#When I was younger I liked this pink dress way more than the blue one

[payte]

Drizella stalked towards her, chewing her out with every step.

Drizella: If you think that I’m gonna let you tag along with us in that bubblegum pink nightmare and ruin this evening for me, you’re more stupid than I thought!

 All Cinderella could do was keep backing away as her step sister moved to corner her.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 1

Part 2

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, eventual smut, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i nearly decided on nuking this because it feels so fucking bad and aimless guess in the end I'M really the tormented spirit huh anyway if I'm glad i didnt and decided to wait it out. if you enjoy this please think of leaving a comment and/or reblog because i need the reassurance. | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

"Father," Alicent pleads, "she needs to see you."

Otto's jaw clenches as he lifts his gaze from his desk. He looks upon his youngest child's features. You were one in the same, his first daughter and last. He thanks the gods that she did not inherit the curse you bear.

Alicent picks at her fingers while awaiting a response. Though she draws blood, no sound leaves her lips. She did not know it, but her father catches this anxious tick. He mentally corrects himself: at least she did not inherit it at equal intensity.

"A man has no place in the dressing room of a bride-to-be," the Lord Hand dismisses.

Alicent knew about as much would be said, yet she still tries, "please. She is having a-"

"And when has my presence ever soothed her?" Otto interrupts, raising his voice to make his point clear.

It was enough. Alicent understood.

He turns back to his papers. He reads them but none of the words register. He says, "I am sure your brother is already there, coddling her as he does."

Alicent does not respond.

Otto lifts his gaze, "go," he speaks as though his daughter missed the obvious, "if she needs someone so badly, coddle her with Gwayne."

Alicent returns to your chambers. Her heart pinched in every which way at the sight of you. Here you stood, clothed in one of the few precious dresses that belonged to your mother— a bride. Dark blue satin and gold jewelry embellished your form. Your brown hair was curled and plaited and pinned. Your face had a glow, only because it was stained with tears. It was terrible and magnificent all at once.

Rhaenyra goes to her best friend, and the two girls clutched hands before walking towards you. Gwayne spots them and gives your hands a tight squeeze. Because of this, you turn from your older brother to your younger sister. Your eyes are pink with melancholy.

"Lord Hand," Alicent mutters, "is deep in his work."

On his daughter's wedding day, thinks Gwayne.

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw, loathing your father more than normal in this moment.

More than your own, you cannot stomach your sister's duress. You stroke her cheek, "I am well now. Worry no more."

Alicent catches Gwayne's expression and knows that is a lie. Still, she smiles and nods, "I am glad," she looks you once over, "you are an exquisite bride, sister."

Rhaenyra offers a smile, "I agree, dear aunt."

Your face twists at the young princess's words, though you knew she meant well. You will away the dreadful sensation in your stomach and manage a smile, "thank you... sweet niece."

You relish their company for as long as you can in this moment. You gather strength from Rhaenyra's smile, from Alicent's touch, and Gwayne's words. Then, all at once, you were alone, walking towards Daemon Targaryen.

In truth, he was not curious of you. He despised you, for after all, you were the spawn of that Cunttower. But, gods, what could possibly be the reason you were taking so long to walk down the aisle? It was not like this room was that big. And so, he turns over his shoulder to inspect you. His hand remains on Dark Sister and his weight still rested mostly on one leg.

He squints at the sight of you, moving like a snail. He is about to roll his eyes, but then he catches a glimpse of your countenance.

Tis strange.

You were not nearly as repulsive as he remembered you, and not nearly as similar in likeness to your rotten twin. How could that be, when it was not only- what, a season since he had pummeled Ser Cuntface to the ground? He will never forget your screaming face in the audience, and how deliciously distressed your father had been from hauling you away.

Even now, as Daemon's lilac eyes appraised your distant silhouette, gliding towards him like a phantom intent on haunting, he second guessed if that weeping woman from the tourney was you. But then he turned to your brother and saw his jaw harden. It was unmistakable then you were the weeping woman, and now, you were his weeping bride.

Gwayne, could not help the way his hands tightened into a fist as he helplessly watched you inch towards his most ardent foe. Beside him, unmoving, stood the very man who allowed such madness to ensue: your father.

You pass the pew that seated your family. Your twin's expression softens. He nods, and you know he means take heart. Your sister does the same. But your father, who stood between his children, does not spare you a glance.

Daemon notices the coldness. He would feel bad, but then again, he has been proclaiming his ill-guided brother's Lord Hand was the biggest cunt in the realm for so long, so he doesn't. Oh, but then you look at him with those beady eyes, and he did not know why his thorax felt uneasy.

Twas strange indeed.

Soon you stood in front of your promised, and, finally, Otto lays his eyes upon you. He does not see you though. He does not see the woman dressed in the garments that once belonged to his wife. He does not see your trembling hand and glassy cheeks. He sees his timid, tremoring, little daughter that he had to leave a moon's length for work. He sees her frail body that shook on her tiny bed and found no comfort in the way he held her tiny hand when he returned.

As the septon begins this damning rite, all he could hear was the voice of the maester that promised the new medicine he procured would heal his girl. As tears rolled down your eyes, he remembers how he nearly killed the maester for feeding you herbs that caused you to retch the little food you had eaten.

Has my child not suffered enough?

Has my child not suffered enough?

ᴴⁱˢ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈ ⁱˢ ᵐᵃʳʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ᵐᵒⁿˢᵗᵉʳ

Daemon turns to the pew beside the Hightowers' and finds his brother's face. Viserys seemed pleased to witness this wretched affair, as did Aemma, who clutched her pregnant belly. Rhaenyra beside her seemed more interested in you however, or at least the dress that she and Alicent helped dressed you in.

The septon blabbers and tells you both to speak your vows. You do, one as reluctant as the other. Then, as instructed, Daemon cloaks you and presses a kiss on your salty lips.

Twas bittersweet. On one hand, as he takes your clammy one, the image of Otto's face when Daemon told the King that he wanted to marry you comes to mind.

Oh, how excited he was to see the old fool look as though he was a breath away from lunging at him across the table, and how utterly horrendous that he hadn't. He would have simply, and justifiably, killed him. Then all this bother would not have ensued. The look upon the said man's face this moment, now that he's sullied what he so dearly protected, made his stomach giddy.

As the same time, as he held that same clammy hand of yours and felt it tremble, he remembers that you and he were bound. Though not in the manner of his house, he knew he could escape only so much of his wretched duties. Otto's vexation would only last so long, and deep down the cunt must enjoy that his daughter was now a princess. He knew soon Viserys would also begin nagging him again.

But then out of nowhere, he laughs. It was so abrupt that a few guests looked at him in confusion.

How could he forget? There was the matter of your... affliction. Perhaps he can frighten you to death on your wedding bed.

He chuckles once more.

The idea is so delicious, he is in good spirits the whole wedding feast. He does nothing but embarrass and shame you by entertaining literally every other lady save yourself.

What makes matters worse, at least on your end, is that your father refuses to go to your side and forbids not only your brother but as well as your sister from leaving their spots to come to your aid. There was no need to make the matter bigger than it was. You are left alone at your seat at the table, looking nothing but pathetic and weepy.

You sustain such temperament until you're in your marriage chambers, but then you do a funny thing and down two glasses of wine. Daemon laughs at how it spills from your lips, down your neck.

He, who had already much more than a measly two cups, comes behind you and takes the one you loudly prop on the table. You squeak and bolt away when Daemon's arm sneaks up from underneath your own; it only further amuses him.

"V'you a change of heart?" he pours himself a glass, "ready for debauchery, yes?"

You turn unbelievably pale, and it merits the fondest of laughs from your sadistic groom. Daemon drinks and licks the wine off his lips.

You gulp, reaching out a trembling hand.

He raises a brow at it. Suddenly, he's annoyed— twice was much because he has absolutely no idea what the gesture means.

That is, until you speak, "may I have some more?"

One of his faint silver brows raises. Suddenly, he is greedy with the wine he thought tasted too sour on his tongue. However, a curiosity within him urged to hand over the cheap drink, for why did his shivering wife have the nerve for this to be her first words to him?

He watched you throw your head back as you down the wine just as quick as you did the previous ones. He chuckles and crosses his arms. When you turn to Daemon, he tilts his head, "thirsty?"

You inhale deeply, though it is strangled, "for my anxiousness."

It takes a moment for him to realize what you mean, and when he does, his nostrils flare. Had he breathed fire, surely smoke would have come out his nose at this moment. Daemon releases an airy, unamused chuckle and averts his gaze, "eager to bed me, harlot?"

Your throat tightens, for that was not what you meant at all.

You forcibly swallow a lump that forms when he comes to your side. Your throat only further constricts when he grabs and yanks you into his chest. You whimper as he presses his nose against your ear. Goosebumps form when his hot breath hits your ear, "on the bed then."

Your heart thunders as he shoves you towards the bed. You nearly miss it. Actually, only your head and arms touch the cushion, and the rest of your body collides with the floor and the hard bed frame. Your tailbone throbs at the impact, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as your chest that tightened, and tightened, and tightened and—

You barely manage to gasp. You are hard of breathing when Daemon crouches and grabs your thighs, pulling your skirts up. He feels your flesh tremble beneath his palm. His fingers touch your skin, and it brings him to hiss; you are ice against his burning hands.

He looks up at you. A line forms between his brows. You gasped for air that seemed unwilling to enter your lungs. Not only was your face stained with tears, but as well as your neck now

He mutters, "nyke pendagon jaelā naejot sagon ipradāri," I thought you wanted to get eaten, "I do so find fear delectable."

You continue to slump into the floor until you're a melted mess. You can do nothing but clutch your chest, not that it helps one bit.

Daemon is satisfied at this point. He stands and dusts his hands off. He looks at the pitiful Hightower, your dark locks spilled on the ground as if blood from a crime scene.

"Is that your affliction then, wife?" he tilts his head, "do you seize up when you're nervous?"

You look at him, but do not respond.

"S'rather inconvenient, no?" he sighs, as though he actually cared.

You shut your eyes and curl into a ball.

"Mmm, well, I suppose I will have to claim the womanhood owed of me some other time," he said, uninterested. With that, he exits the room with a skip in his step, pleased to know he had such a tremendous effect on you.

You remain in this turmoil for what felt like hours.

By the time you peel yourself up from the floor, your body is encased in sweat. You command yourself to calm; you cannot afford to slip into another bout of insanity. Your tears cannot be contained as you struggle to undo the ties of your dress; at least tremendous relief comes after you do. You struggle to your feet and remove the pins in your hair while making for the vanity table.

You sit before yourself; your horrid face reflects on the mirror that was far too clear for your liking. As you free your hair from its bounds, you think, perhaps it was fortunate that your husband did not lay with you. At least not tonight.

But then, comes to mind, the argument you with your father. Your chest threatens to tighten again as the severity of his voice replays in your head.

It was no secret, Otto despised Daemon. How then could he be so shocked at your horror of learning he had approved your marriage to him. His raging voice still rings in your head: "you ungrateful fool!"

You fall apart in your palms and nearly succumb to yourself again. Thankfully, you manage to take deep breaths and pick yourself up before you fall apart.

You always knew you were the spare in your father's eyes, but you thought that merited indifference. You did not think he hated you so deeply. How could anyone hand their child to their enemy? Perhaps this was his way of finally having use of you.

A spare. A pawn. Will it ever end?

You go to bed and wrap yourself tightly under the sheets. You stare at the ceiling, praying the same prayer you've prayed since you were eight: Seven, let this be my final slumber.

You nearly choke when you are awoken by such violent shaking. You jolt up, or at least as much as you can from the blankets you were so tightly bound in.

Daemon grins and brings the hands he had shaken you with behind his back, "I would say good morn, but it is apparently opposite to you, wife."

The name makes your skin crawl. You push yourself out of the sheets and sit up. You wipe your face and tell yourself; you must get used to this, "good morrow, husband."

Your brown curls spill down your shoulder as you sigh to yourself. Daemon thinks you look much more palatable this way, unlike yesterday, when your hair was jailed so tightly. He motions with his head, "ta. We make haste to the dragon pit."

Your eyes are suddenly devoid of any trace of sleepiness as you look at him.

His lips remain curled, "it would only be proper to do so, no?" He does not let you retort, as he is already making his way out, "tis Caraxes' right to know who his master has been shackled to," he opens the door, "at least momentarily."

If he was self-satisfied with how you shook under his grasp last night, one can only imagine his exhilaration over your severe disinterest in meeting his mount this morning. What's more, Caraxes could smell your anxiety, and it made him chuff and snap his jaws.

Of course, Daemon chastised his dragon, telling him to obey, even though he very much did not want him to. He eagerly fantasizes: oh, a shame my bride died the day I introduced him to my ride.

A true shame.

"Calm yourself," Daemon sniggers as he forcefully pushes you towards the blood wyrm, "the harder you make this for yourself, the harder it will be."

You found no encouragement in that, for no part of it meant to encourage. You continue to writhe against him, pushing yourself back, only to be pressed against the prince's chest and urged forward. It didn't help that he shackled his hands on both of your wrists, preventing you from elbowing him away.

Though your hair was braided to the side, you still manage to whip it to Daemon's face in your attempt to free yourself, only causing him to be more impatient. You could not help the harrowing shriek that left you when he ultimately brought you to the beast's maw, and the said creature pressed himself against your chest to sniff you.

Caraxes rips away and shakes his head at your piercing reaction. He shrieks in like, as if disapproving, or showing offence. He must exact appropriate retaliation. He draws a deep breath, readying to set you ablaze. Daemon would have let him, had he not been a direct target of his mount's wrath, "keligon, Caraxes!"

Caraxes hisses.

"Keligon!" Stop!

He does not enjoy the order, exemplified by the way he licked his teeth, but obeys, nonetheless. He roars one last time, spit sputtering onto your face as he does. It's enough to make you finally lose your resolve.

You cease your wrangling and find yourself going limp in his arms. Daemon is pleased. He can finally drag you on dragon-back and torment you even more mid-air. What he did not know, however, was that your stomach was tingling; it was not that of the usual dread so familiar to you, but twas familiar still.

Daemon takes you by the arm and tries to make you climb up to the saddle, but then he stills when he hears the sound you make. He pulls away just before the acid from your stomach rushes out of your mouth. You retch so much it comes out of your nose, and you feel yourself grow lightheaded.

"Fucking gods," Daemon recoils in disgust. He turns to one of the dragon keepers and orders you away.

The dragon keeper, who looked far older than your father, spoke to you in a language you could not make out. You understand the part where he says maester as he leads you out of the pit. You manage to convey you no longer needed his assistance once you were out and walked off by yourself. You flinch and shriek when Daemon takes off on Caraxes.

You do not go to the maester's, instead, you have your servants draw you a warm bath and stay in it until it is cold. Only then do you scrub your skin until it is tender.

Once you were clean, you looked for the only person in the world that did not use your name interchangeably with hysteria: your twin.

"That uliginous blinkard," Gwayne slashes the dummy before him. You watch him pace from the bench you were sat upon. "He is incapable of procuring a morsel of dignity out of his wretched existence."

You clench you jaw when he chucks his sword to the ground.

"I should smother him in his sleep."

The thought chills you.

"But then I would be no better than he, would I not?" he seethes as he walks to your side, grabbing the towel beside you.

He wipes his face. You look up at him, a line forming between your brows, "remember you are my confidant, not my vindicator."

"If not I," he chucks his towel back beside you, "then who?" His forehead wrinkles, "an affront to my twin is worse than one to myself."

"Then you would know better than anyone that I share your sentiment," you grab his arm, hoping to calm him down.

His face is hard. He pushes your hand away.

You sigh, "and you know well that I suffer more in circumstances where you've acted on my behalf."

He clenches his jaw. He draws a deep breath and denies the thought with the shake of his head, "father will not hold it against-"

"Father holds everything against me," your eyes instantly water, "he would not be our father if he did not."

Your twin has never spoken your name any other way but in gentleness, yet it is precisely why it chips you apart. Gwayne continues, "be it as it may, but I do not believe that he gave to the prince— certainly not willingly."

You laugh and lift your countenance to the sky. Tears fall from the corner of your eyes, down your ears and neck, "does it matter?"

"It does," he urges, "he fought for you."

"He does not fight for me," you turn back to him, "allow yourself to come to terms with it as I have. It will hurt you less."

Gwayne does not manage a response as someone else speaks in that moment. The way you both tense at the sound is that of instinct.

"You vomited in the dragon pit?"

You turn over your shoulder and shoot up from where you sat. You watch as your father walks towards you. He places a hand on your neck and looks you up and down, "did the prince jostle you so on his ride?"

His touch is like a searing rod against your skin, his eyes, even worse. The raised hairs on your neck remain even as he pulls away. You quietly retort, "I did not even touch his saddle."

"Oh," Otto raises his brows, "then perhaps your affliction is that of you carrying."

Carrying?

Both you and Gwayne are mortified by the idea. You stutter, "s-surely it is not that quick."

"The blood of the dragon runs hot," he sighs, "as he would so boldly proclaim."

Your face burns upon hearing this.

Your father looks past you, "take your sister to the maester at once."

"No, I-"

"Make sure that she is good condition and take note of what will be instructed of her."

"That is not-"

"I am sure she will be required to take further precautions because of her affli-"

"We did not!" you blurt, finally regaining the attention of your father.

Your heart races as Otto looks at you. Suddenly, you are like a deer shot by an arrow, pained and powerless. He is annoyed that you interrupted him, only to say nothing. He presses, "we did not what?"

You take a strangled breath before reply, "we... did not consummate ou-"

"You what?!" he steps forward.

Gwayne immediately takes your arm, eager to get between you two, "father-"

But Otto does the same and pulls you toward him, "you did not consummate, or you did not want to consummate your marriage?"

Gwayne's hold on you falters. Your saliva lumps in your throat, "I-"

"You do understand the consequences if you do not bear your husband heirs, correct?"

You turn to your feet, unable to hold his heated glare, "I-"

"Look at me when I speak to you," he shakes you.

You lift your eyes, and hot tears begin to rush down your face.

"You've proven your point, father," Gwayne blurts, "release her."

"Release her?" Otto redirects his ire. Though he does just that, release you, it feels as though an iron clamp around your neck replaces your father's hold. "Even if I were to release her, boy, your dearest twin sister will not be free of the truth," he turns back to you, "nor my point. Your failure to do what is necessary will lead you straight into the dragon's belly."

You clench your jaw tighter than anyone should.

"Do you understand, girl?"

You nod before you allow yourself to breathe. You blurt, "yes, my lord."

Otto looks you once over before turning and walking away. The moment he is out of sight, you fold like a deck of cards, and Gwayne must keep you upright.

He hushes you and sits you back down. He kneels in front of you, observing if you were about to collapse into another episode. You do not, for he was with you, but you do weep until tears could no longer fall. He leads you to your room after this and urges you to rest.

You repeat the prayer you prayed on your wedding night before you sleep.

[venusindelusion]

Giving In (to the Love): Townie

1st chapter

SUMMARY: If you thought you had terrible luck before, tonight will definitely prove that your life is jinxed when a misunderstanding with a pink haired girl makes your college life a little more difficult. WC: 1.3K PAIRING: Vi (Arcane) x Fem!Reader WARNINGS/TAGS: MDNI, mentions of alcohol, drugs (weed), underage drinking, miscommunication, and obviously cursing. A/N: I'm currently obsessed with Vi and I need more slow burn fics of her so this is totally self indulgent. Also, english isn't my first language so apologies if there is (surely) any mistakes, please enjoy :) more notes at the end btw Next chapter

The loud music throbbed through the walls, echoing in your head as you were waiting outside the bathroom door. It felt like you've been standing there for ages, waiting for whoever was inside to finally let you have the chance to go to the bathroom. You knock on the door again, awaiting an answer, but all you can hear is the sound of that damn music, so you decide to go downstairs again.

Putting a feet in front of the other feels painfully unnatural, all you want to do is lay down and puke somewhere, but you couldn't find any spot that wasn't crowded and you certainly don't want your classmates seeing you in that state. It would be so embarrassing if someone took a picture of you vomiting the noodles you had for dinner because you were so lazy to cook a proper meal before drinking. Now you regret it.

Once you reach the final step of the stairs, you look for your phone in one of your pockets. It's a good thing you decided to wear cargo pants instead of a dress; otherwise, in your state, you would have lost your purse with your phone and little money with it.

"Why are the letters so tiny?" you tried to text your friend, she brought you here and she should be the one to save you now, "She'll understand," you think as the only word you're able to type and text her is "Out".

Looking around you see some people dancing, couples sticking their bodies together and things getting heated. You can feel your legs trembling a bit, unable to hold your weight much longer, your head spinning and the music painfully penetrating your ears. Your friend is nowhere to be seen and you're getting nautious again, so you decide to walk to the kitchen and get some water.

"Fuck, where is it?" you wander around in this unfamiliar house for what felt like forever until you catch a glance at someone coming out from a room with bottles in her hands. You don't recognize her from class, you would've noticed her peculiar blue hair and long braids, and how she looks a bit younger than you or your classmates. She looks back at you with her eyes wide open like a deer in headlights, then laughs and continues her way to what you presume is the backyard. You figure that if she got alcohol bottles from there, there must be water as well.

"Bingo!" you scream a little louder than you'd like once you cross the door and see the kitchen, walking to the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. You feel your phone vibrating inside your pocket, you take it out and read your friend's "Coming." reply while taking a sip of that sweet and very much needed liquid.

"Fuck!" you spit the remainings of it, feeling your throat burning and your stomach growling even more than before. Who puts vodka inside a water bottle?

You lay against the kitchen counter for a bit in a lame attempt to stay focused, you just have to stay put and wait for your friend to come find you from wherever she was in this damn house.

Determined to not pass out, you go outside following the blue haired girl's trail to get some fresh air. You feel like your head is going to explode, you've been taking for granted your ability to walk without stumbling into things. Your eyes feel heavy, blinking slower everytime as you work your way outside and coordinate your brain and hand to open the door.

It's way less crowded than you thought, only a few people smoking and chatting, you see a couple making out against the wall like no one can see them. But you can. And it's disgusting.

The air is a bit refreshing, definitely better than the smells of heated bodies, booze and weed that filled the house inside. Not that it makes you any less wasted, but it's something. You go around the house trying to find a spot where no one can see you once your stomach decides it can't take it anymore and you see the blue haired girl from before laying down with her eyes closed and empty bottles surrounding her. She's passed out. Walking as quickly as you can to her, you shake her body and try to wake her up. She does nothing besides groaning and mumbling nonsense, so you start to panic and look around you, begging internally that you can find anyone who's more sober than you to help this girl. Your stomach keeps growling at you and your throat burns, tightens, threatening to throw out all the damn booze you drank before. God, what were you thinking?

The world spins around you as you try to focus your vision on this girl and you were right, she is definitely much younger than you, no alcohol should have been near her at first. You reach for her hand, trying to free the bottle from its hold so you can try and sit her up, worried that she'd throw up and drown in her own puke. It takes all your drunk strength to push the bottles around and move her body. While you're grabbing one of the bottles to throw it away, you hear heavy steps coming closer to you and thank the heavens for hearing your pleading; it must be the help you needed.

You turn around and see a muscular figure, heavy boots stomping on the ground with fierce and her pink hair fluorescent in the lights; she looks back at you with a scowl, her hands in fists and quickens her pace. You gulp.

The air around you gets thicker, heavier, hotter; it's like she's inhaling every atom of oxygen while you shrink down to shrump size, getting closer to you as your head is spinning, trying to focus your vision and stand up.

"What the fuck did you do to her?" she asks, her face so close to yours that the air exhaled feels like a shot straight into your face.

You only manage to mumble something incoherent and she pulls you aside, making you stumble over your own feet as she is starring at the bottles.

"She's wasted…" you hear her whispering to herself, scrunching over to caress the younger girl's face and removing the lose hairs from it, "you gave her fucking booze?" she turns around and stares at you, her gaze filled with rage and frustration, you can feel it burning your eyelids.

"No, I—” your brain is betraying you, you put your hands against the wall trying to remain on your feet and explain the situation, but your throat is threatening to let it all out for good.

She clicks her tongue and lifts the young girl from the ground, holding her like she weights nothing on her arms and takes off, leaving you feeling miserable and confused.

You hear a voice calling your name and fast steps approaching, you turn your head and see your friend. Relief washes over your body, your legs no longer able to hold you standing and you give in so you sit on the grass.

"Cait…" were the only words coming out of your mouth in a whisper before you throw out and felt your eyelids closing themselves.

A/N: comments and reviews are appreciated! if you want more let me know :) i have a long series in mind for this

[asdfghjklmals]

LEARN TO LOVE✩༶‧˚

GENRE + T/W: sfw, fluff, angst. WORD COUNT: 1.9k words. TAGS: satoru gojo x fem!oc, boyfriend!gojo, adopedkiddos!megumi & tsumiki

SYNOPSIS: satoru brings home two kids for oc gojo girlfriend to raise with him without her knowing. AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is how oc gojo girlfriend meets tsumiki and megumi for the first time. i try to keep as factual as possible with the manga/anime, but some details might slip through the cracks. REMINDER: if you want to imagine yourself in oc gojo girlfriend's character descriptions instead, please do!

“gotcha! i’ll take care of things. you’re gonna have to work extra hard, i’m counting on ya,” the white haired sorcerer chirped at his newly kidnapped? adopted children.

“first things first kiddos, there’s someone i’d like you to meet.” satoru gojo chimed as megumi and tsumiki fushiguro backpacked their belongings to tokyo jujutsu high school with him.

“are we meeting someone important?” tsumiki curiously asked.

tsumiki fushiguro was a cheerful child who always had a smile on her face. she wore the cutest pink dress with ruffles. megumi glared into the distance as he followed behind them.

“absolutely. the most important person in my life!” satoru announced, grinning. he beamed with pride towards the kids, hiding the terror of the fact that he didn’t even tell you that he was bringing two kids home for you to help him raise.

tokyo jujutsu high: the girls' dorm

you were studying for the second years' final exam, something your boyfriend also should've been doing but he was off doing who knows what. just because jujutsu high wasn't a "traditional" high school, didn't mean you didn't deserve an education as well.

a familiar knock on your dorm room's door startled you out of your studying. it was none other than satoru gojo, you could tell just by the way he knocked on your door. you turned around from your desk as satoru opened the door and called out to you.

"(y/n), hey."

well, that sure got your attention. not even a greeting with a pet name?

"hi babe," you greeted him with suspicious eyes.

satoru had two kids with him. they were both carrying backpacks while satoru rolled two large suitcases next to your bed.

"who are these kiddos?"

you looked at the two children. there was a boy and a girl. they couldn't have been more than 8 years old. the boy had dark blue spikey hair and green eyes (he also looked miserable). the girl had a brown ponytail and a sweet smile on her face.

"they're our kids now", satoru looked at you and grinned.

this man had to be joking. they surely had to be his younger cousins you hadn't met before. however, you were pretty sure you met a majority of his family when you went back to visit the gojo clan over the summer break. and there was no way he was a father of two at 18 years old.

"hey you two, go on and sit down for a bit. i have to talk to miss (y/n) for a second."

the two children obediently sat down on your dorm room's floor. the girl took out some snacks and the boy took out a book. satoru grabbed your hand and led you to your bathroom, closing the door with haste.

"satoru, who are those kids? i want the truth, please." you sternly asked him, furrowing your brows in disconcertment. you used his first name in hopes that he would understand how serious you were.

"i'm taking them in." he shrugged nonchalantly.

"what? what do you mean you're taking them in? you're literally 18. you can't be a dad. you have to be joking." you looked at him in bewilderment.

you started to laugh in disbelief. you knew that satoru gojo said crazy shit, but this one took the cake.

satoru took off his sunglasses and grabbed your hands, pulling them close to his chest. he stared at you intently. you could tell he wasn't joking. he called you by your first name, which he rarely did. he preferred the sweet couple-y pet names.

"(y/n)." he said with the utmost seriousness.

"satoru." you replied back calmly.

"remember when i killed the man that almost killed me? toji fushiguro?" he said quietly.

how could you have forgotten?

you hated remembering that you almost lost him. it was terrifying and you'll never forget finding him on the school's front steps with a faint heartbeat, knocking at death's door. you did everything you could to heal him with reversed cursed energy while he tried using his own reversed cursed technique to heal himself. (read ‘the honored one’ here)

"that kid, the one with the blue hair. that's his son, (y/n). his father sold him to the zen'nin clan for money once he turns of age—which is 8 years old. he ran off with his wife once he got the money and never looked back." satoru explained the situation to you in hopes that you would understand.

"you mean... those two kids were abandoned?"

how could a parent do that to their child? you couldn't imagine how frightened they were.

"exactly. his father and the girl's mother ran off and left those two behind. they have no one, babe—and out of the goodness of my heart, i went to find them." he just had to input some self praise in there, it wouldn't be satoru gojo without it. you rolled your eyes at him.

"is it because you felt bad for killing his dad?" you whispered to him.

"i guess you can say that," satoru said with some guilt, "but because if they go to the zen'nin clan... they're going to hate it—especially tsumiki."

you knew there was bad blood between the gojo clan and the zen'nin clan, but also, the zen'nin clan prioritized blood ties and inherited techniques. women in that clan were treated horribly. if you didn't have a speck of cursed energy, living there was a nightmare. tsumiki would be tossed to the side and treated ruthlessly. you didn't even know the little girl, but something in your heart told you that you had to protect her.

"so this kid, since he's a zen'nin—is he going to be a jujutsu sorcerer?" you asked satoru.

he looked at you with calculating eyes, "i talked to the higher ups yesterday. i convinced them to stop the sell of the kid and that i'd take him in and raise him to be a jujutsu sorcerer. when he turns 15, he'll attend jujutsu high. they'll give me financial aid to raise both of them."

now, satoru gojo would not be in charge of their finances. that would be your job. with the way that man spends, he would bankrupt them.

"how do you even know he'll be able to see curses?"

there were so many questions you had, but so little time. the children were sitting literally outside the door, waiting for you and satoru.

"i just have a feeling that the kid will. i don't believe the girl will since she's not toji's biological daughter."

"how old are they, satoru?"

"the kid with the blue hair, his name is megumi. he's 5 years old. the girl that's with him is tsumiki. she's 6."

"and you, my 18 year old boyfriend, satoru gojo, are going to raise them?" you looked at him with skepticism.

"no baby, you're going to help me." he grinned at you.

"seriously?"

"you have what they say a 'motherly touch'. there's no way I can raise a girl, babe. who's gonna have the puberty talk with tsumiki? not me. you have to help me, please."

he grabbed your hands again and begged you with his stupid puppy dog cerulean blue eyes that you couldn't say no to.

you bit your lip in worry and looked at the door. could you and satoru really raise these two kids on your own?

you sighed and reluctantly replied, "fine. i'll help you."

satoru grabbed you by your waist and lifted you off the floor, twirling you around in a tight hug. he kissed your forehead.

"we can do this, babe. we can make the world a better place for these kids."

you hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek as you scratched the back of his undercut with your nails in comfort. you could feel satoru melt in your arms.

you understood how he felt and what he wanted to do for the future of the jujutsu world. he wanted to create a safe and fostering environment for the upcoming generation of jujutsu sorcerers. you supported his vision, and you would walk through the depths of hell with him just to help him achieve just that.

once you let go of him, he grabbed your hand with a cheeky smile. he opened the bathroom door and sat down on your bed, looking at the kids.

"sorry about that kiddos!" he laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head. the two kids looked up at you and satoru.

"hi, what are your names?" you crouched down at the two of them, hoping to get them to open up to you. you and satoru would be their guardians, so it was time to start building a relationship.

"my name is tsumiki," the young girl smiled cheerfully, "and his name is—"

"megumi", the younger fushiguro interrupted her.

"that's my little brother." she added.

megumi didn't make any eye contact with you. he just continued to chew his food and read his book. tsumiki was so cute and personable, and she chewed her food so happily—they were complete opposites.

"well, it's nice to meet you tsumiki and megumi." you gently said to them.

"nice to meet you too, (y/n)!" tsumiki chirped.

"megumi, you need to show some respect to your elders when they're talking to you. say hi to (y/n) at least. she's talking to you." satoru said with a sprinkle of annoyance.

he had told the two how important you were to him, so why wouldn't megumi give you the time of day?

"it's okay, babe." you patted his thigh. you gave your lover a soft smile.

you knew it would take some time for megumi to warm up to you. you sat down next to the two kids and your heart felt warm. you felt like you wanted to protect them, save them, make sure nothing bad ever happened to them. you watched as tsumiki tried to fix megumi's hair, but he would just push her hand away every time. he looked like he was going to be a pain in the ass.

with time, your new goal in life was to become a responsible guardian for these two kids. you wanted to make sure they grow up strong, independent, and honest. you were going to make sure that megumi and tsumiki learn to love you—and satoru, of course.

EXTRA:

"who's bed are they going to be sleeping in?" you asked satoru at dinner.

"why don't they sleep in your room for now? you're always sleeping in my bed anyways." he replied as he continued to chew his food.

"but my bed is bigger and more comfortable." you argued.

you had a custom king sized futon shipped from your hometown of osaka when you first started school here at tokyo jujutsu high. it paid to be from a big shot sorcerer family.

"well, they're not sleeping in mine."

"being a parent means that you have to compromise, satoru."

"we can figure it out tomorrow. how about i ask yaga-sensei if he'll give us an extra room for them?" satoru petitioned.

you glared at him and he just raised his eyebrows as if he didn't suggest something ridiculous. after your late dinner, you and satoru cleaned the shared dining hall and walked back to the girls' dorm where your room was. you opened your door to find megumi and tsumiki sleeping peacefully in your bed.

"i guess my bed is big enough for 3." you said quietly as you smiled at the sleeping children.

"what about 4?" satoru grinned.

read the next chapter ‘pinky promises’ here.

© 2023 ASDFGHJKLMALS — ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PLEASE DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK.

DIVIDERS PROVIDED BY @/ANLIAN-AISHANG

[melankkholy]

what size does love wear? (part 1)

✎ The lights, the podium, and the spotlight are all yours. As an upstart model, your life went by pleasantly with the girls, but maybe you were too dim to realize that you were living in an illusion. Could Leon, the one and only rockstar of the hearts, be the man you were waiting for in a milieu full of counterfeit people, or are you too much of a hopeless romantic?

cw: NO MINORS AND I MEAN IT WHEN I SAY IT, messy messy messy, drugz, fem! model reader, family drama aka daddy and mommy issues, very uncanny and might be disturbing for some people idek, vom!ting and possibly or (implied eating disorders), p in v, oral (fem! receiving) praises, reader is going thru some shii, MDNI, that's all i can come up with, but please let me know if i missed something very vital, and find the song lyrics:3

It all unfolds that night at a soirée to which you were invited in the most gingerbread-like language.

You don’t have a clue how fat cats hang out at such a lavish icebreaker. That these people took you in very recently, right after your meteoric rise to superstardom, and with a wham bang. You didn’t quite make it onto the Hollywood Walk of Fame with all those big golds and jet-set stars, sure, but your killer legs, waist, and pretty tits promised you a chance to eavesdrop a wee bit on Victoria’s secret. Well, who knows? Maybe one day, even without any formal studies in acting, you could star as an aspiring actor in some movie and kiss the handsome and beefcake famous guys. You could be the next lead in a new goofy movie like Fifty Shades of Grey. Hollywood is full of pretty model casts these days, anyway. 

So many possibilities. 

Mostly with your height, physique, and poise, which would make most men who can’t be more than 5 feet and 7 inches tall (barely) outclass them in every way (never mind the grandfatherly inheritance that your mother inherited from whomever-whatever-who-cares and your surname that unexpectedly gained a notoriety, even your daddy abruptly switched to your mother’s maiden name on paper), you’re the size perfection angel of the runways. Precious, precious you. 

A happy family tableau with your mother, who doesn’t listen to your advice to break up with that man, who happens to be your father, and he has a mania for alcohol and the girls younger than him of late. 

The only vestige of this particular and domestic picture is you here, dressed in the elegance of a collectible piece from a costly collection of so-and-so, to the party you were summoned to. 

“It tastes like shit.” 

Claire’s whining in front of you, idly brandishing a hurricane glass full of bubbly as pale pink and powdery as her rosy cheeks. Thankful for the leverage of your elbows on the bistro table between you, you lift your chin, planted in the inner cushions of your joined palms, and give her a passing glance. Then your starry eyes drift back to the human orgy you’ve been tracking since the moment you stepped in the venue. 

A myriad of eminent names. How exciting to be able to see their imperfect skin up close under the veneer of make-up. Turns out there is a huge Photoshop business going on in this particular circus. 

Still, it’s hard not to get caught up in the allure of their luster. Thinking about how you were unanticipatedly plunged into a world of gold and silver, of all the thesauri that connote the existence of riches, you should absolutely bask in it—if they’ll let you. 

“You’ve had too much to drink.” Jill gives Claire a little mouth joke from beside her, which elicits a muttered snort from Claire. 

“What else was I supposed to do?” 

“Dunno. Maybe snort a line or two. Together.” 

“You could’ve told me from the start, Valentine.” Claire rolls her eyes and surveys you with her big blue lenses. 

“Hey, you.” 

You look up at Claire, a giddy smile lacing your lips. 

“Huh?” 

“Get in the back room. Jill, you and I are getting the motherfucking sniff on some good coke.” 

Coke. Oh, great. 

The hot “sport” of your demographic. Once your wacky mom’s, too. 

The poison you swore you’d never put your mouth (actually your nose) on, or the antidote to survival, as your father would call it. 

A silly little girl’s dumbest and greatest fear. 

But you’re too much of a sucker to risk losing a high-profile group of friends like Jill and Claire, the only two girls you respect in this game of whatever. Just reject them, and in a fraction of a second, you’ll be all alone, and people here would pulverize you raw. 

So without saying a word, you tag along behind them on a whim, as if cocaine is your passion. Since your friends are here, you just came to kick it.

The proverbial back room turns out to be really far back. 

The smell of weed is tangy and mixed with other substances you can’t name the second you walk in. The scent of perfume adds a different festivity. Leaves a seductive melody and holds promises to give you airborne wings. 

This must be the precise definition of getting wasted. 

A few familiar faces greet you, occasionally stopping your group of three to take a quick photo—a social media travesty, for a photo that implies that the girl who wrapped her arms around you in nylon hugs with her platinum blonde and padded lips, whom you haven’t even said a word to yet, is a hoot on your social media account. Is it worth it? 

Hell, maybe. 

Followers are everything, even for you. 

Chris, ass up, nose to nose in the coarse dust strewn on the glass surface table of the Boeing 707, straightens up as three pairs of heels materialize in front of him, oozing through the see-through transparency of the glass table. 

“You’d be a great big brother if you didn’t always finish the best one ahead of us.” 

“I’m always a big and great brother.” Chris Redfield, big and virile, stretches up in front of your eyes and wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve like a credit card sliding horizontally and smoothly through a POS machine. 

Just like a goddamned joke. 

In flesh and blood, Chris Redfield, the lead guitarist—a member of the very band you’ve been a diehard fan of since you were a teenager and whose songs have lulled you into slumber—is in front of you. Yes, you really were sleeping with rock music playing in the background. 

His pupils are vacant. Like his cranium. 

“You all look like those three girls from that cartoon where a professor accidentally creates three special strong girls—ahhh—what was the name again?” 

“Powerpuff Girls?” Jill interjects at Chris’ reference with a wan grin, leaning her leg over the glass tilt table. Claire also crouches in front of her and clasps onto Jill’s knees. Almost as if she’s biding her time to eat her out. She might do that. Later.

“Yeah!” Chris snaps his fingers. 

“Uh, I...” You spring forward to introduce yourself before the conversation drifts. Girls are already nose-dipping in the dusty spill on the table, and you stick your hand out to Chris. 

Surprisingly, he accepts the handshake straight away. In the course of these formal introductions, whenever you were to extend your hand to someone, they’d be looking you over from head to toe like you were a little bit of a poseur. Ironically, Chris welcomes you with a genuine smile. It seems modesty hasn’t kicked the bucket. 

You’re being all polite, handing Chris your name, and then—cue dramatic music—someone crashes through the pivot door like it’s a Hollywood blockbuster. 

Every head turns in the cumulative direction of the sound, all but assured by the door’s dramatic swoosh, all collectively. 

Turns out it’s none other than Leon Kennedy, the finest and equally “big-time rockin’ rock star of the twentieth generation,” as they say. 

“His ass again?” Claire pipes up from where she’s sitting. She’s not a big fan of Leon. She has her reasons. In the interest of brevity, Claire and Leon had, in fact, dated in the interim. Once upon a time, there was a ship named Cleon, a name the adoring admirers nicknamed their own ship name in all corners of the tabloids. 

While you can understand how ticked off she is, you might as well not do it at all. There is, at last, a deck of cards in front of you that you may see for the first and last time in your life. In fact, he is even moving towards you with his own confident steps. 

For you, it’s a moment of blimey, but for him it’s as natural and insignificant as the instinct to pee when he’s drunk too much stuff. 

“Hi there.” 

Now you can understand people amplifying at the mere sound of a certain voice and, if necessary, wetting their pants, pussies, and dicks—Leon isn’t the pickiest about it, really. Now everything makes total sense. He must be getting laid as much as he’s making money with his mouth. 

And he is. Add a pinch of that buzzing singing voice to a muscular body, a tall stature, and money in swollen pockets, and Leon gets what he wants in a jiffy. Kiss his ass if you will. 

“There’s my cutest groupie.” Leon waves at Claire, heading for a fall. 

Claire draws her middle finger at him and bites back a repartee. 

Not a single name he doesn’t speak in the narrow circle of this social outlet. Then he sees you, and the wheel of fortune takes a reversal. 

A newfangled face, delicate facial expressions, and striking beauty. Clearly, you’re the precious neophyte around here. 

The art of the soft soap in the eccentric azure of his eyes is hard to miss. A depth to be dug into with picks and shovels. 

How he greets you with a small mental shake of his head in contrast to his expressive gaze is enough for the conventional first pleasantries. 

It’s hard to calculate how much it’s right to cast pointed glances at your friend’s ex-boyfriend. On a more cursory inspection, you and Claire weren’t that close, at least not close enough to make those ground rules—chicks before dicks ones. (Excuses!) You definitely need proper shrinks. 

“Fucker.” Claire coughs up any remaining resentment in an epithetical whisper under her breath.

The exes find their way out of the scene, separated, and Claire tugs on your arm and flings herself straight into the dance floor. Leave it to Leon to steal a glance at you. He stares long and hard at the beauty next to his ex as you stomp off the scene. To Leon, the past is in the past, and the present is here to be remade. It’s nerve-racking when you leave, but he loves to watch you walking away.

And Jill is too doped up on cocaine to join you all. 

─────────────────

“We never would have come if we knew he’d be here.” You tell Claire as she strums her hips to a peppy groove. You just want to bring your girl back to earth, even if it’s just a pulse.

“What? Jesus! Can’t hear you, gorgeous!” Claire curls her hands at the corners of her mouth as she lets it out. Of course she can’t hear you over this hubbub. You’re such an airhead. 

But point taken. You shrug your shoulders as if to say it’s nothing and dance in unison to the song along with her jigging dance moves.

─────────────────

The DJ gets you moving with the record and the tempo of his tunes, the laser disco lights blinking on and off like thunder, making you dizzy from the jetlagged fatigue of the fateful night. For how many hours have you been standing in these Pigalle Follies and guzzling Silver Oak? God, you’re a mess. A hot one, that is. 

The flashing disco lights alternately brighten and dazzle your eyes. You can’t even take a step, let alone do the dance. Sure, you’re running on fumes, but at least you look cute doing it. 

That’s what happens when you drink on an empty stomach. Stupid bitch, you’re chewing yourself out. 

Lights are moving sideways and up and down. 

The sweat beading on the hair gathered at the nape of your neck is cold. You blink your eyes and cast them around for Claire, dim and desperate. Not a single facsimile of a peer stands.

Okay, but where’s she?

You push your way through the flesh and blood horde and find your way out of the club to the back door. Threshing, you flounder out of a dented metal door. The pit of your stomach is parched, as if tiny worms have colonized your entrails and organs.

Your hand pressed against your midsection is of no help.

Leaning against the wall, you’re propped up; you squint at the figure of a man (?) that now unfolds in front of you with the swoosh of the door. A lighted cigarette in his hand, he makes a knife-edge turn and spots you right off the bat. 

Sewn into his eyes is a tapestry of something akin to concern. They are adumbral but bloodless and ultramarine.

Voices buzzing in your ear burst the bag of intricacies with a sharp pinprick. When you can feel the echoes finally reaching your earbuds, you can vaguely feel the man reaching for your forearm and tracing circles on your skin with soothing strokes.

“What the hell are you so tipsy for?” 

Tipsy? Hell? He’s probing something about you. 

“Leave me alone.” 

“What? Leave you like this in the middle of an alley? What are you? Five?”

Your stomach produces a strange twinge, right there, in that very second. 

You totter, but the man holding you by the arm means what he says.

“Look at you. What a fucking mess, huh, girl?” There he goes, tutting you like it’s his favorite sport.

“Don’t push it, Leon. What’re you, my mother?” 

You just frown and shoot him a syringe of Claire’s inherited hatred but in your style. 

“Go away. I’ll be fine.” 

With all the audacity of a brilliant I-fucking-hate-my-best-friend’s-ex-boyfriend, you pull your arm free of his reach. 

“They’ll eat you alive in here. You know that, right?” His voice is scratchy, preaching to you, but it’s emptier than a banker’s heart. His gaze, as in. 

You don’t know. Makes you edgy, this one fucker. 

“Why do you care?” 

Really. What’s it really to him? Leon, too, in the clash of a second and a spontaneous question, unexpectedly finds himself striving for words. 

When you push off the wall against which you were leaning, balance beats the hell out of you. Standing on the spikes of your heels is like an arsenal of iron nuts. So much so that Leon sucks in his breath in sheer exasperation before gripping you tightly by the forearm and flicking the glowing amber stub to the ground. Savior complex moment perhaps; he’s a martyr to his savior complex, not even understanding why he’s going this far.

“Where’re those girls you’re always stuck with? Claire and Jill?” 

Obviously you don’t have an answer to that. You, for that matter, don’t have an answer to anything in the preamble. You just gawk at him with a vagabond animus.

You brush it off with a dejected shrug, and the withering stare you garner from him is quite enough to put you in your place, and then more. The abject skeleton in the closet that follows is beyond telling. 

The puddle of bile that you can’t hold in any longer gushes out of your mouth. There and then. Luckily, courtesy of your miraculous reflexes, you turn your back on him and excrete the stagnant liquor in your system. 

Leon retaliates by stepping back, as your arm falls out of his hands and you stoop, knees sore. A nervy and explosive burst of emotion is impinging on his face. You can’t see it, but you can more or less picture what kind of acrimony he’s donning.

What a perfect first impression spectacle. 

Your gagging voice dies from throwing up in the empty streets; warm, misty tears well up in your eyes, the usual stuff, but the averse touch of his hand brushing your hair back from your face is a special ooh. 

“You’re so fucked up.” 

He couldn’t be more serious. 

“You’re so pretty.” 

You can’t be serious either! 

But just as you lift your head to give him an answer, your stomach lurches to your feet one more time. So yes, you called your close friend’s singer boyfriend “pretty” in its truest essence, in all its pomp and circumstance. Delirious and graphic, hats off to you. You feel dizzy and more than ever dead. Like dead dead, open mouth, insert foot. The nebulous valance in front of your eyes is as opaque as an unaesthetic Instagram filter. Your balance is in tatters, and you slump, and then a thickset arm supports the back of your head securely. 

─────────────────

How you made it through the dawn is a big red question mark.

The bundle of sunlight struck by the zenith of the alarming number of the morning is bright and citrusy. Almost no trace of its golden amber flavor. That’s because it’s not a morning sun. This is a midday sun. 

You finally open your eyes at two o’clock in the forenoon. The sight that awaits you... what the hell is this? 

This certainly isn’t your house, but whose residence is this? 

And most importantly, where are your clothes? Why are you in your underwear? 

You swallow the venin on the underside of the tongue, finding no strings as you idle around because you don’t even have any clues to connect the pieces together. 

Could you have gotten so hammered yesterday that you fucked someone like those people in the movies? 

At least he’s rich.

The interior is lavishly decked out; your restless eyes drift from the bed to the rows of frames on the wall. Pictures and hyperlinks and whatnot. Why would anyone hang a picture of the fucking Golden Gate Bridge in their bedroom? 

What kind of moron did you fuck last night? 

It’s up to you to figure out the equation. 

You slip on a tacky jacket and spring out of bed. When you pick up your phone and peer at the screen and see that the digital numbers are advancing by leaps and bounds, you dash out of the room. Whatever the fuck you did in this bed yesterday with whomever you did it with has to be consigned to the past. No time for any of that. That’s what one-night stands are all about. 

“Oh, fuck. Claire, I overslept. You gotta help me sway Ada so she doesn’t give me a hard time, babe.” Your fingers are rapidly drumming, and your eyes are on the screen as you thump into someone’s fucking chest. 

It’s like lightning is spinning in your head. The phone falls out of your hand and thuds a heartbeat on the floor. Ouch. No shit. Apple, what a shitty marque of ass. 

“My phone!” 

It seems no matter how much money is just a green piece of paper to you now, or digital numbers with fat zeros in your bank account, there will always be a staunch ghetto in you. Somewhere deep in your very psyche.

“Jeez. Relax.” He crouches down and picks up the very remnant of your hapless phone.

“What happened to ‘hi’ and ‘hello’?” 

No, but wait a second. 

The distinct sound of yesterday’s “tryst.” 

“Leon!” 

Apparently your memory has erased all the barf memories from last night. Give them a little time, and they’ll chip away piece by piece and roast you in vile hell for the rest of the day. 

“Leon!” He’s impersonating your voice, or rather your holler. Pretty much verbatim. It’s disturbingly good. He hands you your phone. The screen is cracked and spiderwebbed, and you take it reluctantly. Cough it up. You have to get a new model. 

“Is this your place?” 

“Eh. Like what you see?” 

He’s acting like it’s all fun and games, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash if the sky fell. His arrogance is of a priceless candor. 

Just take a deep breath, in and now out. Everything’s all right. Everything is right as rain. 

No way you fucked your best friend’s ex-boyfriend. You refuse to believe that. 

“Why am I here?” 

Leon gets the message.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t want to spoil your good mood by regaling you with your yesterday throw-up story, and he doesn’t want you to start your day like that. Everyone deserves to have a good day, and especially after a night of fuckery like last night, you need a whole Mediterranean circumnavigation. 

“Look, sweetheart,” he begins, “let me buy you a brunch, yeah? There’s this place, okay? Down the block. Oh, they whip up scrambled eggs so fine. I’m talking about finger-licking good.”

He really is treating you over for some “brunch.”. 

But why does everything have to be piled on top of each other? He just leaves you high and dry. 

“Come on. Omelet and coffee. Yummy. Huh, and a special mix for you that’ll sober up a hangover.” Leon reaches out his hand to you as if in a desperate bargain. 

“It’s a special Kennedy remedy.” 

Your eyes fall on his outstretched palm while he’s grinning winningly. 

“Sure. Why not? You do owe me an explanation anyway.” 

There you go. He’s got you under his thumb now—like a walk in the park. 

“Nice bra.” Leon can barely avert his eyes from your cleavage. “But don't forget to change, sunshine. I reckon I can find a spare shirt for ya.” 

What a dipshit. 

Rest is a moot point.

─────────────────

You’re not exactly sitting with the shittiest man in the world and chowing down on a portion of omelette. Really, the place where he brought you for a meal isn’t bad enough to be described as decent. 

“So last night—” 

He derails the conversation. 

“No. We didn’t.” He sips his coffee, which dribbles down his parched throat. He’s been telling you this story for what seems like forever, even though it’s downright laughable—something hard to believe. 

Pleasantly enough, you manage to shake off the blues, but now Leon’s hot under the collar. 

The truth is, these bitter coffees are not his cup of tea, ’cause he loves tea more, but when he saw you getting a heavy Caffè Americano, he ended up ordering one too, just for a little spice. 

Now Leon regrets his decision. Never again. Vanilla all the way, long live crony capitalism. 

“I can’t even bring myself to believe it.” 

“Neither can I. Who knew you had a little Viking god in you?” 

“Viking god?” 

Leon nods in approbation. The musing is rather sweet, but too much sweetness makes your cheeks fat, and that’s the absolute last thing you need. Pounds. Swollen face.

“They drink heavily too, don’t they?” 

“I don’t drink that much,” you rectify him. 

“You do. I know a blackout drunk when I see one.” 

You palm your face in dismay, because how long can you put up with this charade? 

“Why did you drink all that?” 

For what does it matter to him? That you have to implicitly profess to him that you detest him. Can’t be buddy-buddy with someone Claire hates; blood and guts be damned. 

“Nevermind. I mean, you don’t always get some chivalrous knight on a white horse coming to your rescue. Watch yourself. Get your shit together next time.” 

Get your shit together.’

You’re not planning to get your life together, which has never been in order, on his say-so. 

This is no picnic.

─────────────────

That day, after that specific coffee date, not only were you tardy for the last rehearsal, but you were also vituperated by Claire. 

“I don’t trust you.” 

“Claire, I swear to you—” 

“Oh, not this again!” 

Sheva’s writhing between you and Claire, her head is cracking open, so to speak. She keeps one hand on your shoulder and the other on Claire’s forearm, but her arms draw back, both of you rebuffing her every gesture. 

“You showed up in his jacket. For fuck’s sake. You’re looking me in the eye and fucking lying to me.” 

“It’s not what you think.” 

Your words have always been meager in expressing your true self-defense. It’s no better now. 

“So you really are fighting over a guy. This is really happening. Girls, this guy bleaches his hair regularly!” Sheva chimes in and maintains her equanimity. What you are doing is quite puerile in her eyes. 

“I wonder how you’d react if your best friend fucked your ex-boyfriend, Sheva. Would you be so cool and mighty about it?” 

Aww. She still considers you her BFF. 

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called, an ex! Why can’t you just believe her? If you can’t trust your best friend, who else can you trust?” Sheva nudges Claire with a little gust of force, and Claire slumps down on the couch. She’s cross and indignant and doesn’t care that her butt stings when Sheva pushes her. 

Seems calmer, or that’s what you’re praying for. Please let it be so. Please, please, friendship Gods and Goddesses.

“You need to believe me, Claire. I told you.” 

Not a word comes out of her mouth, and she purses her million-dollar lips closely. Looking like she can’t decide on what might fall out of her tongue.

“I didn’t sleep with Leon.” 

You grovel on your knees; just how pathetic you can be when you want to be. 

Another last whine, forlorn (you may have already said the same thing a hundred times since you’ve arrived home). 

“You saw it on my dress. Full of fucking retch, Claire!” 

More details to go, and you wish you could explain to her how utterly incapacitated you were last night. From under her pretty eyelashes, she gives you a downcast appraisal. 

“I went out for some air after dancing with you. I was a mess, Claire. I looked everywhere for you. Then he came, and, you know, silly me, I fucking dozed off.” 

Sheva hugs her arms across her chest, monitoring a hushed and more subdued conversation between the two of you. Probably best not to interrupt. 

“Ugh. He always loved being the big hero.” Claire finally swallows her reticence, endearingly vacillating. Thank God. 

“Don’t fall for him. Don’t be a moron. God, you’re so stupid. You don’t even know it. He’ll set you up in a game, and before you know it, you’ll be stuck in the mud.” 

Well, you weren’t expecting a herd of counselors from your best friend. It leaves a peppery ginger on your tongue. 

“Pfff. Claire, don’t be ridiculous. You really think I’m hung up on Leon? He’s not my type. Piers is my type, duh.” You say it like the kookiest thing you’ve ever heard in your life. 

For all the things you don’t know, you speak with the vanity of a clueless nepo baby, as if you’ve been in this line of endeavor since the day you were born. 

“I saw the way he looked at you. I know that look.” 

Ha. Now she’s channeling the ultimate Daenerys Targaryen speech. 

“Very well, Claire Targaryen.” You smile dotingly at her, thinking it wouldn’t harm sharing a witty little tidbit. 

“Seriously... just go, okay? Leave me alone.” 

That’s where the rubber hits the road. Claire, your dearest friend, wants you out of here. It’s unbelievable. In your head, your memory is bare and there are no words, but your heart is crushed in a tearful pain that you can’t articulate. There are no labels or names for this feeling in your vocabulary. 

You blink at her, twice and your smile frazzle subtly.

She won’t change her mind, that is for sure. She wants you gone. 

You get up and walk out of there while you can. Sheva lingers behind you, but you’re fast and rightfully upset.

─────────────────

Wearing Leon’s Schott jacket and the t-shirt combo he provided is not exactly the kind of fancy getaway you’d want to pull off, but you’re quite adamant.

You go to the only place you can go. 

To home. 

It’s been years; you haven’t seen your parents, and who knows what it’s like now? In the car, your model face, admired by millions, the one you bequeathed from those two people who hated each other like a curse on their souls so passionately, is in a state of shambles. 

Walking into the garden of a vast estate your mom bought for a pittance, you can spot your father’s nifty all-black Stellantis. It sparkles in the glow of the porch light just above the main doorjamb. 

You cringe and then look at the door and the gold-engraved “welcome” inscription on the double sash of the wooden door. Just how “cozy” would it be to step in here again after so many years? 

As you muster up the guts within yourself to ring the doorbell, the door itself flies open. Two pairs of eyes you’ve never seen before, but who instantly identify your face, are staring at one another. 

“Oh my God! It’s you!” The girl is the walking example of the L.A. accent itself.

Since she’s wearing a skintight “daddy’s girl” tank top and a short denim skirt, odds are good that you’re talking to one of your dad’s new dollies. You know, the bimbo and the Barbie ones. 

She envelops you in a bear hug. Sweet, toffee, and mucilaginous undertones of muscat perfume overwhelm all your senses. 

“I’m your biggest fan. Oh, my room and my walls are full of your latest Vogue photoshoots. Versace was such a fantastic choice for your palette. That dress... ah! I-uh. Was. In. Love.” 

There’s a certain luster in the girl’s eyes as she goes on and on. Really, Dad, how old could this poor girl be? You can’t stop thinking about it, but the more you think about it, the more deeply it sickens you. 

“Thanks.” 

As riveted as you were by the prospect, you had gotten far enough in this biz to learn how to keep those around you at bay with fake cheerful smiles. Perhaps you really do have that rampaging Hollywood blood coursing through your veins. 

“I came to see my dad, but—” 

She sweeps her arm down from your shoulder to your waist, and with her free hand, she whips out her flip phone, smiling at the camera. 

“Say cheese!” 

You don’t. 

Your pose with a faded pallor mirrors on her screen, and you catch a dubious glance from her. She’s plainly querying you. 

“A little smile would do you good...”

“Bitch.” She nags the last word in a barely audible coo, clammed up more than any of the preceding chunks of words that came out of her mouth. 

Excellent. 

Like you have no problems, and you have to put up with this horseshit. Why did you even bother coming here? This house isn’t even your home. Not anymore. They’ve carted away everything from your childhood, and a handful of crumbs of fragmentary images of the past are all that’s left of any of it for you. 

No point insisting on three drips of memories in a life that takes many liters to survive. Nostalgia is frivolous. 

Besides, you feel bitchy enough to give this girl her paycheck. 

Except your dearest father does intervene. His noisome mug never dims a morsel, not even when he sees you. 

“What a strange coincidence, sweetheart.” 

“Certainly is.” 

Forget it.

Could a man who never knew how to be a decent father suddenly, by some strange turn of fate, come to discover what it means to be one? You’re a delusional one. This is just one of your little glitches—the very first instinct of a little girl running to her daddy any time she’s hurt. He never knew how to mend and heal those little wounds in the first place. 

“Why did you come here?” Your father’s brows shoot to his hairline. A horrible sight, for his hair is receding. Reprehensibly. 

Doesn’t look like he’s going to let you in, though. He appears quite happy with his new girlfriend on his arm, and his common-law wife, your mother, is somewhere who knows where. 

“Well. It’s Mom.” You perjure, drawing a blank verse or two. Moments like these are precisely when the words essentially latch at the base of your throat. 

“She’s not here.” 

“Ha. Yeah. I can see that.” Your facial tissues, your lips, they all start to ache from ersatz smiling arts and language. Poker face can only do what it costs. 

“I think—” 

“You need to—” 

Your words and your father’s words jar with one another. It’s a mess. Even for a glimpse, it baffles you how much emotion there is in the old man’s face. And him too. His girlfriend rolls her eyes, a numbing distaste for the father and daughter in all this kerfuffle. 

“Ugh. This is so boring.” 

She walks inside. 

You nervously fidget with the folds of the jacket Leon gave you as a provisional. 

“I think I’d better go.” 

“You’re right.” The old man clears his throat as if he were about to overcome an obstacle. He’s silently begging you to put an end to his misery here, and you’re doing that just fine; you’re always ready to walk the tracks. 

“Good night, Dad.” 

“Night, kiddo. I’ll call you when your mom gets home.” 

“Sure. I’ll be waiting.” 

You won’t. How would anybody give a fuck? It’s too late. 

It’s nothing but a night alone for a wounded heart and the coveting of a whim that never had a chance to bloom. 

Either your menstrual cycle is nearing or the end itself is near.

The billboards are lit up with crystallized lights. It’s a visual. Makes your eyes glaze over a bit. 

The sign just above it reads “THE END IS NEAR!” in capital lettering. Above that are plaques with the new single releases of Leon and his group. He’s the talk of the city, and the world for that matter, so his face is in the foreground, a cerebral display, and Chris and Carlos’ faces are hot on his shoulders. The chorus of their million-selling track on Spotify is rasping in your frostbitten ears. Leon’s voice is a smooth crossover riff, raspy, and he’s making love with the bass guitar. 

On the terrace where you are sitting, a breeze gently caresses your face, leaving the crisp touch of snow on your cheek. The cold sinks into your veins, blue-tinted blood rushing through your body, no thanks to the booze. You feel queerly toasty. 

Leon’s jacket definitely lasts through the cold winters. It’s like your personal furnace. 

The traffic is hectic past the glass handrail, jostled by the car lights streaming down, and the first baby snowflakes of January are pelting down from the sky. It’s quite late, the rush hour of hungover midnight. 

Even as the elliptical chases the minute hand, you watch the passers-by. The prominent and whitewashed faces are just names. They greet you, acknowledge you with gracious smiles, but that’s it. Never so genuine that they would actually sit down next to you. 

Except for one name.

Except for Leon, who, in what must have been an illusory twist of fate, casually crosses the table with a flute of champagne in his hand. 

He doesn’t recognize you at first when he passes by your booth, but on the second glance, he captures that swan-like grace at once. 

Stepping backwards, as if he’s moonwalking, he skips over to your side to forestall your horrified side-eye.

“I shoulda known you were a vampire. You never sleep.” 

He thinks he’s made a stylish enough debut with these words. Whatever it takes to charm you. 

“No, come on. Are you stalking me?” 

“Nah. I’m too much of a busy man for that kind of thing, sweetheart. Though I’ve heard on some fanfiction sites that there are people out there. They write me off as a complete weirdo.” 

He slides into the chair straight across from you. 

“Check it out when you’re feeling like it.” 

Absently your eyes wander over his shoulder and zero in on the mass of light in the distance. In shimmering floodlights, people are laughing and making TikTok videos, some twerking, others striking jaunty poses for the camera for their thirst trap edits. Bread and butter for the fans. 

“’s rude to overlook someone when they’re talking to you. Didn’t your mother tell you that?” 

In your consciousness, you realize that even Leon’s name is lost in the cacophony of your milieu. You still do have a problem named Leon at this table.

“I don’t have time for this.” 

“Time for what?” 

Thoughts pile up in the back of your foggy brain, but they don’t coalesce into a harmonious, final answer. The blurry words worm their way out of your mouth, and they evaporate in the bitter cold air. 

Should you be kind and remind him that you’re weak? 

“I don’t know.” You bluntly say, but Leon can smell the suspense. 

“Are you drunk again?” 

The arch of your eyebrow furrows instinctively, automatic as the blooming of a flower when you water it—flourishing and blushing. But drown it too much, and it wilts, fades. He just doesn’t grasp it, can’t get it through his thick skull that you don’t want to chit-chat. 

Be that as it may, there’s one fact that’s indisputable: you want to fuck him. You’re simply at odds with yourself. 

The more Leon comes at you, the more you’re falling into error, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It’s unfortunate that you can roll over when you feel a stone. 

That thing you’re ruthlessly searching for could quite possibly be Leon. He’s the one who has reduced you to the devil’s quarry himself. Either that or you’re the one in extremis. 

Right now, however, it’s a bet neither of you care about. Unworthy of further discussion. Mouths are otherwise occupied. 

Your mouth shamelessly hyphenates his name while his mouth ecstasies on the honeydew betwixt your spread legs. Your eyes roll graphically as the tip of his nose, which looks good when he takes a snort from the lining of vanilla icys, bumps against the nacre of your clit a crack or two. It’s like you’re possessed by something, by demons or poltergeists.

The sullen and muffled fumes of profanity are belching out of the bedroom door where he’s propping you up against it. This is the very public domain information; Leon Kennedy is an excellent pussy eater. 

It’s one thing to hear from the women he’s slept with that he’s that swell; it’s quite something else to have the saccharine taste of your cunt melting in his mouth like cotton candy on the tip of his tongue just then.

“Leon... fuck. No. Want it.” Your tongue is all dry. 

You can’t remember the last time you felt the highs of ecstasy from a tongue fuck like this. Hollywood is full of people with small dicks, and the whole insertion and pull-out game sucks here, foreplay is long gone.

Luckily, you can always take a chance on someone (actually your best friend’s ex-boyfriend) who at least knows how to worship what he sees, and you reap the rewards of the risk you take. And he feels generous enough to let you have it all tonight. 

With a touch as sensuous as a butterfly’s wing, his thumb meanders through your aching bundle of nerves, igniting a fire of euphoria through your body. When he lightly palms your opening, when he feels the plushness of your slick walls, a delicate breath escapes your mouth, akin to a prayer of subservience to this very moment of pure pinch and rapture. 

“So sweet when you cum.” 

He blows your mind, the story of how you got here, the blowjob you pulled on him in his car — all that’s in the past. The only thing that matters is that you need to forget everything that happened tonight in the morning and the painstaking labor of that commitment. Pulling his belt on and off takes no extra time flat. His aching erection takes a toll on Leon, both psychologically and physically. 

When he tucks you properly into his bed, he casts a phantom over you like he’s your own exclusive brand of ghost. Kissing on a first date was never his thing, but he can’t let you go when his lips are still tantalized by your moreish taste. 

He’s making a nicer entrance than you’d expect and then some; you’re squeezing him so tightly, and he’s stippling hot kisses across the tender flesh of your throat. 

Breathless and forehead to forehead is too romantic and superfluous for a debut tryst, but that’s what rebound sex is for. 

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” 

Maybe he’s louder than you are in these seconds— in these very seconds of his whet of thrust followed by the seconds of him pulling out soon to only bully back into your dewy cunt.

Makes your head reeling, and he wallows in the sin of the tightness stretching around the sheer girth of his cock. 

“Fuck, baby. Look how you tighten around me.” His whisper is fervid and sweeping against your cheek.

Yes. Indeed, his mouth doesn’t seem to be shutting up here either, even when he’s fucking you deep in his own bed. 

The deep azure shade of his eyes is clouded with pearlescent blue; his pupils are pitch-black orbs, and he watches his cock slide in and out of your drenched pussy in chaotic upheaval, the metal of his frenum piercing taunting your swollen clit as you drape his dick in a warm cocoon. 

“Pretty, pretty pussy suckin’ me so nice, yeah?” His voice is a throaty whisper that makes your poor, mushy brain tingle tunefully — an acrid, itchy scab that has just covered the wound. 

“Fuck,” he grunts crassly, “been thinking about this all—ungh!—night—this fucking skirt up and fucking you real loud, baby.”

Seriously, he could just write a song or a lengthy poem for your lovely pussy right here and then. 

A hubristic tinge variegates his pink lips, a wicked one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s enjoying this; hell, he’s fucking loving it. His laugh-like treble is a low rumble as he pounds into you with a little more force, a little more urgency. The bed rocks under you, groaning abjectly. 

“C’mon, baby, cum on my cock. Y’know I got you. I got you so good.”

He knows how to do it.

Once bodies and emotions are merged, they move into a harmonic coherence, and just like that, he makes you cum for the second time tonight. A string of bland events that are frozen in your brain, clinging to your fiber, you feel your own tears trickling down your cheek in an attempt to get rid of them in one fell swoop, barely blinking open your eyes. 

You cradle his cheek closer, pushing away the wisps of hair falling in curtains in front of his blues. You want to kiss away the cruelty that cloaks his lips, but Leon, unable to tear himself away from your pussy that is still squeezing him, is too engrossed for such kisses. 

One blink and you’ll miss that fleeting moment as the seconds tick by, Leon barely pulls out a shred from you and strokes his cock on your belly until he finds comfort in it, painting white ribbons on your dainty skin. 

Seconds afterward are spent on your own, burdened by the cost of your one night’s slip-up, and you two stare at each other wide-eyed.

Two pairs of eyes, parted lips, and a kind of rare prettiness you usually find in men that will haunt you for a while. Ken blonde hair aglow in the light of the dawn and buried layers of emotions locked away in secrets that are too debauched to divulge.

Pearls of promise on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t dare spill them out. Heaven will hate you. Claire will hate you. You hate yourself.

In Leon’s estimation, per contra, you’re a damsel in distress, big eyes, and a girl who has somehow succeeded in wrapping all her depravity in the thin threads of her angelic eyes. Seraphic but dangerous. An inner part of his brain keeps hammering into his thoughts that everything has only just begun. 

[muffinsin]

I hope you’re enjoying your vacation! I had a fun thought and I’d love to know your HC on it. Which of the Dimitrescu sisters has the largest to the smallest breasts? And how would they go about using their breasts to tease and fluster the reader?

Awhh thanks hon! Writing this as I’m on vacation and it’s fire🙌🔥 I love that prompt, I’m surprised I haven’t done it before :)! Thanks for the request, let’s get into it!🙌

Masterlists

Bela

Her breasts are, size wise, ranked between the ones of her sisters

Pale as the rest of her, with slightly darker pink nipples that match her body perfectly

Round, and tight, just enough to press perfectly against her dress, yet never spill out

Her areola are thin, yet again they suit her quite nicely

Though what makes hers stand out are just how sensitive they, and the rest of her body, are

Especially her nipples are incredible sensitive and, with her right tactic, can bring her right to the edge of an orgasm if toyed with correctly

Despite not having the largest breasts between her and her sisters, they’re still quite of ample size and just a little larger than the average maid’s hands

Her favorite way of flustering you with them is by leaning over your desk, by far

Bela takes great pleasure in seeing your cheeks burn up adorably and to hear your heart suddenly pound faster and faster

And most adorable of all?

Your eyes, trying their very hardest to meet her own, golden ones. She knows fully well how hard it is for you to keep them there

And she loves when your eyes occasionally drop to her breasts, barely contained by her dress in this position

It always has your heart beat faster and palms turn sweaty. It’s truly her favorite thing to tease you with, her thick thighs and seductive voice aside

When feeling a little more experimental in the bedroom, she likes to use her breasts, too

When using a strap/reader has a dick, she likes to wrap her breasts around it and bounce them slightly

Not only is the visual stunning, but due to Bela’s own sensitivity in her nipples you easily feel the flustering, bubbly feeling in your belly at her sinful moans

Whether you feel it or not, the display is enough to make your head spin and for you to throb in want

Bela knows exactly how to work her body, and it’s very clear

This only makes you more flustered, often

In turn, you can often turn the table quite easily on her by toying with her nipples out of the blue

It’s something that usually catches the tall woman off guard, enough so for you to snicker and steal a kiss from her

Cassandra

Between her and her older and younger sister, she has the smallest boobs

And while they are still of ample size, Cassandra likes to rely on her thick ass to fluster and lure you in

She knows her strengths and with her strong arms and thighs, shapely hips and thick ass she hardly ever cares for her chest

Her nipples are a slightly darker shade of her pale greyish skin

Her areola are of somewhat average size, though sport small scars from when she accidentally nicked herself with her sharp claws when scratching herself at night

She doesn’t mind them, if anything finds they add a cool image to her chest

Adding to her, somewhat neglect of her chest, her breasts and nipples are by far less sensitive compared to those of her sisters

Shortly, she finds herself little intrigued by them, though enjoys using them to fluster you

Often, she does this without meaning to, in fact, relying so very much on the rest of her body

Occasionally, when feeling frustrated, Cassandra pulls you close to her to rest her arms, sometimes even her head on top of your head or shoulders

Only does she forget she’s, due to her not-quite so human nature, rather tall

And your face is usually not by her neck or shoulders, but rather right between her breasts

And the best?

The dress pushes them up and together nicely for you

You nuzzle them every time she does this, even as your cheeks burn like hellfire and your knees feel weak

When having cooled off, she usually pulls away, quite confused, but amused, to see you this flustered

Though, you know it is dangerous to tempt the huntress

Your nervous glances and quick heartbeat, your warm cheeks and weak legs often tempt her a little too much, so that your flustered state ends with a wolf-and deer type of chase in which you are to run from her like “the good little mouse you are”

When catching you, as she always does, it depends entirely on her mood whether punishment or reward awaits you

Daniela

Between her sisters and her, it becomes quite obvious that Daniela has the largest chest

Large breasts, soft and sensitive to the touch

Her own and yours, that is

Her nipples are a dusty pink color, whereas her areola are a similar shade of pale and pink

While all of her is somewhat sensitive, her breasts and especially her nipples take the top

She likes including her breasts when playing with herself or with you, whether she’s on top or not

Her favorite are beautiful, dark green or red ribbons that go around her breasts, hips and shoulders. They make her look nice and wrapped up, hugging her wide hips and round, soft breasts

Aside from this, when feeling particularly kinky and submissive, she likes to tease you by putting on accessories

Accessories, such as nipple clamps

Once she’s pierced them and you could have sworn you’d pass out. She looked fabulous with the silver piercing her sensitive, soft skin, and quite liked the look even

Sadly, her quick regeneration would not allow her to truly pierce her nipples for more than a few hours, sometimes even only one tops

Perhaps a fun idea when playing with ice-cold piercings, sometime…

When playing, she likes to squeeze them and moan sinfully in your ear

Your heart beats faster and it often results in your hands greedily reaching for her

She loves it, giggling and moaning every time she manages to get this reaction from you

Daniela, like her sisters, knows her own body perfectly well, and knows how to work it in her favor

She’s particularly fond of teasing you with a lapdance, when she’s facing you and her chest pushes up against you, barely contained by her tight dress

Sometimes, you are allowed to keep your hands on her breasts, squeezing greedily as she does this

At other times, she likes restraining you and practically pushing them in your face as she dances

She swears you make the cutest of sounds!

[respectthepetty]

The Loyal Pin - Episode 10

Last episode, my Wild Ass Theory that Anin and Pin will inherit their mother's colors as they come into adulthood resurfaced as Anin wore a yellow dress when she left the beach, and this episode, she wears a blue and yellow skirt as she asks her brother to teach her how to drive.

Anin's brother is wearing blue, so I had high hopes for him being supportive of Anin this episode, and the piggyback ride as well as the purple flowers helped me keep the faith.

But Kuea stays pissing me off, and Anin's younger brother seems oblivious to anything beyond his own little get-everyone-hitched agenda.

So, of course, Kuea runs immediately over to the main house DURING HIS WORK HOURS to snitch on Pin. I appreciate that everyone keeps questioning his worth ethic though.

But the mom is wearing pink and blue, so unlike Anin's older brother, I have no idea how she'll take this news. Pin is wearing a darker pink now though, so I think the adult responsibilities are coming sooner than the girls are realizing.

AND WE GET BACKSTORY! Part of my Wild Ass Theory was that Pin's mom was a lesbian. She has her more vibrant pink color, but at times she wears yellow/orange. I guessed the yellow/orange came from a previous lover.

So her opening a sunflower ring was all the evidence I needed.

I don't know if Im's color is peach or pink.

But I can't focus because Patt is on the floor looking like a snack, and I think she is in blue.

Then, we see Im and Patt's love story. Patt was Im's companion and Im is still wearing whatever color she is wearing, while Patt is fully in blue.

And they were in love with each other.

Patt knows what Pin's ring means because she was once Pin. Im gave Patt the yellow flower ring in the same way Anin gave the ring to Pin.

But there was no happily ever after for Patt and Im because Im died!

I thought the backstory would help clear up the colors and the confusion, but it didn't! Patt seemed colorless in the past like Aon is now. If Im's color was pink, then it makes sense Patt carried it with her all this time. And if Im's color was peach, it makes sense that Patt uses it every now and then, yet it doesn't explain why Patt shifted her color from blue to purple. It also doesn't make sense why she was so upset about Pin's ring. It's not like Im rejected her or left her for a someone else. Im died. They loved each other. That love was real and never doubted, so why is she upset at Pin's ring now?!

The girls and their colors are evolving, but they are changing together, so what is the mom so afraid of? If we had seen society or some external factors harming Patt and Im's relationship, maybe I could understand, but the backstory just makes me think she should be more supportive of the girls' love.

But here she is now fully in her color and throwing her support behind Kuea! I do not comprehend this.

I'm shocked that Anin's older brother seems to be the only one with any sense! I was worried when he showed up colorless, but he helped to cover for his sister.

And now he can get that ally badge for supporting the color-coded couple!

Anin and I both love him dearly!

But Patt is still bothering me! She is a lesbian! She shows up in yellow and orange because she still loves Im. So why not let the color-coded girls be IN LOVE?!

Pin's color is getting redder just like her mom's, and I'm worried that her mom is going to push even harder next episode for her to get married. We have six episodes left. Even though I don't fully know what the colors mean, the reds and yellows/oranges are showing up too often now for me to ignore.

Just like Anin sneaking up on Prik, these colors and adulthood are sneaking up on the girls while they are just trying to enjoy their lives.

By the end of the episode, the color-coded girls in love seem to have sorted their issues out because Pink Person Pin is looking lovely.

Which is probably due to her getting all of Anin's attention after not seeing her for a weeks.

And Blue Beauty Anin looks refreshed the day after.

So of course this chick with her can't-get-one-consistent-color self would ruin the color-coded happiness I wanted to feel secure in!

Patt's color confuses me, but Aon's color(s) frustrate me because I don't know if she is trying to be Pin which is why she wears Pin's color(s) or if she has no real identity and will shape herself into whatever she needs to be to please Anin because she never wears a consistent color.

And I know this frustratation is going to stick with me next episode because my babygirl is crying, and I'm already salty about it.

At least Pin and Anin will be solely in their colors next episode, so I have nothing to worry about with them and their relationship, right?

*Heng walks into the scene* FUCK!

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Hey, I was wondering if you'd do a Roy Kent x reader series (maybe) where she asks him to pretend they're boyfriend/girlfriend because her ex-boyfriend is marrying her somewhat younger sister. Kinda like The Wedding Date (if you've seen it). Ends up happily ever after?

Ahh, I was going to originally try to do this in one go, but decided to do this in a few small parts so I can get some fluff breaks while working on my longer fic. Here's part one!

Playing Pretend (Part 1)

Roy Kent x Reader

1.9k words

Warnings: Language, references to possible cheating, mutual pining, major rom-com vibes

Summary: The reader has a huge favor to ask Roy Kent- a guy who can never say no to her.

Series Masterlist

“What the fuck d’you want me to do?”

“Be my boyfriend,” you explained slowly. “At the wedding.”

Roy wrinkled his nose. “There’s really no one else you can ask?”

You let out a giant sigh and tapped the side of your beer bottle. “I mean, sure, maybe. But you’re Roy fucking Kent. You’d be kind of perfect.”

His eyes bore into yours. Roy Kent had known you quite literally your whole life; he could still remember when his very pregnant mother took him to the hospital to meet you, his sister’s future best friend. Your families were ridiculously close. Up until you were about sixteen, he thought of you as an annoying little bonus sister; then, one Christmas, he came home and suddenly felt decidedly un-brotherly towards you. The way you smiled at him, the way you wore that pink dress, the way you kissed his cheek before you left at the end of the party, all of it made something snap in his brain. For years after that, the very sight of you burned his chest. But there was no way he could tell you; his little sister’s best friend? Cliché.

But those cliché feelings meant he couldn’t say no to you. Not when you’d called him late at night needing to escape from skeevy dates. Not when you’d begged him for an autograph from Jamie Tartt. Not when you’d demanded to know where he got the kebabs he brought to his sister’s parties. And definitely not now, when your heart was in a million pieces as you watched your baby sister get ready to marry your ex-boyfriend.

The idea was insane, you freely admitted that. But the situation you found yourself was equally insane, if you were being honest.

You had dated Jim for years. And Roy fucking hated him. The guy was everything Roy wasn’t: friendly, outgoing, affable, posh, clever. And you loved him. Your parents loved him. Everyone loved him.

When Jim ended things out of the blue three years ago, everyone was shocked. He hadn’t proposed, per se, but it was expected. Things were implied. You’d started looking at rings and thinking about venues. So, when he suddenly broke up with you, you were devastated. You’d spent more than a few nights curled up on the couch at Roy’s sister’s house, with Roy taking Phoebe out of the house so you could mourn with your best friend in peace.

Just when you thought you were pretty much over things, your baby sister Lauren came home with big news. And a ring on her finger. And Jim.

You’d quietly excused yourself from the party she’d chosen to announce her engagement at, walked into a bathroom and vomited, and called Roy. He’d picked you up and drove you to his sister’s, where he watched you drink whiskey straight from a bottle and cry in his sister’s arms.

Now you sat next to him at a bar, where you’d asked him to meet you so you could ask him a huge favor. He’d expected tickets to a match, or help moving to a new flat, or asking him to donate a fucking kidney, literally anything but this. A weekend at some posh estate where your whole family would be celebrating your sister and fucking Jim, watching your heart break all over again sounded like absolute shit to Roy.

But you looked at him with those stupid pleading eyes. “Please, Roy,” you begged. “You’re the only guy I trust enough for this. You’ll protect me. You always protect me.”

There it was. It wasn’t just having the big football star on your arm to show off to everyone; it was having someone you felt safe with. Someone who wouldn’t mock you. Someone who understood. And Roy was always determined to be that person.

“Fine. I’ll fucking do it.”

His cheek burned like fire where you kissed him in gratitude. “Thanks a million Roy! This is why you’re my favorite fella.

Favorite fella. You’d called him that for years. Your mother was the first person to say it after seeing the way you toddled after him all the time once you’d learned to walk. Through the boyfriends you had, through the models he dated, you assured him time and time again that he’d always be your favorite fella.

Roy ignored the warmth in his chest and sipped his beer. “Doesn’t it feel a bit like you’re stealing your sister’s thunder? Bringing a professional footballer as your date?” he mused, anxious to move the conversation along and distract himself from how fucking pretty you looked.

The shrug you gave held a coldness he didn’t know someone as kind as you could muster. “Well, she did steal my boyfriend.”

The smirk that Roy gave made your heart flutter, reminding you of all the pining you’d done for him over the years. “Fair enough.” He looked thoughtful. “You don’t have to answer but… did he… and she…?” He nodded emphatically, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Another shrug. “Who fucking knows? I don’t need to know. They didn’t have the decency to tell me they’d started shagging, that’s all I need to know.”

Roy’s heart was sad to see the hurt in your eyes. He quickly changed his tone. “Can’t believe my sister isn’t invited. Figured you’d wrangle her into keeping you company all weekend.”

You snorted, one of Roy’s favorite sounds. “Oh, she was,” you corrected him. “She’s protesting because she hates Jim and my sister.” You raised your bottle to Roy appreciatively. “Yet another reason to invite you- I need at least one Kent there. And Phoebe couldn’t do shots with me or carry me back to our room when I’m sloshed.”

That was a job Roy wouldn’t mind doing. “Bit surprised I didn’t get an invite. Only known Lauren since she was fucking born.”

“Oh, there was no way you were getting invited. Jim hates you.” Your tone was so matter of fact it took Roy off guard.

“Excuse me?” Roy’d had no idea the disdain was mutual.

You nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, when we were dating, he did not like me hanging out with a dishy footballer. Hates your guts.” Your face lit up playfully. “Yet another reason you’re the perfect wedding date.”

Another smirk crossed his bearded face. “Dishy? Is that his word or yours?”

With a laugh, you shoved him, slipping into that familiar old comfort, the one that made you forget he was Roy Kent. “Don’t go getting a big head, otherwise you won’t fit in the car.”

~

Two weeks later, Roy felt his grip on the steering wheel tighten as he pulled into the drive of the estate the two of you would be spending the weekend at. Of course Jim’s family had gone all out for the wedding. Wanker.

Your leg shook almost violently as your eyes darted around. Instinctively, Roy reached out and took your hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Three days,” he reminded you. “That’s all we’ve gotta get through. Rehearsal dinner tomorrow, wedding Saturday, stupid brunch on Sunday.”

Looking down at your intertwined fingers, you nodded. “Maybe we can skip brunch?” you joked.

Deciding he should start playing the doting boyfriend now, he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of your hand. “We can abso-fucking-lutely skip brunch.”

And you knew he meant it. Roy always meant it. It was one of the million things that made him your absolute life-long unattainable crush that you thrust into the back of your mind. You always felt like a dumb little kid around him, as if you never quite outgrew the childhood you’d shared, but part of you hoped this weekend together would maybe help him see you in a different light. Besides, Roy’s sister was right when she suggested that Roy would really get under Jim’s skin.

As if summoned, Jim came bounding out of the house, waving at the familiar sight of your car. You felt your breath catch as you gazed at him. Jim. Your Jim. At least, what used to be your Jim.

You got out of the car and waved back. “Hey there!” you called, as if you hadn’t spent the last nine months avoiding him at every family gathering he and Lauren attended.

His smile faded when Roy got out of the car, wearing that signature scowl of his. “Roy!” Jim shouted, quickly recovering. “Didn’t know you were coming.” Now in front of you, he leaned closer. “Thought you were bringing that mystery boyfriend of yours,” he whispered, ignoring the fact that Roy could hear him.

Alright. Here we go. Time to sell it.

“I did,” you chirped brightly. You waved Roy over and wrapped an arm around his waist, while he placed a hand on your shoulder. “Surprise!”

For all the years you’d spent with Jim, you’d never seen him so red in the face. “Oh! Wow! That’s great!”

Roy smiled, a smug grin that felt so fucking good on his face. “It is great, isn’t it? Me and this one, finally getting together.”

Jim cleared his throat, squirming like a worm. “Right. Well, when did this-”

“Sister!”

Lauren came sprinting out of the house, squealing as if you were her favorite person in the world. She wrapped you in a hug and planted multiple kisses on your cheek. When she pulled back, she finally noticed Roy.

“Oh. Roy. What’re you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Lauren,” he muttered through his teeth.

Your sister turned to you. “What happened to mystery boyfriend? I was so looking forward to meeting him,” she pouted.

You laid a hand on Roy’s stomach, pulling him close, pretending as if you did this all the time and not just in your dreams. “Well, I’m not sure introductions are necessary, considering you’ve known him forever,” you joked, hoping your tone was light.

Lauren looked as if she was doing a difficult maths problem. “I’m sorry, Roy? Your mystery boyfriend is Roy? As in, known him our whole lives, football phenomenon, used to chase you around the backyard with spiders Roy? That Roy?” Her eyes darted to Jim, who looked just as confused. “Are you joking?”

“Absolutely not,” you lied. “You said I could bring a date. I told you I’d bring my boyfriend.” You nodded towards Roy. “There he is. Is there problem or can we grab our things?”

That superior smile your youngest sister often wore appeared. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” She judged Jim. “Love, could you send someone to grab their things?”

Roy rolled his eyes with one of his familiar groans. “Just tell me where the fucking room is. I can carry my own shit.” After a quick look from you, he cleared his throat. “Sorry, just a bit tired from the drive. And, if we’re being candid, kind of want to get this one alone for a bit before dinner, you know?” A kiss landed on the top of your head, painting your face a deep red.

The bride and groom both gawked at you, as if waiting for one of you to shout that you were kidding, that you were pathetically alone and that Roy was leaving. When neither of you did, Lauren cleared her throat. “Right. Um, when you go inside the housekeeper can show you where to go.” She turned to Jim. “We should go, er, check on that thing, right darling?”

Jim nodded, his eyes on you. “Right, right.” He offered a small wave. “We’ll see you later then.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Roy looked down at you, eyebrow quirked. “Well. This’ll be a fun weekend, hmm?”

[fanartlover1234]

A DEADLY THING

Y/n is ready to get revenge on Bridget and her boyfriend Hook is all in for it

Captain James Hook × Cruella de vil sister!reader

Based on a request from my dm

Hook x VK girlfriend where instead of just Uliana who turns into a flamingo it's also the reader who turns into a flamingo and plans to get revenge on Bridget

Y/n truly was never the one to go extreme on revenge, but now she was fuming.

It was barely past morning when Bridgets flamingo faethers, thosr stupid feathers turned her into a flamingo.

She and the rest where minding their own buisness in shadows when they noticer poor little Bridget handing out treat bribe as usual.

Uliana and Y/n couldnt help but justess with her a little.

Uliana snached the cupcakes and took off the feathers as Y/n slowly made her way there, her black heals clicking as her black mini dress hughed her curves.

"Thats Y/n De Vil, Cruellas younger sister and maybe the only one worse then Uliana" Bridget explained but quieted down when the girl steped infront of her and kicking the fallen tray of cupcakes at her, smearing Bridgets shoes.

"Oops" sound left from her lips before she steped back leaning on Ulianas shouldr and they split the feather four amd four.

"Wait thats too much" Bridget mumbled.

"Be silenent you little -" cough followed by another as all stepes back when Uliana and Y/n both began turning pink and not few seconds later both were chasing Bridget as the pink haired girl ran for her life.

Both girls ran to the side couryard before a push on they backs made them tumble into the fountain.

When they dove up Uliana kepr screaming about getting revenge while Y/n only cursed under her breath in annoyance.

She stumbles over as Hook steped forward taking his jacker off amd placing it over her shoulder.

"Im gonna kill her, im gonna make her pay for what she did" she mumbled all the way to the dorm while Hook only stayed silent too afraid fo get between her anger and her.

When they finaly reached her dorm she stood as the boy leaned on the door frame.

"Well if you need help ploting, y'know where to find me darling" he said reaching in her hair to pull out a feather.

A smirk on his lips as she annoyingly smiled when she blowed the feather from hims friends.

When she said goodbye and closed the door, she was met with Uliana.

"You know what im thinking?" She asked as she poped a candy in her mouth with a tenickle.

"Meet with the rest by the lagoon in 2 " Y/n said before walking in the bathroom when Uliana left.

In two hours the girl was making her way to lagoon and into the fish cave.

"You are late" Uliana said as she crossed her arms.

"Quit scolding and start ploting, you sound like merlin otherwise" Y/n said before walking over to Hook who swing his hooked arm over her soulder.

"How about we make her walk the plank" Hook questioned.

"Darlin' thats too easy" Y/n said brushing under her boyfriends chin with her red nails "we need something worse"

"Prick her with a thousand thorns" Malificent said.

"And what she fall asleep?" Uliana asked annoyed.

"Let burn her to a crisp" Hades obviously said while he's hair set in blue flames.

"Yeah let burn her to crisp" Morgie voted in on what hades had said but Y/n steped in annoyed.

"No, it should be worse, worse, worse than all of these" she said walking up the stairs as Uliana casted a spell so it would bring a perfect punishment for the pinky girl.

"Revenge should be vicious in whatever we do to that poor unfortunate soul should be ten times more cruel" Uliana said as she performed the spell "Calling all spirits of the Black Lagoon show me your recipe fit for her doom toxically sweet with a side of pure spite i need the perfect revenge that will bite"

The light opened as it showed a book and Y/n screamed in annoyance.

"What's this? A book, that's it? Iasked for a painful punishment"

Uliana stoped her when the plan begin to show itself "But hold up, wait, this might be evil on a plate. So I'ma serve her what she deserves, what she deserves "

"And that's justice, dressed up like the sweetest dessert. Perfect" Y/n voted in as she laughed out.

After figuring out revenge Hook and Y/n walked to the dorms.

Hook sat on the girls bed while she got ready, she pulled her black silk sleeping dress on and walked over to Hook who watched her intesly.

"If you keep eye-fucking me, i might not make it tomorrow" she said as she steped arma reach away from him.

"I dont need to eye fuck you, i do it in person rather my sweetling" he said pulling her on his lap both her leg on either side of him.

"Well perhaps after, i wish to see her poor little face when she turns" Y/n said as sne brushed her hand through his brown hair.

The boy smirked at her pulling her closer as he fell back on the bed now both laying down as the girl still sat on his lips.

"Oh i love it when you're wicked" he said.

"Is that so?" The girl asked mockingly before kissing the boy under her.

This was so fun to write and i hope i did a good job at this :)

[deepdeanvsweston]

Trans Alex headcannons <3

- actually Daisy who gifts her her first dress, a silky blue number she wore for an exeat weekend one time thrown onto Alex's bed with a note that reads 'i didn't want it anyway'

- (Daisy is less than pleased when Alex comes in and gives her a huge hug)

- Alex learns to plait her hair from George, who of course just already knows how to do it

- following this, she orders in fancy hairstyle instructions from women's magazines, which Daisy and George pore over trying to work out how they do them

- she is of course also autistic, and stims by swishing her skirts round her legs

- Alex really likes the way heels look on her, only they hurt her when she wears them and this makes her cry because she WANTS to wear them > Hazel stops wearing heels in solidarity

- George is a little bit more excited than he'd be willing to admit at the opportunities that half the Junior Pinkertons being a girl now presents

- she used to dislike dancing as she felt she was too lanky and awkward, but LOVES it now as she's the one being led around the dancefloor and can twirl her legs and skirts as much as she pleases

- Alex and George are embarrassed that they had to ask Hazel how to put on a bra >

"No, Alex, I think women clip it up at the back..."

"How? Surely there's an easier way..."

- she eventually comes out to Harold (he is like a brother to her at this point) and Alex can't tell if he's truly ok with it or not until he asks her to dance at some party, him leading > she glows with joy all evening

- hates mirrors but loves what she looks like in shop window reflections as if she moves quick enough she looks just like a Woman On Business

- hates tights and thinks they should die a fiery death

- now she's come out, Alex feels like she's 'allowed' to do and have all the things that were period-typically reserved for girls, so she starts to decorate her room differently, with embroidered flowers on her sheets and at least 2 music boxes

- (Alex likes that the teeny ballerina inside one of them looks like her)

- pyjamas make her really dysphoric, even if she's wearing her new Girl™ pyjamas, so she wears George's instead > partially because of comfort, but also because it relieves her dysphoric feelings as in her head it explains them away by it being someone else's clothes and not her thinking she just looks bad in her own

- you may have noticed she keeps her own name > just genuinely likes it, and also she couldn't get used to a different name

- Daisy starts calling her a shrimp because it's her 'first year' at being a girl

- just really loves skirts trust me when I say this

- Alex both despises and adores the beach > despises it because you wear a swimming costume and adores it because you wear a swimming costume

- (has a complicated relationship with swimming costumes as it's like the one thing she was most jealous she couldn't wear as a boy but also they give her major dysphoria)

- all Alex's toys as a child were girls, and made her brother pretend they were Nancy Drew and her friends on a case when they were younger > she of course played as Nancy Drew

- her favourite lipstick colour is pink, and she purposely tries to leave a lipstick mark on all her drinks glasses and mugs simply because it makes her happy to see

- idk I just love her so much

[ohlawdthebirds]

Suit and Tie

Abby Anderson x gn! Reader

This fic was inspired by a drabble written by @toasty-melons! This one specifically.

Also, pretty sure this photo was edited by @abbystanaccount, but I could be wrong. Please correct me if I am!

You were a bit scared to approach the mirror. You weren’t sure if you’d like what you saw looking back at you, whether the suit would look as good as it did when you saw it in the store. Looking back on it, you were more than hasty in your purchase, not even bothering to check the size. But even if it didn’t look good, you had no other options. You silently cursed yourself for waiting until the last minute to find a formal outfit for Ellie and Dina’s wedding.

The original plan had been to wear a dress, sure, but as the wedding date got closer and closer, you found yourself wavering in your decision. See, the problem wasn’t wearing a dress, far from it. The problem was that you had recently found yourself leaning outside the comfort zone your wardrobe provided. Maybe it was the beautiful butches and studs your social media feeds graced you with, maybe it was your girlfriend donning a suit herself for the occasion, or maybe it was simply curiosity. Either way, the day before the wedding you rushed to your local mall and bought the first suit you saw.

The suit itself was nothing remarkable. A single-button black blazer with black slacks to match. Your dress shirt was a clean, crisp white and the tie that came with it was a skinny thing, the same midnight black as the blazer and slacks. It was simple and you’d paired it with the cutest chunky loafers you found in the depths of your closet. It was a miracle everything fit, snug yet comfortable enough to dance in once Ellie inevitably goaded the DJ into playing the entirety of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon.

You inhaled deeply, holding it for a beat before slowly pushing the air through your teeth. This would be good; things would be just fine. You stepped closer to the mirror, eyes immediately catching on the lopsided tie strung around your neck.

“Aw man, you gotta be kidding me,” You began fiddling with the tie, crossing it over itself to try and resemble something close to a Windsor knot. No matter what you tried, it kept coming loose. A quick glance at the Casio on your wrist revealed you had little more than an hour to finish up and head over to the venue. Your fingers quickened, frantic.

Heavy footfalls sounded from behind you. Your girlfriend, Abby, came into view in the mirror. You halted your tying, opting to pivot and stare at the eye candy she was.

God, you told Abby nearly everyday just how gorgeous she was (to which she would blush and scoff) but today? In a navy-blue three-piece suit, complete with brown loafers and her wire-frame glasses, your lover was something out of a sapphics wet dream. Her hair was out of its usual braid, blonde locks down and wavy at the ends. “You good, babe? Seem to be, uh, struggling with that.” Abby did a poor job of holding back a laugh.

You rolled your eyes. “Hush. I’m trying to get this tie done because we have to leave soon.”

Abby came closer, thick fingers reaching out to release the tie from your grip. “Want some help? My dad used to have me help him tie his ties when I was younger. Said it was a good skill just in case I needed to ever help out my husband or something.”

This time it was you struggling to hold back a laugh. “And now look at you. Not a husband in sight.”

Abby snorted at this, beginning to adjust the fabric and folding it over itself. “Nope, just someone I hope to make my wife someday.”

At this, you stilled. Looking up into those sky blues, you felt a smile creeping onto your lips. “Wife, huh? Well, you’re gonna have to wait until Ellie and Dina have their day, they’d kill us if you proposed during the reception.”

Abby completed the tie and straightened it around your neck, gently checking for creases and wrinkles. “I know, lovely, I know. That’s why I have an elaborate proposal planned. But you’re not gonna know when it’s happening.” At this, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Oh? And how do you know I don’t have a more elaborate proposal planned for you?”

Abby stepped back, smoothing down your shirt and buttoning your suit jacket. She dusted your shoulders free of lint. “You might, I wouldn’t know. I expect to be surprised, since you’re so confident in it.”

You shook your head, amused by your girlfriend’s antics. “Don’t worry, you’ll be plenty surprised. Now let’s get going, we don’t wanna miss the ceremony.”

As Abby turned to leave, you found yourself reaching out and turning your girlfriend back around.

“Wait.”

The confused furrow in Abby’s brow smoothed out once your hands began tugging across the fabric of her suit, similar to her movement on yours only moments earlier. You swept your fingers over her blazer, flicking off fabric pilling and loose threads. You slid your hands down her vest-covered chest, briefly tucking your hands into the spacious pockets and smoothing out the fabric within. Finally, you reached up and straightened her tie, making sure it laid flat down on her torso.

“There you go gorgeous. Now we’re ready to leave.”

Abby smiled at this, a soft one reserved for these more intimate moments. “Thank you, my love. Let’s go.”

On the way out the door, you found your hand drifting to your secure tie. “Your dad taught you well, babe. Maybe you can pass those skills onto Lev when he gets older.”

Abby barked out a laugh. “Absolutely, I’ll definitely do that. He’s gonna be the ring bearer in our wedding, after all.”

And off the two of you went, to celebrate your friend’s special day and begin planning one of your own.

[crimeronan]

Would love so so much for you to elaborate on the happiest looks for the oc quartet and what took you by surprise about them and what you think each of them conveys/implies. Sol I'm seeing longer hair and more comfortable less exposing clothing, etc, but can you talk a little about what each of their happiest option looks means and how it took you by surprise and how it contrasts with the reality and why it would be them at their best? thank you!! if you do

oh this is so sweet 🥺 thank u for permission to infodump about my guys.....

reference images here!

i often joke that devin and i have the same gender feelings in opposite directions, which basically boil down to, "i know i'd be a lot happier with my body on prescription hormones, but i am Way too sick right now to give a fuck."

so like. a happier devin is one who's been on E for years and grown her hair out for just as long. i was taken by surprise by Just How Femme she was (...similar to me having some weird masc revelations doing the same exercise for my idealized self).

also was mildly surprised that her clothing remained exactly the same as in the main verse. i played around with all the other clothing options, but a black tank top + ratty pants + bare feet are all Quintessential Devin Items.

the very visible scarring is bc she's never cared if people see that her body is fucked up & i want that to be true in the happy timeline too.

ruby's surprised me in that i didn't have to change much at all to get her Idealized External Self. she's already pretty true to what brings her joy. in professional environments, her clothes are much more muted, but everything she's wearing could come out of her non-work wardrobe.

her hair is worn fluffy instead of in box braids because she would Love to dye her natural hair like this. however she does Not love the need to carve out time and motivation to maintain it every damn day for the rest of fucking eternity, so. box braids it is!

also important is that ruby isn't wearing anything practical. those sandals aren't safe for difficult hikes/on-your-feet labor. that skirt is a massive mound of fabric. that jewelry gets in the way, that shirt has no armoring or support, she hasn't prioritized pockets or a practical bag or hidden defense weapons or anything. this ruby is free of basically all of the responsibility and weight dragging her main timeline self down

sol's long hair surprised me -- she had long hair when she was much younger & she has not wanted to grow it out again for trauma reasons. but she likes it better long. so a long-haired sol is one who's overcome at least some of her trauma. her hair has been silver since birth but the white streaks signify that she's aging gracefully & older than she ever expected to become

as for her clothes, it's comfy athletic wear that she's wearing for the sake of mobility and comfort. (with the red-and-black shoes to sneak in a little of her murder aesthetic.) in the main timeline, she'd SAY that she dresses for herself, but the amount of sharp & tailored & restrictive clothing she wears is.... Definitely for other people. or at least, it's for preserving her own image toward other people.

and then transmasc butch nova. LMAO. GOD.

main timeline nova puts an insane amount of effort into "i'm a pretty barbie girl <333" and has sunk So Much of her self-worth into being blonde and blue-eyed and glowing and gorgeous. she also has watercolor sleeve tattoos, but when i did her full-body picrew tats, black ink felt..... more correct. like. what would your tats look like if you weren't a Rainbow Goddess of Light

and then the rest of it is also very. what would you be if you weren't a Rainbow Goddess of Light. if you take away all the Rainbow Goddess of Light features, nova is.... desperately unhappy. and desperately compensating for something. and i think having top surgery and working as a butch car mechanic somewhere would fix her.

as for the pink shoes and hot topic jewelry, that's just bc i think nova would find it fun to do gnc nonsense. nova-without-divinity isn't A Man or fully married to doing Man Things... i feel like it would be wrong for her to just go as gung-ho for performative masculinity as her main timeline self does for performative femininity. nova-without-divinity is wearing whatever she wants and looking however she wants and being hilarious and delightful while she does it <3 god bless.

[tree0frog]

A rose by any other name

Series masterlist

Hazbin masterlist

Main masterlist

Previous

Warnings- deal making

You looked down at your pinky finger to see a red string appear, it was faded but it was there.

“Are you all right my dear?” Rosie asked looking a little confused.

You blinked, clearing your mind from the haze that it had entered.

“Yes I'm quite alright sorry” You smiled at the overlord.

“Oh my now tell me dear how did such a pretty face end up somewhere down here?” the demon questioned now standing as she looked through a rack of clothes in different shades of red pinks and even some purples.

“Ah well I killed my husband,” you said watching the overlord with a keen eye.

“Oh my stars did you really oh I just know that the two of us will get on just wonderful don’t you think my dear” Rosie asked as she held up a red dress eye black eye darting between the dress and yourself.

“Why don’t you try this on and see if you like it or not,” Rosie said handing you the dress you smiled at the woman before she showed you to a room where you could get changed.

“Are you all right my dear?” Rosie asked.

Her head poked through the side of the door as she spotted you.

“Could you lace me up Miss Rosie?” you questioned holding the two strings behind your back and looking at yourself in the mirror.

It was the first time that you had a good look at your self your skin once its natural colour was now a paler version with a light purple tint to it and you had green vines going down your left leg it looked almost embedded into your skin.

Rosie’s eyes sparkled as she walked behind your frame.

“Oh don’t you look lovely, i’m sure you will have all of the men asking for your hand” she said not missing the way your face scrunched up when she said the men would ask for your hand.

Teing the last not in the corset for your dress Rosie let out a small hum, she could see this arua about you almost like a power just waiting to be explored.

~Time skip~

You sat outside on one of the many benches in cannibal town people watching, there were people of all different ages and races from sinners to hellebores.

Rosie had been kind enough to give you a spare room for the time being it wasn’t anything fancy it was just a plain box room with a bed a desk and a wardrobe which was county empty.

“Hey give it back” You turned to see a shark demon take something from one of the younger demons just outside of the two.

You weren’t sure what made you do something or even how you did what you did but the next thing both you and the child know the shark demon is coughing up blue petals which were slowly turning red due to his blood mixing onto the petals.

The coughing stopped and the demon fell to the floor.

“Thank you miss,” the child said as you kneeled to their eye leave.

“You not hurt are you?” you ask your eyes doing a quick scan on the small child.

Your eyes fell on a small leaf that was on the ground next to you, picking it up you held it in front of you and the small child.

“Let's make a deal,” you said softly the kid nodded eyes full of excitement.

“Any time you are in dangler hold this leaf and I will come to protect you” The kid nodded before speaking.

“Does this man you will take my sole?” they asked which made you think for a moment.

Would this child offer up their sole for your protection?

“Your sole for my protection how does that sound?” the kid nodded before taking your hand in theirs binding the deal a flash of green light splashed out making you squint your eyes a bit.

Over the next few weeks small in incidents kept happening,like the first time sinner gave you their soles for your help in one way or another.

“My my you made quite a name for your self my dear”Rosie laughed taking a sip of her tea or well you though it was tea but it looked more like blood than tea but who are you to judge.

“I suppose so mine you my dear Rosie this was never intentional”you laughed looking at the red string on your finger.

“What a strange fixture on your hands my dear”Rosie laughed.

“Well it’s just a red string on my pinky”you laughed.

“Oh my dear stars do you know what this means?” The overlord asked practically jumping in her seat.

You shook your head. No.

“Your soulmate is in hell my dear!” She smiled

“My what!”

~~~~~~~~~

Next

[ranchycowgirllover]

Alright so I made a Stella Re-Design, this post ‘ill be kinda long cuz I wanna explain things and such

My main problems with this design are 1- Details that are unneeded that lead to inconvenience in the animation department (like seriously watch scenes with her and focus on her lashes) 2- This outfit isn’t very regal, I’m guessing the bottom of the dress is supposed to resemble feathers idk it just doesn’t look good.

Alright so we have that out of the way, I have made a few different possible re designs. You’ll see the one I prefer at the end.

This one I tried to keep more in line with the original pink princess theme. Simplified the dress and hair (I imagine that her hair can fluff up when she’s angry) and I replaced the dark purple with a maroon. I also made her hair white. This way the only purple is her make up which should cause you to look at her face more.

This one is a more evil Queen inspired Stella, used the purple as a main dress color, I gave her green/blue eyes and grey hair which she had in the pilot. The eyes are help tell her apart from her husband, and the hair change is to make her look older and more regal. I changed the style of dress now she looks less little girl costume princess. (No hate to princess peach)

This is a younger Stella design that I did. My canon is that she was dressed this way as to appeal more to Stolas.

Now this is the final design that I chose. The purple is for royalty, I did away with the dark purple as to make her look less threatening. And the dress is rococo era inspired just because I those dresses no real reason

I also did a design for her brother.

His changes were simplify his outfit, and the other stuff like his hair were changed to match his redesigned sister

Alright so that’s all the art. The rest of the this is just going to be me ranting and raving about her character.

Okay so I think we should acknowledge how fucked Stella’s situation is. She’s in an arranged marriage and her only purpose in hells society was to give birth to an heir.

Stolas and her brother are shown to have magic powers, and Stolas we know he has princely duty’s so we can assume the same for her brother. Stella doesn’t have any of these she was meant to be a baby a maker. Even her name Stella compliments Stolas’s role as star prince or whatever.

Now in the first episode of season 2 we have Stella making fun of her husband how he’s bad in bed and how she’s glad she doesn’t have to fuck him because she’s given birth. I think this is Viv’s attempt at making this situation seem less fucked up.

I don’t even know it just makes me really uncomfortable that this very feminine woman in a shitty situation is being vilified. Like if I was in Stella’s situation I’d probably have anger issues too. I’m just so tired of being told that feminine outrage and displays of anger make us monstrous bitches.

Now obviously Stolas being forced into a loveless marriage also sucks and is an awful situation for him too. But he’s not that much better than Stella. Both are shown to be physically abusive to the castle staff, and Stella for all her faults isn’t black mailing someone into sex.

Now having two shitty people wouldn’t bother me if the narrative didn’t bend over backwards to make Stolas seem like such good guy, just an uwu gay bean. His wife is SO mean she won’t let the gay people be happy 🥺. Also painting abusers as cartoonishly evil monsters does a disservice to people who have been abused is all I’m saying.

Anyways I’ll hopefully have a Stolas Redesign up next

Bye now

[futurequibblerjournalist]

Would you mind giving my girl Charity some love? She's my fav Snapegang member and ur version is so special to me

Yes yes yesss I love my girl Charity so much I would love to talk about her!!!

Charity Grace Burbage was born on October 10, 1959, in her family home in Hodnet, Shropshire, England to Herbert and Dorothea Burbage (née Kelpis). She has one brother, Chance, who is I wanna say four or so years older than her??

Her father is a pureblood and her mother is a half-blood. I know many people headcanon her to be a muggleborn but her wiki says that while her blood status was unknown she was most likely a half-blood or a pureblood. Herbert was a Gryffindor like many of his siblings, though a handful of his siblings were also in Hufflepuff like Dorothea and her younger sister. I’m thinking Chance was a Gryffindor but I’m not 100% sure

Charity grew up with a father that valued academics and a mother who thought her best asset was her beauty. This has caused Charity to be partially conflicted when it comes to her intellect and you’ll be quite likely to catch her twirling her hair around her finger and pretending not to know the answer to something if it can get her something she wants

There are very few characters I think are truly popular at Hogwarts while also being actually cool and not just a nerd in disguise (as an example Sirius is a popular, cool person while James is a popular person who’s actually a nerd in disguise)

She’s always been very open and she’s adopted most of her friends tbh. Most people end up with a soft spot for her, often because she portrays herself as ditzy and a little useless?

She spent years trying to become friends with Aurora and when they finally managed to get a solid friendship going she was over the moon. She definitely got them friendship bracelets or friendship keychains or something except it’s not just made of braided yarn and cheap beads she got something hella expensive with fancy stones shimmering in there.

Charity is a yapper at her core. She can literally talk forever. Also, she talks "like totally like this, you know?" In the nicest way possible the girl loves the sound of her own voice. She loves herself. Not in like an egotistical way but she just genuinely loves herself and who she is as a person. She's naturally optimistic and it’s rare to see her without a smile

Speaking of things it’s hard to see her without,,,, pink. That girl is pink if pink was a person. With accents of soft yellow and baby blue. Honestly pan Charity is growing on me more and more. The girl literally dresses like the flag!!!

I cannot express how much she’s glitz and glamour. Her mother would have put her (and her brother) in pageants as children had they been American. And Charity would have loved it (honestly Chance might have too)

She’s got huge, blonde corkscrew curls, large blue eyes with long lashes and a mole on her left upper lip. Her nails are always done. She’s somehow always got glitter somewhere.

She writes a diary and she sprays the paper with sweet perfume before jotting down all her thoughts with a pen that’s got a fluffy end. She dots her ‘i’s with little hearts. She lays on her stomach as she writes and kicks her feet behind her as she writes

I think she gets along really well with Mary!!! She’s one of those girls with a lot of friends across houses and I could totally see her and Mary bonding over fashion, boy stuff, grades being annoying etc

If her jewellery isn't brand new it's something that's been in her family for ages, there's no in-between. She's got a lot of her grandmother's jewellery sets with matching earrings, bracelets and necklaces.

She wears cute matching underwear with fluffy lace on it and she walks around like that in the morning just to rile up Igor. She eats aesthetic breakfast with a cohesive colour scheme, frozen raspberries, chia seeds and almonds and modern au Charity is 100% an influencer

She names her animals after sweet treats/food such as Pudding the cat and Hollandaise (also known as Holly) the owl

Her room/flat is always a bit of a mess, not on purpose (she swears she’s a very clean person), but because she’ll put something down and forget about it before suddenly realising, moving it around and placing something new out of place lol

I've always found it interesting how Burbage is a, and this is a quote provided by the lovely Googlé, "habitational name from any of the places in Wiltshire, Derbyshire, and Leicestershire". It is never stated in canon where Charity is supposed to be from but she meets her end in Malfoy Manor which is canonically located in Wiltshire. Pulling from name meanings Charity also means dear; beloved; giving; kindness all things that I think shows a lot about who she is as a character (also I think people called seabunny Charity and her case, aka Charity Case lmao)

Also now that we're on the topic of seabunny vjfnjnnbg in aus Igor and Charity have a daughter called Evelina and she's very cute. I think Charity would love being a mother, she already values family a lot, but she would have to get Igor to shape up significantly because as he is rn he is not fit to be a father. I think no matter what she does there will always be a bit of the whole him valuing Viktor over Evelina. This is becoming more Igor stuff but he'd have an odd relationship with his daughter and Charity would very desperately try to fix it. I feel like he's the kind of guy who'd have both Charity and Evelina's names tattoed on him in fancy cursive but still be like "I'm gonna be home late today cause I'm taking Viktor to [insert sport]'s practice" yk??

[emhasthoughts]

So we meet again

Before you read: Check @dcartcorner's Elsewhere AU as this is taking place around the first bit of bundle 17. This has only been proof-read by me with the help of the documents corrections. So sorry for any potential error in grammar or spelling.

Summary: His parents' refusal to leave had also been a cause of why he never visited the train station. Most of the time the train would simply go past the station and town, letting the people inside see part of it for a moment while kids would sometimes gather close to a fence or the station to watch it pass. This day was different.

The town Michael Crew lived in did not get a lot of visits. Sure, people would move in occasionally, retired couples or families that were simply too tired of the bigger cities and wanted something smaller. There had been moments when Mike was younger when he wanted to move to somewhere bigger. He had asked his dad once. ”There’s pollution out there. You won’t be able to see the stars. I thought you liked the stars?” Had been the response. By now Mike knew there was more than just stars keeping them from moving. Family, friends, traditions and memories. Memories had been a reason Mike once begged for them to move. For nearly an entire week after being struck by lightning. He had cried and begged to move, to never face Dominic again, to never see the field again, to never see the faces of those who knew what happened to that poor little eight year old. In the end it did not work. 

His parents' refusal to leave had also been a cause of why he never visited the train station. Most of the time the train would simply go past the station and town, letting the people inside see part of it for a moment while kids would sometimes gather close to a fence or the station to watch it pass. This day was different. 

It was a rather cold autumn afternoon. Mike stood alone on the platform, watching the sky go from blue to pink as he waited for the train. Wishing for the train to arrive quicker with each passing minute as his hands started to feel like ice. Eventually it did arrive. Letting one single person out before continuing its way to the next town. 

The man was pretty much the opposite of Mike. Taller, not like it was much of a surprise, most of the other students in his class were taller than him by now. Hair black and tied into a bun, dressed pretty much only in black, tie, jacket, vest, shoes - did his trousers have a hole by the knee? The only exception was he white shirt and brown messenger bag. 

”Hello." Gerard looked him up and down for a quick moment. "You haven’t changed much Michael.” 

”Mike. As I’ve told you the last times we’ve spoken.” Gerard just hummed. 

”Right, right.” He got out a pack of cigarettes, looking around for a moment. ”This had best be important, kid.” He continued. Putting one into his mouth. For a moment Mike considered making a comment about it, how it was bad for people around him having to breath in the smoke, not to mention the smell. But he held back. Not like they were in a crowd and Mike had gotten used to the smell thanks to his friend.

”I’m not a kid.” Gerard raised an eyebrow. 

”What? You’re 18 yet?”

”Well… no-”

”There you have it, kid.” Alright, Gerard was really getting on his nerves now. He watched as Gerard lit his cigarette. 

”Fine.” He sighed. ”Can we please just leave? I’m getting cold.”

”Sure, lead the way.”

Mike was regretting taking Gerard to the library. He was quite fond of the place. A perfect place to hide if things ever got too overwhelming. He also preferred Martin Blackwood over the rest of the staff. Sadly said man was being threatened by Gerard. Mike just hoped he would be allowed back.