her to note your smile, and the opened letter with its recognisable seal, and her eyes spark with understanding. You feel like you could grow wings and fly, or burst out into song and waltz the days away.

Excitement and something else—something softer; more tender—warm your chest as you reread the letter again and again, until you have it memorised.

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb

#tamlin #tamlin x reader #the aftermath of spring #Tamlin fluff???#spring court #acotar

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notmuchtoconceal · 9 months

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The Mandrake, Pt. 1 of None

The girl’s skin is green with the softness of battered flesh.

If she were brown, her innards would be tart and firm, but she’s mostly tasteless mush. What remains of her face is a wrinkled depression implying the outline of eyes and nose. A slanting molar column mars the slope where her body tapers from stem to base.

A faint gurgle bubbles from her insides. The skin beside the teeth flaps in and out, spewing what sounds like “kill me.”

Bulges of necrotic tissue, still shaped like breasts, shoulder blades and fingers, slicken against the latex suit of her dermis. The name she had as a human is classified. Lost among an avalanche of file folders in a mountainous region of dusty filing cabinets.

She sits in a field outside a plastic pseudo-suburb and smog’s gushing from the mortar lungs of cutout factories mid in the near-distance. With midday resurging, the black veil recedes and decaying radiation shines in a vast tanning bed of yellow dawn. Crows gather on the tops of power lines and radio towers, hunger gleaming in pebbles black and shining with acid rain. Within minutes, the flock could descend as a hurricane of feather and sinew and pick apart the girl to a slimy pit of black bone.

The birds are set dressing placed here to inform me that this is a wet operation. Or, due to the impairment of the target, a thankless execution.

Sickle Cell’s dressed all in white, looking a bit like a barn owl resting on top of a ceramic mall mannequin. Under a wide umbrella, in a beach chair, she’s lounging in a matching sundress and hat with oversized circular sunglasses, the rims of which gleam impeccably. She crosses her legs, squeaking leather boots that she can’t possibly afford, and enters into a staring contest with the girl’s eyeless visage. It is one not one which is unfamiliar to the eye which trains itself on remaining untrained. The subtle curvature of her apricot lips and the tautness of her cheeks display mutual sadness and repulsion. She gives this look to herself in the mirror after coming home from dinner. Behind those opacified lenses, her eyes are running down the curvature of the girl and she’s laying that impression like tracing paper over the memory of her own body.

“Do you pity it?” Sickle asks.

Sweat’s soaking through my new shirt. My jeans are shit, but my back’s held up rigidly straight to draw attention to my upper body.

Certain details are not clear to me. As the hot sun beats down on my head and the long walk simmers in my legs, it’s best to put-off dwelling on them until the last possible second.

“Can’t feel much of anything, sorry. Slept through breakfast and skipped lunch.”

“I know; I’m a bit peckish, too. I still can’t help but feel something for her. It, I mean.”

Kneeling down next to her, my fingers run through her expertly mussed hair.

“Are you planning to meet somebody later?”

Her shoulders retract as she looks at the horizon. She slips off her sunglasses and sunlight strikes her eyes in a golden censor bar as she lingers with a dignified melancholy—a look that you can’t help but dismiss as a display of holier-than-thou mock-sentiment.

With a deep breath and the smells of ash, burning fat and dry dirt fill my lungs. Plastic glove on my hand, my legs swagger toward the girl.

“What’re you doing?” Sickle asks.

“We were tasked with this case for a reason, love.”

The scarecrow standing ten feet away is a hanged-man with a noose made of straw intestine. A burning hot pole enters his rectum and pierces the cap of his skull. This tells me the girl committed a crime worthy of two deaths. The fingers of his right hand cover his lips while the fingers of his left hand cross behind his back. This outs the girl as an informant or snitch. The cosmetics caked on his face tell me the girl had an active nightlife, possibly moonlighting as a hair metal singer or party clown.

I linger on the scarecrow’s bright yellow sundress and the string of doll-heads hanging from fishhooks in the straw rope.

Kneeling beside the girl, dry grass scratches my knees through frayed denim knotholes. My fingers run delicately over her exposed teeth, which have the soft smoothness of porcelain. The textures of her flesh alternate between the weave of canvas and the chunky ripples of papier-mâché. Living animal warmth radiates from her skin. Her body muffles the audible machinery of digestion and blood circulation.

She reeks of lilac perfume and red wine. The latter could be either a leftover from her last night as a human, or the onset of fermentation. On her back is an unspoiled patch of milky white skin emblazoned with a tramp-stamp depicting two worms wrapped around an oar.

I snap my fingers and weakly mumble “totally called it” and it’s only a few seconds later, after a few crows caw like they’re congratulating me, that I wish I’d made more of a show of things.

“Did you check for STDs?” Sickle asks.

“Hell no. I’m not reaching into those fetid depths unless my life depends on it. I bet she has more crabs than a Red Lobster.”

She moans softly to herself. “I could go for some crabs right now.”

“This bitch has the mark, dearest. She was definitely one of CHERRIE’s. From the detail in the tattoo, I’m going to say she was classy enough to be more than a fuck-toy, but from the location, too slutty to be in his harem of silk-clad vampire wives.”

“You think he ever wined and dined it? Candles, violins, clam chowder. Everything.”

“He’s totally the kind of asshole who deludes himself into thinking he’s sophisticated. We’re going to interrogate the vegetable to our heart’s content before commencing with the execution.”

“Are you positive that it’s no longer a person? I mean, it still has teeth!”

“Flytraps have teeth.”

“Not human teeth, dear.”

“What differences does it really make?” I shrug my shoulders and only realize now how heavy my upper body really feels. “We’ve got calcified husks specialized for tearing and grinding. They’ve got thin sensory prongs. It’s the difference between a meat-grinder and a steak knife.”

“Is feeling up an empty bra as fun as groping a full breast?”

“That depends on how lacy it is, now stop changing the subject. This woman, dear Sickle, is going to die because she deserves to die. That decision was made by people smarter than you, who are more willing to assess reality by hoisting their responsibilities on me, a capable agent.”

“What reality is that?” She slides her sunglasses back on. “That all life is equally worthless, but the law carries weight to a degree that it’s pointless to question it, though you'll question everything else?”

“Sickle, you need to lose that tone. It’s simple pragmatism, come now. If we wanted to determine if she was more human or vegetable, we’d need to perform a dissection, so she’s fucked either way. We could kill her, leave her here, rip out her guts and throw them at geese. It’s all going to accomplish the same amount of nothing, so it’s sensible to drain the last remnants of her miserable life pursuing information.”

That shuts Sickle up for a bit.

The crows caw like they’re laughing at her. Now that she’s drained her capacity for rational argument, she attempts to implore my emotions in a passive-aggressive manner without seeming at all obvious about it.

“It’s different, you know. Wishing harm on something and witnessing it. I knew it a bit. We weren’t friends or anything. In fact I frequently found it irritable on good days and obnoxious on bad days, but I’d never wish this on anything, not even my worst enemy or my best friend.”

I’m not paying much attention to her.

My body stinks of sweat and rotting fruit salad. My hands finger the cap of a bottle of cologne in my pocket and I’m pretending to stretch and yawn so I can discreetly spritz myself.

“Dearest, you wouldn’t have the imagination to wish this on her.”

She’s rummaging through a white leather purse. “I used to think it was a convenience to hang out with someone who felt so little. It was nice to not be expected to fake tears when I had none to shed.”

“Always a pain, isn’t it, love?” I ask. “Doesn’t it diminish the worth of empathy to falsify it so regularly? They blow soldiers to bits in deserts, cork children with assault weapons, and I’m expected to fake tears for a fruitcup like a thunderous orgasm in the great porno theater of life.”

Sickle opens an eggshell compact from her purse. She can’t see her own eyes. “Cruelty is understandable when it’s either anonymous or personal. I weep for the dead children. Really, I do. I’m only human after all. They’re so young, so unsure of everything. The girls I watch after look at me with such warm smiles that it crushes my heart whenever they so much as frown. I suppose there’s a sort of lull in the spectrum of human empathy. I simply cannot be bothered to care for someone I barely know. Nothing needs to be said about the raw nerve of a loved one in pain, but with strangers, there’s a sort of purity in aimless victimization.”

Crouching over Sickle’s lap, the prongs of the umbrella poke my scalp. My hands fall upon her shoulders and my face slides inches from her nose. She has to smell the cologne. In the reflection of her sunglasses is the first haircut I’ve had in months.

I lick my lips and whisper in her ear. “What I’m taking from that stirring oratory is that I’ve got carte blanche to torture the veggie.”

Her lacquered gaze glides along the barren earth. She pushes me off, takes two steps toward the girl and stops as if lost in thought.

I smell my forearm and spritz myself some more.

The crows look like they’re nudging and shushing each other. When I walk up beside her, she’s giggling.

“Maybe instead of an interrogation,” she says, “we can perform a firsthand investigation of certain, uh… dineries in the area to see if we can find any… um, physical evidence of occupation by hostile forces. You said yourself that this mystery man might take his prospects out for dinner.”

“Why do I bring you out on field work? You’re a useless combination of hungry, lazy and female.”

She whines so suddenly her glasses fall off.

“I want crab legs.”

“Crab legs do sound nice.”

“Fried shrimp.”

“Oh fuck, fried shrimp…”

“Lobster.”

My stomach rumbles. “Maybe we can just nibble on the vegetable?”

“You’re not even sure if it’s still human. That could be cannibalism.”

“Jesus Christ, can you go five seconds without pointing out another ethical ambiguity?”

“Why? I was planning to make a game of it.”

“I bet she would taste good with applesauce.”

I had anticipated she would moan the word “applesauce” in the throes of muted orgasm, but her mind is elsewhere else and she’s probing the girl with squinting eyes and not a hint of appetite.

“Can it hear us?” she asks.

“Does she have ears?”

“I don’t think so? What’s that thing on its side?”

“The beginnings of an asexual budding?”

“Throw a rock at it.”

I hoist a chunk of broken granite from the base of a pile of stones. The edges scratch my naked palms. I whirl and toss it through the air and watch it rip through the soft flesh of her growth. A glistening bright red wound, like overripe watermelon in the harsh sunlight gushes a rivulet of blood and fluorescent mucus with the viscosity of corn syrup.

The girl lets out a horrible shriek that rips through my ears and forces the perched crows to take off and block out the sun.

I can’t even hear my own obscenity over the ringing in my ears.

‘I’m going to fucking kick that thing, I swear!” yells Sickle.

“She’ll scream again, you bimbo! Don’t fucking touch her!”

Sickle reaches up to her ears and watches blood run down her palm.

“I won’t,” she says, “but only because I’m thinking of the glop it’ll get on my new boots”

“Can you repeat that darling, I fear I’m a wee bit deaf in one ear.”

“Huh? What did you just say? Try talking into the ear that isn’t bleeding.”

“She’s developed the perfect defense mechanism to endure any interrogation. How could she have started evolving so soon after transmogrification?”

“Nope, still can’t hear you,” shouts Sickle.

“No method of polite coercion will get her to talk if she can scream that fucking loud.”

“I’m still trying to figure out how you expect it to talk when it doesn’t have a mouth.”

“Our only hope is to forsake the threat of pain and force upon her the fear of an instant death.”

“I like that you’re not answering my questions.”

“She’ll talk if we drag her up someplace high and suspend her on the edge of vertigo. There’s no way she’ll be stupid enough to scream and risk us letting her go, as that will set into motion her rapid descent to a delectable splat on the pavement.”

“It really is the only way,” she’s twirling her sunglasses on her finger. “There’s no way it would talk if I sat down and tried to ask it questions. We are, of course, one-hundred percent positive that it wants to withhold information. Poor dear would never think to buy protection.”

I reach under my shirt and spritz my chest. “You really need to learn how to mix business with pleasure, you know that?”

The girl mumbles something again. It sounds like “For fuck’s sake, will you shut up and kill me already!”

Sickle walks up to the girl. “Hey sweetie, how are you feeling?”

The girl screams something unflattering about Sickle’s figure.

“Oh fuck you, fat ass!” she says. “You’re one to talk. That’s not an apple bottom, it’s a bean-bag bottom, bitch!”

“Sickle, stop while you’re ahead,” I implore lucidly, so sick of saying. “The interrogation is a delicate art and frankly I’m Bosch at a triptych and you’re a kindergartener with finger-paints.” I walk up to the girl and calmly ask, “Well, fat ass, what’s your relationship with CHERRIE?”

She says, “Eat a dick, faggot.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” I rub my chin. “Sickle, darling, cover your ears.”

Yanking the penknife I always carry in my pocket, I stab her with dozens of vigorous jerks until she screams so loudly, my blind furor slows to a wobbly stutter. White circles flash against my collapsed eyelids and I fall back into the sun-drenched dirt. Red sticky heat fills my ears and runs down my cheeks. When I open my eyes, Sickle’s face is hovering over me, out of focus, her mouth flapping with hysteric jaw contortions, but no words are coming out. When I push her aside and try to stand up, my head throbs with a pulsating buzz and a static whine fills the silent vacuum of the world. My arm is numb and my elbow is on fire with a peroxide burn. The girl’s twitching like she’s in the onset of an epileptic fit. An assortment of fluids, all some shade of green, red or brown, pours down her corkboard flesh as it succumbs to black splotches of rot.

I sit down on the dirt completely of my own volition. I don’t stumble backwards and land on my ass. Sickle pulls a cluster of movie theater napkins from her purse and clutches two wads to my ears. The cheap pulp scratches at the swollen cartilage and bloats with blood so quickly that after a minute it’s not soaking in anything.

Ten minutes later, after standing hunched over a particularly eroded bit of soil sutured by railroad spikes, blood pouring ontp the ground and not my clothes, my hearing comes back.

Sickle’s mumbling to herself about how I either don’ t think things through or over-think everything for so long that I end up not doing anything and that I should really pick one or the other already.

I turn to her and say “I can hear you clearly now.”

She smiles and says, “Well, thanks for that brilliant display of your interrogation skills.”

“Do you have any bright ideas, love? I’m ready to chuck this bitch off a building regardless of how much she talks.”

She puts her sunglasses back on. “I propose we retire the old phrase ‘draining blood from a stone’ and from now on use the far more topical ‘stabbing information out of a vegetable’.”

‘You were a fool for ever questioning my blood-lust, dearest” I turn to the girl, and with the solemn voice of an executioner ask “What say you, veggie? If you speak now, we will grant you entrance to immortality on your own terms. If not, we, who are now death incarnate, will make you suffer to your last breath.”

The girl does not answer.

She continues to twitch and bleed and I can’t tell if she’s purposefully biting her tongue or vocally impaired due to the severing of a vital nerve.

Frankly, I don’t care much and mournfully intone, “Then suffering you shall have.”

Sickle pauses. “You should light it on fire,” she says. “It might explode.”

“I’d rather crush it under something heavy,” I say. “There’s something immensely satisfying about the splatter of cracking bones.”

“These are all pie-in-the-sky ideas, dear. You don’t have anything that can burn or crush. You’ll need to be more down to earth and I don’t think you can do that on an empty stomach.”

There’s a gnawing rumble in my guts. I say, “Let’s leave her on the train tracks and call it a day.”

“Who knows how long we’ll be waiting for a train to pass by? It could take hours. I don’t want to sit here all day. I’m hungry now.”

“You’re right. Who wants to be a passive observer when it comes to murder? I want blood on my hands, goddamn it.”

“Did you ever think about witnesses,” Sickle says, “who’s to say whether or not this is murder?”

“Darling, you can’t expect the common man to decide for themselves what deaths are justified. Their sense of right and wrong are as shapeless as puddings left out overnight. There’s no objective measurement for the value of a human life. When a soldier is shot, we mourn. When a gangbanger is shot, we sing praises and thank Christ that thug is off the streets. Really, though, they’re both thugs; but time and money goes into a soldier, while a gangbanger becomes what he is because he comes from a home with neither, but some people even the government don't fuckin wanna buy, praise the fuckin secondhand market!”

She flutters her eyelashes. “It’s like when I was five and you let Gabrielle eat the neighbor woman’s cockatoo and the old lady spanked you with a cane. Then you cried because nobody cared that I let her tear a bunch of ‘filthy, disease-ridden’ pigeons to bits of pillow stuffing?”

I stop talking for a while. She’s smiling. How can she be smiling? I stare at Sickle’s face and see only obsidian self-portraits. My own eyes stare back at me; eyes that see my own slumped shoulders and wonder how someone who loves me can be so cruel and why, as time keeps moving and I don’t say anything, the smile settles into practiced apathy. Her cheeks slacken into silk bed sheets unruffled by sleeping bodies and my teeth are pressing together so hard that my jaw aches, and she’s about to speak, but I open my mouth and talk like nothing happened.

“It’s polite to say that human beings are irreplaceable,” there’s a tension on my vocal cords, “but they’re an infinitely renewable resource. The only value inherent in a human life lies in the whole of their collective experiences. Why do you think we take pity when celebrities or geniuses are on death row? The problem is we extend that sympathy to those who don’t deserve it. It’s all right to kill a senile old man because his brain has atrophied into a viscous mixture of dust and mucus liable to confused with aforementioned overnight pudding, left out on the same counter as the catfood, not at all east to conflate at two in the Am. It’s all right to kill a child in the womb because they have worthless brains made of undifferentiated jelly, and hardly have much flavor without the fear of death. There is always a correct amount of drama to indulge, my dear”

Sickle stands in silence. What I can see of her face shows the collision of guilt with composure. I raise my hands and invite her to stumble into my arms where I’ll coo her and tell her that she’s not guilty; that she’s not a predatory hawk, but a sweet canary whose love warms the frozen cockles of my heart like some kind of nasty microwaveable meal.

She doesn’t move.

She says, “I’ve seen septic tanks less full of shit than you.”

I move forward. “But none have smelled so nice, have they? Did you notice my new cologne? I got it yesterday. Here, come smell me. I used like half the bottle.”

“The only things I’ve done today are smell you and listen to you, and frankly, I’m a bit tired of both. Let’s get this thing out of here. If you’re gonna kill it, stop talking about it and do it already, because it won’t be daytime forever.”

“Do you think she’s going to be heavy?”

“I never imagined you carrying it, dear. I assumed you’d have no qualms about kicking it on its side and rolling it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

“I know. You’re always sorry.”

“You’re not the only one who can dress up like a high-class whore, you know,” I spritz myself until the skin on my neck is irritated. “This shit cost me like five dollars.”

The girl screams when I push her onto the hot pavement.

She rolls a few feet before she seems to jump and wobble back onto her base. A leathery punching bag is sweating olive oil. With my still gloved hand attached to my still numb arm, I inspect her stab wounds to find the landmine field of punctures exploding into lumpy clusters of fluid-filled sacks. I continue to push and roll the girl. When the weight of her body pushes down on the growths, they act like a spring.

It takes careful diligence to hear the watery boing sound, as each one’s eclipsed by a perfectly timed scream. By the end of the block, she’s either exhausted or too overwhelmed with pain to let out anything more than a tired yelp and frankly, I’m tired of pushing her.

I collapse on the curb and languish in the oppressive sun. The concrete grain’s cutting into the thin layer of flesh around my pelvic bone.

“All right, Sickle,” I say, “I’ve done my part, now you kick her the rest of the way.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she asks, panting as if walking beside me was already too much work for her. She fans herself diligently. Looking around, as if it must be here. “You don’t even know where you’re going!”

“Then it’s hopeless. I guess I’m going to sit here all day and stare at your massive thunder-thighs.”

She takes the bait and gives me a look that says, “It’s on now, bitch.”

Her eyes run up and down the girl’s body. There’s two dents in her flesh: a footprint on the left bottom and a handprint on the right top. Sickle rips off her sunglasses in a way that I think she thinks is dramatic.

Practiced shit-talk is running through her mind. Inches away, she folds her arms and gives the girl a look that says, “What you gonna do, bitch?” Both hands on the girl now, she’s straining for a powerful shove, but dry-heaves, slips down the slope and rubs the pavement with her cheeks.

I’m too embarrassed to laugh.

She starts to cry. “I got dirt on my new dress!”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask, “I regained my breath. I can take back over if you like.”

“No,” she wails. “I’m not being bested by a vegetable.”

I watch until my body aches through osmosis.

She pushes, slips, gets back up. Over and over. Can’t hardly move. The glucose engine that’s my brain’s runnin’ on empty. My bones and fibers rotate the useless analogue coil.

A Coke machine’s beyond a factory gate.

My autonomous body shuffles that way. Can’t read the sign, pull quarters from my pocket, probably enough. Click, click, click, beep, buzz, plop. Oh, it’s cold. Blood’s pouring back into my brain. My throat’s massaged internally with a glycerin clam.

I walk back over to Sickle and ask, “Making progress?”

“Of course,” she says, “I’d managed to shove it at least two inches this way.”

“Good work. Now how many inches in a city block? At this incredible momentum, it’ll only take us however many minutes that is.”

Sickle dashes at the girl with her elbow as hard as a battering ram. There’s a wet plop and warm droplets of sticky gunk splash my face.

I back away, but she keeps charging and charging. Sickle stares at a massive brown stain seeping into her dress. It soaks through to the skin, making the material cling to the outline of her tits. Chunks of mushy flesh stick to the dimples in her chest and melt to yogurt between her cleavage.

I wave at her while discreetly rubbing my nipples. She yanks on her neckline, and the dress turns from shrink-wrap to garbage bag.

I ask, “Do you want to find a sprinkler or something?”

She screams and tugs at her hair. Pointing at the girl, she yells “Die, bitch, die!” Sprinting in place with her squat legs, she’s throwing out all the weight her little body has, but the growths swell up into speed bumps.

Now Sickle’s barely standing, hunched over with her hands on her knees and sucking in air harder than a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner. Throttling my hands around her waist, I lift her up, give the girl a good kick and we’re halfway down the block before I dry-heave and fall over.

We lie in the grass, our lungs contracting and Sickle lets out a cry with the staccato vibration of a cough.

“Why are we so out of shape!” she cries. “You said you were going to start lifting weights!”

“I did start,” I say. “The hard part was continuing.”

The girl’s toppled over in the shade beneath a tree. She’s laughing and rolling from side to side. Laughing really isn’t the most accurate word to describe it, but I think it’s what she’s going for. It’s a sort of guttural bubbling from the intestines buzzing through pussy lips.

A sound that makes your asshole clench.

Sickle sits up. “If I was that ugly, I don’t think I’d find much of anything funny.”

“I’m sure she meant to cry. She’s so stupid, she screwed up a reflex.”

With each laugh, the flap of skin on her mouth balloons out, sucks in and clings to her throat lining.

“Shove it, fish tits!” I kick her teeth and what starts as a scream breaks down into dry hacking.

“Hey, move aside!” Sickle runs up and spin-kicks the girl’s soft flank. “You ruined my outfit, fatty!”

Juice splashes my pant legs and Sickle’s white boots. My foot breaks through the girl’s skin, into some kind of warm pothole and with a loud shlorp I’m sucked in up to the ankle. Burning petroleum jelly seeps between my toes. Pricks crawl up and down my foot. The hole clenches tighter around my ankle as white plumes of steam whisk from the girl’s pores. Sickle runs to my back and gives me the Heimlich as the tendons in my jerking leg tighten into a hemp rope. I plop loose and fall on top of Sickle. The scorched wrinkles of my red foot are tender in the sun.

My shoe is still inside.

I wiggle my toes, peel off the other shoe and shove it in the hole.

Sickle stares at me with wide eyes and flat eyebrows.

“Really?”

“This makes it even,” I say.

An old woman no doubt owns the house we’re squatting in front of. White siding sags and grey shingles on the roof thin into the gutters and walkway, exposing patches of rotted plywood. Angel statues swallowed up by shrubbery, flowerpots shaped like nesting fawns asphyxiated by vines, plywood dogs clawed by twisting branches.

Sickle heaves a stone garden gnome holding a sign saying “Welcome” and drops it on the girl’s teeth. My shoe shoots out of the hole with a wet plop and the other inches out in slow contractions. They’re both coated with yellow mucus and reek of burning rubber.

“Thanks,” I say, and drop the shoes down an open sewer drain.

“Listen,” she says. “I am very, very hungry.”

“Are you still on that? Now that fish tits isn’t screaming, we can probably take another stab at interrogating her.”

She slides her sunglasses back on. With a breathy giggle that comes off more like a bitter sigh she says, “Listen, I’ve got a dinner date. I need to be leaving soon. Do you understand?”

I scratch my neck.

“Well, you look like shit now, so you might as well ditch it.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. You’re going to have to find some way of getting me there, or find someone else to help you move this thing.”

My fists clench.

“I should have left your ass at home and forced Key Lime out here instead,” I say. “He’d whine a fraction as much, then do twice the work, and he’s the laziest guy I know.”

“Oh, but I work so hard at being lazy!”

“He can help you push the damn thing and I can stroll behind and whack your ass with a newspaper. Tell him he owes you for staying over in your room the last few days.”

“He hasn’t been staying in my room; I haven’t seen him since last week.”

At this, I sit up. “What do you mean you haven’t seen him? I haven’t seen him.”

“Why would he be with me?”

“He’s your best gal-pal. Why wouldn’t he be with you?”

“I have a life outside of him.”

“Does he have a life outside of you?”

Her pleading eyes tell me she knows I’m right, but she’s going to pretend I’m not.

“I don’t have any idea where he could be,” she says.

She dials his number, I crouch down beside her, and we press our ears together into two funnels of cartilage tuned into the digitized ring of the dial tone. “Hey…” comes a groggy voice.

I say, “Key Lime, where the fuck—”

“I’m not here right now. But if you’d like, you can leave a message and I can get back to you… Except, I probably won’t, so don’t be angry next time I see you and ask why I didn’t call back. I don’t understand phones, okay? Now how do I get out of here? … Push what button? Hurry up, I think it’s still recording…No. No, I think it’s still on … Don’t yell at me. Okay, fine, if you know how to do it just take it!”

She sighs. “My poor boy,” and the beep flares out. “Hello Key Lime, it’s me. We’re near the train tracks down by 69th and K—”

“He doesn’t understand streets.”

“We’re across the street from the Baskin Robbins! We’re trying to move something. Come help us.”

“You couldn’t mention a different landmark?”

She glares at me. “If you come we’ll get you a smoothie, you don’t have to ask. Good-bye.”

“Ask him where he’s been for the last few days.”

“We’ll ask him when he calls back.”

“He’s not going to call back, we’re wasting our time.”

“It was your idea to call him!”

“What, you do everything I say now? Flash the next car that drives by.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that with a dry t-shirt.”

I pat her on the head. We somehow roll the girl out to a busy street and this is where we need to make things count if we want anyone to help us haul the fat skank away. I collapse against her rough, leathery hide and the smell of fermentation is so strong my first instinct is to pull away, but I think I’m getting drunk just sniffing her, so I lay still in a stupor.

My shirt’s soaked through with sweat and my eyes fall straight across the street. Sickle steps up to the corner, pointing at the girl, and then waving at passing cars. A guy stops, asks if she’s a hooker and drives off.

Her face puffs up in a cantankerous balloon and I laugh for a good minute before realizing I’m part of the punch line.

I turn to Sickle. “We can run with the hooker thing.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sickle and I stand on the side of the road, my jeans rolled up to my knee and my long, pretty legs nestled between her thighs, sticking out through her dress, her two legs wrapped around my hips and joining into a stump wiggling behind my ass. My back hunches into an arch under her linen dinner jacket and the effect was that we look like a single woman with a lumpy hunchback, two disproportionately long legs and a mysterious fifth limb that could be a tail or the gaster of a giant ant. We are an entity that nobody but the vilest degenerate would find doable. It’s at this moment that a thin Chinese man in his fifties, whose eyes flutter with a pronounced effeminacy, gilded and regal as a celluloid closet star, pokes his head out of one of those organ-harvesting execution buses that go from prison to prison, then out to the cobbler fields.

“Hello pretty girl,” he says. “Do you need lift?”

Sickle flaps her mouth in such a manner that nothing matches the high-pitched whine squealing half-muffled from beneath her jacket.

“Oh kind sir! I am but a lowly street performer who seeks fame and fortune in Las Vegas or Fown, but I’m so, so hungry. I would do anything and I mean anything for a quick bite to eat.”

“How hung are you?” he asks.

“Not too young for you, stud.”

“What do you do in act?”

“I give this here vegetable a lap dance. I get as nude as indecent exposure laws will permit me. And then some.”

“Oooh. I like and then some. You get naked as duck in butcher window?”

“Honey, please, I make duck in window look like virginal school-girl.”

“I am intrigued and perhaps possibly aroused. All right. You get in back of van now.”

“You are simply too kind, sir. I have always benefited tremendously from the sexual neediness of strangers.”

“Do you need help with vegetable?” asks the Chinese man as he opens the driver side door.

I grab Sickle’s arm and pull it back against her head and we fall back so the only thing keeping the two of us upright is my other arm planted against the warm pavement, and Sickle now looks like a melodramatic plantation whore in some life-threatening woe, like perhaps she dropped a handkerchief, or will perhaps be encroached upon by a solar body.

“Oh please sir!” I moan. “This sun has become intolerable! I’m hotter’n a cross at a Klan rally!”

The Chinese man lets out a prolapsed evil laugh as he sashays contemptuously from the driver’s seat.

The doors at the back of the bus fly open and out walks a cute girl, probably about nineteen, flashing a toothy smile with both her mouth and her long necklace of human teeth. The driver hauls the girl in both arms and throws her to the girl. She stumbles backwards into darkness.

The driver turns to us and says, “Please get in.”

#-11 #=9 #8+3=11 #-Itself

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pxnsneverland · 9 months

Text

Don’t Be Cruel | austin!elvis x oc (part 1)

plot summary: Angel Casteel is a small town girl who lucked into working as a makeup artist at a film studio. Unfortunately, her confidence in herself wavers as she is assigned to work with Elvis on his latest motion picture. Overcome by his star power at first, she slowly starts to realize there is a man behind the fame, a man she understands. But as they grow closer, the world grows more turbulent, especially Elvis's world. Will this Angel be able to save Elvis from himself and the people around him? Or will getting mixed up in his word prove to be her downfall as well?

pairings: austin!elvis x oc

word count: 3088

warnings/notes: Hello my burning loves! Here is my new Elvis fic. Hopefully you guys like it as much as the first. This one focuses more on Elvis's later life than the last one did. Enjoy :)

Chapter 1

In the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, where dreams were born and shattered with equal fervor, a whisper of doubt hung in the air. It seemed inconceivable, unfathomable even, that a young woman hailing from the humble townships of Alabama could find her place amidst the dazzling lights and towering skyscrapers of this urban jungle. Yet, hidden beneath the veil of skepticism, a flicker of determination burned within my heart. I had grown up amidst the rolling fields and close-knit community of a small Alabama town, where the pace of life was gentle and the ambitions modest. But within me, there had an insatiable hunger for something more, a yearning to break free from the confines of familiarity and Nobody, not even my mom and dad believed in me. Perhaps, they had been right all along. After all, I was just a humble makeup artist working for a renowned movie studio. In the quaint little town, I called home, where the days seemed to stretch on endlessly, I found solace in the art of makeup. It became my personal escape, a pastime that allowed me to express my creativity and add a touch of glamour to my otherwise mundane existence. You see, entertainment options were scarce in our humble abode, with the weekly bingo games at Benny's being the highlight of our social calendar. Benny's, a charming establishment, stood proudly as one of the two restaurants in town, offering a respite from the monotony of our everyday lives. Personally, I delved into the world of cosmetics, teaching myself the intricacies of contouring, blending, and highlighting. It was a journey of self-discovery, a path I treaded with unwavering determination. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, my skills blossomed. I experimented with vibrant eyeshadows that danced across my eyelids like strokes of an artist's brush. I perfected the art of winged eyeliner, the flick at the end of my eyes imbuing me with a sense of confidence I had never known before. And oh, the joy of finding the perfect shade of lipstick, a hue that could transform my entire demeanor with just a single swipe. While others sought their thrills in the boisterous bingo games, I found my own brand of excitement. I had honed my skills to such a degree that, when the time came for me to relocate, fortune smiled upon me, and I unexpectedly stumbled upon a position at a high-profile salon. One day, a lady who worked at a movie studio came in and was so delighted with my work that she offered me a job making actors seem breathtakingly gorgeous or simply awful depending on the role. Life was far from elaborate, each day blending into the next with a monotonous rhythm. Yet, amidst the simplicity, I found contentment. Against all odds, I had managed to carve out a path that stretched far beyond the boundaries of my humble beginnings. It was a leap of faith, a decision to uproot myself from the familiar and venture miles away from the place I once called home.

As I strolled along the winding pathways of the bustling studio, my mind was consumed with a whirlwind of thoughts. Each step I took brought me closer to my latest assignment, igniting a sense of anticipation within me. The air was thick with creative energy, as fellow artists immersed themselves in their respective projects. The vibrant atmosphere seemed to fuel my imagination, as I pondered the task that lay ahead. I found myself transfixed, my gaze locked upon the delicate piece of paper that had been handed to me by the front office. A sense of apprehension coursed through my veins, causing me to momentarily freeze in my tracks. It was in that very moment that the realization struck me like a bolt of lightning, electrifying my every nerve. As fate would have it, I found myself bestowed with a remarkable opportunity - a chance to be a part of the mesmerizing world of Elvis Presley's latest motion picture. The sheer magnitude of this moment was not lost on me, for I was entrusted with the task of personally adorning the legendary icon's visage with the artistry of makeup. I found myself staring at the assignment card in my hands, my eyes scanning the words repeatedly, as if hoping to uncover some hidden mistake. It was a perplexing task, one that seemed entirely out of place, as if it had been mistakenly assigned to me. Doubt crept into my mind, causing me to question whether I had been handed the wrong card altogether. I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease, as if I had been thrust into a world of confusion and uncertainty. As I carefully examined the photograph, my eyes were immediately drawn to the bold letters inscribed on the back. ANGEL CASTEEL. It was as if the air had been violently expelled from my lungs, leaving me gasping for precious oxygen. The weight of the moment pressed down upon me, a heavy burden that threatened to crush my spirit. In that instant, time seemed to stand still, as I struggled to regain my composure and find my footing amidst the chaos that had engulfed me. In the grand tapestry of music history, there emerged a luminary whose brilliance outshone all others - Elvis Presley. With his magnetic charisma and unparalleled talent, he ascended to the pinnacle of stardom, becoming a celestial figure in the realm of entertainment. The world, captivated by his mesmerizing voice and electrifying performances, bestowed upon him the title of the biggest star to ever grace the stage. The weight of his authority hung heavy in the air. I knew that one wrong move, one ill-chosen word, could spell disaster for my future in this place. The thought of crossing him sent shivers down my spine. The consequences were clear - a swift and merciless termination, my dreams shattered in an instant. Doubts crept in, fueled by the disapproving whispers of my parents echoing in my mind. The prospect of facing my family, my head held low in defeat, was a bitter pill to swallow. It seemed as though the world was conspiring against me, determined to prove my parents right about my ill-fated choice to forgo college and embark on an uncertain journey to the land of dreams. The allure of California, with its promises of opportunity and adventure, had once beckoned me like a siren's call. But now, as reality set in, the weight of my decision pressed heavily upon my conscience. I felt my body physically tremble at the mere notion of it.

In the depths of my terror, I had managed to block out the world around me, creating a cocoon of isolation. The deafening silence enveloped me, shielding me from the chaos that unfolded just beyond my trembling form. But fate, it seemed, had other plans for me that day. As I stood there, paralyzed by dread, a sudden commotion shattered the stillness. The sound of a golf cart, its wheels skimming the unforgiving concrete, pierced through the veil of my obliviousness. Yet, my senses remained dulled, my mind consumed by the horrors that had gripped me so tightly. It was then, in that fleeting moment, that a voice cut through the air like a sharp blade. "Get out of the way!" it cried; a desperate plea laced with urgency. The words, though muffled by my own mental barricade, managed to penetrate the fortress of my consciousness. Slowly, ever so slowly, the realization dawned upon me. I was in danger. With a surge of adrenaline, I snapped back to reality, my senses awakening from their dormant state. In a flurry of motion, I leaped aside, narrowly evading the impending collision. Yet, in my haste to escape, my own feet betrayed me, entangled in a clumsy dance of their own accord. Gravity, ever unforgiving, seized the opportunity to assert its dominance. With a resounding thud, I found myself abruptly meeting the cold, unyielding ground. The impact reverberated through my being, jolting my senses, and leaving me momentarily stunned. With a sudden jolt, the golf cart came to an abrupt halt. As the dust settled, a figure emerged from the back of the cart, stepping down onto the ground with a purposeful stride.

“Dammit, Jerry!” The sound of a deep male voice echoed through the air. Its tone was filled with authority and a hint of frustration. “Didn’t I tell you to stop drivin’ like that around the backlot?!” The sound of a deep male voice echoed through the air. Then he was standing over me blocking the sun from my face. A shadow suddenly fell upon me, casting a temporary darkness over my face, his figure silhouetted against the bright sky. With a hint of exasperation, he remarks, “I’m sorry about that, sweetheart. Just my fool of a cousin bein’ a dumb hillbilly.” With a graceful motion, he extended his hand towards me.

Blinking rapidly, I waited patiently for my eyes to adjust. It took a few fleeting seconds, but soon enough, my vision began to clear. When it did, I realized the man who had just made me forget how to breathe was the same one who was now reaching out his hand to me. The golden rays of the morning sun danced upon his perfectly coiffed hair, transforming it into a radiant halo that encircled his head. His face was akin to the delicate sheen of porcelain. Every contour of his face exuded an air of flawlessness, as if meticulously crafted by the hands of a master artisan. But it was his smile that truly captivated me. It was a smile that radiated warmth and sincerity, etched upon his visage with such finesse that it seemed almost painted, a masterpiece of charm and genuine concern. As our palms connected, I couldn't help but notice the distinct texture of his hand. It bore the unmistakable marks of a seasoned musician, the roughness and calluses a testament to countless hours spent strumming the strings of a guitar. Still, it exuded an undeniable warmth.

Elvis effortlessly pulled me up from the ground. His touch was warm, sending a comforting sensation through my body as I rose to my feet. I couldn't help but notice the significant height difference between us. Standing at his shoulder level, I found myself tilting my head back, straining to meet his gaze. “Are you alright?” His voice, even in the most mundane of conversations, possessed a melodic quality.

“I-I’m fine.” My voice trembled as I spoke, the words barely escaping my lips. I noticed that he had yet to release his grip on my hand. His thumb, in a tender and delicate manner, began to caress the back of my hand, tracing gentle circles that sent a shiver down my spine. It felt nice.

“I’m glad. I wouldn’t want a pretty lady like you to be out there hatin’ me for almost runnin’ you over.”

A rosy hue crept up my cheeks. I couldn't help but curse the very strands of my dark hair, for they seemed to possess a mischievous ability to reveal my emotions with such ease. “I don’t hate people over accidents.”

A chuckle escaped his lips as he released my hand, his eyes twinkling with amusement. With a graceful bend, he reached down to retrieve the assignment card that had slipped from my grasp during my clumsy stumble. With a swift movement, he cast a fleeting glance at the object in question, his eyes briefly grazing its surface. Then, as if entrusting me with a precious secret, he extended his hand, offering it to me. I thought he was going to mention that I was working on his movie, but instead he said, “Angel…what a perfect name for you.”

“Thank you.” I took the card back, my grip tightening with an intensity that bordered on excessive.

Just staring at each other, silence fell between us, and I found myself at a loss for words. As his gaze met mine, a surge of emotions coursed through me, causing a fluttering sensation deep within my core. A surge of relief washed over me as Jerry, the proclaimed 'dumb hillbilly' who had nearly collided with me moments ago, bellowed from his perch in the driver's seat of the golf cart that they had to be at the set. Their lateness probably accounted for Jerry's erratic driving.

Elvis cast a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Jerry's for a fleeting moment before he turned his attention back to me. “You want a ride, darlin’?”

“What?” I was certain I had misheard him.

“By the looks of that card you dropped, you’re my new makeup team.” His face lit up with a radiant smile. “My mama taught me betta than to leave behind a woman in distress. Besides, I owe you for Jerry almost hittin’ you with the cart.”

Every fiber of my being was crying out, begging me to refuse his proposition. My body, like a chorus of voices, was screaming at me, warning me of the potential consequences that lay ahead. It was as if every nerve ending was ablaze with a sense of impending danger, urging me to turn away from his offer. It was telling me that if I stayed in his presence any longer, I would burst and vanish into the wind. But my mother had taught me manners as well, and in the end, they triumphed. With a slight inclination of my head, I acknowledged Elvis's proposal. He gestured for me to follow him, and together we made our way towards the sleek golf cart parked nearby. With a gentle yet firm grip, he assisted me in mounting the back of the cart. And to my surprise, instead of returning to his original spot, he gracefully joined me, settling in beside me.

As the rickety cart trundled along the worn path, making its way towards the bustling filming stage, my heart raced with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The weight of my emotions manifested in the tight grip I had on the delicate fabric of my skirt, my fingers digging into the material. There was an air of unease that surrounded me, evident in every aspect of my demeanor. It was as if my discomfort radiated from within, casting a shadow over my every move. Elvis, ever observant, seemed to sense this, his eyes darting sideways every now and then, as if trying to decipher the source of my unease. I mentally smacked myself. What are you so nervous for? For months on end, you have diligently toiled within the confines of this bustling operation, meticulously applying makeup to the countenances of actors and actresses whose visages were once merely a flickering presence on your television screen. Elvis is no different. He’s just another client. With a heavy sigh, I released a deep exhale, feeling the tension dissipate from my body. Slowly, I withdrew my hands from the confines of my skirt, the fabric now bearing the telltale signs of my nervous fidgeting - a collection of wrinkles that mirrored the unrest within me. “Thank you,” I finally said as I turned my head to meet Elvis' gaze, “Givin’ me a ride was very nice of you, Mr. Presley.”

“Call me Elvis. Mr. Presley is my Daddy and I ain’t that old yet.”

A soft chuckle escaped my lips, carried away on a gentle breeze. “You don’t look old at all, Elvis.” His name felt foreign on my lips but I found a strange comfort in it.

“You’re bein’ too nice.” Elvis licked his lips. “I’ve been around this studio for a few years now and I ain’t never seen you around. I’m sure I would have remembered someone like you.”

My cheeks flushed with a rosy hue once more. “I’ve only been here a few months. Before I was workin’ at a salon. The head of the makeup department came in. She liked what I did to her face so much she hired me to work here.”

“Then you must really be somethin’. I’m lucky you’re workin’ on my picture then, Ms. Angel.”

“Call me Angel.”

A soft, gentle smile graced his lips once more, illuminating his face with a warmth that seemed to radiate from within. It was a smile that could make anyone melt, and I, too, succumbed to its irresistible charm. As the cart came to a halt, we found ourselves outside the grand, imposing stage gate. With a graceful leap, Elvis emerged from the vehicle, extending a hand to assist me in my own exit. I stood there, her heart pounding in my chest. The words of gratitude that had been on the tip of my tongue were left unspoken. The movie crew, like a swarm of bees, descended upon him, their eager hands guiding him towards the entrance. Silently, I trailed behind, my eyes fixed on him as he came to a halt. He engaged in conversation with the main actress, the one who portrayed the female lead and served as Elvis's love interest in the film. She stood before him, a vision of beauty. Her face adorned with carefully applied makeup, enhancing her features and accentuating her natural charm. Her luscious blond locks cascaded in perfect curls, framing her face with an air of elegance. Clad in a swimsuit that showcased her long, slender legs, she left little to the imagination. As he flashed a warm smile in her direction, my heart skipped a beat, and a sudden realization washed over me like a crashing wave. It was a truth that had been lurking. Elvis only wanted to be kind because his golf buggy nearly ran into me. With my jet-black hair and eyes, the color of a moonlit sea, I was nowhere near attractive enough. My skin was too pale, and my clothing were simply thrift shop finds that suited me well. In the vast expanse of the universe, our souls resided on separate solar systems, as distant from each other as the stars that adorned the night sky. With a heavy sigh escaping my lips, I trudged forward, determined to locate the elusive makeup trailer.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

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