#trying to look for references and for some words almost half of the results are AI garbage

[unikorpi]

I'm probably not going to be posting any new art for a while. The Tumblr AI thing and AI stuff in general are really eating away at my motivation right now

[deceitfuldevout]

First and Last

Dark!Tom (The Party 2017) x ExWife!Reader

Word Count: +3,234

Warning(s): +18, Non con, ANGST, Domestic violence, Mentions of overdose/overdosing, Drug usage, Addiction, Forced drug usage, Heavy domestic violence, Forced breeding Accidental OD, Really long because I don't have a life.

Author's note(s): I wanted to post this before my trip. Idk if I want to make this into a 2 part series maybe if its good than ye 😃

You run into your soon-to-be ex-husband at a friend's party. He's determined to get a second chance. But some things never change. 

You met Tom in college. Both of you were part of the same friend group and would see each other often. He was persistent in pursuing you. Eventually mustering up the courage to ask you out. You said yes because you fell for him first. But it was Tom who fell harder. He was your first love, first kiss, first everything. After a year of dating, he finally pops the question. Everything seemed to be going fine at first. 

That was almost a decade ago. He's not the same man you fell in love with. Something inside him changed. There were times where you were unsure whether it was the drugs talking or how he truly felt. He would try to hide it but failed miserably. You can't remember how many times you've found his stash, which always resulted in an argument. You were sick of his excuses. It eventually got worse with his intake. He would arrive home half sober. You were sick of seeing him waste away like this. You remember finally deciding that enough was enough. 

After catching him at home for the fifth time, you decide to take action into your own hands. In a fit of anger, you retrieve his hidden stash and flush it down the toilet. When Tom found out his reaction wasn't what you had predicted. Not at all. He dragged you to the bathroom and demanded to know where his supply went. It was the first time he'd ever laid his hands on you. Instead of apologizing for bringing them home, Tom held you in a chokehold until you told him where they were.  

Never in your life would you imagine Tom of all people reacting in such a way. When you finally confess what had happened, he loses his temper. It terrified you how strong he became while under the influence. You were no match for his drug-fueled rage. Your wrist is still sore from how he held you down last week. There were bruises that were still healing for all the times before. But this one had been the worst punishment yet. He left you there on the bathroom floor, naked and sore. Tom hadn't bothered to look your way. He zips up his pants before leaving in search of his next 'fix'.  

That wasn't the first time he put his hands on you, but it was the first time you had left him. You received a string of desperate phone calls, voicemails, text messages all from Tom. You returned home to find him on his knees with a bouquet in hand and tears in his eyes. He apologized and promised to be a better man for you. That was shortly lived. When you arrived home from a late shift, you caught Tom using it again. This time it was different, you found Tom overdosing. You lunged towards him, "Tom?! Tom!" cradling his head in your hands, holding him close. It was the first time you've caught him. A part of you feared this wouldn't be the last.  

Tom had tried to make it up with sex, but you couldn't be around him anymore. You felt almost revolted how he didn't care. Having him around only reminds you of the pain. This time instead of throwing a fit, yelling, or crying. You simply packed all your things and left. What could you do with a man who refuses to change? Leave. You left for your mother's place, finally accepting that it wasn't your fault. 

The divorce papers were mailed to him. For a while now, Tom knew there was something wrong with him. He was just too stubborn to admit it. You'd spoken with a lawyer and there was a court date issued. In a few months from now, you will no longer be referred to as husband and wife.  

For the first time in years, you've finally let the feeling of guilt go. No longer were you going to let this define who you were. You weren't a failure as a wife. Because it was never your fault in the first place. Soon enough you were doing the things you loved again, even began to pick up a few new hobbies. That spark of joy began to return. You started dressing up in nicer clothes, going out, actually spending quality time with friends and family.  

Sometimes there would be a moment when you'd feel for Tom and wonder what he'd be up to. But then again did you really want to know? It would usually be the same thing, him being higher than a kite. Still, you couldn't help but mourn at the loss of your marriage. When you were young and promised to love each other until your very last breath. You still loved Tom, but he loved other things more. 

You were looking forward to your old college friend's New Year's party. A healthy dosage of socializing to get you out there again. You had the opportunity to catch up with everyone there. It felt as though no time had passed. You danced around, joined in some games, things were going well. But there was a lingering feeling that someone, somewhere was staring at you.  

That's when you spot him, Tom, sitting quietly at the end of the room. Your breath hitches at the sight of him twiddling his thumbs. There's a part of you that regrets not filing a restraining order. Tom always had a habit of showing up unannounced. You weren't in the mood for whatever he had to say. So, you left his sight, down the hall, to the nearest restroom. 

You sat on the counter, removing your heels for a moment. A groan escapes your lips as you rub both feet, knowing very well they would ache in the morning. Shit, you were really gonna feel that. You splash your face a few times, hoping that it would combat the summer heat. Completely unaware of the sound of the door opening. It was as if you knew who was behind you, turning around to find Tom leaning against the door. You gave him a glare, "Get out," you were in no mood for his emotional ambush. He ignores your request and calmly states, "I just want to talk to my wife," 

"We're not--" 

"Legally, yes, we are," he corrects. Always so condescending. It was one of the things you couldn't stand. How he would belittle your intelligence. It was the little remarks he'd make to shut down any effort you gave. He made you feel unwanted. He was the one who decided to push you away first.  

If only he could see past his own selfishness that you truly wanted to save this marriage. But in order to do so, he would need to admit that it was an ongoing problem. You didn't have to worry about a mistress, no. You had to worry everyday about finding him dead. You've caught him overdosing a few times. It eventually took a toll on you. To the point where you lost weight from the stress. Tom rakes his hand through his locks, "Of course you don't want to see me, nothing ever satisfies you," a snarky remark to try and get under your nerves.  

With the amount of alcohol in your system, it worked, "Are you kidding me?" you scoff, "Don't you dare lie to me Thomas, I tried everything, everything to fix us, can you say the same?" you growl in his face. Maybe it was the liquid courage that gave you a whole new attitude. Whatever it is helped with confronting him. His reaction, however, was not what you expected.

He smothers you into a deep kiss, pulling you into his embrace. You try shoving at him in an attempt to catch breath. Finally breaking free from his grip. For a moment, he's seems visibly hurt. You scold, "What you wrong with you?!" it wasn't fair. After all the hurt you've been through, Tom still tries to insert himself into your life.  

You deserved better. You try to shove him away. Instead, he shoves you against the wall, "Can't you see..." he presses his sweaty cheek against the crook of your neck, "You're my everything..." his voice sounding more desperate with each word. You scoff, "No, Tom, you can't do this..." tears began to brim, threatening to spill. His eyes are filled with worry, "No...now, baby please don't cry..." his expression is saddened but there are no tears. He kisses each cheek, ignoring your sniffling. Tom held you in place by the shoulders, "I couldn't stop thinking about you," it's true. You were his first love.  

Tom had longed to see his wife again. To feel her, touch her, caress and worship every part of her. He wanted to make things right, truly. But she just got up and left him. Like he was trash. What made her so high and mighty? He's so sick of seeing you always playing the role of a saint. For once he wants to see you get downright nasty with him. His breathing became frantic, "Can't you see? I'm addicted to you," there's a mischievous look on his face that you were more than familiar with.  

You place a cautious hand in front to create distance, "Tom, listen to me, you’re high right now, you're not in the right--" you were muffled by his hand, "No! No! Listen to me!" his voice booms. His sudden mood swing scares you. So much so that your nails dig into his wrist. He hisses in pain, "Stop it! Just stop!" he grits his teeth. When he releases his grip the first thing you do is make a run for it. But before you could even set foot out of the restroom you're pulled back by the hair. You fell on your back, hitting the marble floor.  

It sends the air out of your lungs. That's when you start crying, shriveling up into a ball, begging for him to stop. This was how your arguments always ended. Tom crouches down, "Oh...baby I'm so sorry..." He grabs a towel, pushing it against the bottom of the door to ensure that it's soundproofed. He then pulls you into a hug, locking his arms around your waist. Tom rocks you in his embrace, "Please...please don't cry shh.." He doesn't want to see anymore tears spill. He's thankful for the music being loud enough to muffle your cries. He lifted you onto the counter.  

You look down at the floor, refusing to look him in the eyes. Tom presses his forehead against yours. His eyelids flutter shut, "Let me make this right..." he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small bag, "Here... this'll help with the nerves," he swipes his fingers on his tongue before dipping it in. He swirls it a few times, coating the digits with the white powder.

When he brings it to your mouth you turn away with disgust, smacking his hand off, "Get it the fuck away from me! You fucking tweaker!" you claw at him. He's hurt by your words. How could you? He really is trying to stop. It's harder than it looks. He's tried just about anything you could name to fix his marriage. Nothing, not a damn thing worked. Every time he'd come running back to that same euphoric feeling. When you left, he started using it again, more than ever.  

If only he could get you to try it out, then maybe, you'd understand. He presses you against the counter, using his bodyweight to hold you in place. You sob, "Please...please Tommy...don't do this..." he grips both of your wrists, ignoring your pleas. He looks at you with a maddening look in his eyes. You knew he was out of it. There was always that nothingness behind his irises. To think that this man was once your devoted husband.  

He muffles your cries with a clean hand. He has an idea for the other. Tom hisses, “M’gonna make you take it, make you feel really good...” he reaches in between your legs, pushing aside the lace. Tom brings the snow coated fingers to your folds. He bites his bottom lip, concentrating on finding your opening. He slowly starts to insert them, ignoring your cries and pleas for him to stop. Tom starts pumping his coated fingers in and out of your channel.

You let out a muffled scream under his palm. Stray tears falling down and landed on his wrist. He felt almost bad, but you'll understand soon enough where he's coming from. Just wait and see. You'll love it as much as he does. Fuck, every vein in his body felt like it was on fire. It's easier getting hard while using, too easy. His dick almost hurts form how hard it was. He spat a wad on the tip, coating it with a bit of snow before hovering it over your folds. He presses it against your opening.

A wide grin spreads on his face, "Sh...please...don't flinch sweetheart I just wanted to feel... can I feel my own wife's pussy?" He moans. A mewl escapes your lips. Tom chuckles, he knew you'd love it as much as he does. His hands grip your neck, he doesn't know how strong he's squeezing, not while he's using. It felt nice feeling you clench on his length. He’s on an adrenaline high right now. He’s not going to stop anytime soon.

He rapidly thrusts his hips in and out your channel, indulging in the feeling. Two of his most favorite things combined. Oh, how he’s missed you. Tom picks up his pace. He leans down to plant wet, sloppy kisses across your bare neck. He retreats his lips, groaning against your ear, “I promise you I'll make up for everything, I'll even give you a baby like you've always wanted...” He knows it’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to be. A mother.  

Your eyes shoot wide open as you scream into his palm to stop. Tom pops a pill in his mouth. He swishes it around a few times before forcing your mouth to open. He removes his palm only for a moment, before shoving it inside. It's too much, too much...You felt like you were flying, no, falling? Your heart couldn't stop beating and every single last one of your limbs felt like jelly. A visible vein bulges on the corner of your temple. Only a faint gargle leaves your lips, "F-fuck...T-tom...please..” sniffling for him to stop.

He coos, “M'gonna give you a baby, ok? then we'll be a happy family..." He sighs in admiration. Fuck, you looked so beautiful. Always so compliant. Don’t worry, he’s going to make sure you’ll never get rid of him, “This was mine the day I put that ring on that finger..." He finishes with a roar, coating your insides with his spunk. Tom is almost satisfied, almost. He doesn’t want to waste a single drop. He carefully removes his cock from your channel, plugging you back up with his fingers.  

Tom takes the small baggie. He coats it with your arousal. A deep moan escapes his lips, "Just hide it for me, yeah, can you do that love?" Two of his fingers are buried deep into your channel, he scissors them apart a few times, testing the waters. Then he starts to push it in. You were too buzzed to even fight him off.

His fingers have always caressed that spot you just couldn't quite reach. Tom sighs, “Beautiful...fucking beautiful...” words that he hasn't used in years. Tom throws his coat on the floor. He carefully places you on it, taking no note of the blank expression on your face. He hadn’t noticed your eyes rolling back. He pressed his head against the door to hear if anyone was lurking. If the coast was clear, he could leave.

He places a chaste kiss on your cheek before leaving, placing a tie on the doorknob to ensure no one would wander inside. Tom prepares his car for the both of you. If you were thinking of escaping him, think again. He would keep you hidden until you were surely pregnant. You’ll have a part of him with you forever. He returns to the house with a pep in his step, opening the door to find you still lying on the ground.

That’s when Tom finally notices the faint frothing on the corners of your mouth. He crouches down, “No...” he should’ve seen this coming. You weren’t used to any kind of drug. You’ve never smoked a day in your life. Tom pulls you into his arms, “No no no no...no please...” he shook your unconscious form, “Please! Stay with me!” he shook harder, “Please! Fuck!” Finally breaking down. Tom couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life without you. For it to actually come true was his biggest nightmare, “Please! Don’t leave me!” He rocks both of you back and forth.

Tom tries his best to control his breathing, reaching into his pocket. He calls the one person he knows would help, "Lenn...I'm in deep shit," he chokes. Tom prays that his brother can make it on time. For years now, Lenny had been the one covering up for his little brother. He could hear Tom on the other end of the phone, “She--she’s not waking up...” That’s when Lenny races out his office in search of his twin, "Tom, listen to me, where are you?"

Whatever shit his little brother has gotten into this time, he better hope it doesn’t ruin his record. Lenny hadn't spent years in law enforcement just to lose it all in one day. If word got out that the local detective’s own brother was a tweaker, he’d have to kiss that promotion goodbye. However, Lenny isn’t going to let him get away so easily. Unlike Tom, his brother is colder, more calculated than emotional. He's always surpassed him in every way possible. Well, almost. Lenny hates to admit it, but Tom had the one thing he finally beat him at, you.  

You were the color added to his life. Without you his world was just...black and white.

[stromblessed]

Mizu's spectacles, and the levels of her disguise

In drafting some more Blue Eye Samurai meta posts, I find myself writing out the comparisons between what Mizu can and cannot hide about herself, and how that affects how she moves through the world.

Like, I get the jokes about Mizu's glasses, if only color contacts had existed back then, etc. etc., and I think (hope) that most viewers don't take the glasses jokes seriously, as in "I don't care about the suspension of disbelief because BES is a cartoon." But I wanted to write these thoughts out anyway without burying them in a text post about something else.

I think the points I'm going to lay out here are viewed very differently by different people, so please feel free to add to this post, reply, or put your thoughts in the tags!

Not only do Mizu's glasses not actually help her that much, there's surely more to Mizu's mixed race appearance than just the color of her eyes.

In my view, this was pointed out in episode 1:

I'm willing to bet most of us were expecting young Taigen to say "blue eyes," not "ROUND eyes."

Obviously this is still about Mizu's eyes, but not even spectacles can hide their shape.

I don't think the show is obligated to point out everything about Mizu's face that isn't quite as Japanese as the people around her expect. Though the creators have said that they specifically designed Mizu - and her clothes - to read both as "white" and as "Japanese," as well as both male and female. I think there's more about Mizu's features that read as "white" than just her eyes.

This is where my own headcanons start entering the picture, but it's my impression that people can just tell that Mizu looks different, whether or not they can put a finger on exactly how.

There's the little girl who looks at Mizu and then hides on the way into Kyoto:

When there's more to your face you'd like to cover up than just your eyes, big hats are a big help!

By the way, most of these examples have to come from the first half of the season, since by the second half, either Mizu is too preoccupied with fighting henchmen, or everyone Mizu is facing knows who she is already, and she therefore has no reason to hide her mixed race identity.

It's worth mentioning that the mere fact that Mizu has to hide multiple aspects of her identity - her mixed race and her sex - results in her having to choose clothes that really, really cover her up, which doesn't win her any favors either:

(Zatoichi reference, anyone?)

If it were as easy as, for example, tying her glasses to her head and wa-lah, nobody would ever know she was half-white - then (1) Mizu would've just done that long ago, and (2) Mizu wouldn't be so on guard and on tenterhooks 100% of the time the way she's depicted in the show, even when her glasses are on.

Her spectacles sure don't help her in the brothel, which is full of observant women who are trying to seduce her, meaning they get good long looks at her:

Mizu never takes her glasses off, but they still send a woman to her who has light eyes, thinking that must be what will interest a blue-eyed man:

No wonder Mizu gets mad after this, lol

So Mizu never takes her spectacles off in the brothel, it's dimly lit inside, and the women can still tell that she has blue eyes. I'm getting the sense that Mizu putting on her spectacles isn't a guarantee that people suddenly can't tell that she looks different.

And yet no one spots that she's female.

Mizu can hide her breasts, can wear her hair in the right style, can hide what's between her legs, can walk and talk and behave like a man - and she's been doing it for almost her entire life, to the point that not only is she very good at it, but the threat of being found out as female is deadly, but isn't presented in the show as omnipresent.

Let me explain.

She threatens Ringo for nearly saying the word "girl" out loud, because while she's constantly ostracized for being mixed race, being a woman traveling without a chaperone, carrying a sword, and disguised as a man will get her killed or flogged or arrested or some combination of these things.

But in addition, it's been drilled into her since she was a child that if she is discovered as female, the combination of her being mixed race and female will identify her as someone extremely specific, someone known to some bad people, and she will be killed:

I think of it as Mizu thinking to herself, "Being found out as mixed race means I'm treated badly. Being found out as mixed race and a woman means I'm dead."

Mizu's hair is cut as a child. But she isn't made to wear a big hat, or cover her eyes somehow, or anything like that. Because hiding her sex is a more successful endeavor than hiding her race.

Ringo finds out she's female by accident, but once Mizu accepts the fact that he won't rat her out, she relaxes pretty early on in the season. Because the threat of being found out as female is mitigated pretty much 99.9%, since Mizu has gotten so good at being a man. And also, because most of the time, people see what they want to see. Even if Mizu's face makes her stand out as "not 100% Japanese," no one in the world of BES looks at Mizu's clothes, her bearing, her sword, hears her voice, and will ever in a million years conclude that she is a woman, because expectations around gender roles in the Edo period were so rigid and so widely enforced.

One detail that proved this to me is after the Four Fangs fight:

Ringo takes off Mizu's clothes so he can stitch her up, then leaves her clothes off even after he's done. He doesn't even throw her cloak over her as a blanket or anything. There's a little a straw (pallet?) as a divider there on the left, but anyone could just peek around it and see Mizu and her chest bindings. (I think it's mostly there as a windbreaker.)

And Taigen is right there, but he doesn't give a shit:

Opinions probably vary hugely on this, but my impression is that because the show doesn't make any kind of deal about Taigen being in the room with Mizu here, my guess is that Mizu isn't in any danger of Taigen thinking she's female. Even when I watched the show for the first time, I assumed that Taigen had seen Mizu out of her clothes here, and that he thought nothing of it.

Eat your heart out, Li Shang (Mulan 1998). I actually do think that this scene is a direct and purposeful side-eye to that movie, lol

There's obviously some nuance to how "severe" being mixed race is compared to how "severe" being a woman is for Mizu:

After all, Swordfather can't bear to listen to Mizu confess to being a woman.

So a Japanese man can go wherever he wants, whenever he wants in BES. A Japanese woman has limited options: marriage, religion, or a brothel. A mixed-race man is an eyesore in this story. A mixed-race woman is a death sentence.

May as well eliminate the female aspect, and do what you can about the mixed-race aspect. Because that's just realistic.

Meaning Mizu can avoid the strictures Edo society places on women. But she can't avoid the repercussions that come with being mixed race. And I truly don't think that it's just because "there's no brown contacts yet."

[pinkslaystation]

[Part 2] If I meant something to you.

toxic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Here's part 1 hee hee hee hee Here's part 3 You believe Simon's changed his ways after your sister's engagement. After his actions, you still want him, but does he want you? Word Count: 3.6k

A half naked woman running out of Simon's flat? A surprise indeed it was.

You really thought he reciprocated the same feelings as you did at one point, for once in your life feeling as if someone truly did want you for you, but that fantasy had dried out, and it was clear Simon had no intentions with you.

Your replacement proved it.

Before you began to weep in front of the Brit again, you hurried to your flat door, rummaging through your sweatshirt pockets for your key, wanting to wallow back into a state of depression in the comfort in your own home.

Simon didn't follow you, instead he just leaned against his door frame, sexily might I add, intensely watching you clumsily rip out past receipts and snotty used tissues from your pockets. He wanted to say something, ask you how your day had been, even thought it just turned 9 A.M.

Then it hit you.

You think back to your previous steps. You woke up at 8:30, you read the texts from your sister, made yourself some coffee, which you definitely think had gone off, and left your home, feigning a state of happiness.

You didn't take your keys with you. They sat on your kitchen counter, almost like they were mocking you for being so careless.

Banging your head against the door, you curse, "Fuck's sake...."

You mentally note that this is probably one of the most humiliating scenes you've found yourself in, nearly as bad enough as your 18th birthday, when your parents congratulated your younger brother instead of you accidently.

Simon exhales a puff of smoke towards your direction, you were so fixed on trying to get inside, you didn't catch him lazily eyeing you whilst lighting a cigarette into his mouth.

"You...wanna come inside?" He asks nonchalantly, looking at the sky, avoiding your gaze as if to seem cooler than you.

"Why would I do that? I don't wanna know where that bitch has been..." You scoff, referring to the girl. You want to look away from him, but his blonde chest hair glistens in the sunlight, enticing you to follow his instructions. He's not even all military mode on you but you already find yourself acting submissive around his presence again.

He grunts, thinking about what to say next, "Well for starters, Francesca's no one...and, where else are ya gonna go?" The sarcasm is sharp in his voice.

So you were replaced by a Francesca.

"And listen love, face it, you need something from me, come in so we can talk. Can't guarantee we'll do a lot of talkin' though..." His words trails off, trying to convince you. Boy, is it working...

His eyebrows are raised, and he purposely flexes his still wet pecs.

Fuck it. You think, barging into his room, purposely bumping shoulders.

You finally enter Simon's room for the first time.

Simon wasn't completely heartless.

Yes, his childhood trauma resulted in his avoidant nature, ignoring his team in order to work alone on the field, disobeying his Captain to do what he'd deemed as best, and even ghosting you ever time you tried reaching out to you. What you didn't know though, was that Simon had given you his previous phone number, one he doesn't use anymore...

Late nights in his hospital bed led him trying to stalk you through Facebook, which no one your age uses by the way (don't tell him that), and every time his searches led him to nothing.

Had he not been so foolish, he would have manned up and straight up demanded you for your number. But he didn't, instead he told you he'd find you if he needed you, which was becoming more and more infrequent.

Yet here he lies, now clad in a loose black top and sweatpants, sitting across from you on his couch in his oddly empty room, hearing you out.

"'Kay so, your sister wants you at her engagement and you need a date, and you have no other friends but me, and you want me to be your fake date." He repeats back to you.

You hum, "For someone that didn't finish secondary school, you're quite smart."

Simon chuckles at the reciprocates banter, "And...what's in it for me?"

You scrunch your nose, "What?"

"What's in it for me." He enunciates his word, as if speaking to a baby, "What do I benefit from this?"

"Are you fuckin' for real, you've basically used me for your own pleasure, and you can't even fake a relationship in front of my family for like a couple of hours?"

You stand up, ready to leave, not willing to be disrespected again.

"Love, listen," Simon pulls on your arms, and you begin to notice the fresh scars decorating his forearms.

"Our relationship...platonic of course, it's like a business. You want something, you gotta work for it."

You're stunned, did he just insinuate that you were merely a business partner to you? Can this man be anymore of an ass, than he already is, reducing your relationship to a step below a 'situation-ship'.

"What possibly could I have that you need?"

"Yeah," he gruffs out, contemplating his decision, "not money 'cos I got more of that than you..."

He sits there in mock confusion, but you had a feeling he knew what he wanted from you the moment you spat out your request at his door earlier.

Before you try cursing him out again, your attention shifts to the ping from your phone, another unfamiliar number, but not from your sister.

10:32 A.M. ####:- Hey kiddo, how's life been treating you. ####:- Finally gotta a job? ####:- Can't wait to see you, your brother's been waiting to introduce you to his new girlfriend, good addition to the family this time I think. ####:- You're getting older now, unmarried and unemployed. Chop Chop.

Great, just a monthly reminder from your father that you've already been replaced by your brother's new fling for the week.

Now you really needed that date.

"I'll fuck you." You state.

Simon stares at your new found dominance, standing up to purposely look down at you and tower over you, disliking the sense of authority shifting between you two.

"Once again, dove."

"Just. Fuck. Me. Simon. Get this shit over with." You command.

Okay, now you actually felt used. Blackmailed into having sex with Simon, just for him to get what he wants really was the all time low for you. And you've hit rock bottom multiple times.

You wake up light-headed, in Simon's empty bed. The bedside table held a small note in messy handwriting and a singular key.

Headed out to the pub, got a spare key for your room. You better be out of there by the time I get back. Jesus, you got the hint.

You wonder why and where Simon got a spare key from, realising that this situation could have been rectified from the beginning, instead he basically coerced you into sex just to fulfill his needs.

Your mother would die if she knew what your life was like.

Walking back into your room, you shoot a text to Simon, your now fake date, informing him of the fool-proof plan you'd come up with.

As you rest on your couch, thinking about the future ahead of you, and your head unconsciously drifts to that dreaded question:

What if you hurt Simon like he's hurt you?

The next few days was filled with your evenings trying to explain the dynamics of your family to Simon and teaching him more about you.

"And what, they went to the theme park and just left you there? Ain't that borderline abuse?" He questions, a small guilty feeling arising in the pit of your stomach learning about how similar both of yours fucked childhood was like.

You shrug, used to being kicked to the curb. You stop yourself before making some remark that he has no right to act upset about your parents behaviour when he's acting no better.

You tell him your middle name, hell, you tell him the correct spelling of your first name, and you stare at him, embarrassed that this hunk has pounded at your core but doesn't even know the vowels in your name.

"And last week was my birthday if they ask, and you better tell them I celebrated it by going to the cinema with my friends." You inform him, hoping some of this information gets retained into his pea sized head.

Simon cringes, unaware of your birthday, recalling the numerous amount times you'd shot him a smile that day, urging at least one person to wish you a happy birthday. He cocks his head, "What friends?" before correctly himself, "I mean, names wise."

"....you gotta make them up."

Note to self: Make new friends.

The big day comes and you and Simon had driven to the venue of your sister's engagement party. Extravagant was an understatement. Anyone that would look at this event would assume your parents were millionaires, but they're not considering only 2 out of 3 children received trust funds.

You wore a sleek black dress with a slit by your right leg, and Simon matched with a clean black suit which, by the way, you paid for.

Though you would usually drink in his appearance, his recent brooding behaviour gnawed in your mind, so no matter how many smiles he sent your direction, they couldn't dispel the unease settling in your gut.

The first hour consisted of the pair of you awkwardly standing around, drinking numerous glasses of the finest champagne, with his broad arm hovering over your shoulder.

"Where's the family?" He asks eyeing every guy that even so glances your direction.

You shrug, glancing at your unread messages to your sister.

1:00 P.M. You:- hey :) made it, wru??? You:- looks very grand btw!! 1:29 A.M. You:- hello? where's ma? 1:37 A.M. You:- champagne's tastyyy You:- hi wru 1:59 A.M. You:- bruh did you rly invite me just to ignore me???

Simon winces at your phone, reminding himself to finally get your number so at least someone would reply to your messages.

"You made it!"

You both turn around at the chirpy voice, instantly locking eyes with your sister.

"Hey, you didn't read my texts, been here for an hour now." You question, as you're being pulled into a hug.

"Oh that was you? Sorry, I haven't saved you on my phone," she laughs. You glance at Simon almost offended by that, even though you hadn't saved her number either.

"Introduce me to the big guy!" She nudges you, and Simon interrupts you before you open your mouth.

"Lieutenant Simon Riley, and uh- also boyfriend." He extends his arm, and you can't tell whether he's faking his grin or not.

She drags his forearms, yanking him away from you and ushering him along eagerly., "You need to meet my family, come come!", as they walk off together, and you find yourself standing there, left to socialise with someone else.

At 3 P.M., you navigate yourself to your family and your 'boyfriend', whom at this point, had really seemed to fit in with the community. Your father hadn't believed that you scored a buff military commander, and if he wasn't unhappily married to your mother, you'd bet 10 quid that he'd be all over Simon.

"Served in Afghanistan huh?" He chuckles boisterously.

"Yes sir." Simon actually looks like he's having fun, displaying the look of admiration for having an almost father-like figure in his life. He begins you question why you dislike your family so much, they're great!

"And you watch football lad?" He pats Simon on his back.

"Avid fan, sir."

Your father shakes Simon's hand, immediately surprised by his firm grip, "Good man. Don't let go of this one, love." He nods towards you, his smile twitching at Simon, who's basically gripping the bones through his wrist.

You force a smile hugging into your boyfriend's side, shouldn't he be saying that to your Simon, rather than you? I mean it's either your biological daughter you've sort of brought up her entire life versus a solider you've known for about an hour.

"Son, take some notes from your sister, no wonder you're single every other day." Your father reprimands your brother, who flinches from the sudden sound of disapproval and grips his girlfriend's forearm tighter. For sure the first time you're actually than him, at finding a better fake partner.

Your mother, on the other hand, was virtually glued to the other side of Simon, gripping his biceps and fawning over his muscles to your brother, who's actually looked like the only one who saw through your facade.

"Wow, you must really enjoy the gym, sweetie." She bags her eyes, disgustingly.

"Yes ma'am."

She addresses you, for what you think was the first time in over a year, and mouths sternly, "I was wrong, I approve."

The entire event was a drag to you, something you weren't used to at all, considering the majority of your childhood was mainly you being left home during such big events, but Simon managed to enjoy the evening whilst successfully lying to your entire family.

"Me and the missus have been together for 10 months now. She's very happy." He raises his glass to you, eliciting a genuine smile from you. It was times like this that you wished that you and Simon just tied the knot and just began dating. However, you couldn't ignore those underlying feelings of a simmering anger, a desire to confront him publicly for using you for so long.

"I am..." It sounds more like a question than a reply, kissing him, in mock affection.

"You need to stay over our place, Simon darling," Your mother gleams, with your father agreeing, "You can stay in the study!"

"You mean my old bedroom?"

It's midnight, and your family have finally fell asleep in the place you once called home.

You lay next to Simon on your old bed, inspecting your previous room. The walls were no longer painted your favourite colour, but now was coated in a dull grey, your desk now replaced by a vintage looking oak table, definitely all to accommodate your father's taste. Any speck of 'you' had been wiped out from the room, and Simon wonders what young you was like.

"That was very fun...I like 'em, your family." He whispers almost inaudibly, fatigue evident in his words. His arm is draped comfortably around your neck, your head resting in the nook of his armpit.

You hum. The unfamiliar attention Simon had brought up on the two of you exhausted you, though a small part of you liked it, that now your mother actually cared about what you got up with him on a daily basis.

"Simon..." You begin, "What- what are we? If anything..."

You're anticipating his rejection.

"Neighbours..." He mouths silently.

You nod at him, hoisting yourself up on your elbows, although his eyes are closed.

"Simon. It's just that. I know it's all a show...but today it didn't feel like pretend...And when you said you wanted to marry me to my mum, it's just, I don't know, didn't feel fake you know. Felt real..Simon...Simon?"

He snores in response.

Great. You're just confessing to the thin air.

If he doesn't take you out, socialising for almost 9 hours straight will. You pass out next to him, no longer under his arm. Simon lays next to you, watching the slow rise of fall of your chest, after faking a snore.

He stares at the ceiling thinking about the day.

Come morning, and you find yourself sitting at the dining table next to Simon, who'd found himself in a hearty conversation with your parents, sister and future brother in law.

Across from you is your brother, whom you're sure didn't fall for your ruse.

His expression reveals concern as he gazes at you, almost as if he's silently urging you to unravel the tangled web of lies you've woven.

With a swift motion, he picks up his phone, arching an eyebrow in your direction, just as your phone chimes with a notification.

9:12 A.M. ####:- ik you two aren't dating. ####:- better fess up before i do

He smirks at you, your expression mirrors one of close defeat.

9:13 A.M. You:- ik you mad that she cheats on you every friday. You:- better check her private 2nd insta account before i do

Your brother looks up, hesitant to curse you out in front of everyone.

You 1, your brother 0.

Breakfast was served at this time you actually got the same amount of food as your siblings did, although Simon beat all 3 of you for it. Even though your sister was celebrating her engagement, the entire conversation was stuck on you and Simon.

Credits to your parents, because you were actually learning things about Simon, and you wonder if he thinks you're self-obsessed given that you've forced every fact about you down his throat and you haven't even given a minute for him.

"...and my Captain John Price, great guy. She loves him actually." He nudges you, breaking you from your trance.

"Huh."

Everyone on the table turn to you as Simon rubs your knee softly.

"OH. Um, yeah. Mr Price, John, um, great guy, handsome and so hot. Love him. The best really."

As you stumbled over your words, trying to cover up the slip, Simon gave you a reassuring squeeze on your knee. His eyes conveyed a silent message, telling you that it was okay and that they didn't catch you in a lie.

Your brother, however, shot you a knowing look, his expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. It was clear that he had caught onto your the slip up.

"Alright, enough about work," your mother interjected, steering the conversation away from Simon's military life. "Let's talk about something more fun. Like the wedding!"

The topic shifted to your sister's upcoming wedding, and you found yourself for once engaged in a lively discussion with your family about venues, dresses, and guest lists. Simon chimes in, his comments light-hearted and filled with humor.

As the breakfast progressed, you couldn't shake off the feeling of guilt gnawing at you. Your brother's text had reminded you that you were deceiving your family, and although it had started as a harmless ruse, it was beginning to feel like a weight on your shoulders.

After the meal, you and Simon got ready to depart, and as Simon and the rest of your family went to his car, you stood back at the front door, watching how perfect Simon fit in with them.

"It's obvious you don't like him."

You turn to the voice: your brother.

Your groan, "You again? Can't you just leave me alone, God's sake..."

"Aren't you a 'lil worried about how easily he lies though?" he taunts, "how'd you get him here? Money? Or you hold him over a secret? Maybe...sex?"

"What's your problem? Can't you just be happy I'm with someone?" You step back from him.

"Of course I am, if he doesn't like who, who else will, no? I'm just looking out for you bro. It's not gonna last, take it from someone who's in and out of relationships like your guy's in and out of other women."

You squint your eyes at him, confused.

"Grace, Josie, Francesca..." he trails off walking slowly towards the rest of the group. Francesca? That name rings a bell...

"Word of advice, don't leave your phone out in the open, I mean the amount of nudes on there, you'd think his gallery was a porn site! And without a password? Didn't know you were into whores, sis." He cackles.

And here you thought the trip had altered the dynamic.

The ride home was 2 hours too long and too silent. You contemplated your next move. Do you beat around the bush or straight up ask him if he's still seeing other people behind your back? You know he doesn't owe you anything, he is your FAKE boyfriend, right? But, why did it feel so real?

"So..." he starts.

You rest your head on the window, "So..."

His hand moves to your thigh, squeezing gently before moving towards your core slowly.

"That was fun." He states.

You hum.

"Real cool family, huh."

You hum once again, unsure what to say.

"We should do that again..."

You look at him confused.

"Are you serious? I think they still think that they have 2 kids, they focused on you the entire time-"

"Well, it's not like you put in much effort to talk, love."

That shuts you up.

He sighs at your silence, "Listen, I've been thinking."

You glance at him, hoping he'd kick you out of his car and let you walk the rest of the way home, too ashamed to be in his vicinity.

"Your parents were hinting us to take the next move you know..."

"Neighbours to friends?" You question.

He laughs, "Your family's great, your sister's and her lad, real cute couple you know, I felt at home...so I was thinking...we should try it you know, going out I guess."

You scrunch your face at him, was he really convinced into asking you out because your parents asked him? And here you were, months of trying to hint to wanting more, and the moment your demanding parents butt in, he's just going to do what they say? And the fact that he couldn't even say the word relationship.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You cross your arms in annoyance. You were tired of being pushed around like a doormat.

Your brother's words ring through your head, as Simon drives.

It's not gonna last, take it from someone who's in and out of relationships like your guy's in and out of other women.

All the signs point towards rejecting his proposal. He doesn't want you, he just wants the safest route. You being in a relationship with him isn't going to stop him fucking other women.

Why would you waste your time with a guy to whom you meant nothing to?

So you decide to give it to him directly.

"Yes. I'll be your girlfriend."

Thank you all so much for the interactions on part 1! Means a lot :D THERE WILL BE A PART 3 LMAOOO i did not intend for this fic to be long but here we are. lemme know you're interested to be tagged in my future posts! tags -> @lilliumrorum, @kxtz3, @poohkie90, @rainlovesyou12, @restrictionsapply, @lunamoonbby, @nigthmar3moon, @thychuvaluswife, @itsnourm, @bubusi11, @owkittie

[vcgardenia]

under the moon’s veil (Luke Castellan x Apollo!daughter)

summary: Cora is kinda losing her cookies but in an interesting poetic way! And Luke is totally there for her like Drusilla and Spike or Catherine and Heathcliff.

wc: 2483

cw: angst, lit + greek mythology references, kissing, suggestive content, depictions of insanity, gore and blood

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results - Albert Einstein

It was the dark of night, and Nyx had tucked all the world in his shining blanket of stars. A glistening sky sighed as another day had passed them by- all was sound, and all were quiet… Well, all but one.

Cora tossed and turned in her bed, anxiously anticipating a rustle from the bushes. After an hour of waiting, tossing, and turning some more, she sat up from her bed and stared longingly at the door. Where was he?

The Apollo cabin was dead silent; not a usual occurrence, and Cora could not have been more relieved. She looked around at the drooling, passed out campers around her- trying to scope how asleep they all were before she made any first moves. Her half-sister Heidi had practically fallen off of her top bunk, and Cora knew she had to leave the cabin before that happened.

She stood up from her bed- almost stepping on the baby deer that her half-brother Liam had adopted after he found it stabbed in a clearing. Normally the counselor would’ve said no, but it was a baby deer with a limp… and the head counselor wasn’t a monster.

Cora tried not to look at it. She avoided its presence entirely before continuing on her self made quest. She cautiously slipped on her Crocs- trying to ensure that no rubbery friction from the shoes would give her away. 

Cora tried to steady her breathing, but it was becoming more erratic by the second. He was supposed to rustle the leaves at the bushes at 10, and then Cora would come out by 10:15. It was currently 11:07 and she had no idea where he was. Cora felt as if she was breaking into a cold sweat; she could feel her hands shaking as she thought of the worst. 

What if he got hurt by someone? Or his ship sunk? Backbiter may have stopped working, someone caught him on the way here- thousands of possibilities were circling through her mind.  Cora’s heart was now racing… what if he was dead? 

She shook her head, refusing to believe her own thoughts. Her entire body was shaking at this point, and she knew she had to run out of the cabin before she started bawling. So Cora ran. She sprinted out of the cabin, and off the well worn path, into the forest. As she ventured further into the woods, less and less moonlight came from the sky above; covered by the growing number of trees. Through the tears and flem in her throat, she began to yell, practically scream his name,

“LUKE. LUKE. LUKE WHERE ARE YOU!” She was breaking down into tears, collapsing over herself into a heap of despair. What had the world done to her love?

“Hey sunshine.” Luke appeared from behind one of the trees Cora had just run past. She kept her head down, sobbing into the ground beneath her; more out of relief now than sorrow. Luke quickly knelt down next to her- rubbing her icy cold back with his pleasantly warm hands. With each up and down motion he made, he would make patterns on her back with his delicate yet deliberate fingers. Slowly, Cora was able to collect herself. While her breathing was still erratic, she was no longer wailing so loud the gods could hear. 

“I didn’t mean to worry you baby.” Luke’s face was full of concern and worry for his love. He hid his face in her hair, muffling his next words,

“Can you forgive me?”

Cora looked up for the first time, turning her head around to see him. Immediately she gasped,

“What happened to your scar?” She instinctively held his face in her hands. Luke smirked, giddy from the attention,

“Percy reopened some old wounds both figuratively and literally.” He chuckled. Cora scowled.

“If you had let me go with you this wouldn’t have happened.” Luke took a large sigh,

“Let’s not talk about this right now. I just wanna see you happy.” Cora’s scowl quickly turned into a beaming smile,

“How could I not be happy when I’m with you, my winged Romeo?” She planted a kiss on his wound, longing to make it disappear with some magic touch.

She could tell even by how Luke held her, that he had longed for her touch. His body bent as easily to her will as a stick of puddy at her fingers. Cora wrapped her arms around Luke’s neck; melting into the warm embrace. She missed this. 

When they started meeting up in the woods, Luke would talk to her about his adventures, she would talk about hers. But, over time it just hurt too much for the both of them. Knowing that the love of their life was existing without them by their side. 

These days they would just touch. Making sure no area was undiscovered before the end of the night; it never felt the same way twice. New scars, new bruises, nothing could stop the passage of time. 

“How long can you stay tonight?” Cora looked up at Luke, searching for an answer in his eyes; begging him to stay just a little longer than last time. In response Luke inhaled, looking ahead of her- knowing he couldn’t bear to see the expression on her face.

“So not that long then?” Cora furrowed her brows. Luke dug his head into her shoulder, shaking his head. After sitting there for a little longer, Cora spoke, 

“Let me go with you.”

“No I- you know you can’t. It’s too dangerous.” She looked at him with bitterness in her eyes, shaking her head,

“If you don’t let me go with you Luke,” Cora searched for her words, tears filling her eyes,  “the last time you’ll see me is hanging from a tree.” Cora started getting up, ready to run away from his phony warm embrace.

“Cora don’t say that. Please don’t say that baby.” 

“Do you even love me Luke?” Luke stared at her with the most puzzled look,

“Why are you saying these things?”

In truth, Cora didn’t know. She just wanted everything to be normal again. She wanted them to swim in the lake together; finding the secret passageway that would take them to the stone cave, overgrown with green ivy. He would hold her in his arms, lifting her up to the ledge where they could just sit. She would put her head in his lap and he would caress her features. They would just talk. They could just talk back then. 

But now, Cora didn’t know what had become of them, of her. Luke was crying, holding his head in his hands as he tried to hold back his sniffles. His voice was breaking with the little whimpers that dared to escape. 

Cora thought back on the week before. She had been in the woods and she had taken a knife with her, trying to pick some raspberries for lunch that day. Cora finally found a bush full of them- not often found in these woods. As she began to pick them, her mind started to wander. Of course the first place it went was to Luke- what was he doing right now? Was he thinking about her? Was he safe? Lost in thought she cut open one of the raspberries she had picked. She gasped. The shade of pinkish red perfectly matched that of Luke’s lips. She grabbed more from her basket and continued to cut into more of them. It was incredible; the shade and pigment would’ve blended right into his if he was here. The juices of the previous raspberry escaped into the soil, merging into one as the cycle of reunion began again. Even the juice had consistency to find comfort in. 

She started cutting open the raspberries with more aggravation; almost jealous of their fate. In her fury she had accidentally cut her own hand, instead of another raspberry. The blood was a redder hue than Luke’s lips, but as she looked down, she could see that it too was able to become one with the earth. 

She smiled.

She hadn’t smiled for weeks. Luke hadn’t been visiting, and it had been filling her with more despair than she knew what to do with. But this spilling of blood was the sweet release she had been looking for. She was now part of the cycle; Cora giggled in glee at the thought. Leaning her head back and closing her eyes, she felt a new moisture on her hand. She opened her eyes to see a creature licking off the blood that had finally connected her to something; given her comfort. It had stolen her joy. It had taken the one pleasure she had away from her. Her face snapped into a look of blind rage, and she stabbed it. 

She quickly withdrew her knife, ready to inflict a second blow- then she looked into its eyes. It was a deer. From the looks of it, the harmless animal wasn’t even a year old. Cora quickly took the knife away from the baby’s untouched skin; it had now been drenched in its first bleeding… and it was all her fault.

After that Cora had made sure one of her siblings found it. The counselor let the deer stay in their cabin of course, he wasn’t a monster… but she was.

She had tried not to think about it since then, but every time she looked at Liam’s baby dear, every time she heard someone question what kind of villain would stab such a pure and beautiful creature…

She turned her attention back to the present.

She couldn’t stay and watch as another beautiful being was destroyed by her hands. Especially not Luke. Her Luke. So she ran. She ran as fast as her legs could take her. She could hear Luke yelling for her, but it all just felt like background noise to her. She had to distance herself from the world. 

Cora had learned to be strong in the face of adversity, and she had always been praised for her level headedness- always keeping perspective, being kind and gracious to all. No matter what happened she always kept her light. But Luke was the exception. He was the hamartia that would bleed her soul dry; without even having to try he could undo her.

Luke was searching breathlessly for Cora. He didn’t know what he said or did, but he had to fix it. As he wandered through the forest he pondered- what happened? He should have seen a breakdown like this happening, he had been gone for too long, he should have come back sooner. Should haves and what if’s raced through his mind as he looked desperately for Cora. She was the epitome of perfection to Luke. He felt as if he had ruined her.

He knew it was selfish to keep seeing her even after he chose his side, but Luke couldn’t help it. He had to see her. Luke couldn’t breathe without her. Some days it felt as if they inhabited the same body, he could tell how her day was going just by looking inwards; other days she was a complete mystery. She would blow up and scream at him, and he would still be just as willing to plunge a knife into his chest for her. 

He wanted to have a life with her, have Cora as a witness to everything he did… but he was a disgrace. He was an outcast of her world. He knew it could never be. She would find some man who is deserving of her- and Luke would have to watch just as Heathcliff watched his Catherine. But he searched nonetheless. Because at the end of the day, he knew that he would rather beat his head against a tree than be in a world without her.

After what felt like ages he heard sniffling coming from behind a bush. Luke let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding as he cautiously walked over to the noise. 

“Sunshine, are you here?” 

“Go away!” Cora still refused to look at him. She was curled up in a ball on the floor and didn’t look up.

“Baby I-” Luke tried to find his words as he sat to meet her eyes. “I don’t have much time left.” Cora finally looked up, staring at his gorgeous curls instead of his agonizing face. “Can’t we spend it together?” It was a plea. 

Cora moved closer to Luke; leaning in more and more until their foreheads touched. She lightly chuckled as she took her hands and placed them on his torso. Luke smirked as he pried her by the wrists away from what she knew was a sensitive area of his body. With her wrists in his hands, Luke pulled them towards him, which left both Cora and Luke mere atoms away from each other. They stayed there for a good minute- allowing the moment to breathe. 

After a while Luke set Cora’s wrists on her lap. He took his thumb and opened her mouth, letting his tender touch linger on her plump lips. Luke couldn’t help but sigh at how beautiful she looked under the moonlight; despite her father being god of the sun. Cora gave a faint smile, still tired from the buckets of tears she had produced. She leaned in ever so slightly, and was easily able to find her way to his lips.  

They didn’t talk after that, they just touched. Cora and Luke didn’t have time to take off each other's clothing as they normally would do, so they had to suffice with lifting up a shirt or pulling down some pants. Cora was gripping at his clothes almost frantically- sensing that time was running out, that their time on earth together was expiring. Luke would often take her arms and put them to her sides; rubbing them in hopes of calming her down. Then, it was time for him to go. They hadn’t gotten enough time that night, they never got enough time. 

“You have to stay here. You’re safe here. Can you do that for me baby?” Luke begged with his eyes. Cora sighed, letting a tiny whimper escape as they were separated from each other’s touch.

“Yea… yea I can do that for you.” She avoided eye contact.

“Hey. Look at me.” She allowed her gaze to wander to his eyes, “I’ll see you soon, okay Sunshine?”

“The sooner the better my winged Romeo.” She smiled mournfully.

Luke walked away and Cora knew better than to call for him. He longed to turn around, just to see her one last time- but much like Orpheus with his Eurydice, he knew he couldn’t. If he turned around, he would lose the strength to leave. He would stay there forever.

[lueurjun]

ENHA REACTION ⋆̩ s/o that loves the gym

. ˚◞☁️ ✧˖🤍࿐ྂ

. ˚◞☁️ ✧˖🤍࿐ྂ

🖇·˚ ༘┊ 𝐑𝐄𝐐 . anon ,, hello !! i was wondering if i could request a enhypen with gym rat s/o? i took my friends to the gym w me (they wanna beef up, their words exactly) and they were genuinely shocked when i got on some of the machines to demonstrate for them😭😭

˚ ༘💭 ·˚ message from lueurjun . . . hi sweet ! i really hope this was okay for you — this is just hyung line [ refer to my pinned post as to why ] so i hope you’re okay with this. also ! teach me your ways ! we love a talented gym icon like yourself—ps. i’m sorry for how long this took, i was caught with a serious case of writers block and just couldn’t seem to like any of the drafts i did.

★ ! H E E S E U N G

FLABBERGASTED

jaw on the ground

literally unable to look away

me when i see u fr 🫨

a cute gym date where you’d work out together turned into him literally gawking at you

bro fr said🧍‍♂️

he knew you were consistent at the gym, the results were right before his eyes whenever he saw you

but he wasn’t aware of how effortless it was for you

yo he lowkey high-key loved it

let’s be honest, he spends the majority of the session just watching you

he’d still be on his first machine by the time you’re almost done

gym people have my full respect, i start seeing stars after my ten min pilaties work out

once the first wave of shock had washed off, it’s replaced with something else

a feeling in the pit of his stomach which has him seeing you in a different light

mind out of the gutter you filthy animal

he’d never been more attracted to you than when he saw you tearing it up on those machines

the way you can tell i’ve never stepped foot inside a gym before-

“are you good?”

you’d ask him, taking a moment to catch your breath

there’s slight concern creeping up your spine as you watch him

he’s just standing with his mouth half open

you: 🏋️‍♀️/🏋️ him:🧍‍♂️🫠

“me? yeah! perfectly fine”

there’s literally drool sliding down his chin and his voice is at least an octave higher

despite his obvious amazing acting skills when it comes to acting like he wasn’t about to combust

you do notice that he becomes quite clingy during your break

imagine him wrapping himself around you like a koala whilst you stand and just drink your water, holding up his weight like it’s no big deal 💪

once his clinging streak starts

yeah that break signals the end of your workout because he is not letting you go

like at all

you practically have to carry him out of the gym

that should be me 😤 you should be carrying me

★ ! J A Y

i see him being slightly competitive with you

but in a sweet romantic way

it would be your little thing!

bashing my head against a wall bc competitive romance 🫶

he was a little worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with you at first

because you’re a warrior on those machines

but he actually manages just fine which is how it turned into a competition between you both

“bet you can’t do 6 sets”

“bet.”

if i got the terminology correct i want a cookie and your hand in marriage STAT if not then at least still give me a cookie

gym couple goals

jay definitely posts those pinterest aesthetic gym selfies with you

in my world he is a pinterest addict LET ME HAVE THIS

the two of you would definitely go viral on pinterest too

sometimes the other members tag along and just have to sit and watch the two of you threaten to bash each other with weights

they pretend to vomit when he kisses you after threatening to push one of the machines on top of you

that’s so romantic to me shut up

you both try to outrun each other on the treadmill

and you pretend not to notice him slowing down so you can win

you’d probs beat him even if he didn’t but we’ll let him have his moment

dabbing each others sweat away which turns into the two of you hitting each other with the towel

him holding your water bottle up to your lips and just holding it whilst you drink it

me in the back laying on the treadmill just letting it fling me off because you’re the cutest

without a doubt gym dates are your thing

and dare you say, your favourite dates of all time

★ ! J A K E

without a doubt he buys you matching gym gear

a lot like heeseung in the sense that he will spend the majority of the time just gawking at you

finds you the absolute hottest when you’re in the zone, he cannot cope

you’d be having him hyperventilating fr

supportive supportive supportive!!!

did i mention supportive?

he’s the type to stand behind you and pat your thigh, offering words of encouragement when he senses that you’re tired

“you got it! you got this! one more.”

didn’t think that through before i typed it- 😬

“i might die.”

“i’ll carry you home, you got this.”

he does in fact carry you home

likes having you in front of him when he’s doing his own work out

he claims your face gives him encouragement and who are you to deny him as such?

supportive lovers 🫶 iwillbestargazingintheroadtonight

definitely makes you lay beneath him whilst he does press-ups, making sure to kiss you every single time

does the same when you’re doing press-ups

basically press-ups = kiss central

and i personally find that rather romantic 😌

jake is the proudest boyfriend ever

loves seeing your progress and listening to you talk about it

if you’re the type to log down your workouts and meal plan then he likes to sit and read through it and will put smiley face stickers in the corner of each page

jake has a collection of stickers stashed somewhere because i said so

the gentleman he is will move the equipment after you’re done so you can get straight onto the next one

he doesn’t even work out at this point he just spends his time doting on you

celebratory ( and sweaty ) hugs once you’re done because you deserve them

★ ! S U N G H O O N

ngl i struggled with this one

i’m running off 0 sleep let me live

i like to think that he admires you from afar

he loves that you love to work out and is super proud of your process in a silent way

i can definitely see him working out with you but separately

like the two of you do your own thing but with the added comfort of knowing that the other is nearby

i’d sit on the sidelines cheering you both on like WOOOO GO SUNGHOON ! WOOO GO Y/N !! WOOOOOO ! like that 😌

sometimes when sunghoon is resting, he’ll admire you whilst taking sips of his water

you definitely make him nervous especially when you catch him watching

smirk at him and he’ll go into cardiac arrest

he’s so real for that

no but genuinely he’s so enamoured by you

enamoured 🤓

the two of you gazing at each other every now and then whilst on one of the machines

he almost dropped a weight on his foot because you winked at him and he lost all feeling in his body

not you almost breaking his foot 😭😭

protective of each other

the gym is your sanctuary so if anyone comes in and tries to ruin that by approaching you in a manner neither of you like

you’re both ready to start throwing weights around

imagine you just launch a dumbbell at someone for eyeing him up HA

forced couple selfies

as in you ask him to take one with you and he pretends like he hates it but makes the photos his lockscreen, his homescreen, his laptop homescreen, his ipad homescreen

basically any homescreen he can find

bro would plaster it on a display tv in a shop if he was allowed

yeah bro definitely hates taking couple selfies, sure sounds like he absolutely despises them 🙄

shy kisses on the cheek when the workout is over as a ‘well done, im proud of you’

gosh let me have what you two have i cannot

[angelkhi]

mirrorball - j.m

pairing: bodyguard!joel miller x f!reader (3rd person)

summary: a gala isn’t your thing, dress shopping isn’t Joel’s. It’s a shame no one can get their way.

warnings: 18+ (minors DNI), smut in future parts, mentions of alcohol, references to being roofied, language, sexual themes (no actual sex), mentions of blood, joel is a massive dick. let me know if i missed anything!word count: 2.8k

a little note: it’s here! (kinda). ive been kinda busy (i graduated!) but also wanted to take my time with this, and maybe explore some aspects of writing that i usually skim over (my bad). i estimate that this will be maybe 3 parts? i hope i do it justice either way, this fic was born out of this hc, but mostly your encouraging responses. thank you for being so kind 🩷

series masterlist part two>>

For a price tag of almost three grand, her dress is itchy. Sure it's beautiful enough that the slimy little daddy's boys will fawn over her, and each superficial gold digger will give her one syllable compliments in an overly saturated tone, but it fucking itches. She hikes the material further up her thigh for the third time since the short car ride began, trying to scratch at her skin. Maybe it's an allergic reaction. She hopes so, that way she can avoid the event all together. She's half way to pulling her sleeve away from her shoulder, ready to scratch the irritated skin, but a firm grip around her wrist prevents her from that sweet sweet relief.

"Stop fidgeting." Joel's tone is clipped, the usual hint of strain pulling across his words. She swears she's never seen him relax, not since he became her live-in bodyguard anyway. She cuts her eye at him but of course he's not looking. The only time she ever really has his attention is if her life is in danger, other than that its pure nonchalance and ignorant glances. She can admire his desire to fulfil the position, what with the pay and free accommodation, hell if she had a real job she'd probably be just as uptight as him. But there's only so much a person can take.

"It's itchy." Of course she sounds like a whiny little brat. It's fine, that's all he thinks of her anyway, she's sure of it.

"Should've picked the other one then."

She almost laughs.

She had walked him around the store at least four times, each trip resulting in the same two dresses. She couldn't decide between the colours, then the length, and then the sleeves. In the end he forced her into the changing room, mumbling she either picks one of those or goes in nothing. They both know that's not an option. Both dresses felt nice, as nice as a constricting piece of fabric could feel, they both looked as nice as they could in the dreary washed out lighting. In the end she had asked Joel, who sat just the other side of the door, arms folded, shoulders tense, scowl mastered.

Joel isn't one for verbal communication, unless it's telling her to 'go here' or 'stay there' or his most frequented phrase, 'shut up'.

But his eyes say it all.

Sometimes it's a simple twitch, letting her know he's not as irritated as he lets on, others it's a slight squint. That's her personal favourite. That's when she knows she's got him right on the edge.

His eyes fix on her, moving slow and calculated over the second dress. The way the fabric moulds to each divot and curve of her body, lingering on her chest, on the slightly too high slit exposing her thigh. It's a clear winner.

His levels of exasperation had clearly spiked in the time it took for her to change again, his constant glaring, huffing and puffing dialled up to 100. His wide steps only seem to grow wider on the way to the checkout, his whole demeanour screaming get me the fuck out of here. Which is why she doubles back on herself, not needing to check if he's following, she knows he will.

She stops, a wide array of underwear in front of her. She takes her time, making sure to show each and every barely there pair to him, watching that eye twitch with a perfect mix of irritation and lightly tethered resolve.

He'd dragged her out of there in the end, though not after she held up the skimpiest pair of panties she could find. His hand wraps tight around her arm, not enough to hurt her, she knows he'd never do that. But enough to tell her she's officially pushed his buttons a little too much.

Soon enough the car rolls to a slow stop in front of a grand building. Stone columns tower over her when Joel leads her from the car. She likes to pretend it's not in his job description, that instead he's simply just an emotionally constipated gentleman, but she's not stupid enough to believe it. Still, when his hand finds the small of her back, when he guides her up the steps and into the vast museum-turned-ballroom, it's hard to believe that his behaviour is entirely obligatory.

The event is just as grand as she expected. Her father certainly has no trouble with throwing his wealth around, even less so when it presents the opportunity to show just how wealthy he is. An ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting a warm twinkling light over the guests. An sizeable portion of an orchestra plays dreary classical music from the back of the room, and the guests are filling the space, drinking overpriced champagne and nibbling on bite sized canapés.

She waltzes through the sea of false affluence, painting on her best smile, choosing her most pleasant tone, saying all of the right words. She embraces her father heartily, pushing down the small piece of resistance when he pulls her close. She puts on a good, exhausting show. The only thing that keeps her grounded is Joel, hot on her 5-inch heels, anticipating her every move, being ten steps ahead of her.

She's seated with a handful of the elite from the gathering, laughing when they relay the same stories as always, gasping and feigning surprise when they compliment her. She eats the bland food with a sweet smile and laughs off propositions from parents who just know their son would be a perfect match for her.

In between convoluted speeches, she listens to them drone on about their latest investments, or how well their darling daughters are performing in their ballet classes. She smiles, she drinks. she laughs. She's the perfect daughter. The luckiest girl in the room, with the richest daddy and all the luxuries life could offer. But sat at that table, choking down specs of gold in the dry champagne, she feels more akin to the age old scrolls and scriptures.

A caged artefact, another one of her father's prized possessions, on display to be gasped at. She'd give anything for the glass to shatter, for tiny shards to rain down on each and every person in here. She'd marvel in their horror as they learn they bleed the same as everyone else on this planet. That they're not special, and neither is she.

From the corner of her eye, she spots Joel hiding in the shadows, standing to attention. His eyes constantly scan the room and every few seconds, they're on her. She almost feels bad for practically ogling him whilst he's doing his very best to keep her alive. But his black suit fits his form so well it'd be a sin not to look. She watches as he readjusts his cufflinks for the third time, the material catching around his biceps, the single button clipped across his stomach almost straining with every moment.

Yes, Joel is an insufferable bastard, but he's an unfathomably good looking one. His stoic behaviour is almost forgiven on that basis alone.

A round of applause pulls her from her Joel induced trance. She fixes her smile and joins in, nodding jovially with those around her. Not soon enough, she's free to leave the table, thanking them for their company, and heads straight for the bar. She feels Joel's presence before she sees him, perching a few seats down, eyes still wondering.

She doesn't pay much attention to the man next to her. His suit probably cost more than what most people make in a year, and his charming smile is more snake-like. She smiles when he pays for her drink, laughs and touches his arm, letting him think he has a chance. He's been talking about his most recent investment in overseas stocks for ten minutes, and all she wants is to go home and take off these fucking uncomfortable heels. To be able to breathe without the rigid dress digging into her skin. She wants to be alone, or as alone she can be with her human shadow.

"... and profits are at an all time high. My old man reckons I'll be taking over from him soon enough" The man, Matt? Mike? Manny, speaks. She flashes him a smile.

"Wow. That's amazing." Or at least she hopes it is, he could be talking about his dead childhood pet for all she knows.

"Let me buy you another drink?" He asks. Though it's more of a demand, he's already flagged down the bartender, ordering something sweet and fruity her, and a "real man's" drink for himself.

"You got the last round. I'll get these." She pretends to root around in her too-small purse knowing he'll decline, they always do. Men like him take any chance to throw their money around, wave it in peoples faces, impress the men and woo the ladies.

By the time she's ended the facade, he's waving his amex at her dismissively, nudging the drink towards her. Once again she smiles. She doesn't even want the drink, certainly not in his company.

His beady eyes watch her, a hint of something beneath the thick layer of painted on charm. That snake-like nature increases tenfold and it takes everything in her not to tip the drink down the front of his Givenchy shirt. The glass is barely in her hands when it's ripped from her hands, the familiar scent of Joel invading her space.

His face is taught, that scowl he loves so dearly gone, in its place pure rage. His eyes are dangerously dark, and she's sure if she looked hard enough, there would be smoke blowing from his ears.

It all happens so quickly. The sloshing drink flies from the glass straight into Manny's face, dripping down onto his clothes, turning his sickly white suit into a damp shade of pink. Then Joel is moving, slamming the empty glass onto the bar and gripping the terrified man by his collar.

She can feel the eyes of almost everyone at the gala trained solely on them, she almost expects the music to come to a screeching halt.

She can barely make out Joel's enraged words, despite the silent crowd. She's barely aware of his hand gripping her arm, pulling her through the parting guests. A sea of shocked faces, some sympathetic others purely confused. She stumbles on the top step, her stupid heels and Joel's insane pace working against her. The world turns upside down, and her hands reach out to brace herself, hitting his sturdy back. Even with a layer of clothing between them, she swears she can feel his bare hands across the back of her thighs, the tight muscle of his shoulder pressing against her stomach.

He's thrown her over his shoulder. Like a damned child. And now he's shoving her into the back of the car, as though she's the one that threw a tantrum and caused a scene. He rounds the car and slips in beside her, and they're speeding off back towards her apartment.

The last few minutes slowly slip from a hazy blur to a sharp reality, and she can't help but stare at him. Confusion and pure embarrassment hit her first, then comes the anger. He speaks to the driver for a second, and then the partition is rolling up again.

The car feels ten times smaller and itching of her dress is long forgotten. She wants to ask him what happened, why he dragged her out of there like an insubordinate child, but he's busy typing on his phone, making hushed calls as though a whisper wouldn't travel the few feet of space between them. His chest heaves, small tufts of hair peaking through the now open buttons of his shirt, the once neat tie hanging loosely from his collar.

He barely looks at her the whole time. Even as he helps her out of the car, or guides her into the elevator, or pushes open her front door, bolting it behind them. She throws off the heels the moment she steps into the large living room, knocking an ornament sideways. Not even that gets his attention.

"Sunshine secured." He speaks into his wrist, a small undetectable microphone hidden in one of the cufflinks. Sunshine. She remembers it like yesterday, the first time he'd called her that. She'd stumbled into the kitchen after a late night, barely acknowledging the hulking man sat at the island. She remembers the exact moment his eyes met hers with that all consuming gaze and the slight quirk of his lips as he studied her from head to toe, then in that deep texas drawl, uttered morning sunshine.

She had quickly come to learn it was not as endearing as it seemed. Joel doesn't do endearing.

There's a growing urge to throw something, at a wall or at him is still undecided, so she crosses her arms across her chest instead. She calls out his name, though it falls on deaf ears, his nose buried in that stupid phone of his. She tries again, and again until throwing something doesn't seem like such a bad idea anymore. Finally, he grants her the privilege of his attention and she considers for a moment, if that's all she wanted. Not answers, just his acknowledgement. He raises an eyebrow, his nonchalance pushing her over the edge.

"What was that?" It comes out as a high pitched shout, rather than the calm and controlled manner she had hoped.

Once again, he quirks his brow saying nothing any everything . This doesn't concern you, or are you really that stupid?

"Joel, you just threw a drink on someone and dragged me out of a room filled with hundreds of people. You would think that warrants an explanation!"

He has the nerve to huff and shake his head, shoving the buzzing phone in his pocket and takes a step towards her.

"You want an explanation." He eyes her again, focusing on the slow curve of her dress. "There was a threat. I eliminated it."

She scoffs, "You were being a dick."

"I was doing my job."

"Oh that's what it was! Your little tantrum was you doing your job?" She's aware that she's now the one throwing a tantrum, not that she cares when he's acting so high and mighty, as though the status of his role outweighs her own peace of mind.

"Go to bed." His phone buzzes again, he ignores it. "It's been a long night and I have a bunch of shit to deal with."

"Are you being serious right now? You just humiliated me in front of everyone. Was carrying me down the steps really that necessary?" If she was itching to throw something a few minutes ago, she's desperate now. Maybe her shoe, right in his face.

"He would've done a lot worse Sunshine, now go to bed." For fucks sakes.

"No! Not until you tell me what is going on."

He sighs, pinching the small bump along the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. He does this a lot, when he's trying not to yell at her or even better still, quit his job. He shoots her a pointed look.

"If you weren't so busy flirting with your little boyfriend, you would've noticed him slipping something in your drink." His words are met with a long silence, and the space between them seems to stret even further.

The dress feels tighter, and she wobbles a little, though this time she can't blame it on the shoes. She was wrong. He hasn't humiliated her in front of everyone, he'd done it in her own home.

"Unzip me." Her voice is clipped. She's not sure if she wants to scream or cry. Maybe both. He hesitates for a moment, but then he's there right behind her pulling the zip down so torturously slowly, the soft brush of his knuckles on her skin threatening her with a shiver. She almost hates herself for it.

He steps back, but she doesn't face him. The dress slides off easily, leaving her in barely anything not that she cares. She's already humiliated herself enough, what's another notch in the belt? She gathers up the crumpled fabric, wanting nothing more than to throw it in the bin, and walks down the hall pausing at her door. She turns to him. She refuses to let him have the last word, he doesn't deserve it, not tonight. With tears already threatening her voice and Joel's beyond sour mood she's not sure she cares much either. Making sure to look directly into his eyes, she bares herself, lets him see the hurt he has caused.

"Fuck you."

She makes sure the door slams behind her, leaving him alone in the dark.

[marblemoovt]

Lace - Simon Riley/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Fluff with some reverse hurt/comfort. The reader's gender is not explicitly mentioned or referred to, but you do wear a dress and makeup in this.

Summary:

Going undercover at a Gala, you need some help lacing up the back of your dress. Luckily Ghost is around to help you.

------

You turn around and show him your back. “Can you lace up my dress, please?”

“I think it looks better this way.” He nuzzles behind your earlobe, inhaling your scent. Goosebumps litter your skin, and you grip the table to ease the shiver that runs through your body. Ghost hums appreciatively, grabbing your waist and rubbing circles into your lower back. “In fact, I think you should take it off.”

Note:

This was almost complete and sitting in my drafts forever. So as a little birthday present to myself, I powered through and finished this fic. I could have worked on this more, but I'm happy with where it is. This entire idea started with a gif I saw on Instagram, which I can no longer find cause I didn't save it :(

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

You smooth the gown of your dress, admiring yourself in the mirror. The fabric hugs your waist and flares out at your calves, with a slit up to your thighs on one side for more freedom. Turning around, you frown at the reflection of your back. You didn’t think that part through when you bought the dress. It looked so pretty at the time that it never occurred to you how you would close up the back by yourself. 

The dress needs to be laced up and tied. While you could struggle and try to manipulate the ribbon on your own, you know the result will be far from passing to fit in with the crowd at the gala. Laswell needs intel—intel kept in a mansion opened to the public only once a year. Price deemed you had the best chance at infiltrating the event; you didn’t get much say. At least you get to keep the dress after this, which is why you bought one of the most expensive dresses from the store. 

Heaving a sigh, you walk to the door and peek into the hallway. Ghost is leaning against the wall next to the doorway, skeletal gloves swiping across his phone. You bought him a new pair with thermal tips when you noticed him tugging off his gloves with a grumble every time he reached for his phone. Brown eyes shift from the screen to your face. Maybe it’s because of the flickering fluorescent lights, but his pupils almost tremble when they land on you. He doesn’t say a word, only pockets his phone and pushes himself off the wall stiffly. 

“I need help,” you say. His mask shifts, and he tilts his head. Stepping back from the door, you wait. Ghost walks in, his broad shoulders brushing against the doorframe. He pauses after one step, not quite in the room, but not outside either. A statue stuck in limbo. You wave a hand in front of his face, keeping the other on your chest to prevent the dress from falling. “Fucks sake, Simon. I’m half dressed—close the fucking door!” you hiss. He jolts and slams the door behind him. The walls rattle, and the lights flicker. God, you hope Price didn’t notice anything upstairs. When you don’t hear the pounding of footsteps from above, you breathe a sigh of relief.

Ghost continues his silence, but you can feel his eyes rake over you. You shiver under his gaze. “Y’look nice,” he mumbles.

You blink, not registering a single word. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t catch that.” Ghost walks closer, slow and steady steps that send a flutter in your chest. His hands grip your waist and pull you to him. Shivers run through your body when his gloved fingers trace your spine.

“You look ravishing,” he whispers, lightly massaging your exposed back. You bite your lip to suppress a groan, but he hears the quiet noise coming from the back of your throat and chuckles. “How’d I get so lucky?” You can tell from his tone that the question isn’t directed at you.

“I have to be in position in 30 minutes,” you remind him. His hands pause, and he pulls back. Beneath the stoic exterior, Simon is admiring you, burning your image into memory. You’ve noticed that he likes to watch, to silently absorb the world around him and all its minute details. The man makes planning surprises a living hell. There’s a silent promise in his eyes to continue this later.

Ghost clears his throat. “Right. What’d you need me for?” he asks, voice still husky.

You turn around and show him your back. “Can you lace up my dress, please?”

“I think it looks better this way.” He nuzzles behind your earlobe, inhaling your scent. Goosebumps litter your skin, and you grip the table to ease the shiver that runs through your body. Ghost hums appreciatively, grabbing your waist and rubbing circles into your lower back. “In fact, I think you should take it off.”

A throaty chuckle escapes your lips, and you lean into his touch. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You can see his reflection in the vanity mirror. The darkness in his eyes threatens to drown you in liquid pools of obsidian. His gaze is intense, but his touch remains featherlight. Constantly aware of his size. Sometimes you wonder how he would react if you told him you want to be torn apart. Would his self-control finally unravel? You suppose you’ll find out tonight. 

“30 minutes is plenty. I can give you at least 5 orgasms in that timeframe,” and he sounds almost boastful. You decide to knock him down a few pegs. Bastard’s cheeky enough as is. Personally, you think his banter with Soap has inflated his ego. You’re surprised his head fit through the door when he came in earlier. 

“Only 5?” you tsk and shake your head. “You’re losing your touch,” you tease.

Ghost chuffs, sliding his hands down and kneading your thighs. “Didn’t seem like that last night. Had ya beggin’ me to stop,” and his fingers brush dangerously close to your crotch.

Breathing in a shuddery gasp, you grab his hands and squeeze them in a warning. “I need you to redirect the blood flow back to your other head. Mission first,” you insist. His eyes glint in the mirror.

“Didn’t stop us last time.”

“Last time didn’t involve the risk of being flayed alive by Laswell. We can’t fuck this up, Ghost. It’s our only chance.” Months of planning have led up to this moment. This evidence is the last piece of the puzzle needed. Then there will be one less group terrorizing the world. Who knows what will happen in a year—if there even will be another event next time. Laswell has intel that the higher-ups are going through a reformation, and it’ll be too late afterwards. No. This is the one shot your team has at finding those files. You take a deep breath and grip the edge of the table. Your fingernails dig into the old wood, engraving crescent moons onto the surface. “Alright, I’m ready to have my organs rearranged.”

“Thought that was my job.”

“Jesus Christ, Simon!”

He snickers, the corners of his eyes crinkling at the edges. You fight the grin on your face and hand him the ribbon. He gets to work. His deft fingers lace the back of your dress, tightening as he goes. “Let me know if it’s too tight,” he says, nearly finished. You clench your teeth when it feels like a hydraulic press is squeezing your insides. Ghost hears you wheeze and immediately loosens the ribbon. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s not a real corset. Just has to be tight enough so it doesn’t slip,” you say, and he loosens the rest of the back until your organs aren’t one compact ball.

Ghost pauses. You’re not sure why. All he has to do now is tie a knot, and then you’ll be on your merry way to the party. Soap and Gaz are already posing as servers. Lucky bastards get access to the fancy food before you do. You don’t doubt that some expensive bottles will go missing by the end of tonight. You make a mental reminder to pilfer some of their bounties when everyone returns to base.

“Don’t….” It’s barely a whisper. You look back at Ghost, cocking an eyebrow.

“Did you say something?” you ask.

Ghost, gripping one end of the ribbon in each hand, tugs you into his chest. The air is knocked out of your lungs—more out of surprise than force. The warmth from his body seeps into your exposed skin, stoking the flames that are steadily building. You would have to be a goddamn liar if you said the maneuver didn’t turn you on in the slightest. “Careful,” he mumbles into the nape of your neck, arms wrapped protectively around your waist. His mask is cold, and it sends a shiver down your spine. 

“Are you worried, Riley?” you tease. The arms around you tighten, and your gaze softens. “I always am,” you say, reaching behind to pat his head. Ghost huffs, but he leans into your body. You like to call him your personal weighted blanket.

You don’t need to ask what’s bothering him. You don’t typically go on the field for missions. Your position keeps you out of immediate harm, a blessing that Ghost would never admit. He must feel anxious. And while you trust Gaz and Soap with your life, the thought does little to quell his fears. Ghost can’t save or stop you from doing something stupid where his scope can’t follow. 

“Come back to me, please,” he whispers. You stare at him in amazement. It’s rare to see him beg. Normally he nags you instead.

“I will. I won’t leave you—not unless I die.” A wry grin cracks your face, but he’s not amused. 

Ghost’s signature glare burns into your face. “I’ll kill you if you die on me,” he grunts.

“That’s not how death works,” you say. Despite the ridiculous notion, it’s sweet in its own way.

His expression remains the same. “I’m a ghost, Poppet. I’ll find your spirit and kill you again.”

You tsk, “And here I thought you were going to say something romantic about bringing me back from the dead; I expected too much from you.” When his posture remains rigid, you sigh. “I’ll be fine, Simon,” you say, leaning into his chest. You hear the click of his jaw when he clenches his teeth.

Ghost remains silent for a few moments, lost in a memory from another life. He sighs, the words coming out scratchy, “You don’t know that—no one does.”

You lay a hand over his and give it a gentle squeeze. His fingers dig into your skin, desperate to keep you encircled in his arms where he knows you’re safe. “Well, I know an excellent sniper has my back,” you say.

“Rest of the team would feel left out.” You can’t see the grin on his face, but you can see his reflection squint and hear the lilt in his tone. He’s so cute, puffing up after a little bit of praise.

You snort, “Gaz and Soap are probably guzzling hors d’oeuvres without me as we speak, so fuck them. Mom and Dad always have our backs, so that’s a given.”

A low rumble tickles your back. “I dare ya to call Laswell and Price that to their faces,” Ghost says. 

You bark out a laugh. “Do I look suicidal to you?”

Ghost shrugs, “Must be if you’re with me.” Your smile quickly flips into a frown. 

“Uh uh. What did I say about self-deprecation?” You sigh and turn around when he doesn’t answer. Hopping onto the table, you sit and cross your legs. Ghost doesn’t meet your gaze. He stares at the mirror behind you. “Simon, you’re not as bad as you think you are,” you whisper, slowly reaching out a hand. When nothing happens, you gently grab his chin and tilt his face to you. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

His pupils swallow his irises. A faint halo of brown that struggles to contain pools of ink. “I think I love you.”

Your lips slant into a crooked smile. “I would hope so, considering we’ve been together for a while.”

He sighs. “Would it kill ya to just say it back?”

“I love you too,” and you go limp like a ragdoll, groaning for added effect.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” Ghost scoffs. 

Your lifeless body snaps to life. “The hypocrisy! If I have to put up with your Dad jokes, I’m allowed to have my bits.” Ever since you groaned at the first joke, the number of puns on the radio channel has doubled—quadrupled if Ghost manages to wrangle Soap in on it. His posture is more relaxed now. “Better?” you ask.

“Mhmm.”

You place your right hand over your heart and hold the left one up. “I promise to neuter any man that tries anything with me.” The knife sheathed in your thigh strap will be your best friend tonight. 

Ghost crosses his arms, and you know he’s smirking underneath the mask. “Present company excluded, of course?”

“….”

“…Darling.”

“My knives aren’t picky; let’s leave it at that, yeah?” 

Ghost’s hands travel down your hips, squeezing them firmly. “Misbehaving already?” he purrs. 

You pat his cheek and trail your finger along his jaw. “I like riling you up, same as how you like putting me in my place.” 

He pulls you off the table, pressing his growing erection flush against your stomach. “What a pair we make,” he says, his smooth voice caressing your ears.

“Would now be a terrible time to remind you that I must leave in 15 minutes?” you whisper.

Simon doesn’t speak, only tugs his mask off before initiating a heated kiss that sends your head spinning. Minutes pass, and the table thumps against the wall when he pins you against it. Simon is insatiable, devouring you until you’re a gasping mess. His hands prevent you from melting into a puddle on the floor, keeping you upright when your legs lose the ability to stand.

He pulls away with a smug grin, thumb tracing your puffy lips. The bottom half of Simon’s face and his neck are covered in a smattering of red lipstick stains. You’ll need to touch up your makeup before you head out. His eyes flicker to the mirror, and he chuckles, admiring the marks you left behind.

“C’mon, love. You’ve got intel to steal, men to castrate,” he says. 

“Don’t forget a buffet to eat,” you add, patting your stomach. You haven’t eaten the entire day besides a light snack in anticipation of this mission. Who says you can’t enjoy yourself at a party thrown by a terrorist?

Simon shakes his head and chuckles. “I fear for whichever poor sod gets between you and the buffet table.” He gazes at you lovingly. His eyes always remain the same. Warm and filled with adoration. “And Poppet?”

“Yeah?”

Simon pauses and plants a kiss on your forehead. “Give ‘em hell,” he says, grinning widely. 

“Yes, sir,” you say with a salute, turning to strut out of the room. 

Simon leans against the table and adjusts his pants. Fuck, you look delicious from behind. Ghost will have to make sure not to pull the trigger tonight on anybody who shows an interest in you. But Simon? Simon is going to rail you into your bed later and leave some marks of his own. He admires the lipstick stains in the mirror once more. A pleasant reminder that there’s someone still alive who loves him unconditionally. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he assumes it’s a message to get onto the rooftop.

‘Stop shaking the walls, you animals.’ Simon can sense the annoyance in Price’s words. It isn’t until a stream of emojis appears that he realizes this was sent in the group chat. Gaz and Soap are already giving him shit, sending kissy faces and eggplants. His fingers tighten around his phone, the device creaking from the pressure. The screen updates, and he can see in the bottom corner that you’ve read the messages but haven’t said anything. He smirks and heads to the rooftop, putting his mask back on.

Simon gets to watch a free show tonight through the scope. He can’t wait to see how you’ll terrorize the ‘waiters.’ The spam in the group chat continues, messages zooming through his phone screen. He sets the device down next to him, setting up the rifle and locating you with the scope. Your dress makes it easy for him to find you, and you are power-walking straight to the buffet table, where a pair of waiters are discreetly sneaking food from. His phone screen stops flashing, and a chuckle rumbles through his chest. 

Those two are so fucked.

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

This was going to be spicy, but then I decided not to. So the ending is left open for everyone's interpretation.

I don't know if anyone will see this, but I'm planning to stream on my birthday, so check out my Twitch if you can! I'm hoping to reach the 50 followers goal for affiliate status.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

Taglist: @lovecats123451

[pennylanewrites]

sur le fil [levi ackerman x f!reader]

chapter 2: el valse

your neighbours learn about your secret skills; cooking and painting. the latter causes some disturbance. petra makes a scene and you see what levi is actually like when he’s furious.

a/n: this one’s short but hey, flustered levi makes his appearance. the next chapter’s bigger 😏

masterpost | previous | next

you almost jumped out of bed when a loud thud echoed through the second floor. someone giggled and someone else shushed them. groaning, you slowly opened one eye to check your phone. 6:22 am.

“there goes my saturday…” you stretched and got up, pulling your flip flops from under the bed. with heavy-lidded eyes, you dragged your feet down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen.

“what the fuck? why are you all up?” levi was sitting down on the kitchen table, newspaper in one hand, a cigarette in the other. zoe and moblit slowly lifted their heads from the counter, looking up at you with guilt.

“i told you you’d wake her up, zoe.”

“that thud was you? i thought the ceiling fell.” you pushed the pair out of your way and looked at your coffee machine. “what did you do?”

“nothing! not yet, at least. we wanted to make coffee and levi wouldn’t help.” zoe scratched the back of her head as moblit sat her down on a chair. levi scrunched his nose and moved away from zoe.

“here.” you poured two espresso shots in shot glasses and placed them on the table. “drink these.”

“and take a shower,” levi added as zoe inspected the espresso shot, “you guys stink of gin.”

as your coffee poured, you took out an array of ingredients; flour, cheese, chocolate, eggs and more.

“breakfast is served in two hours.”

“thanks, y/n. come on, chérie.”

you were glad you took the time to fill up your share of the pantry in the week. you had loved cooking, ever since you were a kid. you always thought cooking for someone, sitting down to share the meal was one of the most intimate experiences.

you could cut the tension in the kitchen with a knife. every so often, you would peek at levi as you dusted flour off your hands, and he would shove his newspaper closer to his face. you still took it as a win; it meant he was already looking.

you were taking reference photos of the mess on the counter, the half-set breakfast table, levi’s newspaper and cigarettes, when you felt a cold hand on your waist. startled, you looked back at levi, who simply wanted you to get out of his way.

“sorry!” you squeaked out and went back to pour the pancake dough into the pan. what the fuck was that?

he chuckled. he actually chuckled as he poured a second cup of tea for himself. the shit was making fun of you.

after two long hours, you finally set the table; a platter of sliced mango and papaya, a bowl of warm pão francês with a side of butter and jam spreads, a plate of tapioca pancakes, filled with nutella. you finished the table with another plate of pão de queijo, cheese-filled heavenly balls of dough, and a ceramic jug of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

zoe and moblit entered the kitchen right on time, eyes lighting up at the assortment of food. levi excused himself, but zoe easily lifted him up and shoved him back in his chair. you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, trying -and failing- to disguise with a cough.

after explaining the brazilian-inspired recipes, everyone digged in.

“ha-ha. levi’s eating balls.” zoe giggled, shoving half a pancake in her mouth. levi shot a glare her way.

“zoe.” moblit pleaded, knowing a simple word from her could result in one of levi’s outbreaks. zoe took one of the cheese-stuffed balls, and when levi opened his mouth to speak, shoved it between his teeth.

everyone stared at him. he was trying to be serious, but it was impossible with a ball keeping his mouth half-open. you muffled a gasp with your palm and looked at your lap, the table shaking from you keeping your laughter in. now it was your turn to be stared at from the rest of the table.

when you finally composed yourself, you looked up at levi. he had already chewed the dough ball and was now, while keeping eye contact, licking his thumb and then his pointer finger tantalisingly slow. a foot found it’s way against your calf, stroking it and gradually heading north. you shoved your legs shut and looked away flustered. he had won this one.

“turn off the porn.” zoe whispered to moblit, but both you and levi caught the comment.

you and zoe were left alone in the kitchen to clean up. she was washing the dishes, you were putting away the leftovers.

“levi and petra are still together, you know,” she started and you gave her a warning look, “but i’m pretty sure it’s over.”

“okay.” you shrugged.

“he wants to have sex with you.”

“zoe!”

“what?” she continued humming a song from an infomercial. you pulled saran wrap over a half-cut mango and sighed.

“levi does not want to have sex with me. we just started getting along.”

“he was about to have sex with your leg.”

“how did you know about that?” you looked at her with horror. zoe had this weird aura around her, and she always knew what you were thinking. at times you thought maybe she was a psychic. a low, evil laugh came out of her lips as she patted her wet hands on her skirt.

“because he thought my leg was yours at first.”

you had a moment where you both stared at the floor before looking at each other and bursting out laughing.

you were struggling to carry an unfinished painting, your easel and supplies to the terrace, when levi stepped out of his bedroom, a female voice yelling behind him in french. he shut the door and leaned back on it with a sigh. he looked so tortured, with his eyes shut close and his chest moving up and down with every sharp breath, as the female screamed behind the door. you pretended not to notice him and headed up the stairs.

“you’re going to fall.” he called out and walked up to you. he was right, but you were stubborn. looking down at your painting, you grinned.

“help me then.” you gave him the canvas. the back of it wrote self portrait and levi was instantly intrigued. you climbed the stairs with levi right behind you. any moment now…

levi stumbled on the very last step, almost falling on the floor. you looked back, and he quickly turned the canvas back around, cheeks rosy and eyes shifting around the ceiling.

“thanks, ackerman.” you placed your easel down and placed the canvas on it, admiring your work. a detailed silhouette on a mattress. the rest of the background was undefined, but the portrait of your naked body was finished, and it was engraved in levi’s brain for the rest of the day.

the afternoon rush hour had gone smoothly, even with levi’s mysterious absence. your mind wandered to petra; they were obviously fighting earlier that day, and she sounded furious. you wondered if she knew about the little…whatever it was, between you and levi. you really doubted it, however; nothing was happening, just a stupid act in the moment. as if on cue, levi stepped in. you suddenly were very interested in the dainty porcelain tea cups you had on display. levi worked around you as he got ready for his shift. you both jumped away when your pinkies touched under the bar.

“you can go now.”

“i’m working for another five hours.” you were not about to lose a day’s pay just because levi didn’t want you around.

“i have this covered.”

“it’s fine, ackerman,” he glared at you at the use of his last name, “i won’t pull any self portraits from behind the fridge.” you took a step back and grinned when levi looked away.

you worked in sync for a while longer, trying not to touch one another. what was this weird tension and when did it start? if levi didn’t basically try to fuck your leg that morning, none of this would be happening; you would still be bickering and muttering curses. you would definitely not be looking at his jean-clad ass and thick thighs. what kind of sorcery was this that they looked so muscly, even under jeans?

“i’m taking my break!” you yelled behind you before leaving through the back door. levi shook his head and even contemplated slapping himself as he watched your hips swing with your step.

you were mindlessly scrolling on your phone, eating a sandwich from the deli around the corner, when you heard commotion from inside the café. you grabbed your stuff from the bench and walked back inside.

petra, despite her petite appearance, was making a scene in the middle of the café. levi had his arms crossed against his chest and was staring at her, an empty look in his eyes. you were pretty sure that made petra even angrier.

despite your broken french knowledge, you caught a few phrases; ‘emotionless’ ‘cheap bastard’.

the only words levi spoke at the girl, you understood loud and clear.

“get the fuck out.” a few tears escaped petra’s eyes and your heart broke for her. she could tell she wasn’t welcome anymore, so she gathered her bag and jacket and ran out.

zoe and moblit had a fair share of stories with levi getting mad, frustrated, furious. they all ended in someone getting punched. but no, this. this is what levi actually was like when furious. he appeared emotionless to the naked eye, but if you put him under a microscope, you could see his chest puff in and out frantically, his nostrils flare, a bead of sweat fall down the vein popping on his forehead.

levi apologised to the customers with a polite smile, looking around before his eyes fell on you. you gave him a sympathetic smile before returning to your spot inside the bar.

“take a break.” you told him, but he just shook his head no. “you can’t even make tea, your hands are trembling.”

“i’m fine.” he muttered, hissing when the mug slipped from his hand, splashing the burning liquid all over his front. he slammed the mug down, lifting his hands to his temples and massaging them as hard as he could.

“are you trying to give yourself a lobotomy?” you took his wrists in your hands and turned him around, so his back was to the customers. “let me clean this up.”

you took a damp towel and lifted it to his chest, patting down the stain on his white shirt. you trailed down to his stomach, the pads of your fingers grazing his belt. he swiftly grabbed your wrist, looking at you from behind his black hair.

“stop.” he choked out. you nodded and took a step back, eyeing him from the top to the bottom. “i-i’m going to take my break now.” levi muttered and you noticed he held his bag over his crotch as he walked to the back room.

you danced around with a giggle as you prepared the next order. this one felt a little bittersweet after petra’s outburst, but it was still a victory for you.

levi 1 - y/n 2

taglist: @belovedackerman @bibemiiu @thisisketchy @ch-4-s-3 @kingfleury (bold can’t be tagged. lmk if you changed your user!)

[nrilliree]

https://www.tumblr.com/nrilliree/747663914665459712?source=share

It's really crazy how much TG lives in their own fanfiction.

This person also refuses and seems to understand that it is misogynistic that Rhaenyra ended up with a nickname equivalent to Maegor simply for arguing about taxes. Something that was advised to her by a man on her council, not even her idea. And what else could she do anyway ? There was no more money because the Greens took everything ! But obviously, it's all Rhaenyra's fault. Also, I find it hard to understand how the TG are good sovereigns when we see how they manage money ?

Also, the simple fact that she doesn't seem to accept and understand that Rhaenyra had more than half the kingdom on her side ? That the Greens weren't tied or had a majority ? She almost acts like everyone obviously wants to support them.

She advocates neutrality while she is openly TG, it annoys me.

Anyway, coming from a person who thinks that I can't read and don't know anything about the GRRM universe simply because I told a simple truth ; namely that women could not become Kingsguard. A truth according to her that is false because since Visenya created the Kingsguard, apparently that means that women can be too ? Sorry, but how can we seriously support such a stupid thing ? It's not because Visenya created the Kingsguard that women can become one! In the era of ASOIAF / GOT a woman can't even be a knight ! So Kingsguard in the time of Rhaenyra ?! Make me laugh !

She's also exactly the kind of person who will try to explain to you that Rhaenyra can't be the legitimate heir because apparently there is no legitimate heir under the pretext that the law is vague. Stupid, the only real law that matters is the word of the king. It kills me that they are trying so hard to deny it ?!

I'm not going to talk about our least favorite troll, so I won't refer to her statement, but rather the general attitude among TGs.

Alicent's mistakes and crimes are explained by the fact that it was not her fault, but the evil men around her who coerced and manipulated her. She is a victim of evil men. Rhaenyra's mistakes and crimes are Rhaenyra's mistakes and crimes. The end.

This is what some people think.

This can be extended further to other TG characters: Did Helaena go crazy and commit suicide after her children died? Poor thing, it was completely explainable, the death of murdered children is a huge tragedy that will devastate everyone! Rhaenyra went crazy and paranoid after the death of her children? This is no explanation! You can't explain this to her, she's a terrible tyrant!

Rhaenyra's reign was not good, but there was much more to it than the fact that Rhaenyra "is evil, spoiled, narcissistic and generally yuck." People accuse her of not being a feminist because she didn't decree that from now on all daughters would inherit on an equal footing with sons… Do any of these people even know how emancipation developed in the real world? It didn't work that way. Rhaenyra was to be the first woman in power. It was the first step, and true emancipation often takes generations. In Poland we had Jadwiga of Anjou and guess what? She took the throne as a king, not a queen, so she could rule, and that didn't miraculously result in women being treated equally to men from then on. Rhaenyra listened to her advisors and therefore did not decree that daughters would inherit before sons or cousins, because she knew she could not make too many changes in one moment. She listened to the advisors, but it was still her fault. It's just as much her fault for stealing the Driftmark from Baela and Rhaena… even if Corlys preferred to legitimize his bastard and make him heir rather than give the inheritance to Laena's daughters! Rhaenyra is fully to blame for the riots and dragon slaying, even if the Shepherd was simply looking for a suitable excuse to overthrow the rich and lords. It wasn't even about Rhaenyra, and if Aegon had been on the throne then, there would have been riots anyway. The Shepherd would simply find another reason! For example, the fact that people were starving and Aegon built golden statues of war criminals…

She realizes that Rhaenyra was not a good queen, but that was due to the situation. War, lack of money, riots incited by the Shepherd, and on top of her own emotional problems that resulted from almost her entire family being killed. If someone doesn't see it, he or she is simply a TG pro, not a "neutral" person who, strangely enough, justifies only one side of the conflict.

[talenlee]

Speaking In Mangled Tongues

I don’t talk right.

I mean I talk in a way that has obvious incorrect ideas in it. My idioms, my reference frame, even the ways I engage a newcomer into my life, these are all things that I feel, in a very pronounced way, are weird and wrong.

I am blessed in that now I’m old enough that I just seem eccentric, or old fashioned, or, to my students, some boring old guy. I’ve passed the time when people my own age can hear the way I speak and think ‘hey, there’s something wrong there.’ I’m also lucky in that I don’t seem to look my age, which means people my own age talk to me and think I’m just weird and young, and people younger than me have no idea if I’m five or ten years older than them.

I have been out of fundamentalist christianity for twenty years. Doesn’t matter. The effect is still there. The effect is not a byproduct of doing things in a Christian way, but rather the result of my developmental period being limited to socially conversing with about ten people who were almost all the same age as me, and almost all as limited in their experiences as me.

Our way of speaking was simplified, our poetry was dulled, our grasp of language and rhythm and meter were all deliberately contained and curtailed. I don’t know how to dance and I struggle with clapping in time with music, I am uncertain of how to even describe the way I sing or the way music works, because these words, in a period where I was building the foundations of meaning in language, were all kept from me.

We’d repeat lines from TV, over and over, but we’d only be able to do that with the TV shows that were acceptable, that our teacher didn’t ban from hearing us say. We wouldn’t hear pop music of the day, except in tiny excerpts, at places like the supermarket. The idiom and language we learned therefore mostly was imprinted with references from our adult peers, and they were deliberately stifling us. I grew up delivering the jokes of the Rocky and Bullwinkle and The Goon Show affect, but didn’t watch or participate in the common public life of my age. I learned rhetoric presentation from the preachers in my family, I learned the way you pace and build and demonstrate a point.

It’s something of an embarrassing story, but I feel more it should be embarrassing to my family than to myself, but I learned about sexual reproduction not from my parents nor from school, but from reading an expanded dictionary and looking up every single thing I could until I had a working model. That working model had to then be interpreted onto some extremely dubious source material.

This creates a corpus of reference, of performance of language that is equal parts highly technical language pronounced wrong, a melange of calliopes, dated references that predate my entire birth, and playful words from childish source material, like the actual text of Alice In Wonderland. The whole mix means that a lot of my conversation, certainly in those early days, was not so much about talking to someone and sharing ideas or getting answers to questions, but to perform at people, to present in a way that got focus, so you could convey your position.

By the way, don’t be surprised to learn it’s also racist. Accents completely confounded me growing up. We had some neighbours from down the street whose names I remember, who invited us to their home and shared curry and rice and flatbread with us, and about whom I know almost nothing but their names and maybe that they were from Pakistan. I know they were nice and I know we dressed up nice to visit them and I know we went to them once and never again thereafter. I do not remember a single word they said to me and I do not understand anything but their names, and that isn’t because I was very, very young, it’s because when I try to remember what they said, what comes out is tone, and a sort of sloppy, choppy half-way handling of language. My memory can only remember those two people saying their names.

It wasn’t like they spoke to us in Urdu, I just had no idea how to process a thick accent at that age. Or later. It took me decades to build even a familiarity with grammar structures outside of my extremely normalised experience.

This isn’t built out of, by the way, glossalalia – not speaking in tongues. We didn’t truck with that in my church. In fact, those people, we could tell, obviously, were all faking it. Some of them claimed to be possessed, but they so obviously weren’t, that was silly. We could tell that there was something nonsense about that, so we didn’t do that. Of course, we also only read the King James Bible, which meant that that corpus got to form an underpinning for how we made points, how we were compelling; we quoted scripture at one another, meaning that particular manner of speech was the way good points were made.

The way my way of speaking is composed is so obvious — to me — as impersonations of media forms. Finding my own voice, finding my own identity, is so fucking difficult. Even writing as much as I do, as often as I do, I still have these moments of you got that joke from Douglas Adams or didn’t you copy that from Yahtzee?

I was a teenager who knew the word unctuous and cephalaphore but didn’t know what motherfucker meant.

And that’s part of why I love The Locked Tomb so much HAH bet you didn’t expect that to show up here. Look, the main characters of Gideon the Ninth are essentially, two of the most homeschooled fundamentalists you’re going to see without uh, meeting people like me. But instead of making the story sad and miserable because of that, the Locked Tomb books instead decide to make sure that story is focused on cool sword fights and creepy magic rather than, like, the trauma of being locked in a small wooden box and punished for looking at the sky. That particular way of talking Gideon’s narrative voice has, which is able to be sophisticated enough to know the term liquescent, while also base and childish enough to refer to galumphing down bread. And that’s of course, setting aside that ‘galumph’ is a word I knew out of nowhere, because it’s a word my dad uses, because it was used widely on radio programs across Commonwealth nations in the 1950s and 1960s including as part of an ad campaign to refer to when a character arrived quickly.

Yeah, random tumblr user, complaining about galumph. I’m coming for you.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[sweet-honey-tears]

No, I’m Not Leaving🪶

Keigo Takami x GN! Reader

Hi everyone! Here’s the result from the poll! I think I may have gone a bit off from my own prompt but it should be okay. There is reference to a recent Hawks post I made in this!

Warning: maybe an implication of sex(depends on how you take it), swearing

Spoiler but warning?: Hawks does almost get forced into a relationship with a woman. So if that’s triggering, I wouldn’t read

“We just think you should display more affection to your fans. Like you did 3 years ago.”

Hawks paused, thoughts twirled in his mind as he tried his hardest to understand what was being asked. They didn’t mean the flirty way he acted before he started to date you? Right? But the way you looked at him, soft eyes filled with concern only clarified his thoughts…The phone, which was on speaker, kept going.

“Like before you found it”

“Ha I’m sorry wanna remind me what it is? Because Endeavor isn't here.” Hawks joked, but tension lay in his eyebrows. Your hand reached over to his, squeezing his fingers in your palm. This wasn't going to go well…. Anyone could see it.

“Your ‘chickadee’, is what we mean Hawks. They’re becoming a problem.” Hawks tensed slightly and you could sense the shift in his feathers. Things that usually were overlooked by the public, but not you. You could see the slight change in his eyes. How they oh so subtly became sharper. More pointed and slanted.

“I don’t see a problem with them. Quite far from it actually.”

“They’ve changed you, you don’t act the same!” They were guilt-tripping him- trying to at least.

“Yeah for the better.”

“You don’t interact with fans the same-“

“You mean I don’t flirt constantly? I think if I did my image would take a heavy toll considering almost everyone in Japan knows I’m in a committed relationship.”

It took a while to get to his current behaviors, IE his current level of flirty-ness. He couldn’t go cold turkey with his flirty ways, it would be suspicious. And thankfully, you understood that. You actually told him it would be smarter to ease off slowly so it wouldn’t be to noticeable. That being said, it did still make moments in those past years tense, when a fan would get too handsy at the ‘Single’ and ‘Eligible’ Hero. But Keigo always made sure afterward to show you you’re his one and only.

But when word broke a year and a half in, shit got crazy. Some fan excepted it and others revolted. They hadn’t even seen your face, just you in a giant coat walking with the pro hero on a fall day. Your finger intertwined. The commission tried to persuade him and subtly weaken your relationship. In one instance they sent him on a 5-month mission with minimal contact. But you were still here.

There was silence over the phone.

“They don’t look right with your image.” Of fucking course. “ They look shabby! And they’re not even a hero, far from it, they’re a civilian.” Hawk's fingers weaved into yours, squeezing them tight, trying to ground himself. “Need I remind you you aren't supposed to even be dating? You have one person on your arm for the main hero event and that’s it.” There was a pause, “but since you feel so inclined to need a relationship-“ You let a silent hiss of anger leave your lips at the audacity. “we’ve contacted the agency in America, and they’re sending over one of their top heroes for you. Her name is Moon Light and she’s a lot fitter-“

“No”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said no.”

Moon Light: some stuck-up hero he met once during a recruiting event. Her image evolved around money and fame. Yeah, she was pretty-  gorgeous really, and she was fit. But she was a hero so it was expected. She trained to endure the worst and be the best. But fuck that, you were the best. Your beauty topped hers. Your kindness and honesty could drown the little bit of humanity that woman had.

“I’m not leaving them for her”

“Hawks I don’t think you realize that you don’t have a choice.”

“No, I do.” You stared at Keigo, your mouth agape. He hadn’t ever used the tone of voice before, at least not in front of you and especially not when talking to the commission. “Because I’ll make my relationship TRUELY public if I have to. And I’ll have fans support it to a point of god-like status.” You heard a sharp inhale on the other line.

You’re eyes scanned his, there was no hint of a lie. You may just become a public figure soon. And that’s okay. At least you’d still be with him.

“Hawks-“

“And if our relationship then ‘comes apart’ due to you- I will quickly bring into spotlight Miss Moon Light, And I will watch with glee as my support tanks”

“You wouldn’t”

“Trust me, they mean more to me than this.”

Silence. “We’ll get back to you… but consider our-“

“No” He hung up.

[firewalkzwit]

peace of mind // miguel o’hara x reader (1)

im new to posting on tumblr, but im working on this slowburn fic on ao3 and i’ve seen people make parallels on here so i wanted to give it a try myself

Masterlist

AO3 parallel

summary: In the eve of 2050, Spider-Woman is New York’s vigilante trying to maintain order in a revolting society, soon to collapse. The only reason to keep going is the hope for change, as the darkest hour is just before the dawn, but an unexpected turn of events will result in more than just New York to watch over.

(Contains some elements and references I gathered off other pieces of media to inspire the universe and, vaguely, the character.)

introductory chapter!!

word count: 1.8k

Chapter 1

There's no rush hour in Brooklyn, I knew there used to be one, but now every hour of the day is rush hour. The smog blocks my vision just about two cars away, and the acidic rain precipitates over my head as I try to get by, it's way too dark for this early in this afternoon. My hood covers most of my face, as I get by looking down and swiftly dodging the congested mass of people. It's as if I roamed aimlessly, I don't seem to have a fixed sense of direction, I just move where the crowd takes me, knowing I will get to where I need to. My bloodshot eyes try to stay open, I have to push myself. The commotion tells me the insurrection has rised near. I try to push my senses as I look around for instigation, but I soon sense a hand of threatning proximity to my shoulder. I turn rapidly, only to look up to the figure of a police officer on the robust side, who pulls off my hood as he looks down at me with a frown. "We don't need you here. We're taking care of it alright." He hissed at me furrowing his brows.

Now why would he assume I was there to help, out of all the things? Easy, I was dressed the part..

Let's do this one last time,

For my name... there's some people who would pay a lot of money for that information, but you'll figure it out eventually.

I was bitten by a radioactive spider, and for the last two and a half years I've been the one and only Spider-Woman.

I saved a bunch of people, saved the city, saved the city, saved the city... saved the city, you know how it goes.

Some would love the phylantropist role of being a vigilante with superpowers, but I can't say I wanted this for me. However I did embrace it, eventually, and learnt to cope with the fact that we are not always faced with choices, even with who we want to be.

Her fingers typed in a code almost by muscle memory, completing the facial registry. The sound of a familiar voice greeted her as usual, her AI continuing to list her schedule for the day. The apartment was furnished with warm-colored elements that tried to give a cozy sensation, almost enough to allow it's only inhabitant to forget how grey it always was outside. And while it was very unkept, it was equiped with only the necessary to provide strictly physical comfort, being visually and aesthetically very lacking. It contrasted immensely with the constricted streets of Brooklyn, where the compact spaces everywhere had always demanded her great speed and reflexes to get around. There was almost too much space, which could only be filled with gear, cables and other gadgets spread around it in a disordered manner. The main room could only lead to two places, the kitchen or the bedroom, which had a bathroom within it. These two spaces were hardly homey, as everything else in the apartment was stocked in them without necessarily belonging to them, further contributing to the clutter. The hollowness of the living room contrasted with the desk of strange placement, situated in the middle of the room. While despite it's size not being big enough to cramp the room, it certainly contasted with the aesthetic, as it contained multiple devices of different sizes and functions. Screens, a computer, and other gadgets placed somewhat strategically over it. She sat herself as she commanded her home-AI to prepare her a meal, carefully revising what her suit's memory gear had registered of her day. Maintaining her attention on the projection on the screens, she typed without looking on the computer by her side, carrying out a registry of relevant events. It had become routinary, however the pressure of the job rised slowly but steadily, society was aiming for change.

If one were to simplify the overall societal structure almost comically, it could be compared to a pendulum, and in 2049, society had already begun to swing back, meaning it was starting to aim for change. But change can't come easily and peacefully, humanity hasn't reached that level yet, and the rise of industrialization and veneration of technology had begun to be rejected after reaching it's historical peak. The masses had grown tired of exploitation and irreversible pollution of all kinds, the streets were crowded with harmful lights from the amounts of screens and holograms that had rapidly conquered any habited environment. The average person spent more than ninety percent of their waking life staring at a screen, and the damage was such, that most left their houses wearing glasses with light-blockage lenses to mitigate the headaches these screens produced. Everyone worked to consume, and to further slave themselves away to a technology that did not benefit them, finally reaching the breaking point. The rise in riots and violent manifestations had become a regularly growing issue, and through some of these somewhat well-intentioned movements also rised dangerously powerful instigators and organizers, generating the second biggest crime wave of New York in the twenty-first century. The aim was no longer peace, it was simply keeping order, and sometimes order meant some sacrifices in the name of greater good. As much as it could be a naturally hard concept to assimilate for most common people, being Spider-Woman meant she could not afford to hold herself up to the standards of the average citizen, she had to go a step further. A responsibility she did not choose, but was hers to handle. Carrying the name of Spider-Woman meant she had to push herself, and to always reach the apex of her performance in the field, in the name of greater good. But it was certainly a lonely working field, as far as she was concerned there was no other "bitten by a radioactive spider so I saw myself forced to become a superhero" people, at least in New York. If there were to be more radioactive spider-bitten people, she could certainly see why they wouldn't choose the role she did, with the state the city was in, and with no indications of getting better anytime soon despite her efforts, most people in her situation would become reclusive or simply exploit it to gain power. Ever since she was bitten she had assumed this was the only possible outcome for Spider-Woman, a good intentioned hero guided by the motivation of making her home a better place, but as time advanced and her role only seemed to put her in situations of loss, she began to assume it as more of a facade to camouflage the potential guilt behind the idea of holding so much power to use for good and doing nothing about it. And while one could attribute her losses to collaterals of such a risky job, she felt this strengthened her character in a way, and found it motivating to continue pursuing her unconventionally good deeds.

She had been working on her suit's improvements for months now, and gearing up to be able to sustain not only the harsh environmental conditions of being outside, but also maximize her effectiveness. With time and experience she learnt that a suit that protected her from acid rain and the effects of smog on her skin was almost indispensable, as the long term exposure to them had caused her some damage back in the day. Forced to develop protective material from repellent nanoparticles strong enough to block any form of pollution from filtering in and coming in contact with her skin, and with the help of some theft from Alchemax's latest developments and testing subjects, which is a detail mostly omitted for moral reasons, she was able to somewhat acheive said goal, and diminish the effect the smog and acid rain had been having on her skin. She had also exhaustively worked many sleepless nights for her mask's 'eyes' to be able to capture high-resolution footage on command, synchronizing it with her AI to compile everything to her computer. As she sat on her desk, carefully analyzing the footage loaded and working on her ID software, she shifted her attention sporadically from screen to screen, trying to keep track of everything and everyone she saw. She quickly got to the part where the police officer stopped her and attempted to block her way. She watched how the screen reproduced the recently occurred events, and squinted as she watched herself web up from the lane on top of them, soon loosing sight of the officer and crawling on it as she looked down to the riot. She would often pause, zoom, make identification of the most active figures in the conflict, registrating language spoken and features. She cursed under her breath whenever the picture was unsteady and failed to identify subjects, which was most of the times, signaling that she needed to work on the frames per second of her video. She continued her routinary analysis of footage when a sudden anomalous figure quickly captured her attention. She typed in commands on the big screen in front of her and rapidly receded a few seconds, zooming in on a strangely not-conflictive yet captivating white silhouette. She analyzed it's movements on each frame, trying to see anything that could help her identify it under it's coat and hat. The white silhouette moved briskly, dodging the police and agitators alike. Whatever that was, it seemed like it wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything there, and walked like it was in a rush. What caught her attention the most, was that it seemed to have no face, at least the video lacked enough pixels to identify any shade caused by features of the face, adding another layer to the mystery. Soon enough, it disappeared out of the frame, and went unnoticed by her while she swung into the conflict. She audibly groaned as her eyebrows furrowed, the few frames in which the mysterious figure appeared were unable to make any identification, not because of the incompetence of her device, but rather the unusual lack of a face the figure had. The software identified people based on facial features, so even if she were to have this being right in front of her, she would probably be unable to identify it.

She rocked in her rolling chair, her sharp nails scratching the back of her neck. Exhausted and confused, she felt like she was burning braincells thinking of how to find it again. Clearly easy to spot in a crowd, but in a city of a million crowds, it's hard to coincide in the same place, at the same time, in the same crowd. It was a tough coincidence that would take a miracle to get.

[satanic-fruitcake]

6 notes? yeah that’ll do.

spoilers for… everything, all throughout, specifically The Peacekeeper Wars. Also a warning for a bit of mild sanism toward the end, used only for dramatic effect.

I’ll start this off with a general farscape world building theory, and that’s that most, if not all, of the less imaginatively designed species in farscape are simply like that because they’re part Sebacean. Descendants of Sebacean cross-breeding programs from when the Eidolons were trying to make adjustments to their physiology. the Baniks and Kalish, as well as many others, are the living results of this.

Over the thousands of cycles that have passed since these races came around, they’ve evolved, and devolved in completely unexpected ways, (more on that later) and their numbers have grown far greater than the Peacekeepers wanted. This is why, in the present, the PK’s oppose contamination so strongly. And why the Baniks and Kalish are conquered species’s, and kept in servitude. they’re a “mistake”.

I unfortunately don’t have any solid ideas about Kalish, (they have a pinkness about them, and look vaguely reptilian? i was thinking maybe the Pathfinders, but. ehhh.)

The Baniks however. Are none other than descendants of the Sebaceans and Eidolons themselves.

To explain this, i’m gonna need to talk about our beloved leather-clad half Sebacean half Scarran Scorpy.

Scarrans interrogate people by radiating immense heat that, somehow, makes people tell the truth. (this is farscape, don’t ask don’t tell) The Prodigal Grasshopper doesn’t have this ability, but he has something just as good. An unexpected result of his breeding gives him a built in lie detector. The Scarran’s ability is external, Scorpius’s ability is internal.

Eidolons bring peace externally because they emit a glow that evokes a feeling of calm and neutrality. Baniks inherited an internal version of this ability. “outsiders think that we do not feel, but it’s only that our feelings don’t always show.”

i think this makes sense with how Yondolaow addressed Stark with… familiarity, almost? he understood that him being a Stykera meant that he understood the psyche of those he passes over. This could also effect how Stark Wigged The Fuck Out when absorbing Yondolaow’s knowledge. And also why it worked, instead him just spontaneously combusting or something.

Now, about the Stykera. Stark’s character profile claims that a Stykera is simply a particularly special sub-species if Banik. I think that’s bullshit, in the sense that it’s a common, galaxy-wide misconception, and that there are even some Baniks who don’t know the truth. Also, i just kinda find that explanation boring. So, my theory is this:

this next part is in direct contradiction to Stark referring to his own body as a “molecular creation” but i’ll be honest. i just don’t give a shit.

The Stykera are different race to Baniks entirely. A formless, non-corporeal race who can only live in this realm by finding a body to house their soul. The Baniks, for whatever reason, perhaps their mental abilities and stoic fortitude, perhaps their peaceful ways due to their connection to Eidolons, are the only species able to house them.

The transference of souls - or possession, whatever word you prefer - happens at birth. The Stykera’s soul and the Banik child’s just. swap places. with the Banik starting the process of becoming a Stykera. Energy, able to view our realm but not experience it until however many cycles it takes for the Stykera inhabiting their body to die. They’re then transferred, randomly, into a Banik being born. and the cycle continues.

now we go into general headcanon territory.

This viewing of the world is vital, because so is their duty to the dying. and the only preparation Stykera get for the real world. and, hey, it’s more than humans get. Unfortunately, if Stykera are anything inherently, it’s emotional. empathetic. easily overwhelmed. They have an utter inability to develop a thick skin, to become desensitised, because it would interfere with their duty. Selflessly giving souls passage to the other side at the detriment to your own sanity requires boundless empathy. Banik wilful stoicism doesn’t come naturally to them, it has to be learned, with time, nurture and great self control. all of these are difficult to come by in slavery. Not to mention how few and far between Stykera are. Stark’s ability to achieve calmness and serenity when performing his duty is the best you can expect. from as early as birth, Stykera are so rarely sane.

…. so that’s my theory! thanks so much of you’ve read this far, please reblog if you like because ive had this rattling around in my head for months and it’s 2:40 am because it’s taken me nearly two hours to finally get it written down.

[teabutmakeitazure]

Twisted but Tender - 9: Cruel Yet So Soft

>Yan! Childe x Fem! Reader

a/n: I'm not particularly proud of this chapter and had no idea where I was going with it but hey! Development! I also changed the divider hehe

Chapter summary: kitty sleeps as his parents fight

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: touching without consent, isolation, a lot of crying in general

Series Masterlist

He's been staring again. Maybe watching would be a better word. Jax, as Ajax named him after himself, is resting on your shoulder as you continue working on your current art project. And Ajax himself, well he's draped on the single seater sofa behind you. Probably acting like a damsel in distress as well.

Weekends when he's home seem to go by slowly. Even worse is the part of having to wake up with him and have breakfast with him. He always tries to make it romantic while you try your best to not. Of course, there's the subtlety in it or else he'ld get mad and lock you in that dark room again.

You shudder at the memory.

Another line stroke and there's the satisfying sound of pencil on paper. Jax yawns and drops to your lap. You pet him to help him fall asleep.

The pencil lead gets blunter and blunter as you keep going. It's alright though, it's going to be inked anyway. There's something you love about graphite. It has so many uses. Lining, sketching, shading, effects and much more. Yes, it's bland to some but it's versatile and easy to work with.

Unlike the man who's wrapped his arms around your shoulders now.

He turns his head and places his chin on the same shoulder Jax was on earlier. You don't like the feeling of his breath on your neck.

"What're you making this time?"

"You'll see when it's inked."

Ajax hums, likely in thought but it could be over your response. You continue drawing on the paper as his hand starts caressing your form. The way he's doing it is giving you goosebumps.

A hand travels to the one holding the pencil and you stop immediately. He takes a hold of it and pries the pencil out in favour of holding it himself, thumb brushing your palm.

At least half of him isn't wrapped around you anymore. He is, however, still leaning over you. The thumb now caresses your entire hand and it twitches, wanting to remove his.

You pull your hand in hopes of getting it away from him but he grabs it before you could. Curse his fast reflexes.

"Ah ah, no running away. You remember what we talked about right?"

A mistake on your part.

"What exactly are you referring to?"

He sighs, "You really do love making me repeat myself don't you. We agreed that you wouldn't shy away from me, physically and emotionally."

"Uhuh," you scoff.

It was then when his grip subtly tightened and he leaned into your ear, "Where's our wedding band?"

Huh?

"It's in my jewellery box?"

"You're asking me? Shouldn't you know?"

Shit, he sounds angry.

"No no, it really is, but why are you asking?"

He lets go of your hand and instead turns your chair a little so that you face him. "I'm asking because I haven't seen it in a long time."

"Well there's no reason to wear it if I'm at home so it's taken residence in the box."

"I think it'ld look prettier on your hand."

"A ring looks good when worn, yes."

With a sigh, he gets up, stretches and watches your figure with his hands on his hips. You fidget with your hands underneath the table as you bite your inner cheek. There's silence again: the uncomfortable kind of silence. Jax sleeps peacefully on your lap and you wonder just how he can be so careless when there's Ajax in the same room.

Two hands come from behind you and gingerly hold the kitten. Ajax, he's moving Jax to the table. His figure is beside you now. You don't know why but there's a faint sparkling in the air.

Ajax abruptly pulls your chair to the middle of the room and you scream, almost falling off of it. He merely walks off while you don't dare get up to leave. There is no way in Teyvat that you would make the decision to go against unspoken commands.

Because at the end of the day, it is the unspoken that results in the harshest of fates.

He comes back with a chair and sits across you, one leg on top of the other. Dull blue eyes that don't reflect any light in the room look into your panicked ones. Arms now crossed, he leans back into the backrest.

The both of you merely stare at each other till Ajax decides to break the silence. "You've been very difficult these days."

The scowl on his face is evident of the fact that he is pissed off and you're about to suffer.

"W-what did I do?"

"Hah, wouldn't you like to know?" He tilts his head in an uninterested manner, a signature gesture of his when he's absolutely disappointed.

"I really don't know, I swear! Please Ajax, if there's something I did, tell me."

"There's too much to list," he shrugs his shoulders.

"I really don't know. You're aware that I'm inattentive to details, so it must've slipped my mind. Tell me, please."

"Do you really care that much about me?"

You swallow a remark, preferring to play nice. "More than you think."

Little sparks start tickling your exposed skin and you hug your torso again. It's a familiar scenario. The little word dance you two indulge in before he orchestrates the finale: your punishment.

He leans in close to your face and smiles. Foreheads now pressing against each other, he holds your hand. "You're not as great of a liar as you think you are."

In the blink of an eye, you're thrown over his shoulder. He takes slow steps down the stairs as you try and shake his shoulders to the best of your ability. With a frantic heart and erratic breaths, you try your best to have him let you go, but he doesn't even budge.

"Ajax, this is too much. Please! Don't do this, just talk. I'll listen. I'll listen to anything you have to say! I'll… I'll make promises and I'll keep them! Please!"

He doesn't say anything, continuing to go across the living room to the door at the back, hidden because of the kitchen.

You're crying now, you realise. Hiccups pitifully leave your throat as he remains unfazed. You can't breathe anymore. To put it plainly, it's agonizing because he refuses to listen to you.

He enters the room and sets your struggling form down onto what you've assumed is a chair.

"Think about what you've done this week. I might just forgive you." With that he turns but you grab onto his shirt with both hands.

"I said-"

"Please! Not again…" you outright sob. He stands frozen as you hold his shirt with all the strength you can muster. There is no way in Celestia that you are going to spend another 4 to 6 hours in this room alone, crying and in the pitch black darkness again. It's happened too many times and you've had enough of this agonizing nightmare.

"Just tell me what I did wrong," you breathe out, despite the hiccups and lack of air in your lungs. Ajax stands frozen there before something clicks in him and you're hoisted up into his arms.

You don't know what happened next but what you do know is that you're sobbing into his shirt as he rubs your back. Numerous 'sorry's leave his lips and you sob even harder. You're certain his shirt is ruined but he doesn't seem to mind so you keep your face hidden in it.

A hand affectionately strokes your hair and you remember to breathe again. It's difficult but you try. You place a hand on whatever you're seated on - it feels like the couch - and scoot closer to him. You've never held him as tight as this, yet.

Ajax wraps both of his hands around your body and shushes you. It's then when you feel the warmth that you start calming down.

Wails turn into sobs that calm into cries until all you're doing is hyperventilating with wide open eyes. There's a blanket wrapped around you both, you realise. It's the one that usually hangs by the couch's armrest.

Your chest heaves, your heart physically hurts and your eyes struggle to stay open after the rollercoaster of emotions your mind just processed. As your consciousness drifts and your hold on Ajax goes limp, all you can hope is to not wake up after this.

But as Ajax holds your sleeping form tight in his arms, he whispers through watery eyes, "I'm sorry."

[nardo-headcanons]

beginner tips for trying to draw characters similar to the Naruto style? like Kishi?

ps- your blog is incredible. I think about world building questions aaaalllll the time! So glad you made it and continue to post here. It's fascinating. It does not go unappreciated!! 💐💗😁

Thank you so much for the sweet words, dear!! You can always shoot me up some world building questions and I'll try to answer them to the best of my abilities! Your sweet words make my day! ❤

Before we begin, I have a words to say, especially if you're a beginner artist reading this. There is nothing wrong with your art style. Art styles evolve and change, they can be inconsistent and wonky, all of this is normal. We're all hypercritical of our art and its artstyle, however if you're genuinely unhappy with it, there are things you can do! Study your favorite artists and look at how they draw, watch speedpaintings and find what's best for you. The internet is full of resources, if you need help finding anything, you can DM me or send me an ask to give you recommendations!

That being said, let's begin!

How to draw in the Naruto art style, aka like Kishimoto

The artstyle of Naruto changes a lot throughout the series, I'm gonna show some characteristics of the mid to early shippuden style we know and love.

Stylization, like many things, exists on a spectrum. Most anime are between the second and the third image, however there's a broad variety of anime styles. With the Naruto art style, there's this phenomena of the faces being rather realistic, and the hair being very stylized.

The eyes

The eyes of most Naruto characters have the edge sitting higher than where the hypothetical tear duct is. Pupils, if present, are part of the lineart and therefore, pitch black. The irises are very round, almost circular. The eyes themselves do not have many details, as the eyelashes can often be counted on one finger. Compared to the other parts of the face, line weight also plays an important role in how the end results looks. I suggest playing around with your pen pressure settings and/or getting a brush ink pen. (I'm not getting paid) this is the one I use.

The nose

Minimalism is the best way to describe the way noses are drawn in Naruto. If they're drawn from the front view, it's just nostrils. The diversity of nose shapes in Naruto is not very high, unfortunately. Same goes for

The lips

When drawing the lips, you do not need to add many details. Unless the character is wearing lipstick, only the lower lip is drawn, and lips in Naruto all have pretty much the same shape and fullness.

The hair

The hair in Naruto is all heavily styled. Individual strands of hair are combined into thicker "hair bundles". If the hair is short, it can also be drawn in a spiky shape.

The headshape

The general headshape of Naruto characters is almost always the same, across ages and genders. It's characterized by a round forehead and pointy chin, followed by a slender neck.

The eyebrows

(The eye you can see there is in my own drawing style) Naruto eyebrows are thin and very straight. When the character is wearing a headband, more than half of it is covered.

General things

Reference is key. Always use references, even when drawing an OC, until you have built a large mental library of how to draw your character. Find a character from Naruto that has a similar eye shape to your character, and use that. Useful for that are screenshots from the series or reference sheets.

That's all, folks! If you need more help, send me another ask or DM me! ♥♥♥