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m0chisenpai · 3 months ago

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Mochi what do you think about 90s model reader (think brandi quinones) and loumand (they 100 percent watch fashions shows in modern days)?

Its cannon that they like people who capture attention (*coff coff* lestat). I think they would meet her in a show and would send her flowers and letters to court her and all that jazz

Sorry if this is weird :/

vogue

˚｡⋆ louis de pointe du lac x black!fem!reader x armand

in which your pefermonce off and on the runway catches their attention

author note: I ate this up so much, I literally scoured Pintrest and fell down a rabbit hole and have to fight every desire in my body to do another multipart series for this

The production people move like flies past your eyes while you sit in your regal beauty. Eyes unblinking, legs crossed perfectly, your hair now braided pulled up into a bun with a few pieces falling and curled.

You hold the hand of Armand, his finger runs over and over. You've come to learn this calms not just your nerves but his as well. Louis remains off to the side, he is weary of cameras these days. Preferring to leave you and Armand to such matters.

But when you pout those lips and flutters those ethereal eyes he relents to sit to the sides.

When the interviewer settles in the chair he has your attention and your back straightens.

"Runway, Vogue and Dior, red carpets, music videos. But your most recent appearance in the critically acclaimed rock star The Vampire Lestat's music video put's you back in the public eye when you should look much more...different." That breaks your picturesque facade with a light giggle that crinkles your dark lined eyes,

"That damned name'

'Calm yourself my love.' You catch Louis' fleeting gaze.

"How does the face of the 80s and 90s reappear in the 2000s rained in blood and completely untouched by age?"

"Hmm I think I have my wonderous loves to thank for that, there are only so many things that can hide the thief of the night that is time. But I seem to be lucky to have escaped its grasp." Armand places a languid kiss to the back of your hand while Louis raises his glass from the side.

"I believe the Gift only encapsulated the beauty she had from the moment we first met." Armand speaks up.

"And this would be during your rookie years as an athlete may say?"

"Yes at the beginning of my runway career in my early 20s, though I would not turn till 30. Around the mid 80s I was found by my lovely companions when I was at my lowest. Watching from the sides. And I did everything to ensure not to fall in love."

"Cheeky." Louis coos in your mind.

"Let's go back then, how were you back then? You say you were at your lowest but your face was desired by so many."

"Beauty, fame, money, sex is all so fleeting. And the fashion industry sucked every bit out of you till you were a husk for them to drag along until the needles and knife was needed to hide any evidence of your decline."

Armand will never admit it out loud but he was particularly fond of the 80s and 90s. He loved the fashions o each era, but he fell in love with runway. It was theatre in an entirely new facet. Louis can recall, though his companions face was stone cold, the glimmer of warmth in his eyes that watched each and every model. Catching every small finite detail.

Louis was more than happy to donate and invest in the ocassional piece for Armand who returned the favor. Until one evening they are encaptured by a beauty amount the sea of tall skinny legs.

This angel that graced the runway one evening of Paris Fasion week. It was dull, Armand confided in Louis as they dressed for the show they and and a few exclusive members were invited to.

One by one Armand began to count them like sheep until she entered. A sheer black tube tob pencil skirt dress with a billowy white blouse beneath. Your eyes are smoky and sharp and your lips a bright chery red. When you walk, you lack the stiffness the other girls move with, no no you glide. The runway is your stage, you dance so beautifully.

Armand sits up as you walk past. He neded you then, he neededyou now.

When you are off you brush past the fussy designers who bark orders in French that is too fast and English far too broken. All you care to know is you have a period of relief to indulge in a smoke and soon after a bump from one of your acquaintances.

You slump in your seat, a cigarette warms you up as you enjoy the momentary silence until you are up again. You grow tired, bored of this. You see it boiling in your eyes, past the makeup, the eye liner and rouge.

From your side one of the assistants carefully moves to your side.

"For you ma'am a gift from some of our most generous investors of the arts."

"M' not sleeping with them" you mumble around the still lit cigarette which dangles from your lips as you open the card tucked into the dozens of fresh roses.

"A rose for a rose." You grumble putting out your cigarette on the card and getting up to squeeze into the sheer scandalous dress though you would hardly call it that with the pièce de résistance being an intricate veil that twists and covers and is encrusted with diamonds around your face and binding in the back.

As you go to line up, standing still for any changes and a quick make up touch you are nudged to get in line. But a thought lingers in your mind.

When you walk you can't help but wonder, which one of you wants to sleep and tell the tale, hm?

"On the contrary my dear." You almost falter when you turn to walk back. That man's voice sends shives down your spine as you carefully make sure not to falter. "We would prefer to have you more than just in the flesh."

His partner to the left flashes you a cocky smile. He's lucky you are being watched otherwise you would have scowled.

"Aw, don't scowl like that chere."

They follow you to London. Your picture is in all the tabloids and paprazzi is stationed outside of your hotel where you quckly find the bar. In an act of defiance, and trying to add your flare, you stopped during midwalk to kiss the collar of your mysterious suitor leaving a perfect red stain.

Since then your manager has been bombarded with numerous calls for editorials, spreads, and interviews.

"Another glass for her please."

Your eyes cut to the beautiful man whose eyes look enchanting through the fog of smoke he carefully clows away from your direction. A black turtle neck tucked into a pair of slacks to battle the chill.

But no words can describe the work of art that are his eyes which stare deep into your yours,

"I don't sleep with fashion fanatics, not anymore at least" you mumble into the dirty martini before a new one is placed in front of you.

The corner of his lips twitch into a mix of a smile and a smirk.

"Nah I'm not into the whole art of fashion. Just a simple collector is all," he watches how your luscious lips leave a red imprint along the rim of the glass.

"Oh? And do I fit your collection?"

He hums, "I'd dare to say you outshine it."

"Let me guess," you rest your cigarette in the ashtray to give him your undivided attention. "Your wife wants to watch doesn't she?" Your eyes look pass his shoulder at the women and some of your fellow workers.

"Your far off. Got no wife, but my companion does enjoy to watch ocasionally." Louis leans forward, his chin on your shoulder and his cold lips touch your ear. "And he's been watching this entire time my dear."

Your head quickly turns and sure enough, a man watches at the end of the bar. A gass half filled, his both arms rest on the counter and his eyes remain unmoving on you both.

"Put her tab on my card will you?" Your mysterious heart throb drops a card that clanks and you catch a glimps of the name.

"Louis de Pointe du Lac" you read it to yourself as he stands to walk languidly to the man. Placing a hand don his shoulder and sitting beside him.

You should be unnerved by their constant appearances, but you enjoy this game of cat and mouse. Sharing words at afterparties, drinks at hotel bars, and one night together in the satin sheets of Milan.

Your room is always filled with flowers when you arrive. Champagne and chocolates await by your bedside. You never fail to find their eyes in the crowd, you dare to say this is what love must feel like.

You keep the notes and letters from Armand. His way with words are what bring the light back in your eyes as you walk and model.

Whatever it is, your agent tells you one day, keep it up. because you begin t see a spike in your career and appearances. Leading you to walk your first large red carpet event.

When you step out of the shining vintage car immediately you are met with flashes, clinging to your sur shrug for comfort imagining their arms as you walk and pause for questions and for photographs.

"Can we be under the assumption you have a special someone?" Your interviewer asks over the roar of paparazzi and photographers at a red carpet event.

"Hmm, I guess you could continue to speculate." You give a cheeky grin to the camera as you walk off with a flurry of questions at your leathered heels.

When you enter the museum hosting the charity event they await you. Your drop your shrug into the arms of one of the attendants while Armand takes hold of your clutch. You walk in between them looking at the beautifully restored and donated pieces. The theme is very rococo and you adore it, the artwork, pottery and ceramics and the beautifully restored gowns on display.

"Oh my goodness look at this one, it reminds me of a Monet" you coo as you stand before the water lily pond. Your hand on your chest as you pause. You wish it were yours. Though it is not the original you want it still.

And that's enough for Armand to place a red sticker near the artists name.

"Oh you didn't have to, Armand." you pout at him as he cups your jaw looking into your eyes.

"You clearly desired it, did you not?" When all you do is nod he hums. His thumb begins to stroke the soft skin of your jaw. "Then you shall have it."

"We would travel the cities I was in. And during the off season I spent here or in the comforts of one of our other homes. I believe Berlin will be our destination this year for the holidays, right my love?"

And how can Armand no to those eyes.

They gleam with mischief, golden flakes sparkle in your bright eyes. "Whatever her hearts desires I have assumed the duty to fulfill each ofthem, we both do."

You shush him, had you still been mortal you swear your cheeks would be flushed.

The interviewer

"But I believe this Gift would have to be my most treasured one."

#iwtv x reader #iwtv #louis de pointe du lac x reader #armand x reader #louis x reader #loumand x reader

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xxmileyrosexx · 2 months ago

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Are you fucking serious?

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Brat Tamer!Daryl Dixon x Fem!Brat!Reader

Era: Alexandria

Smut

Warnings: Rough sex, unprotected p in v, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, dom!daryl, brat tamer!daryl, degradation (such as brat, slut, whore etc) , opposites attract, diva!reader, brat!reader, smut, plot, pet names, oral (m&f), face fucking, fingering, choking(by oral) squirting, hair pulling, small masturbation (when i say small it may aswell not be a warning but yk), pink pink PINK 🥰, spanking, a sprinkle of praise, aftercare, Reader has pink painted weapons instead of the other types (weapon paint)

First Person. (I, My, Me, etc.)

Context: Reader is a brat and Daryl fucking hates it, they have known each other since the quarry but Daryl has always seemed to hate her for some reason, so Reader hates him back for it, they have to go on a run together.. who knows what will happen

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I was just applying some lip gloss, pink gloss that i found last run, thought i could treat myself seeing as it was this big mall that had clothes and a makeup store, there was also a torn up victoria secret store butttt i didn’t bother going there due the hawk eye that was on run with me that day. Speaking of which, the hawk eyed archer is walking over, with a frustrated look on his face, thats nothing new when hes forced to talk to me, that hawk eye is also called Daryl, someone I’ve known since the quarry. He has hated me since I met him, I have never really knew why. I put my lipgloss into these creme jean shorts that suited this dirty pink tank top with a pink gun in my holster, then met his walk.

“Why are you over here, What do you want?” then crossed my arms, swung my hips and then looked up at him, one thing that I’ll admit is that he has really nice eyes, they are blue and they are actually nice. “Rick has ordered us ta’ go on a run.” his southern accent dripping in his sentence, hinting at his own frustration at it. “Whys it ALWAYS us?” I rolled my eyes im my own evident anger, then followed him over to his bike, hopping on the back of it and held onto him, Daryl simply just shrugged and we were on our way to wherever the fuck we were going to.

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Finally we pulled up at some random town thats nearby, abandoned, glass was actually shattered all around the town. I got off and looked at the stores that were actually not shattered. “Personally i think we should split up.”, a grunt of annoyance was heard and i immediately turned around “Problem?” he just walked over to me and replied “Are y’ sure tha’ ya’ lil’ doll legs wont get hurt if ye’ go off alone?” and more anger flushed in my face. “What the fuck do you mean, Dixon? Just because i like fashion doesn’t mean that you get to be an asshole about it.” i was beyond pissed off at him, How could he say something so rude. I rolled my eyes at him and he just grunted in response. I just walked off, who was he to say no?

As I checked out a store for clean clothed, i couldn’t believe my eyes. It was gorgeous pink lingerie that had a 2000s satin dressing gown, who was i to say no to that beauty?! I picked it up by the hanger and checked it out, shock filling my expression, smiling at it. It was pretty dirty but nothing a little bit of cleaning wont fix. With this i could look like a goddess.. I folded it into my backpack and continued looking, the clothes here were really dirty, I picked up a few that reminded me of people at home, then went to check over the counter, some makeup that was clearly used, but very barely, I need a few more products and, personally I think the girls at home would thank me for it. I grabbed a few in different shades of everything so people have variety, there was then a hand on my shoulder, i turned around quickly, shit! a walker, I rushed to try get my knife out, i walked backwards then I accidentally made a shelf fall over, woops.., I grabbed my knife quickly then stabbed the walker right in the skull.

I finally finished the little shopping spree, about to open the door until suddenly Daryl came rushing in, i raised an eyebrow at him in confusion, about to speak, a bang was at the door, a walker hand. They were all piling up the front of the door, clearly knowing that we were in there. I turned to look at Daryl in anger. “What the fuck.” i said with aggression and he looked down at me with twice the amount of anger, i was confused on why he was so pissed off at me “What the fuck do y’ mean? Y’ just nearly got yourself killed! Walkers coming left and right from those abandoned stores ALL because you dropped something in here because of how careless you were being.” I opened my mouth wide and looked at the fallen shelf then looked back at him, he was looking at the fallen shelf and just put two and two together. “Im not being careless Daryl. I even got you a new shirt that looks far better than your torn one. It was wobbling before i even came in here, I just took the most decent stuff on it then it fell.” I rolled my eyes at him and crossed my arms, the excuse clearly poor as a glass item was fallen on-top of clothes. “Th’ dead walker says otherwise. What the fuck are y’ doing.” he said with a fed up tone then took the bag, unzipping it, seeing makeup on top of clothes. He picked up a mascara and looked at me in anger. “Fuck’n makeup? What are y’ going to do with this?” his anger becoming more and more evident by the second. “Well.. for starters theres plenty of women at home that would be very grateful without looking like they are actually apart of the dead, and secondly whys it your business?” I said with as equal aggression as him, stepping closer to him.

He went back looking in the bag and i seen the tiniest bit of the lingerie. He raised it up with aggression. “Are y’ fuck’n serious?” he said, evidently furious. I rolled my eyes again until i heard him grunt again before dropping the bag and stepping forward to me. he looked like he was hesitating, i realised how close he genuinely was and rolled my eyes again, blushing only the slightest bit. “If y-” suddenly his lips were on mine, i shut my eyes and blended into the kiss. “If i knew tha’ was what shut y’ up, I woulda done it a long time ago.” he pressed his forehead against mine. “If i knew that stopped you being a dick this whole time i would have done it myself… except you’re still an asshole.” I said with false anger in my voice, he just grunted and slammed his lips back on mine, “Such a fuck’n brat f’me.” my legs nearly fell in front of him as he said that. “Do y’ want this? Hmm?” his finger fell to my clit, i rolled my eyes and quietly let out a gut moan. He stopped directly on it, “Didnt get an answer, cmon, all silent f’me now but you were chewin’ my ear off seconds ago.” he said looking in my eyes with this lust-filled gaze i haven’t seen from him before. “Please.” i looked away from him in embarrassment, hiding how badly i really wanted him, and how i have for a longgg while now. “Please what? Y’ want me to stop? Cant do nothin’ without y’ permission. And look a’ me.” he raised his hand to my chin, making me look in his eyes. this was like a whole new Daryl.. “Fine.. please keep going, Daryl.” I looked down after i had said it, i felt the blush turning more redder as what i said settled in, suddenly i felt movement down below and i sighed with relief. “Finally a good girl mm?” he then took my hand, putting it in front of his bulge. I teasingly squeezed it and he just grunted. “On y’ knees, doll.”

I rolled my eyes then got on my knees, i slowly unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down with his boxers, it hit me square in the face and he laughed. It was sure fucking big alright. There was a specific vein climbing up to the tip, i just shoved it in my mouth and bobbed my head against it. He groaned, a long, sexy, groan. he grabbed the back of my hair and started thrusting upwards, making me gagg. “What a fuck’n slutty brat, mm? Y’ enjoying this sweetheart? Who knew it was dick y’ needed to shut that pretty lil moutha yours, ah?” he thrusted deeper as he groaned louder, throwing his head back. Absentmindedly i began to unbutton my shorts and put my own hand working on my clit, making a muffled moan escape from my lips. this kept on going for a while, a small “Good girl” escaping Daryls lips as mascara filled tears were rolling down my face. “What a dirty fucking whore..” he groaned out.

“Fuck.. fuck.. fuck..” he grunted, i could tell how close he was, but he just pulled me away from his cock, lifting me up to him and kissed me, picking me up, spinning me round and putting me on the check out counter, he seen that my shorts were undone and groaned in response, finding pink lacy panties.. of course. he pulled them down alongside with my shorts and started licking my pussy, sucking and nibbling on my clit. I hesitantly moved my hands to his hair and pulled on it lightly, making him let out a quiet groan beneath me, he slid a finger inside me making me moan and my grip tighter on his hair, he let out a louder groan. it had to have been even better than music, and i cant even listen to it no more!

He kept flicking his tongue and added another digit, curling his fingers up, “Fuck I- keep going..!” I looked down and he was looking up at me with those lust eyes, thats all i needed and i came all over him. His fingers, his face, it was perfect. he kept going for me to ride out my orgasm, then pulled away, standing up and licking his fingers clean. then, he slowly pushed his cock deep into me, making a loud moan of ecstasy escape my lips. He felt so big inside, even bigger than how he felt in my mouth, tears fell down my face and he notice. “Y’ can take it girl, cmon, i ain’ even fully in yet.” he pushed more forward, his own structure collapsing slightly more and more then kissed me, it was actually pretty passionate. his lips were so… perfect, i could suffocate in them. “Yeah, is it even in yet?” he immediately looked at me, raised his eyebrow then slammed into me, thrusting roughly and spanked my ass, making a loud moan escape my lips, his hand snaking up to pull my hair, reminding me to keep quiet, the grip on my hips had to have been bruising. he was placing kisses and bites all round my tank top, it kept rolling back up so he ripped it off “I liked that shirt!” he grunted in response, “Sounds like y’ prefer ma cock tho, what a slut, even when getting ya’ pussy fucked y’ cant stop fuck’n talkin’, such a whore.” this made me let out a moan, in response he spanked me again.

Then he pulled out to sit me on the counter and spread my legs, putting one up to his shoulder, slamming right back ainto me, just as i was about to let out a high pitch moan, he put his hands next to my head, one on the left and one on the right, placing his lips on mine, shushing the moans i had and he went quicker with his thrusts, parting his own lips now and then to let out a groan before putting them right where they belong.. he then parted them again to let out a groan, i then sunk my teeth to around where this ‘X’ tattoo just above his collarbone was, the noise that escaped him was so.. attractive. as i stopped sucking on it and giving him probably a hickey, he jumped directly on my neck, planting his own hickeys peppered all round my neck, collarbone, and even some around my cleavage.

He continued going until I felt that knot in my stomach, felt like i was seeing stars “Go on, girl, i feel y’, good girl, cmon.” i rolled my eyes to the back of my head and suddenly, a wet noise came out, almost sounding like water coming out there. Even Daryl stopped and looked down in shock, “Damn, woman.. y’ a squirter..” he breathed out and I looked down, a small puddle of water underneath me, water droplets dripping down his thigh. I bit my lip and looked up at him. “I’m being genuine when i say this.. i didnt know i could do that.” he raised an eyebrow, surprised. “So much for not feelin’ it sweetheart, now y’ gonna do it again f’me.” he pushed fully back into me and grunted. “You’re so wet.” he winced and started thrusting.

He gained speed, if felt like i was about to finish all over again “Cmon just one more time..” and thats all i needed, it was like a waterfall to be honest, it felt amazing.. then like that, he came too, a groan escaping his lips for the final time before he collapsed on my chest, looking at me as i looked at him, both of us panting, breathlessly, he then pressed a kiss just filled with passion on my lips.

“Thought you hated me, Dixon.” he shook his head “Never have, js hated how pretty y’ were and how i always dreamt of y’ wrapped around my cock. Y’ came into my head almost every single night and i couldnt stand it.. the way you gave me that fuck’n attitude made me feel like you knew.” this made me chuckle abit , him looking at me as if he seen a ghost. “So you just wanted me wrapped round your cock then you might’ve started liking me?” he shook his head. “Y’ twisting my words, ive never not liked ya’. When y’ not talking to me and y’ talking to others y’ not bad. I know that i prolly ruined my chances and all-” i took his neck then pulled him in for a kiss. “Shut up and stop being silly, no chances were ruined. Now let’s get out of here- after i find a new shirt.” he laughed slightly and nodded, i went looking for a shirt that actually looked good, a pink jumper, sure, put it on then prepared to escape, some walkers were gone from the door, we let 2 in at a time till eventually it was fine to leave.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon smut #norman reedus x reader #smut #norman reedus #norman reedus smut #the walking dead fanfiction #twd #alexandria #xxmileyrosexx

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msallurea · 1 year ago

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Things to Manifest Because You Can pt. 3🎀🌸

Superpowers

Having a pet

Communicating with animals

Changing your birth name/birthplace

Changing Zodiac/birth chart

Changing ethnicity (!!!very controversial btw!!!)

Apple products

No longer pooping

Desired scented pheromones

Pretty handwriting

Desired talents

Naturally pretty nails

Always being spotlessly clean

Pretty feet

Sweet tasting tongue

Sparkly tears/pastel colored tears

Revising trauma/revising bad memories

Changing history

Aestheticallg pleasing neighborhood

Puffy glossy lips naturally

Pretty aegyo sals/never be cringe doing aegyo

Desired makeup/skincare products

Having your life like your desired time WITHOUT the toxicity (ex: 2000s aesthetic life, 90s, 80s, etc)

Desired undertones

Perfect health

Always having pretty thoughts

Being spiritually healed

Being social media famous

Always having aesthetic social media content/your social media pages always being your desired aesthetic

Having desired body blush

Being a irl anime girl/anime boy

#msallurea #law of assumption #manifestation #my blog

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grimsonandclover · 3 months ago

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Next Last

Sympathy is a knife.1

or; Broken bones hurt less than broken girls

Stanford!Tashi x tennis player!reader

Song of the post 'Limp - Fiona Apple'

You didn't respect tennis, so why should she respect you? She hated you. The spoiled nepo-baby who's never had to work a day in her life, and yet somehow you've managed to pay your way into NYU and play on the team. Somehow, you managed to beat her last year when Stanford played NYU, and now she's scheduled to play you again at the French Open. You're a goddamnned mess, everyone knows that.

So how are you still so good?

You're a trainwreck self sabotaging in front of the world.

So why does she feel so terrible when you're on the ground, crying like that, clutching your knee? She should be celebrating. But she's not.

SFW

6k words

angst, rivals to ...something? more in part 2 whenever that is, reader's got issues, death of a parent, mommy AND daddy issues, substance abuse by the reader and possible addiction/dependancy, injury, early 2000s NYC socialite treatment, reader is very irresponsible with a DUI (ewww don't do that please), some vomit, panic attacks, some trauma post-parent death, pre-established relationship, cheating, art follows tashi like a lost puppy, suicidal thoughts/depressions, thats a weird order to put those warnings in but oh well, just overall sad times, big sister tashi, reader should get a therapist but instead she parties and plays tennis, best friend patrick

"You're fucking joking." Are the first words Tashi Duncan says when she's told that she's going to compete against you next week. They come out venom-laced and shoot from her lips like daggers. Then, she says them again. "You're fucking joking."

You, the prodigy of NYU that should've been kicked out long ago if not for your pure, unbridled talent (if unbridled talent meant daddy's money, too). You, the daughter of a late, hot-shot Hollywood producer father and triple-divorcee restauranteur mother. You, the younger sister to B-list nepo-baby actress Seline, the older sister to teenage heartthrob boyband member Jonah. You, the tennis star with her name known by people who've never even seen a single match of tennis in their life during the day, and hot-mess socialite with her DUI mugshot from last year plastered on TMZ by night, your name sprinkled over several blind items on Crazy Days And Nights despite your big-name boyfriend. You, the only person comparable in skill to Tashi Duncan. You, who had already beat her once the same week you got that DUI.

Tashi Duncan hated you.

No, hate was too simple of a word. Hate couldn't begin to describe what she felt. It was more akin to revulsion. You were revolting to her. She felt physically sick when she was in the same room as you, which wasn't often. Until now. Now she had to once again share a court with you at the French Open.

For a split second, she considered pulling out. Then, she got her shit together and remembered that she's Tashi Nicole Duncan, and she wouldn't let a mess of a person like you with no respect for the sport make her think like that.

"Art, could you call my coach?"

Her pet-- I mean, her friend did as she asked, handing the phone to her. "What's the earliest you're available tomorrow?"

"You're fucking joking..." Are the first words you say when you're told that you're going to compete against Tashi next week. They come out quiet and tired, slow and disappointed. "She hates me. She hates me and she's going to kill me.

Tashi, the prodigy of Stanford with better grades than you could ever dream of achieving. Tashi, the daughter of a very much alive working-class father and happily married once mother, oldest sister to twins Nathalie and Renee, who are very normal teenage girls still living their normal lives in high school. Tashi, the tennis star every coach wants to get their hands on, with sponsors creaming their pants for her name on their products. Tashi, who's never once been arrested because that's just not a thing well-rounded people do. TMZ has barely ever even heard of her, and nobody's ever anonymously speculated who she's sleeping with. Tashi, the only person comparable in skill to you. Tashi, who looked like she'd rather she was pronounced dead the day before than hear your name announced by the umpire last year.

Tashi Duncan hated you.

It wasn't just your insecure mind making that up, either. She made it blatantly obvious that she did when you went to shake her hand after winning against her. You could still see the laser-hot glare she gave you if you closed your eyes. Feel the iron grip of her soft hands on yours, like she was restraining herself from snapping your wrist. You didn't look forward to seeing those eyes stare holes into your skull until you got a headache, again, next week.

"Maybe I shouldn't go this year. I don't know... I mean, I just recovered from my ankle, and-"

"Don't be ridiculous." Your best friend, Patrick, cut you off, rolling his eyes. "You're not a pussy bitch, you're a tennis player. Act like one."

Despite his choice of words, you knew it came from a good place. The reassuring smile on him reaffirmed that. Patrick seemingly knew what you were capable of better than you did. "You're going to do fine."

Charlie, your boyfriend, patted your shoulder as he passed you to grab a bottle of water, offering no words of comfort past that. He never tried much in that department. Or most departments, it seemed. It's like he thought relationships were like modeling: show up and look pretty, that's all. You were there showering him with praise and words of affirmation when he had a stomach bug during fashion week and was scared he couldn't walk. Charlie reciprocated by patting you on the shoulder while you paced your living room.

Turning to your mom, who was sitting in a chair nearby, didn't do much to help ease your anxiety like Patrick's words did, though. She was on her phone, texting and calling the dozens of people she kept in contact with a day. It took her a minute to realize you were trying to get her attention.

"Oh, Christ, Y/N, you'll be fine." She waved her hand nonchalantly. "You'll win and it'll all be fine. And if you don't, well... maybe she'll feel like you're even. How's that?"

God, your feet were killing you in these chunky platforms. Is that wet patch on your skinny jeans from a spilled drink or are you so drunk you wet yourself on the dancefloor? Where are you, what's the name of this place? Patrick doesn't seem to know, either. You're pretty sure Paris is about two shots away from making out with him, based on the way she's staring at him. Why the fuck did you choose to wear skinny jeans, these are miserable. The sequin dress was right there. Is the music louder than usual? The brights are too light right now-- wait, shit, no, the lights are too bright. Where's Patrick?

You feel bile rise in your throat and shove a girl out of the way so you throw up into the club toilet. It tastes like strawberry and tequila and shit. Someone's banging their fist on the stall door begging to piss, and you can hear moaning and skin slapping in the other stall. Fifty-fifty chance it's Patrick. Twenty-eighty chance it's Patrick and Paris.

You flush, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and stumble out the stall to the sinks. God, you're a mess. You know you started the night with two hoop earrings, where did the other one go? The couple in the stall are so loud, and you can definitely recognize the sound of Patrick now. Mascara is smudgeding and it's making your eyes irritated and water, but you didn't think to use anything waterproof.

You almost trip over yourself and have a repeat of last time (the time you sprained your ankle at 1OAK and couldn't play properly for three weeks) as you approach the stall, knocking on the door. "Patrick," you gag a little as bile threatens to resurface, "Pat we gotta... gotta go. It's..." you pull your phone from your bra, "Fuck, it's three. Amber's gon' fuckin' killllllllll me." Amber being your coach. You wonder how not-hungover you'll be able to act when you see her in three hours.

It takes a couple more bangs on the door for him to stop. You can hear clothes shuffling, some giggling and whispers, and the zip of his fly before the stall door opens. Paris stumbles out with a giggle, adjusting her skirt before announcing that she's gonna go find Kim, and 'good luck with Amber.'

You're barely standing and conscious, but you're not so out of it to not notice how he looks. White residue on his nostril tells all. "You've got coke?"

Patrick steps out of the stall, eyeing a girl at the sink throwing him dirty looks in the mirror before he looks back to you. "You know what I'm going to say to that, Y/N."

"Come on, just enough to keep me up. I'm gonna crash by four."

"No."

"Patrick."

"No."

You huff, leaning back on the counter and crossing your arms. "Fuck you. Since when did you join the morals police?"

"Since last week."

That's not a pleasant reminder. You want to slap him in that moment, even if it was a perfectly reasonable excuse for his sudden reluctance to feed your craving. You were a nightmare to everyone you knew last week. And the week before. You wonder how far back this could go. "Fuck you."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, wiping his nose again and checking himself out in the mirror, adjusting his jacket.

TMZ, oh how you loathe them, has pictures of you leaving the club by the time you're meeting Amber on the rooftop court of your residence. She's livid, as she always seems to be. Like someone shoved a lemon in her mouth and no one told her she could just spit it out. "You're late. You've got the Open in four days and you're fucking late. And hungover."

"It's only two hours."

Your voice is tired and croaking, and you haven't slept longer than two since yesterday. Hungover is a generous diagnosis. You're still drunk. Charlie, who was absent from your all-nighter club hopping, makes sure you don't trip over yourself going up the stairs to the roof before leaving your side to lounge on the pool chairs. Someone texted you "Hey girl, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but..." around the time you made it out of bed, but you deleted the text before you saw any more of it. Your mind wanders to that text when you look at him.

"Two hours, my ass. Christ, I should quit."

Amber threatens leaving you as much as you promise it won't happen again. Like 'yes', 'no', and 'You do this one more time and so help me God I will make sure you can never find a coach again,' are all the basis of her vocabulary. You play and pay too well for her to ever commit to those threats.

Practice goes on until your bones ache and cry for a break. Charlie's fallen asleep with a magazine tucked under his chin. Amber leaves for the poolside cabana and calls her girlfriend while you just lay on the ground, staring at the clouds. The adrenaline starts to wear off, meaning you feel like shit. Your mouth is incredibly dry, the sun is blinding. It's like your body remembered that you're meant to be hungover and is only now catching up. At least it's after practice. Not that you did all that well. You can hear Amber argue with her girlfriend over the phone and it only makes you feel worse about being such a horrible player by showing up late and half-shitfaced. You knew they were going through a rough patch. Least you could do is make her job easier.

Closing your eyes is only temporary relief. You can still hear the cars from the streets below and Amber whisper-yell into the receiver. "I told you already... Wednesday's no good, no... well then tell them to reschedule... Rebecca, it's not like you didn't know what kind of schedule I've got when we started dating..."

It feels like your legs are going to snap when you roll over, hands planted on the hard court ground and you silently beg your muscles to push you up. You're dizzy, the doubled, now tripled vision bringing back the bile from last night/this morning to the base of your throat, but you swallow it down. Over your shoulder, you look at the pool, the sunlight bouncing from the cold water. Amber's on the other side of it, brows furrowed. She sees you watching her and turns around, back facing you.

She turns back around when she hears a splash. You fell face-first into the pool. On purpose. The cool water feels amazing, the sting from hitting the water nothing compared to the ache in your bones that has been there since childhood. You open your eyes, watching your hair billow around you like smoke, the way the sun glimmers on the surface like sparkles, the shadow peering over the ledge. "Oh, god. I'll call you later, Becca. I love you."

When was the last time Charlie said he loved you?

It's so quiet under the water. You wish the bubbles that escape your lips and float above you would carry out everything you hold in your chest. Then you could float like they do.

Like all moments of perfect peace, it doesn't last long. Babies must leave the safety of their mother's womb. People wake up every morning despite wishing to stay in bed and fall back into nothing. Amber reaches into the water and grabs your arm to tug you out and you feel like you could cry. The first wail, the sign of life. Opening your eyes to the sun leaking through blinds, signaling to you it's morning.

Is death truly the only time we have? When you ask Amber, she just frowns and tells you to stop drinking as she dries your hair with a towel.

"Come on, Y/N. Put your back into it!"

The ball barely makes it over the net, bounce, bounce, bouncing down the other side of the court. The racket is heavy in your small hands, but he won't let you put it down yet. "Dad, I can't." You whine.

"What did I say about can'ts?"

You should bite your tongue. Can't's for quitters. "Maybe I am a quitter!"

He stomps across the court, grabbing the collar of your little tennis whites. Despite the action, there's no violence behind it. "No daughter of mine is a quitter."

His voice is low, like he's whispering a secret to you. "You can."

Your collar is let go and your father stands straight. "And you will. Now, do it again like Ronald taught you."

It's Renaud. Grabbing another ball from the basket behind you, you try again. And again. And again. By the time you're done, your arms are sore for days to come and you've got blisters on your feet. He makes you drop out of your preschool Mother's Day dance to practice with Renaud instead. You had the dance down pat, practicing it for weeks.

You only ever started playing because he wanted you to. Maybe five-year-old you should've held your ground more.

Tashi bit the inner skin of her lips, her mother talking casually into her ear through the phone. "And Nathalie, well, you know how she felt about it all. Cried the whole way home."

"Is she alright? Well, clearly not, but..." She zips up the final suitcase on her bed, taking a breath. They were flying out tomorrow, the Open being the day after.

Her mother sighs, nodding her head even though her daughter can't see. "She will be, in time. First heartbreak's going to be pretty tough, poor girl."

A knock on her dorm door pulls Tashi's attention from the call. Looking up, she sees Art peeking in. She holds her finger up, asking him to wait. "Well, let Beetle know that she can call or text me about it anytime. She forgets to check my texts."

"You forget to call."

Tashi huffs. Her mother's right, of course. It's not on purpose, it's just she's constantly go, go, going, her phone often goes forgotten. "Still. I'll pick up whenever she wants me."

Her eyes trail a bird outside her window. It hops across the little ledge, pecking at something on the brick. She wished she had wings. Tashi would just up and fly to her family right now. It's been two months since she last hugged her sisters. Did they forget how she felt? Sometimes, when she can't sleep, Tashi thinks about when they were just little soft fleshy things in bassinets, waking her up at night as they cried in her parent's bedroom. Now, Nathalie was going through her first breakup and Renee was going through some rebellious phase back home.

"You've got your hotel booked for tomorrow?" Tashi asks after a moment, biting her lip again. She can't help it, her worries jump from one subject to another.

"Yes, Tash. I love you, we all love you. We're booked, we're packed, we're ready. I've gotta go finish dinner, have you eaten?"

Tashi hums a response, smiling to herself. "I miss your cooking, mom."

"I miss you. Now, get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow."

When the call ends, Art steps in fully. "Everything with Nat alright?"

She frowns in response, shaking her head and sitting at the edge of the small single in her dorm. The old mattress creaks under her, the weight of dozens like her over the years taking its toll on the springs. "Brodie and her broke up last night at some party. Nat's taking it kinda hard."

He frowns with her and sighs. "I do not miss high school..."

"What'd you come in here for?" Tashi asks after a moment, turning to face him better. She tucks a leg under the other thigh, and Art's eyes catch on the flexing muscle under the warm toffee skin for a moment. Blinking hard, he sits beside her, grabbing one of her pillows to play with. It's a nervous habit of Art's. "It's about her."

When Seline sees the news, she doesn't call. Just sends a text asking if you're alright. Jonah does call, but you don't pick up. You know if you do it'll be like pouring your feelings to a brick wall. And then, when you're done, the brick wall will recite some line from his therapist and ask you for your new dealer's number, and that will be that. Your mother has stopped trying all-together.

Tashi feels a strange sense of pity when Art shows her the headlines, an emotion she doesn't associate with you.

Charlie, mid-grind at the club, decided he no longer liked playing your boyfriend. He forgot to relay that information to you, though. Honest mistake, he assumed you'd gather that when he turned around and stuck his tongue down another girl's throat. Oh, you should've seen the look on your face.

All those unrequited 'I love you's coming back to hit you in the face in a single moment. You had even tossed one on the way here. One that he let hit his turned shoulder and slide off the curve of it like bird shit. Now, here you were, frozen on the dance floor as you watched your boyfriend of a year make it painfully clear how much it all meant to him. Charlie Maddox was known for his looks, never his brain or heart. You tried so desperately to make up for it. You'd rip the beating muscle in your chest out for him and for what?

You've never been good at holding in your emotions. You were the 'wear your heart on your sleeve' kind of gal, much to your dismay. Meaning, you slapped him in the middle of the crowd, screaming something about love and his small dick (it was average), and stormed out of the club only to be met with dozens of paparazzi who were always there waiting for someone to leave. Patrick was just getting another drink at the bar when you left, missing the whole thing. You barely made it five steps out the door, tears streaming down your face, ankles twisting with every step, before taking a detour and puking in the alley behind a dumpster. Pictures were taken of every moment. One guy even ran up and took a picture of the puddle.

Sure he wasn't the best boyfriend, and it was a long time coming, but you weren't exactly in the mental state for such a sudden change in relationship status. You flew to France tomorrow. Amber said no distractions. Here Charlie was, throwing a wrench in everything with his stupid model face and his stupid model lips and his stupid model ego. You think you would've married him if he asked. Have his stupid model babies. Not like he ever would want that with you. How pathetic are you?

You're a hiccuping, sobbing mess. Why'd you take the train here? That club was hardly worth the trip.

It's embarrassing to be sitting on the subway seats, slumped down as you stare at the floor. Not because of your status or who you are, but because... well, just look at the state of you. Your hair is a mess from partying for hours on end, you ripped your heels off your feet the moment you sat down (and they've already been stolen), mascara is running down your cheeks and frankly, you haven't stopped crying. You try to cover your face when you see camera phones curiously life up, some obvious and some not so obvious. The guy next to you gives you the side eye, squinting like he's trying to tell if he recognizes you.

You just want to curl up and die. That girl, the one Charlie practically impregnated through a kiss with his tongue so far down her throat he could probably taste her lunch, looked like Mila Kunis. It wasn't, of course, but she looked like her. Why didn't you look like her? Maybe then he'd stay. He'd try and taste your lunch. Or maybe it wasn't looks. Something that you felt like you had even less control over. You cry a little harder.

If your dad was here he'd have something to say. He'd have some schpiel about life and relationships that you probably wouldn't want to hear anyway, but at least you'd be hearing him. You'd take just about anything. Your phone rings with Patrick's number and you don't pick up. The guy next to you snaps a picture. You wonder if your dealer has anything available. Amber's going to murder you in cold blood. You'd welcome it just about now. The P.A. announces the next stop, and it's not yours, and it would be an hour of walking barefoot across New York to get to your place, but you leave the subway anyway when it comes to a stop. Because that guy kind of stank, and a kid was crying too loudly, and you could hear someone calling someone else to talk about who they just saw on the train, and you just wanted to go home.

The walk was miserable. Your feet hurt and you had to put too much attention for your liking on where you were stepping so you wouldn't get some uncurable disease from the sidewalk. Less people noticed you on the streets, but someone had clearly let the press know what train you were on and they knew if you'd left by foot, they could probably catch up. They did. Now, they had pictures of you crying leaving the club, crying on the New York City subway, and crying walking home. Fantastic. By now you were known more for your tears than your tennis. You'd hail a cab but it was rush hour, and there's no point in even trying then.

You knew it was a fruitless effort asking for them to stop taking picture of you, but you tried anyway. All requests were drowned out by the snapping clicks of the cameras. You were still drunk, and the flashes made your eyes burn and head spin. Your name was being called all around you.

"Need a ride home?" "What happened with Charlie?" "Any news you can share about your sister's latest project?" "Chin up, darling, I can't get your face." "Excited for your match with Tashi Duncan, Y/N?" "Hey, you need some shoes?"

You look over to the guy who just offered you shoes, stopping in your miserable and painful tracks. He's at least wearing socks when he pulls his sneakers off. They're a size or so too big, like clown shoes, but they get the job done. You thank him, and then go back to keeping your head down as you walk. You can already see the headlines.

Your head was spinning so much you didn't know if you could play. You're on the stationary bike to warm up, an hour or so until your match. An hour or so until you face her. You already spent last night with Amber on the practice courts, getting re-used to how the clay changes the speed of the ball, perfecting your strikes as best you can. She offered to take you again, but you were too nauseous to go. That seems to be a constant for you.

Patrick's back in New York. He's got his own tennis career to take care of, but he's sending you texts here and there. Words of encouragement.

"picture her naked or smething"

"actually no dont do that. that wouldnt even work for me"

"make chuck realize what hes missing by winning"

"i just took the fattest shit!!!! oooooh I wanna send you the pic soooo bad. thatll take ur mind off of it"

You had to block his number for a good fifteen minutes just in case. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd done that. That did almost get a laugh out of you if you weren't still so nervous.

Someone was watching on the small TV in the corner of the room, you think it was Rebecca. They're saying it's going to rain tomorrow, but that's all you can understand. So much for those French classes you took for five years straight. You tried to focus on the blurring syllables you once knew as you cycled.

Seline sends you a bouquet of good-luck flowers, but she forgets you're allergic. Jonah forgot altogether that the Open was today, and you don't have it in you to remind your little brother. He's on tour anyway, what could he really do?

Tashi's pacing the practice courts with her coach, Art in the corner talking with her mom as they half-watch her. She's stressed out of her mind. She played and won the Australian Open earlier last year. To win this would already take her halfway to a career Grand Slam. Tashi needed this. To have anyone like you get in the way of that would be unacceptable.

Her coach is doing his best to assure her she'll win. Forget last time, this was it.

"I mean, have you seen her lately?" He said with a scoffed laugh. "Nobody wins an Open like that."

You have. You won the Australian Open, too, a few years ago at 16, and you were equally off the rocks back then. It didn't do much to quell her nerves. "You've put in the work, Tash. You've been training for years, harder than she could ever imagine doing. It's in the bag. All you need to be worrying about is where you're gonna put your Suzanne Lenglin cup."

"It's only the first round. Once you get through the initial nerves, the rest will go by like nothing."

"Right." You said with no real believability. Amber was leaning over the front of the stationary bike and you slowed down your cycling, nearing the end of the warm-up. "Except it's not just the first round."

It's Tashi. It's Charlie. It's Seline, and Jonah, and your mom. It's the first major tournament you've played since...

Since him.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Amber could hear all of it just by looking at you, and she had nothing left to offer but a pitying sigh and a pat on your shoulder. Even Patrick, now unblocked again, had nothing left to offer through the phone.

Nathalie is crying on the couch and Renee is doing her best to console her twin when Tashi returns to the player room, their mother and Art following behind. She starts doing stretches in the middle of the room as she addresses her weeping sister. "Beetle, he isn't worth your tears. You know that."

Tashi's mother wraps warm arms around her twins. "Baby, heartbreak heals. You're left only with the unconditional love you hold for yourself. Let it out."

It was her mantra. Words she'd repeat after all three of the sister's occasional breakups. Time heals all wounds.

Tired legs climb off the bike. You overdid it, and Amber silently panics that the overexertion will affect your playing. The couch facing the door connected to the player's tunnel is plush enough. Thoughts trail off to your family, all of which aren't here to watch you play.

Your mother was in France, too. You asked her to come but she was busy meeting with vendors for her new restaurant. Seline was on set for some blockbuster horror film back home. Jonah, well... maybe you should text him a quick 'hey, just letting you know im about to play one of the biggest tournaments a tennis player can, against the scariest woman I know. wish me luck!' But you don't. And your father. Oh, your father. He might've been the only one out of all of them willing to show up.

That doesn't matter now, though. He won't.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

He won't.

Breathing gets a little harder to do, even though you're sitting.

He won't, he won't, he won't, he can't.

The words are falling out of your mouth now like sand seeping through the cracks in fingers. "He's not here. My dad's not here."

Your wild eyes look up to Amber, whose head whips to you. Her heart drops. Rebecca stops watching the TV. You've been here before.

"Amber, he's not here. He's not here. I can't play, he's not--"

A knock on the door, your name being called by two voices. One tells you to breathe, the other tells you that "they're ready for you."

You can only assume what comes from who as tears blur in your waterline. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

He's not here. The one person in your life that always would be. The one person who promised not to leave.

Tashi threw up after she played you and lost. Tashi Duncan lost.

Stanford Vs. NYU. She should've had it in the bag. It should've been nothing.

Top players lost all the time. It's a fact. Human error, lucky streak for the opponent, off-days. Not for Tashi. Losing to you was a slap in the face. It shook her confidence in herself so bad she didn't know how she'd recover. It was only when she played and won the Australian Open later that year, with you nowhere to be seen, that she got it back.

She spent a weekend learning everything she could about you. A weak moment in her own eyes, but she had to know more about the person who made her crumble. It wasn't hard to do-- researching you. You were in the press constantly, along with the rest of your family.

Your DUI and countless failed relationships, your sister getting thrown out of galas for fighting with other actresses, your brother sleeping with groupies and their tall tales about the ordeal, your mother's countless failed business ventures post-modeling career, and your father. Life and death.

Tashi had found an old interview of yours, done right after your own Australian Open win at 16. You mentioned how he's responsible for it all, pushing you to play since as long as you could remember. How despite his crazy career as one of the big producers in Hollywood, he'd still make time in his schedule to be there for all your games. He was your biggest critic and biggest fan, you said. That you didn't know where you'd be without him in any sense of the word.

When she checked the date of the interview, her heart stopped for a moment. A week before his accident. She even remembers seeing it on the news. How Tashi looked over to her dad as he folded laundry on the couch, watching it with her. "Hollywood producer found dead in major collision in L.A. A break malfunction is the suspected cause."

Maybe that moment, reading that interview on her bed with her father knocking on the door to offer tea, was the first time she saw you more than a mess. More as a hurt, teenage girl. Maybe she forgot it all, though, looking at you now.

You couldn't sit in a car for three months without having a panic attack after it happened. The mere mention of them could even make you spiral. It was after the funeral that you started your infamous 'spiral down the drain'. There was so much paparazzi outside the cemetery gates.

It's the only reason you didn't try to compete in any of the Grand Slam tournaments after winning the Australian at 16. Every time you picked up a racket for the next four years, you heard his nagging voice in your head.

"Come on. Not good enough. Put your goddamn all into it!"

"You're not getting a Grand Slam with this attitude. Do it again."

It was too much to do anything bigger than challengers or school tournaments. Every single one left you teary-eyed in the locker rooms before and after. Amber suggested a therapist several times, but nothing came of it.

You can still see the look of pride on his face after you won the Open. Every time you close your fucking eyes, he's there. Such a rare treat to see him smile, and you did it.

You thought you'd be ready now. You told Amber you're ready. It's been four years, damn it. You're supposed to be over it. What happened to time heals all wounds?

All this time, you thought you were scared of seeing Tashi again after beating her in '06. It's only now, the crowd in your ears as your name is announced, that you realize how wrong you were. He's still there, in the back of your heart. Oh, how that bit of flesh has been carved out over the years of your brief life. How it still beats, after all the shit you've put it through, only to make him proud. Could you ever make him proud again?

The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

A tennis ball soars over the polyethylene net in a perfect arch. Long-loved Chanel tennis sneakers skid across the clay ground, arm slicing through the tension and humidity in the air. Thwack! The ball is launched back to Tashi Duncan. "Come on. Not good enough."

Then, the hitch of your breath; a sharp intake like more air in your lungs would be the thing to save you.

Sweat drips from your brow to your cheekbone, sliding down like a tear. From the back of your neck down your spine like a chill. Even from this distance, you can see the drops slide down her temples and the slope of her chin. Another crack emanates from her racket. You brace for impact. You see your father behind the net.

The court ground under your feet scraping. The sound of skin ripping open in thousands of tiny cuts, the cccccrrrrrrrrack! of bone. Bone. The gasps of the crowd. The crack of bone. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Then, the only thing anyone can hear is the shriek of your cry.

Next Last

#challengers #challengers 2024 #tashi duncan #x reader #angst #challengers fic #tashi duncan x reader #enemies to lovers #rivals to lovers #tashi duncan fic #zendaya #patrick zweig #art donaldson #enemies to.... whatever you call this #this took so long #tashi nation rise #dont let this SIX THOUSAND WORD FIC flop PLEASE

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arrowfleur · 1 month ago

Text

✩‧₊˚ Redacted HC’s ✩‧

Part 2: Sam and Darlin’

Sam is very rarely, if ever, at his full potential because he doesn’t do live feedings unless he literally needs to.

Big time cuddlers, Sam’s cold body and Darlin’s warmth work wonders.

Although Sam is warmer than most vampires since he eats more food than most.

Very good cook too, he has a lot of family recipes from his grandma

Darlin’ can hold their own in the kitchen they’re just not that bothered about it, or eating in general.

They’re also always dehydrated asf, they only really drink water when they’re working out, other then that, they forget.

Darlin’ has bought Sam multiple tank tops that are too small for him.

One of them had ‘garlic’ bedazzled on it and they laughed at their own joke for the rest of the night after Sam put it on

They both like to do each others hair. Brushing it, washing it, shaving beards. They can’t get their hands off each other

Darlin’ sits directly on top of Sam often, even when the whole couch is empty. He’s practically a climbing frame.

Sam is closest to David’s height out of everyone in the pack, Darlin is pretty level with Asher.

Darlin’ calls Sam ‘Collin’s’ ‘sammy’ and ‘babe’ quite often but they’ve found themself saying ‘it’s Sam’ if someone calls him anything otherwise

Sometimes they both say it in unison

Darlin has picked up quite a lot of Sam’s language but it doesn’t fit quite as neatly with their accent.

After finding out what it means, they particularly enjoy saying ‘bless your heart’ and then smirking to Sam as if it’s some sort of inside joke just between them.

They both think each other to be the funniest thing to exist. Darlin’ will keel over giggling at the most mundane comments Sam makes.

The pack was rather surprised to find out how gossipy Sam can be. Angel, Babe and Ash were DELIGHTED.

But he will not tolerate bad words being said about his loved ones. And has on multiple occasions whipped out the dead-pan face with a ‘do you hear how stupid you sound?’ to someone who thought him a safe space for slander.

They play fight in the woods a lot. Hunting each other, whilst Darlin’s shifted. Sam figured he’d have to go easy on them the first time they did it but they are surprisingly sneaky for such a large creature.

Darlin’ pounced on sam once, not realising he was next to a hill and they both ended up with twigs in their hair cradling each other at the bottom, with the loudest belly laughs ever.

Sam uses Vaseline for everything. His bathroom mainly consists of that and old spice.

The first time Darlin’ teased him about it he just laughed and graciously reminded them of his ‘soft lips’ with an off guard kiss

Timberland hates to see Sam coming, he has oh so many boots

He’s surprisingly meticulous about what he buys and he has expensive taste

‘I’d rather spend the money now and have them last than have to buy ‘em again in a couple months’

Saying that, he probably couldn’t name a single designer.

Could care less about having the latest trend or product.

He orders clothes for Darlin’ as well. Mainly basics. It took them a while to realise when their clothes started taking up more and more space in their closet.

Darlin’ is more than happy to wear the same pair of ripped black jeans over and over but they do have a fashion sense.

And if they absolutely HAVE to, they will show out.

When they were younger they had a very 2000’s aesthetic and it’s never completely left them.

The same way they will never get rid of their Ed hardy t-shirts

Sam likes marmalade

Darlin’ once surprised Sam with breakfast in bed, which he tried his best to be grateful for but all he could think about were crumbs in the bed l.

Darlin’ realised their mistake and they moved it to the couch as a compromise.

Darlin’ has a journal but it’s just filled with random sketches and funny things they thought of. They’re very private about it though

When they first met, almost all of Darlin’s socks had holes in

Darlin LOVES the Wildlife they get to see at Sam’s house. They have tried to befriend dears and foxes many, many times.

They also know a strangely large amount of bird breeds

Sam has a strange hatred for bagels

Darlin’ bought Sam the new f-zero game as soon as it came out

Sam used to have a German Shepard named Fido

Darlin’ still goes back to their old apartment every week to take their elderly neighbour grocery shopping.

Darlin’ quit smoking once they’d settled with Sam

He never asked them too, but they want a long life with him

They still have a packet for when they’re stressed but baby steps

Darlin’ uses the amount of buttons Sam’s flannels have to their ADVANTAGE when they’re making out

And God they love his lap and his thighs and his neck and his beard and his smile and nose and hands and voice and and and and

Sorry l bout that one I miss my husband

Anyways that’s all and here’s my proof I got them second, not that it really matters but anyway

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #arrowsqueue #redactedverse #redacted sam #redacted darlin

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doobledabbadoo · 1 year ago

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Hii! You fucking ate with the TDI redesigns and it wanted to know if you'd make a guide as to how you mimicked the TDI style?

hihi !! tysm !! glad a lot of ppl like em !!

as for the style guide, i am far from an expert at replicating art styles, but having a neo-UPA inspired art style really made this easier for me, even if i did struggle on getting used to some design choices.

DISCLAIMER: I do not condone tracing over other people’s artwork to claim as your own final product. I only trace the shapes from the total drama characters to break down and analyze the art style for educational purposes.

IN GENERAL

total drama’s art style is heavily stylized and takes inspiration from clone high and many UPA-inspired cartoons in the late 90’s to early 2000’s. it uses very thick and bold outlines to define its characters and their individual shape language. a lot of designs use a variety of sharp angles, straight lines, and curved arcs to achieve a balanced character design that works in the total drama universe.

because the shape language is very geometric and simple, it’s surprisingly easy to recreate the total drama art style & reimagine some of your favorite characters in the universe!

BODY TYPES: THE “TYPICAL” WOMAN

a lot of the women in the show follow this base, even more than the “typical” male body type. compared to the men, the women of total drama have cat-like eyes, stylized lips, skinny necks, an hour-glass figure, longer and thicker legs, and pointy fingers. head shapes & features may vary depending on character and/or ethnicity. not all women in the show look like this, though! there’s a decent handful of women with very unique body types, such as beth, macarthur, & emma from the 2023 reboot! it also helps to reference characters from different seasons to get a better idea of the shape language in the show’s universe!

BODY TYPES: THE “TYPICAL” MAN

the “typical” body type for men isn’t as well defined as it is for the “typical” woman, so there aren’t as many examples of what defines the “typical” male body type. However, based on the handful of characters we collected, we can determine that the “typical” male body type in total drama is top-heavy. compared to the women, many of the men have broad chests and shoulders, thicker and longer arms, thicker necks, thinner waists and hips, and shorter, thinner legs. they have flatter, more boxy fingers comoared to the pointy fingers the women have. head shapes and features may vary depending on character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE PLUS SIZED WOMAN

plus-sized women follow some of the same rules & principles as the “typical” woman does, from more cat-like eyes to sharper fingers however, in contrast to the more common body type, these woman have much thicker body proportions and use rounder, smoother lines to emphasize either fat or muscle. head shapes and other features may vary depending on the character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE PLUS SIZED MAN

there’s a pretty good variety when it comes to drawing plus-sized men. while some of them, like ripper, follow some similar principles to the “typical” man, others offer a new, unique design base to work with. their features are generally rounder and wider to emphasize their weight. head shapes & other features may vary depending on character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE LANKY MAN

unlike the “typical” man, the lankier men don’t usually have the same broad shoulders and chest. their limbs are much thinner, & they sometimes don’t have any pronounced calves. it’s more common for the lankier men to have their feet facing in the same direction as opposed to the other, though the latter isn’t an uncommon design desicion either. head shapes and other festures vary depending on the character and/or ethnicity.

BODY TYPES: THE BEEFY MAN

Of all the body types presented to the male characters, this one is the closest and most similar to the “typical” male body type. the difference is that the broadness of the shoulders and chest are exaggerated more, and the shape of the arms can vary between being wider to having more lumps. head shapes and other features may vary depending in character and/or ethnicity.

HAIR STYLES

a hairstyle can tell people a lot about a character. theres a lot of different ways to draw hair on characters, though in general, the appeal to total drama’s art style would be the simplicity and angularity in its shape language and character designs, so you don’t have to give your character thousands of spiky hair strands to make them appealing.

im not good at explaining how i replicate art styles so i really hope these help!!! also im sorry this ask took forever to compile lol i just wanted an excuse to study the shows art style more. heres another helpful video to help understand the process of character design !!

youtube

i also recommend checking out harry gold’s channel. he does a lot of art style replication videos & this one explains art style replication exceptionally well!

youtube

tysm for ur ask & tysm for ur patience!!

#dooble moment #idk ask dooble #my art #total drama #long post #reference #hhhhhhgh i really hope this helps #i struggled to communcate this for a while & college is a nightmare when it comes to finding freetime #anyways #more total drama stuff WHEEEEEEEE!!!#art tips #art reference

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somanyratsinthewalls · 7 months ago

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Congratulations on 700!! May I request Magenta Rooster? Our lovely Corazon is so clumsy to begin with and I really wanna see how clumsy he can get during drunk/high sex (I'd love to see him high af tbh) some fluffy smut would just be 🤌🏼 chefs kiss

When I read this request from @firefistussy I screamed because it's the cutest thing I've ever heard in my life. As a stoner who loves dorks and high sex, this was the perfect set up.

Under The Influence (18+)

Pairing: Corazon x Fem!Reader

Prompt: Drunk/High Sex

WC: 2000

Warnings: I wrote this high on 20mg of edibles (I felt it was appropriate for this occasion, but sorry babes if it sucks ass) high sex, marijuana usage and mention, p in v sex, unprotected sex, OKAY JUST LIKE A BRIEF SECOND OF BUTT TO V BUT DONT DO THAT, ITS FUNNY FOR THE PLOT, fingering, creampie, breeding, clumsy idiot cora, awkward sex, cute cora tho.

— —

It was a hell of a day.

From sun up you had been busy with paperwork and handling purchase orders for the Don Quixote family. You hated being associated with such an infamous family, but they always paid your salary on time and that was what mattered. Being a member of a notorious pirate family came with another perk… you never had to worry about running out of weed. The Don Quixote family was dealing in markets much darker than marijuana, so they had no problem keeping your supply full.

All you wanted was a hot shower and to lay up on your couch with an obscenely large joint. And so, you made plans to do that after retiring to your quarters for the day. You rolled yourself the perfect marijuana cigarette and set it down on your pink mirrored tray (a “gift” from your boss) next to the lighter. Next, you stripped yourself of your sweaty clothes and started the shower.

Once hot enough, you stepped through the foggy glass door and submerged yourself under the water. You let out a long sigh as the hot water soothed your tired body. You take the time to tenderly massage your scalp while you shampoo and condition your hair. Once the products were rinsed out, you lathered your body in the sweet vanilla scented body wash that the men around you always commented on.

After your shower, you hopped out and dried off before you wrapped yourself in a short, black terrycloth robe. You towel off your hair and return to your bedroom where you flopped onto your loveseat and grabbed the lighter. You bring the joint to your lips and light it carefully so that it burned evenly.

You throw your head back against your velvet throw pillow as the first clouds of smoke hit your lungs. You kick your feet up entirely so that you can recline on the couch as you continue to smoke. You weren’t sure how many minutes had gone by before you heard a gentle knock on your door.

*tap tap*

“Come in…” You shout as you exhale smoke.

The door opens but you don’t turn around.

*thunk*

“Shit-“

You hear the lamp on your end table rattle.

“How did you know I was up, Rosi?” You smile and take another hit off your joint, knowing exactly who it was without sitting up and turning your head.

“The whole place can smell that you’re up. You’re not exactly discrete.” Corazon says with a smirk as he walks towards the couch.

“I wasn’t trying to be.” You grin and tilt your head back on the pillow so you were looking up at his imposing figure upside down. You hold the joint straight up so that it was near Corazon’s face. “Come take a hit?” You asked.

Corazon shook his head but didn’t back away.

“I shouldn’t. I’m still on the clock.”

“You’re always on the clock… with that monstrous brother of yours… come on, a few puffs won’t hurt.” You coo as you wiggle the marijuana closer to him. Corazon sighs before plucking the joint from your fingers.

“You know I can’t say no to you…” He huffs as he sits opposite your reclining form on the loveseat. His large stature requires you to put your legs up and crossed on the back of the couch to make room for him, your robe riding up your nude thighs a bit. Corazon catches himself ogling your exposed skin and adjusts his gaze. He takes a long drag from your joint and you raise your eyebrows expectantly.

He starts coughing immediately, violently.

“Gods, Rosi take a drink.” You giggle as you hand him your glass of wine. He chugs several sips and then catches his breath.

“It’s been awhile…” Corazon chuckles and tries to cover for his inexperience.

“You’re so cute. Just shotgun it from me.” You smile and take the joint from his large, outstretched hand. His huge fingers made it look comically small.

“Just… what…?” Corazon looks up at you with his brows furrowed.

You laugh again and sit up to cross your legs in front of you on the couch facing the blonde man.

“I’ll smoke, and blow it in your mouth. It’s less harsh for you that way. Come here.” You say as you straighten up and beckon him closer.

Corazon looks nervous as he leans closer to your much smaller frame.

You suck in a large hit and reach out to grab the back of his head and gently pull his mouth to yours. You breath the smoke out slowly into his open mouth, lips just barely ghosting each others. Corazon inhales the smoke and breathes it out much easier this time.

He pulls back and smiles down at you.

“That was better…” He laughs.

“I liked it too… come here.” You whisper as you take another long drag. You pull Rosinante by his hair back to your lips, pressing them together lightly this time before exhaling the intoxicating smoke.

“If I was speculating… I’d say you were trying to get me high, Miss y/n.” Corazon says as he breathes out another cloud of smoke in your face.

“Hmmm and what would be so bad about that?” You muse as you prepare to give him another hit. You deliver the thick smoke straight to his lungs while darting out your tongue to swipe across his bottom lip, teasingly. “Afraid you might not be able to resist your subordinate with your guard down?” You whisper into his lips. You unfurl your legs and rest them on either side of Corazon’s body.

Corazon blows out his smoke. He shifts his body so he’s hovering over you.

“Who says I’m resisting?” Corazon smirks.

“Kiss me, Rosi.” You softly plead in your dazed state. You drop the almost finished joint in the ashtray beside you.

Wordlessly, Corazon presses his lips firmly onto yours as he cups your cheek gently with one hand, the difference in pressure sent your mind swimming. He tasted like both tobacco and marijuana. He slid his tongue past your lips to explore the rest of your mouth sensually. You sighed in approval and he slipped his hand up your bare thigh to rest at the juncture of your leg and body, squeezing your flesh teasingly.

You buck your hips with need.

“What do you want, y/n?” Your massive blonde lover asks you.

“Touch me…” You say quietly as you spread your legs fully beneath him.

“As you wish…” Corazon whispers as he moves his hand from your hip bone to swipe two fingers down your slit and back up, wetness from your hole coating his large digits. He circles your clit gently, and you whimper, the marijuana heightening every sensation.

“M-more, Rosi.. w-want to feel you inside…” You plead as he teases your clit with soft pets.

“You know how I feel about saying no to you…” Corazon smiles before plunging those two fingers into your quivering hole, a deep groan leaving you as he crooks them upwards immediately into your favorite spot.

“Shit.. yes… just like that…” You say as you grip the blonde locks at the back of his head, bringing his head closer to your chest. Corazon uses his other hand to rip your robe open as he balances carefully on his knees, he then delves into your right breast with an eager mouth. He suckles desperately at your erect nipple as you melt into his touch.

“Just a little more, yes, fuck Rosi!” You thrust your hips up into his palm so that it would rub against your clit while the pads of his fingers hammer into your g-spot. “Shit, right there… I’m gonna cum, fuck!” You pull harshly on Corazon’s hair as you see stars and gush all over his large hand.

You breath heavily and loosen your grip on the back of Corazon’s scalp. You sooth over the patch that you pulled on with soft strokes of your hand.

“Good, love?” Rosinante pulls away from you and asks.

“Yes, just take me to bed now, please.” You demand with a wicked grin.

Without needing another verbal reminder of how he’d always tell you yes, Corazon picks you up in his strong arms and carries you to the bed.

“Fuck-“ Corazon huffs as he trips over your discarded high heels and flops the both of you onto your purple comforter unceremonious.

You can’t help but giggle up at him, shocked he’d survived this long on earth with how clumsy he is. Choosing to ignore his misstep, Corazon attacks your neck with nips and bites, sending you immediately back into the mood. Your head was still so fuzzy from the weed and now the orgasm, that you shivered under his rough kisses.

“Turn around for me, baby.” Corazon whispers into your skin.

You gladly obliged and sluggishly toss your robe off and position yourself on your hands and knees on the bed. It took far longer than it should, due to your inebriated state, but it gave Corazon the time to strip himself of his own shirt and pants. He comes up behind you wearing nothing but his pink love-heart printed boxer shorts. Swiftly, he tugs down his underwear and lets his painfully erect cock spring free and prod at your soft skin. Corazon’s head was swimming with intoxication and arousal as he smoothed one large hand over your spine and nudged the head of his cock into you with the other.

“Fuck me, Rosinante…” You coo as you push you ass back into him.

“Yes, mama… Anything you want…” Corazon pushes his hard member into you and sinks about two inches in before you yelp and push your hands back against his abs.

“Cora! Wrong fucking hole!” You grit out as you whip your head around at him.

“Gods! Sorry! Fuck!” Corazon jumps back in surprise and pulls himself out of your ass, even though he had just dipped his tip in.

“Lower!” You hiss out.

“Right, shit, sorry baby…” Cora grips his hard cock and shifts it lower and finds your drooling hole without any more difficulty.

“Yesssss…” You moan out as Corazon bottoms out inside your wet walls.

“Fuuuuck…” Corazon groans as he begins to thrust his hips against yours, lost in the feeling of your pussy sucking him in.

“Harder! Fuck, Rosi, harder!” You yell as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

“Anything for you… OOF-“ Rosinante grunts as he loses his balance on top of you and ends up pinning you to the mattress on your stomach, slipping out of you in the process.

Frustrated, you groan.

“Get on your fucking back.” You push him by the shoulders and flip his body over. You straddle his waist and align his weeping cock up with your clenching hole.

“Please give it to me, mama…” Corazon whines at you.

It was such a beautiful sight, high out of his mind, drooling on himself trying his best not to slam his hips up into you. You oblige and sink yourself down on his massive cock. You grin stupidly as your pelvis reaches his, his public bone tickling your clit.

You brace your hands on Corazon’s massive torso as you begin to grind yourself back and forth on top of him, making sure his length was rubbing against your g-spot with every movement. You couldn’t help but moan as you begin to get closer and closer to your second peak of the evening. You grunt like an animal as you grind yourself to the edge of another orgasm.

“I can feel you getting close…” Corazon whispers out as he grips your ass with one hand and wraps the other gently around your throat. “I’m close too… want you to cum so you can milk me dry, baby… just let go… use me…”

With those filthy words you finally snap and release all over Corazon’s thighs and abdomen.

“Fuck!” You cry out and throw your head back.

“There it is, stay there and take all of it…” Corazon grips you by your shoulders and pushes you impossibly far down on his cock, causing you to whine at how it pushes against your cervix.

“So… full…” You sigh as you collapse into Corazon’s shoulder.

You can hear laughter rumble from your lover’s chest.

“I’m tired, too.” Corazon says. “Best we go to sleep before we raid the kitchen.”

You immediately pick your head up from the crook of his neck.

“Oooh, kitchen?” Your eyebrows raise.

Corazon rolls his eyes.

“I’ll fix you a snack.”

— —

Hope you enjoyed!

Xx Mo

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece anime #one piece fanart #one piece live action #one piece netflix #one piece fandom #one piece smut #corazon #donquixote rosinante #rosinante corazon #one piece rosinante #rosinante x reader #op rosinante #op corazon

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y2kbeautyandother2000sstuff · 7 months ago

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Bonne Bell Skittles Passion Punch Lip Balm

2003

found on ebay, user twist-so-fine

#bonne bell #vintage bonne bell #skittles #lipsmackers #passion punch #2000s #y2k #y2k cosmetics #2000s lip products #lip balm #blue

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lokissweater · 2 months ago

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Hi hi hi!!!!! I love your mlb Megumi fics, they’re so so good!!!!!! I was just wondering, what do you imagine mlb!Megumi’s s/o’s style is? What kind of clothes and shoes does she wear, how does she style her hair, what kind of perfume does she use, etc? I find stuff like that about characters to interesting lol

THIS IS ACTUALLY THE GREATEST QUESTION I HAVE EVVEEERRRR GOTTEENNN OMG I LOOOVEEE YOUUUU !!!

to preface of course, readers style and character can be ANYTHING y’all want her to be, but for me personally i usually imagine her outfits very girly but kind of like in a 2000’s way !! my girl LOVES getting ready and just getting the satisfaction of the finishing product of her makeup and blowed out hair, as her lip liners especially are her BIBLLEEEE and she never goes anywhere without them stuffed in her receipt filled purse 😻 (and some are strewn about across her mans dash in his car for on the go 😝)

reader for me also loves vanilla and coconut scented perfumes the most, and CHEESES over pretty coquette perfume bottles to which mlb!megumi picks up on OF COURSEEE??? and literally buys any that he sees while he’s out n’ about that he thinks she’ll like and randomly just passes it to her in the middle of a conversation the next time he sees her, or has it already sitting cute and shiny on her vanity desk for her to find and cry over :] <3333

flared jeans, mom jeans and shorts, converse, docs, oversized chunky sweaters, big sweaters, megumi’s sweaters, off the shoulder tops, babydoll summery tops, denim skirts, and cropped cardigans are her MUUUSTTT !! feels like her world is ending without their existence 😁👍

THIISSS WASS SUCH A TREEAAATTT oh my god anon i owe you my life THANK YOU I LOVE YOU!! MWAAHHHH <3333

#lokissweater—mlb!megumi #lokissweater—asks

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queenie-avenue · 1 year ago

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Kissed by Aphrodite.

💌 ⤻ft. THE CEO, THE CHEERLEADER, THE BASEBALL PLAYER, THE ACADEMIC RIVAL

—> how they look in the mirror.

⤻ no content warnings, basically. just how the yanderes look and their favourite feature of themself

notes: i felt a bit lazy this time and decided to make a small post, sorry yall.

🦋 ⤻ archives.

💌 ⤻ THE CEO, ADRIAN HOUDE.

Many articles have regarded him as the top bachelor, not just because of his money, but because of his looks. A handsome actor or celebrity is easy to come by, but a handsome CEO? It's a bit hard. Just look at all the rest of the CEOs alongside Adrian, who have bald heads.

Unlike them, Adrian has a full head of luscious blonde hair inherited from his grandmother. You know those hairstyles on 1950s men in those posters? Adrian's hairstyle is similar to that, if not just a slight bit more tousled.

His eyes are icy blue. With warmth only present in them when you're around. His eyes are hooded and sharp.

He's clean shaven with no stubble at all, and he wears a bit of makeup to hide the blemishes on his skin. Nothing is more attractive than a man who knows how to look presentable. He likes to wear a chapstick with just a hint of tint, just to make himself pop a bit more. He has a rather pale complexion. His jawline is sharp and strong, and his nose is straight with the base slightly upturned. His lips are slightly downturned, but his eyes are always smiling.

When it comes to smell, he probably wears a very stereotypical cologne of Tom Ford. However, there's always a hint of mint of him.

💌 ⤻ THE CHEERLEADER, KATIE WILLIAMS

Katie is the stereotypical pretty cheerleader, but it's not her looks that draws people in the most — though it certainly helps — is probably her ability to charm and manipulate anyone into doing her bidding.

Katie has really dark skin, and she wears it proudly. Her foundation and concealer is always dewy and bright as opposed to matte.

She loves makeup, looks like the 'cold girl' makeup, paired with some bold eyeshadow. Her eyes are double-lidded and are of a rounder shape with false lashes always on them. Sometimes, it's like she never takes them off. Some of her roommates in her sorority like to make funny rumours about it to tease her.

Her lips are plump, and, like a 2000s girlie, she loves wearing shiny lip gloss and lipstick. She doesn't overline her lips, though. They're big enough.

Her hair is naturally curly and she takes good care of it, like any other part of her appearance. She likes to wear her curly hair in space buns with little pom poms in her scrunchies. She really loves selling that cheerleader look as much as possible.

Her perfume is from Bath and body works, and she likes to experiment with it. She finishes most of her products every two months and will show up to class with a new perfume. Some of the girls in the school like to mirror her perfume too when she gets a new one. She's that popular!

💌 ⤻ THE BASEBALL PLAYER, JESPER HARGREAVES

Jesper is a brunette, and his hair is always tousled and fluffy. Even when it's wet, it has that bit of volume in it. He styles it everyday with a bit of gel but it always gets messy during practice. If you both are close enough in your relationship, he likes when you style it for him.

His skin is slightly tan from hours of playing in the sun but he makes sure to wear sunscreen, especially after finding out from videos that not wearing sunscreen can cause skin damage. He cringes everytime he remembers how he rejected sunscreen, deciding he was too 'macho' for it.

He has rather soft features for a guy. If he had a skinnier body, people would no doubt mistake him for a girl. He has soft rounded eyes with double eyelids, a cute button nose and heart-shaped lips and bushy eyebrows.

When it comes to scent, he's pretty basic about it. Just deodorant is fine with him. He's particular about sunscreen, but when it comes to shampoo and all, he's the type to use a 3-in-1.

💌 ⤻ THE ACADEMIC RIVAL, SEO MIN-JUN

Min-jun looks like your stereotypical Korean boy. Sure, he's basic, but he knows how to style well so he goes from average to god-like. He has permed his hair and gotten it a bit more fluffy and curly, the bangs swooped to the side to compliment his face shape.

His skin is pale and soft from all the skin care products and sunscreen he uses. He has a bit of a bigger nose and mono-lidded eyes — he's a bit insecure about these traits, give him compliments about it to make him feel better — but very pretty lips and a somewhat sharp jaw.

He has black eyes and black hair, but when he's alone, he likes to wear some contacts to play around with it. He does wear contacts on a daily basis though, but they don't add any colour, it's mainly to help with his eyesight because glasses give him a migraine and he can't find any shape that compliments his face well enough. Can you tell he's vain?

For scent, he probably wears a custom perfume made by some shop.

#yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere drabble #yandere male x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere female x reader #female yandere x reader #yandere blog

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xo-cod · 1 year ago

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141 boys treating hyperfeminine!reader as goddess headcanons? 🩷

i got a little confused with what you mean lmfao, i hope this is what you wanted :') <3

ooc/rushed/can be read platonic or romantic 🤍

each of them are very territorial of you even if they don't mean it to be, it just happens especially because you're a precious thing they constantly want to shield away from the horrors of the job

even if you see it, they do try their hardest to limit the gory viewing of it

ghost grumbling about all your pretty items saying that it clogs the space but him secretly taking keeping a few to keep safe.

you know about it and he knows that you know but you never say anything about it

and he keeps them close to his heart on those days he's missing you a little harder <33

he's your handyman no matter what, has gone head to head with price on this

if anything is wrong in your apartment, he's there instantly fixing away with the tip of his tongue stuck between his lips if he's been at it for a while/lost in thought

he wants to do everything for you, has to hold himself back because he knows you're capable and very smart

but it's hard because you're a lil sunshine packed in a human that he can't help but want to squeeze

def gets cuteness aggression with you, cannot help it. will try his hardest to fight against it

gaz is so tender with you, he constantly appreciates every single little thing you do for him

could've bawled into tears at the time you cooked him breakfast complete with fresh hand squeezed juice and pancakes with syrup

and when you handed it to him with a sweet smile, he felt his heart crumbling into a billion pieces

bodyguard no matter where you're going, even if it's to the shop up the road he's coming along

soap has a small tendency to cling onto you whatever you're doing

it's not outright in a childish sense but moreso lingering touches and holding you subtly

it's just in his nature, he misses you so bad whenever you're gone on a mission and you're unavailable for however long that period is

fights price to come with you but gets shut down because he's needed somewhere else

could've cried about it, but he didn't ‼️

price didn't know how much he needed you until you came into his life

not only were you a competent intelligent technical analyst, the best he had on the team

but even off duty, how kind hearted and sweet you were with him

it opened a whole can of worms he thought hadn't even existed

they're all like little children when you're doing your own thing and they're just watching you

all of them being intrigued by your makeup, pointing at several things and asking what the purpose is

"why's is so pointy?" soap had found your eyeliner, looking in the mirror as he attempted his own liner but the poor thing ends up looking like a panda by the time he's done and awkwardly laughing as he hands you back an eyeliner pen that's a little broken now from how frustrated he got

"you waste money when you buy the same things. you just get one and stick with it" simon is loyal king to his own products, the same brand of shampoo he's been buying since the early 2000's is fighting for its life. will never understand why you buy so many blushes/eye shadows/lipsticks but likes watching you put it on

"i watched a video about this yesterday, here lemme help" gaz, always the perfect helper. because what do you means he's gonna let you struggle if your eyeliner is matching on both sides??? he's gonna help you with it ‼️

price, bless his heart just wants to be involved but he doesn't know how to. awkwardly smiling, nodding his head telling you, you did a great job and there's no flashback (learnt the word one time. doesn't know what it means but it sounds fitting)

them poking fun at the candles you used but buying the exact same ones to use at their own homes because it reminds them of you

soap and gaz love the scent in your home, always trying to recreate it in theirs but it never coming close to yours <33

if you're ever running low on anything, it's refilled the next day

yes they all have keys to your house

because why do you need to use your pretty hands when they're here to help you?

game over if you paint your nails in their favourite colour

soap is so proud, constantly showing your hand off and telling you that it should be a permanent colour

gaz being so smug about it, his favourite colour is the most superior therefore it needs to be permanently coloured on your nails

ghost doing a double take at your nails, his heart melting when he sees them, can't not resist touching them or trying to touch them lmaooo

price telling you outright that it suits you and him telling you subtly that it needs to be an every day colour

all of them fighting for their lives trying to pay for your nail appointment but the other trying to butt in

and when you have a bad day, working yourself to the bone all of them step up and intervene

"c'mon sweetheart, it's been a long day" price is very gentle with you, holding you up by your hips as he looks at you inspecting your fatigued state. it hurts his heart when you work yourself to death for this team

"there we go, bonnie. i made you a cuppa" johnny handing you his famous hot chocolates in your hands, helping you take a few sips as he holds you gently in his arms

"i'll run the bath for you, pretty" gaz kissing your temple before he plucks your towel and a bath bomb, determined to make the prettiest most relaxing bubble bath you've ever seen

"c'mere lovie, enough for today" simon holding you to his chest as he takes you put of your seat and helping you stand up. his thumb gently brushing over your cheek with a soft sigh, his affections practically radiating off from him in waves. he may not be a man of poetic words but his actions tell you what he says anyway

and if you have enemies, congrats they have four more

heaven forbid you ever meet kortac, especially könig. simon's got words to say ‼️

#asks #simon riley #call of duty modern warfare #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #141 x reader #criminal minds au

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apocalypse-shuffle · 10 days ago

Text

ERIK | THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (multi interaction)

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“The Roll and Revolve” (Erik | The Phantom of the Opera x Fem!Reader)

| While attending the masquerade ball the Red Death asks for your hand to dance.

| SFW, at most canon typical violence is mentioned, dancing -dancer!reader & african!reader

| Reader’s 18+ and one of the older girls in the dance line along with Sorelli. (Pic source: left•Juan Navarro/Saulo Vasconcelos’s Phantom from the POTO Mexican production [1999-2000], middle•Emilie Kouatchou’s run as Christine from the POTO Broadway production, right•John Owen-Jones’s Phantom from the POTO West End production [2011].)

| 3k+ words

Fluttering from group to group at a masquerade ball was apparently not all everyone cracked it up to be.

You stop, standing off to the side of the entirely too unappealing table of food assortments. Some of the food even appeared to have gone bad to you, speckled in powdered sugar only for show; to mask the rotten truths underneath.

You’ve steered clear of dining at all throughout the night for that very reason. The truths they hid were clearly of the stomach pain and extended time on the loo type, and looks always had the chance of stowing deceit.

The opera house was full tonight, the date a prelude to the new year, with its high ceilings and garnished walls host to all manner of primed woman and man dressed in a bid to garner the most envy in their best furs and feathers, masks and fedoras. The only thing consistent amongst you all being your efforts to hide your identities from one another; crowd after crowd of people decked out in masks of all kinds that hid their faces from the world.

Where you stand a voice rises to greet you, managing to be heard even over the echoing sounds of the opera’s orchestra.

“Y/n, y/n! Did you hear the news?”

The bottom of your crisp white gown, a gift from your mother, kisses the floor as you shift your feet to intercept the few girls from the dance line coming to speak with you. To your surprise Christine is amongst them.

“Clearly not,” you respond to Jammes.

The brunette bounces, near manic smile on her face and Sorelli beside her rolls her eyes.

“It’s not nearly as entertaining as she’s making it.”

“More like terrifying,” Meg pipes up.

Your eyebrows raise, “Was there another death?”

It’s Christine who answers your weary inquiry, bright hair bouncing as she shakes her head.

“It’s not nearly as serious,” she shrugs. “More like a ghost story than anything-”

Jammes cuts her off with an excited squeal.

“The Opera Ghost is rumored to show up tonight!”

Oh.

There was a good second there where your eyes were starting to widen but they drop back to half mast behind the white swan-like pantalone mask you’re wearing, the feathers of which tickle your face as you sigh. You wave the girl's excitement away.

“You’re so overdramatic, Jammes, everyone knows the OG is just a rumor the stagehands made up to scare us.”

“And that the police is sustaining so they can get out of properly catching a murderer,” Sorelli scoffs.

You nod at her and your other friend just pouts.

“You all have such little whimsy.”

From where she’s got her arms wrapped around herself Meg laughs, a nearly startled noise of contempt.

“Maybe we just don’t want to make a myth out of an actual killer,” she says.

Now it’s Jammes’s turn to roll her eyes.

“I say it’s just you guys being boring,” she flips her hair over her shoulder. “But whatever, I've got a violinist to dance with so I’ll see you all later.”

She’s gone just like that. Meg frowns after her and you and Sorelli make kissy noises that cause Jammes to giggle as she walks off.

“Which one of them do you think it is?”

“Come on Sorelli, you know it’s Eugène. She misses all her steps during his solos,” you say.

“Actually I think it’s Ahsan, we are getting more Persians lately. He might like to have a change of pace since no one ever really talks to him.”

Your lips purse. You're pretty sure Jammes hasn’t even noticed the Populaire’s newest members.

“Just because you’re interested in Ahsan doesn’t mean she is, Sorelli. What do you think Christine?”

From where she’s just about completely checked out from the conversation making heart eyes at the Vicomte from across the room, Christine startles. You’d joke but the navel man is staring back at her just as intently. Her eyes flutter up to meet yours eventually though.

“Um- I don’t know? I think maybe you’re right about Eugène, Y/n, but would you all mind if I excused myself?”

You all give some manner of affirmation but Christine is already moving anyway so it wouldn’t have mattered much if you hadn’t.

“I wonder what it’s like to hold a man’s attention like that,” Meg sighs.

You shrug, “Well, it’s not always as nice as it seems.”

Her head bobbles as she nods before she’s curtsying and leaving as well, head bowed. Not long after that Sorelli bids you goodbye and goes in search of someone to dance with in front of Madame Giry. She wants lead in the next production since Christine seems set on being Primadonna. You don’t have the heart to tell her that showboating won’t get her any points with the Madame.

All danced and socialized out, but knowing you can’t leave your appearance obligations for the opera house lacking, you content yourself with staying in your tucked away haven by the most unappealing refreshment table at the party.

Your feet tap and you hum along to the orchestra playing as people pass you by. Young couples rushing to someplace private and friends, old and young alike, moving about as they make gossip. Body swaying in place to the music you bask in the fact that you’ve made it, even partially, and soon enough you’d be dancing front on this opera’s stage and stages even beyond it. You’ve seen plenty of other black artists make it, there’s no reason to think that outside of the Americas you couldn’t fight your way to the top too.

You’ve gotten as far as a dance line already.

A poised shadow appears to your left but you do not bother giving anything short of the person’s silhouette a glance. You were in borrowed time at the Palais Garnier. It was best if you didn’t attract any attention and ruin your chances.

Instinctively your hands clasp in front of your body and you rock back onto your heels, humming and tapping ceasing. Stay unheard and you’ll be fine; your dreams of artistry and fame were yet to be dashed.

“Why so solemn?”

You feel your eyes widen, your attention quickly shifting to the shadow. You glance around, but seeing no one else close enough for him to have been talking to instead your gaze fully settles on more than just the man’s silhouette.

The masked man in front of you is completely shadowed in shades of red and fine jewels. The mask masquerading his face, the grimmest sign of the end: an ivory skull. And atop his head bloomed a crown of feathers on a wide brimmed fedora; all the colors of death and decay.

Your heart quickens at his procured visage.

“Me?”

A deep timber falls past lips you can’t see when he chuckles.

“Who else, Mademoiselle?”

“There is no shortage of beautiful women on the dance floor.”

“By why would Erik bother with them when the most beautiful is over here? Tucked in darkness’s warm embrace?”

Your head ducks and your face warms.

“You’re too kind.”

The wide shouldered shadow seems to shake his head, hard to tell with such an elaborate headpiece.

“Oh no! I fantom I have failed to be kind enough.” He sweeps forward, a cape previously bathed in his shadows trailing out behind him, everything lined with jewels shimmering like blood in moonlight. You find yourself ensnared as you look into the great eyes of death.

“When one such as yourself makes a swan’s grace look lacking with her prowess she should expect nothing less than to be bathed in gifts.” Death holds out his gloved hand, and still looking into those dark depths, still looking for the sign of the man underneath, you take it. “Precious flowers: lilacs and lilies…”

A mimicry of a kiss is pressed into your knuckles and you shiver. The hardness of something you’re becoming convinced may have once been an alive man’s touching ever so softly to your ebony skin.

“…roses.” he murmurs finally. “Painstakingly, devotedly, clipped of their thorns so as to not tarnish perfection.”

Your breath comes short as you finally find it. Only a flash, blink and you miss it, but you couldn’t blink. Citrine eyes; ill colored. It makes something in you want to flee, cause a scene in an effort to not be dragged out of the light by this man’s wrongness. Then his words finally reach you.

Words said in that burning liqueur tone that carry your mind away with their unique melody. You find yourself smiling, mouth stretching wide, alabaster teeth gleaming against the contrast of your dark skin.

“I’m not perfect,” you find the urge to argue.

If only to hear his praise some more.

“My Dear, you are my everything. How could you not be perfect?”

“I’m only a chorus dancer.”

“Which is a shame,” he admits.

His tone is solemn like he feels your own disappointment at never being given the chances of the other girls despite dancing with twice their merit.

“It is a shame,” you nod, spine straightening as you grip his hand tighter. The man before you seems to gasp at your assured touch. “To whom do I owe my thanks for such lovely compliments?”

The shadow appears to shrink in on himself for a moment before his grip in turn strengthens and guides you closer together. As he comes more into the light his onsemble sparkles mesmerizingly.

“The Red Death,” he bows, “at your service.”

You laugh. “I admire your dedication to the ball’s theme.”

He makes a humored sound of his own at your acknowledgment of his dramatics.

“It’s for the best I assure you, my dear. Now,” he runs the soft fabric over his thumbs along your bare knuckles, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”

You incline your head, smiling in appraisal as you nod.

“It would be my pleasure, Monsieur Death.”

He leads you from your not-so-hidden corner with a swish of his cape.

You seem to nearly teleport down the stairs with the way he whisks you away so soundly to the ballroom floor. Marble meets the bottoms of your heels as he finds you a good starting position towards the center of the room and, as is in your nature by now, you stand tall in a dancer's carry. He does not let the conversation end as you begin moving.

“Do other things outside of dancing capture your attention?”

“Should there be anything else?”

He laughs as he spins you around, “I suppose not. Dancing is your craft after all.”

“Yes,” you settle into his lead. “Yes it is, but um, I don’t just do ballroom and ballet dancing.”

“No?”

“No. I also dance things far older than my knowledge of ballet, from my people.”

“Amazing,” he says. “You’ll have to show me some day.”

“I’d be happy to,” you give him a small smile.

So near to him as you elegantly weave in between other couples on the floor you can see his eyes very clearly. They are sick looking but they do not lack awareness. The man takes in your every move so intently it makes you breathless. You notice though that he does not meet anyone else’s eyes and uses the wide brim of his hat to block others from seeing him. But not you.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mademoiselle L/n?”

You glance away from his eyes, instead looking at the way whatever mechanism he created allows the mouth of the skull to move with his speech. He must be very rich and worldly if he can acquire or make something like it.

You tilt your head in interest.

“How do you know so much about me and yet I can’t recall ever having seen you before?”

“Technically you are not seeing me now,” he responds easily.

A quiet scoff escapes you as you nod.

“Well then how come I’ve never heard you? A voice as poignant as yours I’m sure I’d remember.”

He does not answer your question.

“Is that what I sound like to you?”

And you do not notice.

“Yes,” you look back into his eyes as your right foot steps back, his left pushing forward. “You have a strong tone but behind it you sound…weary.”

His eyes narrow. Then your dress and his cape are flowing to a still as he stops moving. You look down at your hand on his shoulder, swallowing.

“I do not mean to offend you Monsieur, I apologize.”

You step away, hands sliding from him as embarrassment buzzes up your spine. He probably thinks you called him weak or something, men hated-

“No, please!”

He moves faster than you’re expecting, barely making a noise despite his extravagant costume, and grasps your right hand with his left. You gasp as he settles his other hand on your waist and tugs you closer with strength that didn’t fit him.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers. Your left hand he still has in his he shifts to settle back onto his right arm, and you try to relax.

There is no bone in your body fit to argue with him, nor a ligament that desires to do so.

“Alright, I won’t.” A soft smile pulls at your lips. “I enjoy dancing with you.”

“Thank you. Just know you did not upset me.” For the first time during the whole time you’ve danced he looks past you, gaze far away. “No, you could never upset Erik.”

You marvel at his soft tone and the glossy shine to his eyes as he urges you in motion. He begins swaying to the new song playing and you do the same.

“So your name is Erik then? I wasn’t sure before.”

You take on an affable tone when you speak this time around, glancing away for reprieve from the emotion in his eyes. How you’ve had that effect on him with one dance is beyond you, but you’re remiss to say it doesn’t feel kind of…nice.

Erik nods and those deceptive hands hold your waist just a little tighter. He looks at you again.

“May I ask you a question?”

You nod and he pulls you even closer, his swaying finally turning into steps, and you intuitively follow his lead. The song playing is one you’ve never heard before but it’s haunting. Erik takes to it even better than the last piece; the way he leads you feels like you’re dancing on clouds.

“Have you ever felt lost?”

“I imagine not in the ways you might’ve. “

His eyes crinkle briefly at your words.

“You said earlier that I sound weary, and never doubt I have reason to be so, but it has long begun to get tiring—”

Horns blare, cutting him off. A gasp falls past your lips and, as if on instinct, Erik pulls you closer. Heart pounding and near threatening to clog your throat, you don’t think before you’re splaying your hands over his chest either.

The way you both glance around mirrors each other, but his voice grumbles illegibly once the most likely reason for the cacophony captures the entire crowd’s attention.

The boisterous new leaders of the opera house stand tall behind the railing nearest the staircase that curls down to the ballroom floor, their paper masks in their hands and dressed in their finest costumes.

“Oh,” you laugh, “It’s just Monsieur Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard. They can be so dramatic sometimes, no?”

Your dance partner glances at you narrowly, his irritation for the opera’s new owners heavy in his tone, “‘Dramatic’ is certainly one way to summarize Armand and Firmin alike. Personally, I’d say they both more resemble wallowing buffoons with clothes on.”

Silently, you blink up at him, mouth dropping open in surprise.

Very quickly Erik’s tune changes and his strong hold on you loosens.

“I apologize. The Opera’s new owners have become a point of…vexation for me recently. I did not mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s alright,” you say softly, “I can see how I’ve touched a nerve.”

“I must say you are wrong there, my Dear, you have done no such thing, ” he croons, reaching up to hover a gloved hand over the subtle plump of your cheek. “You have managed to truly make my night, do not discount that.”

He keeps his hand near your face, outlines the side of it with hardly a whisper of a touch while his gaze roves over you as if he’s starved for your very image.

Looking him over you feel much the same, the absence of his touch molding to your dark skin hitting like an unfitting taunt.

“Won’t you touch me?” you whisper, watching the way Erik’s eyes drop to your two-toned lips and take on a sheen of agony all their own.

Fingers ghost feather-light over the plush of them, more of that unfitting mockery. It is a pale substitute for a kiss.

“No,” he answers, voice just as unsteady as his gaze would have you assume. “I fear what might happen if I indulge myself anymore of this…illusion.”

“If you are so tortured as you claim, why not allow yourself a seconds reprieve when it is being offered?” you rush out. Your voice is far firmer than it ought to be around anyone above your stature, but no hint of a reminder to not forget yourself leaves Erik’s mouth. Nor any scoff or harsh glance.

You bring your hand up, desperate to urge him into action. Press your fingers lightly into the back of his hand in a barren plea, and wish for his palm cradling your cheek and for his arm around you to tighten once more.

Wish for his skin against yours. This stranger who has been kinder to you than any Frenchmen before him.

Though you do not push, Erik’s hand freezes beneath your touch and a harsh noise climbs up the back of his throat.

“Erik—”

He jerks his hand from you. Knocks yours aside with a low, pained sound.

In quick succession he steps back too, releasing you from his grip near entirely, the hand you kept on his arm dropping to your side as he continues only to hold the hand he’d grasped. After a moment’s consideration you make a point to squeeze at his hold before stepping back yourself and finally breaking your contact as a whole, struggling to keep the set of your shoulders high.

Erik startles more surely than a horse and you are not sure you’re equipped to handle it.

“I- I must be leaving now,” he rushes out, his pupils are smaller now. His back straighter in compensation.

“Of course,” you reassure him, no small amount of disappointment lingering in your voice despite your best efforts. “Thank you for such a wonderful dance, Erik.”

He nods his agreement, lowering his head as his hand comes up to tamper to some unseen degree at the jaw of his skull. “And I you, Y/n,” he says softly. Your name curling so delicately on his tongue your mind immediately starts running his delivery on repeat.

“In the meantime you will stay on my mind, my dear, and I hope that you will keep me on yours,” he begins once more, swooping into a bow after swinging his cape behind him.

This time when he raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles it’s lips that meet your skin. You shiver, gaze snapping upward. He pulls away and when you glance up he’s just slipping the skull mask back over his mouth. Your wide inquiring eyes only catch the barest glimmer of pale skin with just the hint of gaunt features and thin lips.

“Until we meet again, my dear Y/n. Just know that I will be enjoying your dazzling performances from afar as I lay in wait,” Death says, sickly eyes glowing with satisfaction.

In turn you take the time to send him off with a curtsey; legs crossed, crisp white of your dress bloomed, but when you bow your head you take care not to lose eye contact with him. His swallow after that is audible, and your answering smile might as well be with how clearly it sings of your appraisal. Then there goes your morose Death disappearing into the shadows; a specter bathed in mystique.

He makes a grande spectacle later that night. Reappears in a plume of smoke making an impassioned demand for an opera. His Opera. And you live everyday more convinced than the other that Death personified had truly visited the Populare that night.

Gaunt pale skin and sickly eyes drawn to the murders in your corner of France in a flash of winsome words and red and feathers.

Death had showered you with praise, looked you in the eyes and taken you hand in glorious hand across the ballroom floor, had decried the gall of the upper caste’s frivolous celebrating over the graves of those lost, and Death’s name was Erik.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!! I don’t…apologize for the melodrama, but I do understand if it wasn’t for you.

The reader-insert is ambiguously African here since it seemed fitting, but I didn’t want to overemphasize anything and shoot myself in the foot. Just imagine the reader-insert is from one of the countries France still takes exuberant colonial taxes from in order for those countries to stay independent from them.

Now, as far as canon influences go for this story: there’s some og book canon, some ALW musical canon, and a not insignificant amount of MazM canon for good measure. Also, by all means the last name ‘Destler’ is only canon to Poto 1989, but I’m really in love with that specific Erik so I tend to add the last name to my more generalized depictions of The Phantom; at least beside the fic title.

I had a wonderful time writing this and cannot wait for what the new year has to offer for my writing endeavors in the future. Happy New Year (except kind of not really, but we’ll deal)! 🥳🎉

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

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