#amber sweet aesthetic

[ylove-bandaesthetics]

🎃 Spooky Month Aesthetic! 🎃

Sabrina Carpenter + Amber Sweet! 💙

Have a Happy Halloween! 👻

[gothicgirlh-9]

Not heard this song in ages 🙂🖤🖤🖤

[applesss2]

[ambersweet]

■□■□☆I'm the kinda bitch that you wanna get with☆□■□■

♡ just here to post cool pics ♡ cybercore, y2k, and paris hilton ♡

she/her ■□■ Im over 18 ■□■ no minors !!

𓆩🎧𓆪

[ray-theoretical-trucker]

amber sweet.

- and amber sweet is addicted to the knife...

- addicted to the knife?

- addicted to the knife.

[planetofaesthetics]

Mermaids of Sweets Aesthetic | Honey Mermaid  

[joyxcelestia]

Here some of my aesthetic of my OCs with some face claim for the purpose of My Candy Love Wattpad stories.

Let me introduce you to : ✨Mateo Peeters✨

Some will tell you that Mateo is a very cheerful person who loves to party and spend his time with those he considers his friends. Others will proclaim that the vampire wizard is passionate about extravagance and loves to shake up those around him, whether it is to change his hair color or his clothing style. But what is certain is that Mateo never goes unnoticed when he is around...

Mateo will become, later in my fanfiction, Lynn’s romantic interest.

Mateo is portrayed as Taz Skylar, a Spanish actor.

My OC is originally mixed, Mateo have blue eyes, pale skin and blond hair. He has born from a Puerto Rican mother and a Belgian father, I had to slightly change his apparence so pardon me if now, he doesn’t look like his basic apparence or if the face claim are not currently the same ethnic as his description, I tried my best.

Edits made by me.

I hope that you like the aesthetics of Mateo Peeters.

Have a great day❤️

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Shaken and Stirred.

I was really inspired by this fan art and was plagued by thoughts of a pathetic whiny lil meow meow 🥺 I don't drink myself, but I love the mature aesthetic of it and wanted to... write a drunken confession... to close off 2024...

… DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT OTL wait no please J WORD I CAN EXPLAIN

***Content warning: Alcohol consumption, though Leona is the only one drinking. (The legal age is 20 in Japan; I’m going to assume this for Twisted Wonderland.) Everyone else is having sparkling juice :v***

Imagine this…

"Feel like joining us for dinner? For old time's sake.”

The invitation had come so casually, the same way a housecat might drop a mangled rat or bird at your feet. To them, an easy, everyday act. To you, a surprise you weren’t quite certain how to feel about.

You didn't have plans for the evening, nor a reason to refuse, and while you were busy weighing the pros and cons, you found yourself strung along in their outing. Muscular arms wrangling you into the herd, boisterous yells welcoming you back. An honorary member, the Savanaclaw students had branded you, recognized by their king.

Now you sit in a barstool, fingers on the rim of a cup clouded with condensation, absentmindedly swirling its contents. Juice, its sweetness stifled by melted ice.

Some would call you a lamb willingly waltzing into a lion's den. They're wrong. You are no beast, but a curious observer of them. This is a prime opportunity for that.

It’s dim, the glowing jellyfish set low, faint lights swimming overhead. The music is loud, a departure from the Mostro Lounge’s usual soft jazz. The bass is even louder, rattling your bones like a set of steel drums. Rowdy patrons clink cups, chant at their friends to chug, belt out laughter straight from the bellies. You can barely hear your own heartbeat. The sounds of nightlife drown it out.

Jack lurks in a quiet, shadowed corner, his back against the wall. Muscled arms folded, he has assumed a stern stance but wears a small, fond smile in spite of himself. Ruggie has climbed onto a table, raising a jet-black card to the waiting mob. It’s their golden meal ticket.

“All-you-can-eat food and drinks on Leona-san! Long live the king!!” he roars, and the others echo his excitement.

“LONG LIVE THE KING!!”

You chuckle to yourself. First he rents out the entire lounge, then he decides to feed everyone for the day? How generous of him. Guess the big guy’s going all out.

You scan the restaurant in search of him, seeking out his familiar visage. Long, wild tresses. Sharp eyes, emerald flecked with golden flakes, like the sunlight shining through verdant leaves. The scar that speared his left side. A noble aura, his lazy feline grace.

Leona Kingscholar always sticks out in a crowd, commands too much attention with his mere existence. “That man is only good for his face,” Vil would bitterly hawk, “his only redeeming feature.” And he was right, to some extent. Tall, dark, and handsome are all apt descriptors for Savanaclaw’s dorm leader. Leona is all that and more.

Your pulse quickens.

His shape—you can’t discern it from the myriad of bodies collected in the lounge. A puzzle piece missing from the box of your most treasured memories.

“Looking for someone?”

The question is low and nonchalant, almost musical in its own right, yet you can so clearly hear it rising above the bumping bass. Your blood hums in anticipation, already knowing who the voice belongs to.

Leona has slipped into the open seat beside you, nursing an Old-Fashioned filled halfway with a strongly scented amber liquid. An orb of ice chills it, so clear cut you can see through to the other side. He sits with an effortless confidence upon his throne, as though he—not Azul—owns the damn place. You'd believe it too, from how the patrons are shouting his name like a mantra.

There’s no greetings to exchange. No need to.

"I think I've found what I was looking for," you tell him teasingly. “Nice of you to throw this little get-together. What’s the occasion? Don’t think I remember when you were in this good of a mood.”

“Who said I was in a good mood?” he grumbles, leaning onto the counter. “Didn't feel like being left alone with my thoughts tonight is all.”

“You, brooding? Never."

He makes a sound as if repressing a dry laugh. “You think yourself clever for an herbivore, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Not as clever as you, though.”

“Hmph. You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego."

It’s comfortable, this trading of quips. Safe. The conversation flowing so easily, like wine poured. It is the only true way you can stand on the same level as him.

Leona lifts the glass and downs the rest of his drink. From the way he winces, it must burn on the way down. You wrinkle your nose at the sharp smell that meets it. Earth spiced with hypnotic smoke and the acrid pang of sorrow.

“They serve alcohol here? I thought those jars on the shelves were full of tea blends.”

Leona scoffs. “If you know the right people and the right strings to pull. The cephalopunk said his establishment was more than happy to provide for me as long as I shelled out and signed some liability waiver.”

“… Does the headmaster know about this?”

“He doesn’t need to know.” Leona smirks, placing his newly drained drink down. Immediately, a staff member appears and replaces it with a fresh glass. “What’s he gonna do, anyway? Sue me? I’m of legal drinking age, and ‘s not like I’m passing out alcohol to minors”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re so bad.”

“The worst,” he agrees sarcastically. “And you choose to keep me as company.”

“I’m but your humble accomplice, sir.” You jokingly salute to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. Rough day?”

He sighs in a way that gives the impression of saying, Like you wouldn't believe. But that tail of his swings back and forth like a patient pendulum, refusing to reveal his secrets. “This isn’t about me.”

“It literally is.” You pass a not-so-subtle glance at his second helping of whisky.

"I'm the host. It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with my feelings, now would it?"

You don't miss how he proceeds to take a swig right after his claim, how readily he consumes poison, even when it hurts him. Alcohol, insults. Pain, self-inflicted.

He has an arsenal of tricks and techniques to deflect—partaking in vices, one of them. Leona's magic rendered fortresses to sand, but he is an expert at building his own structures just the same. Studier, even. Imperious.

Attempting to scale the walls directly, you know, won't get you very far. Not when he has gone to such great lengths to guard his heart. There's a moat with leering crocodiles, barbed wire decorating the gates, a drawbridge firmly closed.

You attempt to breach the subject, toeing the line between testing his patience and challenging it. “What is it that you want then, Leona?”

He falls quiet, staring at the remains of his beverage. It’s like the sphere of ice the whisky swims with is a crystal ball, and he’s peering into it, seeking answers. His verdant eyes shift a shade deeper, darker.

When he’s solemnly silent like this, he’s contemplating. His next move in a game of chess, his next words in a debate. Plotting, scheming.

"A distraction," he declares at last, in that resolute tone he uses when he’s set on capturing a prize.

"A... distraction."

He nods, angling his head toward the noisy lounge. Ruggie is rallying some of the guys for a round of root beer pong. Jack’s trapped in a headlock, the hyena urging him to join in. They’re rowdy and ruddy from the exhilaration that comes with competition.

“Get my mind off of things. Take me away from all of this for a spell."

“How, exactly…?”

Leona drains his second glass. The server slides him a third. "Let's start with your day. From there, ramble about whatever.”

Amuse me, he seems to say, even if his mouth doesn’t. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, brightening them like the stars do the milky way.

You gulp, feeling compelled to obey.

Gathering your thoughts and wetting your lips, you begin. "This morning..."

The story opens like a newborn finding its footing for the first time: clumsily. Granted the space to expand, you do. Slowly, the conventions come to you. Balance, coordination. Each sentence is like a step, taken one at a time.

You run through your daily schedule and, reciting it out loud, you realize how terribly mundane it is. Classes, chores, chums. The usual. Worry flickers through you—Will he be satisfied with this?—but he only gestures for you to continue.

“Ah, so I picked up this new hobby recently…”

Leona props his face up on one hand, curled fingers resting against a cheek. He watches you with a look that isn’t quite predator on prey but isn’t quite human to human either. It’s intimate in a way that makes you feel exposed even when you avert your gaze, calculating enough to make you feel like a complex equation he has yet to solve.

“When something’s hard to get, it makes you want it all the more,” he had once told you. The memory surfaces like bubbles in a flute of champagne. Then it pops, fizzling away in a fine mist, and it is gone.

Moments like this are magic, you think.

You slip into a cadence, a rhythm. You lose count of how many stories you tell, how many whiskies Leona slams down in the span of them.

And still, the glowing green of his irises never seems to stray far from you. Vibrant and pulsating, like plants with heartbeats of their own, swaying in time with a stray breeze. Seeking something.

You don’t know if that concerns or thrills you.

"Ahahah…” You allow yourself a chuckle as you stretch in your seat. “This is so strange, isn’t it? I never thought I'd be rubbing elbows with a prince this time last year.”

Leona responds with a noncommittal “Mmmmm.”

He lowers his gaze to his drink number who knows?, his honey-colored reflection gazing back. When he blinks, his lashes seem to fall and flutter in slow motion.

You wonder what he's thinking, why he's thinking.

You reach for him. Carefully, gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. He is wounded--in that frightening way that leaves no visible marks, no scars.

"Leona..."

You hear your name being called before you can tap his shoulder. You look--there's Jack, waving at you. Ruggie has his hands cupped over his mouth.

"Wanna participate in an arm-wrestling contest? Jack's the reigning champ!"

"Oh, um--" you try to respond, to explain that you're preoccupied. The blaring music washes you out.

Ruggie makes a face of confusion and shouts again: "What?!"

You start to rise from your stool and turn to him, raising your volume. "I said..."

You stop. Your wrist is ensnared in Leona's grasp, cuffing you to the spot.

“… Don’t go." His command cuts through the noise, startling you with its softness, its contrasting clarity.

"It'll only be a second. It's too hard to talk over the--"

"You must've not heard me the firs'time," he interrupts, his words slightly slurring together, one melting into the next. Leona pouts like a child. "I’m orderin' you to stay. Stay here, with me."

"You've been awfully bossy today."

"Cuz you keep bein' a pain in my tail. How'm I supposed to..." The more the man babbles, the more confidence drains from his voice. His proud lion's roar shrinking and shrinking to a kitten's mewl. Tiny, vulnerable. "Don't go. Don't... leave. Everyone else has. They always do."

Non-sarcastic pleading? From Leona?

You eye him in concern. "Being serious for a sec, are you okay?"

He winces, like speaking or touching you is a considerable effort. You're set free, his body slumping as he lays down at the bar. His mane spreads out around him like a pool of chocolate. Leona cradles himself against the cushion of an arm, groaning into it.

Definitely not okay.

You pass Ruggie a firm shake of the head--a no to his offer--then settle back into your seat, returning to Leona.

"I'm here," you reassure him with a soft push against the middle of his chest. "See? I'm not going anywhere." Then you poke him on his forehead. "What's up? You're thinking of something."

He peers at you from behind an arm and snorts. "Thinkin' about how you run your mouth a lot."

"You told me to. I'm just following orders--don't you like that? You're so hard to please."

"I have high standards," he says simply.

"Well..." You lift a brow expectantly. "Am I meeting them?"

This manages to draw out a bark of laughter from him, however strained it sounds. He fixates on you, the start of a scowl upon his searching expression.

Assessing you.

“… Why?” Leona asks suddenly. No proper answer. Instead, an inquiry thrown back in retaliation.

“Why what?”

“Why d’you bother stickin’ around? Why d’you…” A pause, as if the verb that comes next is capable of killing if not handled correctly. “Why do you care so much?”

You shrug. “You don’t really need a reason to care about someone. Anyone with a heart would, right? You’d do the same for me or any of your dorm members.”

“And what do you know about heart?” He fumbles for his drink, but you slyly slide it out of reach. A growl of frustration. “All I got’s a big black hole where my heart should be.”

“That’s not true,” you protest stubbornly. “Your students say so many good things about their dorm leader. They all really look up to you.”

“Hah, as if.” He lifts his head and slams it on the table. “I failed’m. What good’s a king if he can’t produce results? What good’s tryin’ if all there is at the end of the tunnel’s darkness? Can’t even dispatch the damn lizard or beat ‘m at his own game…

You frown. “Hey. hey! Don’t talk about yourself like that… and stop doing that, you’re going to injure yourself.”

Leona doesn’t seem to register anything you say. He continues deliriously mumbling to himself, the alcohol having wiped away his inhibitions and all the cards he so often kept close to his chest.

“I never get what I want,” he complains, dragging himself up—but he sways and is forced to hunch forward on his chair, elbows on the counter for support. “Never, ever. No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I work… It all comes crumbling down eventually.”

His hair covers his face the same way the strands of a weeping willow do. You can’t see what kind of an expression is making. Do you want to see it?

He’s sinking, you realize. The same claws that struggle for a firm grip on the rocky ledge he dangles from, the same claws that render enemies to ashes—they don’t help him against crashing waves, the swamp that drags him down, down, down, into its murky depths. No sunlight, no air.

“The crown… the interdorm tournament... love, respect, admiration... Everything slips through m’fingers like sand. It’s some cruel, sick joke. Must be m’fate as the prince with naught.”

“Leona..."

Is this what haunts you every time you're alone in your room? The thoughts that you're scared of visiting you every night... What you needed a distraction from?

“Get my mind off of things," he had said. "Take me away from all of this for a spell."

There's an ache in your chest. The dull, throbbing pain that comes at the end of reading a sad story. His story.

But it's not the end of it, right? It can't be.

Your fingers tangle in his tresses and brush them aside. From behind the curtain, he peers at you like some stray cat having retreated into its cardboard box. And you meet him without hesitation.

"... Hey," you manage. "I think you've had enough. You're starting to say all this... unkind stuff about yourself, and you're not having fun anymore. Can you walk? Let's get you back to Savanaclaw and have you lie down."

Leona sways slightly. Even drunk, his tone is haughty and shreds into you like claws. "You can't tell me what t'do."

"You're the host," you insist with a smile. The words are his, borrowed, sharpened, and repurposed in your possession. "It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with your feelings, now would it?"

He stares at you, eyes blown wide. Then his lids lower, lashes shading his view of you.

"Why... Why d'you hafta be like thish? This would be sho much easier if y'didn’t look at me like that."

"L-Like what?"

Leona inches closer. He usually smells of sun and soil, but all of that has been smothered by the reek of booze. Heat radiates from his face, flushed from liquid courage, and hits yours.

"Like there's still a chance for me." He speaks clearly and concisely, each syllable a brick laid out and sandwiched with mortar to the next. Pouring all his energy into them. "Like you still believe in me."

"Because I do. Is that so wrong?" You're unsure of the answer--a part of you, dreading it.

Leona counters with another question. It is tinged with anger, irritation. "Why can’t you be like the others and just give up already? It'd save you a lot of trouble."

"I can't bring myself to leave you hanging on the edge of a cliff. We all want a hand sometimes to lift us up when we're down, so... I want to be that for you. And it seems like you could use that hand to get you out of your troubles right about now."

His lip trembles. Leona's voice comes out huskily. "I hate that dumb, wide-eyed look of yours. So full of hope. When you look at me like that… it makes me think I might still be able to have you.”

“You already have me, dummy. I’m right here, remember?”

“No.” His gaze is intense, almost pulsating. He has a way of scrutinizing that lays you bare before him, pinning you in place and making you inadvertently squirm. “Not in the way I want you t'be.”

Your heart stops, as if he has seized it in his grasp. One squeeze, and he can crush it. It's a mercy he doesn't, even as you erupt into a flurry of confusion, an inferno engulfing you.

"What?" you whisper, scarcely believing your ears. "Wh-What do you mean by that...?"

THUNK!

His balance caves. Leona keels over, the weight of his large body toppling onto yours like a domino crashing into the next one in a sequence.

His head lands on your shoulder, neatly nestling into the junction of your collarbone and neck. Arms loosely snake around your hips, hugging them, his tail wrapping around a leg like a ribbon decorating a pillar. A throaty groan escapes him.

Panic bolts through your muscle and bone.

Your immediate instinct is to shove him off—but he’s heavy and inebriated, and it’s hard for you to fend off the warmth pressed against you. He’s not playing fair. Is he doing this on purpose? You shouldn’t be surprised; he never does.

His low purr tickles you, his breath feathering across your bare skin. He sounds half asleep, caught in that magical twilight realm between the waking world and dreams. “Is it okay… for someone like me to fall in love with someone like you?”

Love?

Four letters, one simple word.

Your surroundings dullen, the chatter and the laughter and the music floating far away. You become acutely aware of all of the places where he touches you, of every spot where you connect. There are so many people gathered in the lounge, but all you can perceive is him: Leona, Leona Kingscholar.

Your mind races, set to a frantic pace like wildebeests rampaging.

Love, the thing with wings that soars high above the clouds. Love, the golden light that brings life to the lands. Love, the wellspring so many drink from.

He feels all of that for you?

It feels like I'm dreaming. Am I dreaming?

"D-Do you really mean that, Leona?" You need to know. You must confirm it. "That you... love me?"

Silence.

“L-Leona…?” you stutter, lightly tapping his back. It rises and falls, rises and falls, like the tides lapping the seashore. Soft, at ease.

But not a response.

One, two, three.

Three seconds. Three seconds is all it takes for Leona Kingscholar to knock out--and he is out like a light.

The party and its twisted beat carry on, the bass blasting in your bloodstream, uncaring. And you remain, cradling a snoozing cat in your arms.

... Ah, seriously. How did it turn out like this?

Upset, annoyance--you think that these are, perhaps, what you're meant to be feeling in the moment. They are missing, not so much as a phantom present. Instead, there's an excitable fluttering that doesn't have a name to it yet.

You swallow, still slightly shaken. The confession, raw and revealing, stirring emotions you didn't think possible before. Emotions that burned red hot, with serrated teeth and talons.

A hand goes to the back of his head, stroking his mane and smoothing it out. It's comforting to him, you imagine, but it's comforting to you as well. Grounding.

You're here. He's here. The both of you are here, together.

There is it again, that unnamed, excitable fluttering kicking up back up. It fans out from your core, from your head to the tips of your toes. You feel like you're lighter than air, flying to the moon and playing among the stars.

He loves you.

Leona Kingscholar loves you.

The fingers trapped in his hair stiffen.

You draw out a sigh. It mingles with the music and stretches thin, a string of fabric pulled from a spool.

Until the clock strikes midnight… Let’s just stay like this for a little longer. That much would be okay, wouldn’t it? We can figure out the rest of the story once the sleepy prince wakes from his slumber.

[mae-lou-ron]

::steps up to @gargothnightzine altar::

Am I doing this right? I can’t draw for kriff, so I’m writing something. Humbly presenting an excerpt from my first stab at a ✨GAR Goth Night✨ fic!

Mae Ramble™: I love the goth subculture. it's steeped in so much history- which I could go on and on about how it has evolved over the decades... but I won't. I'll stick to the art and aesthetic. The Crow is an incredible addition to this vast genre, and one of my favorites. For this fic, I'm specifically referencing the graphic novel by J. O’Barr, and the 1994 movie starring Brandon Lee. I wanted to make a little Star Wars play on that for some 'original' content in this story.

warnings: clone x f!reader fic; reader has long nails; this "excerpt" is like 1,000+ words, mentions of grief and loss, flirting, story will have eventual fluff and smut. This is painfully a WIP. Also, I glossed over a lot of the darker stuff in 'The Crow', so if you are interested in checking it out, please consume at your own risk. I recommend reviewing the content for any triggers. It's a beautiful story with beautiful art, but it's full of 'em.

(working) summary: The irony isn't lost on you — being the only actual goth-adjacent one in your friend group. Yet, they coaxed you out of your apartment to a goth-themed night at a bar. A bar for the clones of the GAR, of all places. At least you brought a book to read as you waited for your friends to show up…what you didn’t expect was to pique a certain clone captain’s interest in the process.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A knowing smirk told you he'd caught you staring.

The teal patches on the clone's leather jacket caught your eye from a couple seats down the bar. Quickly, you glanced back down at your novel, still feeling his gaze on you. When you looked up again, however, he had vanished. As you scanned the bar for those distinctive flashes of teal, a warm rumbling voice sounded at your side.

"What are you reading?" The voice was soft yet distinct from other clones you'd spoken to before — a smooth, gruff curiosity that caught your attention.

It was him.

Molten amber eyes found yours, the neon lighting of 79's gleaming off his perfectly imperfect swept back hair. Teal accents standing out boldly against the black leather had your eyes wandering over him with intrigue. There was something disarmingly sweet in the way he tilted his head towards the empty barstool next to you, silently seeking permission to join. His entire demeanor radiated a quiet confidence that put you at ease, despite the pulsing music and crowded atmosphere. There was something intriguing about a man who would approach someone reading alone at a bar, especially on a night like this. Eyes drifting between your face and the book in your hands suggested true curiosity rather than some pickup attempt.

"Uh..." Caught a little off guard, you weren't opposed to people approaching you necessarily, and while being the girl at the bar with a book had its advantages, your friends were proving to be late— yet again. There was no point in being rude when he seemed sincerely interested, so you patted the stool next to you and closed the book, keeping your thumb between the glossy pages to show him the cover art.

"It's 'The Keerdak,'" you replied eventually, turning the worn binding so he could see the other side — a dark figure outlined against Coruscant's neon-lit skyline. "It's a revenge story, about a Mandalorian warrior who returns from death to avenge his lost love. Set in the lower levels of Coruscant, actually. Pretty melodramatic stuff," you added with a slight smirk, curious to see his reaction to your choice of reading material.

"Sounds pretty romantic for the Mandalorians I've met... may I?" He looked hopeful, glancing down at the text with an open hand before his eyes landed on your face once again. A soft smile formed at his assessment, handing the book to him so he could appreciate it more closely.

"What?" he asked, his quiet confidence faltering at your smile for a fleeting moment as he took the text from you.

"It's just most people don't consider this romance... it's so dark."

"I wasn't aware they were mutually exclusive..." a dark eyebrow arched up at you playfully, "...and we're here at a goth night at a bar, aren't we?"

"True, though I would hardly call 79's romantic..." you laughed softly.

"Okay, fair..." His smirk was charming as his eyes scanned over the stark black and white illustrations depicting the shadowy figure clad in all black beskar'gam moving through neon-lit streets, the dramatic panel layouts emphasizing the noir atmosphere. A flying beast with its wings spread in the moonlight circled the warrior. A silent guardian.

"Oh—" you said, tapping a perfectly manicured stiletto nail onto the figure. "That's the keerdak... she's like a warden in the world between worlds. They're connected by some kind of bond that tethers the Mando here even in death. At least until the warrior can exact his vengeance, of course..."

The clone's eyes widened slightly at the intricate artwork, fingers hovering over a particularly striking splash page showing the protagonist perched atop a skyscraper, his black cloak billowing in the wind. "Wow..." a genuine sigh of intrigue caught you off guard. "I've never seen anything like this before..."

Fascination was written across his features, and it wasn't the typical polite interest you got from most people when they saw what you were reading — this was different, almost childlike in its wonder. Something about his earnest reaction made you want to share more.

"My favorite is the helmet..." You leaned closer to him as the song changed into something with deeper bass— a little of his cologne floating over to you as you did so. It smelled of bourbon and burning wood... deep and rich and making you want more. "There's a scene where he paints it..." you murmured close to his ear, noticing how the warmth in his cheeks spread to his neck at your proximity as you flipped to the respective page.

"Like a death's head..." he mused, tracing the illustration with his fingertip, the white paint standing out against his black armor, a floating omen of death in the darkness. The symbolism clearly not lost on him — a warrior marked by loss— his grief and his armor indistinguishable from one another. The clone's eyes lingered on the stark contrast of black and white, seeming to understand the beauty in such a clash of opposing forces.

"So... what made you want to experience a 'Goth' night?" You asked him, curious but clearly not disappointed. He chuckled with a sigh. "My men dragged me out, but it looks like my second has already fallen in love with someone..." he thumbed over his shoulder. "They’re good men, they deserve a little fun..."

Following the gesture, you spotted a clone dancing enthusiastically with a Twi'lek woman, both of them completely lost in the music and each other. Something about watching these soldiers find moments of peace warmed your heart. Turning back to your companion, you found his gaze already fixed on you, warm and intent. He returned the book, his fingers ghosting against yours in a touch that felt both accidental and deliberate.

My men.

Not being in his armor kit meant you couldn’t easily tell this clone’s rank. It wasn’t something that mattered to you in the least, but upon closer inspection of his handsome and weathered face, you realized this wasn’t some shiny cadet whose attention you caught. His honeyed eyes held a hardness that spoke of battles fought and experience earned, set deep in a face mapped with a light scar that splashed across his left cheek. The roughness of his jawline and the slight creases in his forehead and eyebrows hinted at countless hours spent in the unforgiving glare of distant suns, commanding troops across war-torn worlds.

The clone beside you had caught you staring once again. Heat pricked your cheeks when he turned his body fully to face you, extending his arm.

"I'm Howzer..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Honestly, I wouldn't last 5 minutes at an event like this IRL before I got overstimmed, but if I did, this would be me. I’m 100% that chick who brings a book and headphones to a bar…and has massive rbf looks kriffing hot while doing so.

Thank you @ghostymarni for sharing this incredible idea with us, and for all the artists and writers adding their own take on gar goth nite. @lonewolflupe & @gargothnightzine thank you for organizing a place to keep track of all the amazing contributions. I love seeing all the new lore being added by everyone! It's a fresh shake up as we sprint to spring.

GAR Goth Nite frequent flyers who might enjoy?: @eobe @eclec-tech @skellymom @returnofthepineapple @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf @wings-and-beskargam

[chaaistained]

☕︎ visual brew; julia potter •°

marauders dr — aesthetic archive [[ moodboard + desc + playlist ]]

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🗝️ you’ve now unlocked the tea leaf tapestry of my marauders dr ≈

like gentle shadows cast by amber candlelight, julia dances on the edge of the world.

always the observer, the dying embers of a fire, the sticky blood-red residue of blackberry picking—an aftermath to the main course—she exists on the cusp of sunrise and the fall of twilight.

but she’s learned to like it that way; rather live like a warmth that draws in the shivering souls of those that need rejuvenation.

and it is in this very act that she becomes sunlight .. or rather the rays of sunbeams that shine down on a world gone cold.

filled with hope and a desire for crackling excitement, yet she takes everyday like a burning cup of firewhiskey—to be sipped slowly, to be savoured, to be chugged at the end when you know the heat has disintegrated but you just need to feel something . anything.

a charm caster and rune master, yet her calling resides in the natural, elemental magic of alchemising the world—the ancient practice of reinvention and conversion—to make the most simple of matter morph into gold, just as she morphs her emotions, into the sweet release of ocean tears that run down the crevices of her face. regardless of what her dear brother calls her .. a flobberworm

a deeply feeling individual in a world where feelings channel the magic that runs through your veins, the power that pumps through your blood. a mermaid cannot change her given scales, much like a girl cannot abandon her inherent disposition—the siren song of finding meaning in the tiniest of moments is like a curse that infects her soul’s eye.

however . she stokes the flames, she keeps her fire alive, unwilling to snuff it out for anything, even the prickling presence of nauseating perfection that is the youngest Black—not even his moss grey eyes and dark curls could soften the sneer that folds on her lips when they encounter each other, whether in a corridor or a classroom, in a prefect meeting or on the quidditch grounds.

at least with every match, she has her chance to soar in her element, to claim the spotlight, to steal the gleaming snitch. she has her chance to stand out from the shadows and become something to be revered, something to be her own.

listening to : julia potter ━━━━─────────────●── ⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤ ↻

now playing :

၊||၊▸ mirrorball (the long pond studio sessions) — taylor swift

၊||၊▸ lightly — wildes

၊||၊▸ light my love — greta van fleet

၊||၊▸ falling — florence + the machine

၊||၊▸ to the wonder — aqualung ft. kina grannis

don’t swallow the tea leaves ! for they leave you a message 🍂

this is one of my absolute favourite dr's — something that i've worked on for years (much like my arrowverse dr) and on top of that, yet another dr that has a fan fiction based off of it that i'm currently writing and . yet to post .. oops?

this dr's story is only slightly changed from the fic , following the same trend of less trauma, more mystery and an overall safety net for all the people that i hold dear !!

will also be working on a relationship moodboard for this dr and my s/o the elsuive r.a.b. aka regulus arcturus black <33 anyway , both this and the planned relationship moodboard are ib my lovely fawn ≈≈ @elysian-fawn

chaai brews; tea assortments — dr archive

2025 © chaaistained

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ 𝕊𝕂ℤ 𝕄𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕀 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕜 𝕎𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 ℝ𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕚𝕫𝕖 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕤 ♡

{A bit ago I received a request to write about Stray Kids romanticizing your stretch marks so I figured it'd be fun to explore which members I feel would be more inclined to do it}

Pairings: jisung x reader, chan x reader, hyunjin x reader, felix x reader, changbin x reader

Genre: fluff

The only ♡ warning ♡ is that for a second you have no pants on, honey & that's all

Changbin is smitten with you, completely head over heels, and he wouldn’t dare pretend that he isn’t. There’s nothing about you that he doesn’t find enchanting and your stretch marks are no exception. A man as in love with functionality as he is with aesthetics, your stretch marks are sweet little reminders of the way the softness of your body curves into his. They adorn the arms that drape across his shoulders and the thighs that wrap around his waist when you pull him into an intoxicating kiss.

Chan has spent countless hours in the studio breaking down parts of himself and stringing them back together to create stories through his music. Years of putting words to feelings have taught him that sometimes there simply aren’t any. So you can trust him when he whispers to you, caressing the areas where stretch marks sprawl along your body like emerald vines, that they tell him stories about you that words never could. Stories so intimate, so precious, he feels closer to you in silence than he ever could in words. 

Hyunjin never knows what he’ll create when he picks up a brush but, with you as his canvas, there’s not a single shred of doubt in his mind that it’ll be anything short of exquisite. He reminds you, as the icy water-activated paint covers your stretch marks, that your body’s a living, breathing, work of art. He assures you that the possibility of them extending their reach over time isn’t a threat to your appearance but an enhancement of your already stunning beauty. 

Felix wakes up before you do on quiet summer mornings. He rolls over to find you sleeping peacefully beside him in your favorite t-shirt and the cutest cotton panties. It mesmerizes him to watch the rising sun kiss your exposed skin, casting a gradient of color that transforms your stretch marks into rays of amber. He grazes them with his fingertips and their warmth radiates through his body. It’s almost as if he’s touching the sun, willingly risking being set ablaze if it means being close to you.

Han wants so desperately to make sure that you’re treated like a princess. It pains him to see you suffer even the slightest discomfort. It’s why, after you’ve had a hard day, your muscles tense and your jaw clenched, he lays you down for a soothing massage. To him, your stretch marks are an intricate map written in lavish ink showing him the perfect path to follow to make you melt. His fingers stroke your stretch marks like the strings of a harp, stirring up noises within you so melodic that he never wants to stop.

[ficsbylexi]

Melodies of the Past — One Shot

Bucky Barnes x OFC

Shot warnings: nothing, just cute and a couple songs that don’t belong exactly to the 1940s but idc, they are cute

Author’s note: During my Bucky Barnes obsession I had this idea and never wrote it so here it is

Word count: 3553

Summary: A 1940s inspired bar and a girl with a nice voice bring back flirty old pre-war Bucky

The streets of Brooklyn were alive with neon lights and the murmur of late-night crowds, but Bucky Barnes had no interest in any of it.

“Sam, I really don’t see why I need to be here,” he grumbled, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket, a deep frown on his face.

Sam shot him a knowing look. “Dude, you need to get out more. And because I found this place on Instagram, and it looks cool as hell”. Bucky scoffed as Sam took his phone out and looked up the profile. A 1940s-inspired bar? It sounded like a cheap gimmick, a way to turn his past into an aesthetic for people who didn’t know a damn thing about it. But Sam had been relentless, and Bucky had run out of excuses. “Also it’s not exactly inspired, the bar opened ages ago and each new generation decided to update the whole thing. But the girl that inherited it now, decided to bring it back to its old glory”. He said passing him his phone.

Just as he was about to protest again, a blur of movement caught his attention.

“On your left!”

Bucky barely had time to register the warning before they rushed past—three figures in cinched waists and flowing skirts, heels clicking against the pavement. The scent of perfume and something sweet, like jasmine and honey, lingered in the air as they passed. His breath hitched, the scene tugging at something deep in his memory.

For a moment, he wasn’t in the present time —he was back in the ’40s, standing on a street corner in the crisp night air, watching a group of girls rush past on their way to some dance hall, their laughter spilling into the streets. The way their skirts flared, the glint of stockings in the glow of a streetlamp, the bright red lips curved into mischievous smiles—he’d seen it all before. Bucky barely had time to register them before a small object hit the pavement. One of the girls skidded to a halt and reality snapped back into place.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, turning back.

Bucky’s pulse stuttered.

She was stunning. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, She wore black opera gloves and a deep red dress that cinched at the waist, the fabric swaying as she moved. A matching hat had slipped from her head, resting at his feet.

Then there was her face—soft yet striking, framed by hair styled in perfect vintage waves, full dark red lips and dark eyes.

She looked up at him, and for the briefest moment, they locked eyes.

Everything else faded.

She smiled.

It wasn’t forced or polite—it was knowing, like she’d caught him staring but didn’t mind. Like she had seen something in him and decided he was worth smiling at. And Christ was her smile beautiful. His heart gave a traitorous lurch.

“Maggie, come on!” one of the others called.

The spell broke. She snatched up her hat, flashing him one last glance before turning on her heel and disappearing into the night with the others.

Bucky exhaled, feeling something between regret and disbelief.

A chuckle from his right. Sam clapped him on the shoulder.

“Dude,” Sam said, shaking his head, “now you really can’t turn around. They’re clearly going to the same bar.”

Bucky swallowed, glancing at the door of the venue just a block ahead. His instincts screamed at him to leave, to avoid whatever this was—this pull, this ache, this thing he hadn’t felt in years.

But another part of him—the part that still remembered warm nights and swing music, red lips and silk dresses—wanted to follow.

Without another word, he kept walking.

The bar was packed, the low hum of conversation filling the space as Bucky and Sam slipped inside. The warm, amber glow of old-fashioned sconces cast soft shadows on the walls, and every detail—from the dark wooden bar to the checkered floor—looked like it had been plucked straight out of the 1940s.

Bucky would’ve scoffed if he weren’t already too distracted.

They took seats near the back, away from the main crowd but with a clear view of the small stage. Sam, grinning like he’d just won a bet, leaned back in his chair and ordered them a round. Bucky just nodded, already restless, already thinking about turning around and heading for the door.

Then, just as the bartender placed their drinks in front of them, the lights were dimmed, slightly but not completely, and a hush fell over the room.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around his glass.

The three girls from earlier stepped onto the small stage, their dresses now illuminated under the soft golden light. They looked even more like they had stepped out of a memory—silk, lace, pin curls, and perfectly lined red lips. They huddled together for a brief second, sharing an excited glance, and then the first notes of the song filled the room. Bucky recognized it immediately.

The girl in the red dress — Maggie, he remembered— started singing: “Of all the bows I’ve known, and I’ve known some…”. Her voice was perfect, it was like listening to Patty Andrews again, but her eyes twinkled with a distinctive mischief of this century.

“Bei mir bist du schön, please let me explain…” The harmonies were perfect, smooth and full of energy, bringing the entire bar to life. The crowd cheered as the girls swayed in sync, their voices blending effortlessly.

But Bucky only heard one.

Maggie.

She was front and center, her voice leading the melody, rich and honeyed. There was something effortless in the way she sang—confidence woven through every note, playfulness in the way she looked out at the crowd. She owned the moment, and Bucky couldn’t look away.

Sam nudged him. “Damn,” he muttered, eyebrows raised. “She’s good.”

Bucky barely heard him.

His whisky sat untouched. He was completely, hopelessly mesmerized.

The song ended with a flourish, and the bar erupted into cheers and applause. The two other girls beamed as they stepped down, leaving only Maggie behind. She adjusted the microphone slightly, her fingers light on the stand, and the band behind her gave her a nod to start, ready for the new tune.

She started singing.

“Evening shadows make me blue…”

The first delicate notes of My Happiness drifted through the air, and Bucky felt something deep in his chest tighten.

It wasn’t just the beauty of her voice—it was the way she sang it, the way each word seemed to carry something unspoken, something tender and longing.

And then, in the middle of the first verse, she looked at him.

“How I long to be with you…”

Bucky barely breathed.

They locked eyes across the room, and everything else faded.

The music, the noise of the crowd, even Sam’s presence beside him—it all melted away. There was only her, standing under the soft glow of the dreamy stage lights, singing as if the song belonged to only them.

“But I’ll hold you again…”

Bucky’s throat went dry. He didn’t know what it was—maybe the way her voice curled around each note like a gentle whisper, maybe the way her lips barely parted, her gaze steady and unwavering—but something in him shifted.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just nostalgia, either, though it felt dangerously close to one of those dreams where he was back in another time, whole and unburdened. This was different. This was real.

And she wasn’t looking away.

Maggie sang like she knew something he didn’t, like she could feel the pull between them just as much as he could. There was something in her expression, a flicker of curiosity—maybe even recognition, though Bucky knew they’d never met before. But still, she held his gaze, her voice smooth as silk.

“Wether skies are gray or blue, any place on earth will do…”

The words settled deep in his chest, and Bucky felt his fingers twitch against his knee.

Sam shifted beside him. “Damn, man,” he murmured, low enough that only Bucky could hear. “She’s really looking at you.”

Bucky still couldn’t speak.

The song swelled toward its final notes, Maggie’s voice lingering in the air like something delicate, something that would slip through his fingers if he moved too quickly.

“Just as long as I’m with you, my happiness…”

And then, just as the last chord faded, she smiled.

It was small, barely there, but he saw it. Felt it.

The bar erupted into cheers, breaking the spell. Maggie blinked and exhaled softly, as if she, too, had just been pulled back to reality, and with one last glance, she stepped away from the microphone.

Bucky barely noticed the people clapping around him, barely registered Sam nudging him with a smirk.

Because he knew, in the depths of his soul, that something had just changed.

And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

The next performer took the stage, one of Maggie’s friends, her voice floating through the bar in a lively, upbeat tune. The crowd was still buzzing from the last performance, but Bucky barely heard anything. His mind was stuck on the way Maggie had looked at him, the way her voice had wrapped around him like something familiar, something safe.

Sam stood up, stretching. “I gotta hit the head,” he said, tapping the table. “Try not to look so broody while I’m gone.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but before he could think too much about it, someone stepped into his peripheral vision.

“May I?”

The voice was smooth, laced with amusement, and when Bucky looked up, there she was. Maggie.

She gestured toward the empty chair Sam had just left.

“Of course,” he answered, barely hiding his surprise. Up close, she was even more beautiful, every detail of her carefully styled hair and vintage makeup hitting him with a wave of déjà vu.

She sat gracefully, smoothing out her dress as she settled in. “I did a little sign to your friend to move so I could talk to you,” she admitted with a small smirk. “And he was very happy about it.”

Bucky let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “That sounds about right.”

Maggie tilted her head slightly, studying him. “I hope that’s not too weird, but…I just felt like I needed to talk to you.” She took her gloves off and left them on the table, then extended a hand. “I’m Maggie. Margaret, but I prefer Maggie.”

He took her hand in his, careful and deliberate. “James. But everyone calls me Bucky.”

Her fingers were soft against his palm, but there was something firm in the way she held his handshake. Like she wasn’t afraid of the moment, of him. It had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

“Is there a reason for that? ‘Cause I don’t see any connection between the two”. She chuckled.

“My middle name is Buchanan”. He admitted with resignation.

She snorted. “Old fashioned, very fitting for this place”. She signaled the barman and he brought her a glass of the same whisky Bucky was drinking. “So, Bucky,” she said, her voice playful as she traced a finger along the rim of the empty glass in front of her. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

He smirked slightly. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

He exhaled, glancing around the bar. “My friend Sam found this place online. Thought it’d be fun to drag me out.”

“And was he right?”

He looked back at her, meeting her gaze. “I wasn’t so sure at first.”

She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “And now?”

His fingers tapped lightly against the table. “Still making up my mind.”

Maggie laughed softly, shaking her head. “Smooth.”

Bucky chuckled, but he wasn’t just trying to be charming—he was genuinely trying to process whatever the hell was happening to him. Sitting here, across from her, in this dimly lit bar that felt like stepping back in time, he felt different. Bucky felt warmth creep through his chest. Maggie was easy to talk to—bright, witty, completely at ease in a way that made him forget the weight he always carried. And even though he was shy at first, stumbling slightly over his words, the fact that she had wanted to talk to him gave him confidence.

His heart raced, but instead of pushing it down, he leaned into it for once.

The setting, her style, the way she carried herself—it was all so familiar. It made him feel like he had stepped back into his time, into something safe and known. Like he was home.

And before he could think too hard about it, the old part of him—the part that used to charm girls with soft grins and smooth compliments—started to surface.

Maggie leaned forward slightly, her dress shifting as she propped her chin on one hand. “Alright, so if Sam dragged you here, that means you’re not really the type to go out much.”

Bucky huffed a small laugh. “That obvious?”

“Just a little.” She studied him for a second. “You don’t seem like you’d hate this place, though.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “What makes you say that?”

She gestured vaguely around them. “The music, the atmosphere… I saw the way you were watching earlier.” Bucky stiffened slightly, not expecting her to have noticed that. “You looked like someone remembering something,” she continued, her voice softer now. “Something good.”

He swallowed, caught off guard by how easily she had picked up on it. His fingers curled slightly against his knee. “I, uh… grew up with this kind of music.”

Maggie’s eyes flickered with interest. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling. “Used to go to places like this all the time, when I was younger.”

She smiled. “Let me guess—perfectly tailored suits, slicked-back hair, charming all the girls with that old-school confidence?”

Bucky let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Something like that.”

Maggie grinned. “I knew it. You do have that energy about you.”

He raised a brow. “That a good thing?”

She pretended to consider. “Well… depends. You one of those boys who promised every girl a dance and then never followed through?”

His smirk returned. “Sweetheart, if I promised a dance, I always followed through.” He assured with a wink. “You know,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “back in the day, a dame like you would’ve had a whole line of fellas waiting just for a dance.”

Maggie’s lips twitched. “Oh? And where would you be in that line?”

Bucky smirked. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t be in the line. I’d already have the dance.”

Maggie held his gaze, her lips twitching like she was fighting a smile. “Uh-huh. And should I take that as an offer?”

Bucky blinked. He had been joking—half-joking, at least—but now the idea of actually dancing with her didn’t seem so absurd.

Didn’t seem absurd at all.

“Maybe. If you want to, sugar”.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Wow,” she mused, “you really know how to use that old-fashioned charm, huh?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye. “I like to think I had some practice.”

Maggie leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm as she watched him. “I have to say, I don’t mind it. Feels authentic, coming from you.”

Bucky chuckled. “That a compliment?”

“Maybe,” she teased, glancing at the shiny dog tags on his chest. “But don’t get ahead of yourself, soldier.”

His chest tightened at the word.

Soldier.

Most people used it like a title, a way to remind him of what he had been, of what still clung to him like a shadow. But when she said it, it was different. It was light, teasing, effortless.

Like it didn’t come with the weight of everything he’d lost.

Bucky looked at her, and for the first time in a long, long while, he realized he was smiling. Really smiling.

Maggie watched him, her eyes filled with a curiosity that made Bucky feel like she was actually seeing him—past the surface, past whatever people usually assumed about him. It was unnerving, but in a way that made his chest tighten with something that wasn’t quite discomfort.

Maggie seemed to catch the way his expression changed because she leaned back with a knowing look. “Cat got your tongue, handsome?”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

She smirked. “That depends—do you like trouble?”

His throat went dry.

God help him, he just might.

Maggie watched him, a playful glint in her eye, and Bucky felt like he was being pulled into something he wasn’t sure he could handle.

“Depends,” he murmured, his voice lower now. “What kind of trouble are we talking about?”

Maggie’s lips curved into a smirk. “The fun kind.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Haven’t had a lot of that in a while.”

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “maybe you should.”

Something about the way she said it made Bucky pause. She didn’t know him, definitely didn’t recognize him — didn’t know the weight he carried or the ghosts that followed him—but she saw him. And maybe that was even more dangerous.

Before he could think of a response, a voice called out from the stage.

“Maggie, let’s go!”

She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Duty calls.”

Bucky lifted a brow. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d leave a guy mid-conversation.”

Maggie smirked as she stood. “You’ll survive, soldier.”

He watched as she smoothed her dress, her movements graceful, effortless. Maggie took a step toward the stage, then hesitated. She turned back to him, her expression unreadable for a moment, like she was debating something.

Then, just as quickly, she seemed to make up her mind.

“You know what?” she mumbled, more to herself than to him.

Bucky frowned slightly. “What?”

She only smiled. “You’ll see.”

And with that, she was gone, slipping through the crowd with the same effortless elegance that had first caught his eye.

Bucky watched as she climbed back onto the small stage, saying something to the girls and the band behind them, then taking her place at the microphone while her two friends whispered to each other, looking surprised by something. One of them gave Maggie a questioning glance, but she just nodded, and a moment later, the band began to play.

It only took a few notes for Bucky to realize she had changed the song.

The soft, dreamy melody of If I Give My Heart to You filled the room, and his breath caught in his throat.

Then she started singing.

“If I give my heart to you, will you handle it with care?”

Her voice was smooth, rich, carrying through the air like something delicate but unshakable.

And she was looking right at him.

Bucky felt like the room had shrunk, like there was no one else here but the two of them. He knew the song—he had heard it long ago, back when life was simpler, back when love was something he could chase without fear.

“Will you always treat me tenderly, and in every way be fair?”

She wasn’t just performing.

She was talking to him.

With nothing but her voice and her eyes, she was asking him something—something that made his pulse quicken, made his hands clench into fists under the table because damn it, he wasn’t sure he had an answer.

Could he?

Could he be that person?

Could he be the kind of man a woman like Maggie deserved?

“If I give my heart to you, will you give me all your love?”

His throat felt tight.

Maggie’s expression was softer now, her teasing smile replaced by something more vulnerable. It was like she was letting him see behind the playful confidence, like she was just as caught in this as he was.

“Will you swear that you’ll be true to me, by the light that shines above?”

Bucky had been through war. He had lost everything. He had seen and done things that would haunt him forever.

And yet, sitting here, staring at this woman on stage, he felt something foreign and terrifying creep into his chest.

Hope.

For a moment, just a moment, it was like he wasn’t the broken man the world saw him as. He wasn’t a soldier out of time, a weapon struggling to find his humanity.

He was just Bucky.

A guy sitting in a bar, falling for a girl with a voice like honey and a gaze that made him believe—just for a second—that maybe he could be more.

The song faded, the last notes lingering in the air before the crowd erupted into applause.

Maggie finally looked away, smiling as she gave a small, playful bow. But before she turned to leave the stage, she stole one last glance at Bucky.

And in that look, there was something unspoken.

A challenge. A question.

A promise.

Bucky exhaled, running a hand down his face.

He was in trouble.

[serene-faerie]

Doriathrim (plus Beren and Túrin) as Aesthetics

Thingol— towering pine trees, fireflies, a sharp jawline, stern yet gentle eyes, baroque architecture, glittering caves, majestic stags, hands as strong and firm as stone, sweet pomegranates, red wine and roasted meat, neat handwriting, the smell of pine, a melodic baritone voice, kohl-lined eyes that make them sharper, a raised eyebrow to convey displeasure and anger, silver jewelry, neatly-combed hair, diamonds, hunting boots, hugs that linger, well-loved books with folded pages, loving one’s family, autumn leaves, wolves howling at night, tall grass, a great waterfall, graceful postures, roasted game meat, white horses, flowing robes, piercing gazes, soft humming, classical music, unyielding morals, the color of the sky at dusk.

Melian— clear night skies, knowing smiles, the silver light of a waxing moon, braided dark hair, a clear and crystalline voice, elegant harp music, deep-pink jewels, soft hands, flowing gowns, loving gazes, kisses on the forehead, motherly hugs, laughter that sounds like music, white wine, moonflowers, the smell of earth after rain, forest walks, bird watching, dark eyes filled with ancient wisdom, a gentle spring breeze, the pink skies of dawn, romantic paintings, lavender flowers, always knowing what to say, birds in the trees, a flowing river, a graceful doe, blackberries, whispered singing, eyes crinkling with joy, ever present sorrow.

Beren— golden sunlight, forest bathing, leather boots, sword-calloused hands that touch gently, long, tousled brown hair, hardened yet sorrowful eyes, smiles as warm as summer, green cloaks, the smell of amber and cloves, sleeping beneath trees, hearty laughter, falling in love at first sight, a courageous spirit, a rough but warm voice, promising to protect those he loves, loving despite losing everyone dear, patching up injuries, lingering touches, dancing among the flowers, wild berries, fiery sunsets, warm hugs, brown bears, scarred muscles, hand kisses, vows to protect, the coming of summer, forest meadows, reverent whispers of love, admiring gazes, sweet wine, campfires.

Lúthien— starry skies, soft skin, long and loose dark hair, flower crowns, carefree smiles, eyes full of starlight, a voice like crystal, laughter as warm as summer nights, blue gowns, bare feet, ballet dancing, rosy lips, nightingales in the trees, shimmering purple eyeshadow, loving with one’s whole heart, jasmine flowers, red cherries, the smell of lilacs, the loving warmth of spring, sparkling jewels, meadows in the springtime, gentle hand-holding, butterfly kisses, elderflower cordial, sleeping amidst flowers, breaking out of the shell, soft singing, summer storms, april showers, a light in the darkness, a courageous heart, the pale blue morning skies.

Dior— dark, tousled hair, bright eyes, sparkly jewelry, a rugged elegance, a young fawn, mischievous smiles, blue jays, close bonds with family, witty comebacks, blueberries, sharp teeth dripping with blood, righteous fury, defending one’s home to the death, childhood lullabies, swimming in rivers, stargazing, crackling fires, the smell of musk, challenging death head-on, gleaming swords, blood moons, silver rings on each finger, collecting rain in cupped palms, raspberry tea, cicadas buzzing at dusk, the warm caress of a late spring breeze, thunderstorms, flashes of lightning, violent winds.

Nimloth— flushed cheeks, long silver hair, eyes with a gleam both faint and fierce, cunning smiles, loving fiercely, flower garlands, green gowns, careful hands, the new moon, emerald jewelry, golden earrings, bathing in forest rivers, protecting family with one’s life, sharp blades, a mother bear, white flowers, floral tea, strawberries, thrushes, holly leaves, blood upon one’s cheeks, torn dresses, the cool air of dawn, honey cakes, killing one’s enemy at the cost of one’s life, embroidered sheets, cherry-red lipstick, no regrets, victory in death, dying with a smile upon one’s face.

Elwing— white seagulls, wavy dark hair, eyes that are hardened by grief and pain, glowing gems, blue ocean waves, collecting seashells, waters glittering with starlight, a quiet, firm voice, hands that tremble ever so slightly, thick blankets, a gentle sea breeze, gazing out at the sea, warm honey tea, bread and apricot jam, candlelight by the bed, fingertips stained with ink, counting the stars, a worn plush toy, white feathers, a heart burdened with sorrow, finding joy in the smallest things, whispered lullabies to oneself, the pale blue dawn, the smell of the sea, jewelry of silver and pearls, beachside walks with one’s family.

Daeron— wooden flutes, bookshelves with worn books, cursive handwriting, candlelight upon desks, quiet ambient music, a light, clear voice, quiet humming to oneself, a cool autumn breeze, falling asleep at a desk, a crown of leaves, seasonal poetry, flowing rivers, soft hair, lush green grass, pining silently, wandering the earth, living in solitude, the passing of spring, songwriting, warm tea with spices, trying to do what is right, loving one’s home, loyalty to one’s lord, eloquent fingers, singing at parties, knowing exactly what to say at the right time, midsummer nights.

Beleg— hair in a ponytail, feather-tipped arrows, fingerless gloves, keen eyes, silent footsteps, kind smiles, brotherly hugs, deer hunting, sleeping under trees, silver bracelets, cherishing the bonds of friendship, frost upon tree branches, the chill of winter, brown owls, icicles from rooftops, morning mist in the trees, roasted game meat, thick scarves, falling snow, frozen waters, rainy nights, thunderclouds, forgiving, tragic poetry, suppressing one’s emotions, polished hunting boots, bird calls, carvings in tree trunks, loving someone for their flaws, kisses on hands, goodbye kisses, lips stained with blood.

Mablung— sharpened knives, a silent hunter, worn leather boots, even-tempered, always trying to keep a level head, a calming voice, sad smiles, making tea for others, late night hunting trips, strong hands, caverns that echo, light-footedness, elegant yet broken spears, always being the bearer of bad news, giving advice that is never listened to, windswept hair, the smell of bergamot and ginger, a heart weighed by sadness, bittersweet farewells, the thick morning fog, black ravens, mud upon one's cheeks, riverside walks, horse riding through forests, respect and love for one's superiors, fighting to defend one's home.

Túrin— long dark hair, turbulent scowls, sharp eyes full of righteous anger and pain, alcohol, poor decisions, black tea, bedtime stories, tiny smiles, laughter that is scarcely heard, carving wooden animals with a knife, clothes stained with blood, heart racing with adrenaline, lightning, the rumbling of thunder, a hoarse and deep voice, solitude, abandoned cities, shattered mirrors, unyielding stubbornness and pride, words that can cut deep, quick to anger, loving deeply, passionate about justice, running barefoot across the grass, wilted flowers, withered trees, lucid dreaming, dark colors, restlessness, heavy boots, hooded capes, gleaming black swords, tears of anger and bitterness, cloudy skies.

Nellas— robins, three-leafed clovers, tall grass, sleeping in the trees, daisies, red apples, messy braids, short and loose dresses, walking barefoot, freckled cheeks, eyes as warm as the sun, feeding the squirrels, uncaring of anyone's opinions, loving the woodland creatures, the countryside, herds of deer, clusters of poppies, playing hide-and-seek in the forest, folklore stories of animals that speak, dirt under fingernails, crisp air, muddy feet, stargazing from the tallest trees, shy smiles, red foxes, red maple trees, rosy cheeks, a cute button nose, quiet observation, dried leaves in tangled hair, hushed whispers, secret giggles.

Oropher— tall oak trees, loose silver hair, a heart full of unending grief, glittering deep green robes, memorial shrines carved in stone, rosemary and heather, climbing vines, the smell of incense, loves the forest, anger that quietly simmers, a piercing glare to silence unwanted chatter, firm but gentle hands, the sound of rushing rivers, only trusting those who have earned it, quills dipped in ink, leather-bound journals, a compelling voice, silvery light, vast, old-growth forests, black bears, always keeping promises, grey-blue eyes, a mind haunted by memory, reluctant alliances, firm and unwavering principles, late night reading, being slow to forgive, tales of the past, bitter nostalgia, night skies fading into dawn.

Thranduil— a crown of oak leaves and woodland flowers, sweet and fruity wine, tall and dark forests, the crisp chill of early winter, high ceilings, a gleaming sword with a golden hilt, a silver necklace with white jewels, autumn berries, family hunting trips, joyous feasts late into the night, loving the forest through all the seasons, rings of silver and gold, silver eyeshadow, sharp eyeliner that enhances one's eyes, pale straight hair, a heart weighed with bittersweet melancholy, gently rocking a baby's cradle, long hours in the library, a marvellous deer, shimmering eyeshadow, disdain shown through raised eyebrows, the smell of autumn leaves, silk robes, stories about the forests and the stars, befriending the woodland creatures, loving those who are lost.

[ryuzakemo128]

Snippet of

Am I The Asshole? Part Two

Pairing: Poly141 x reader / Johnny MacTavish x Crow

cw: smut, bj.

Notes: Pictures reflect Crow's aesthetic to give you an idea what how she dresses.

Johnny getting his cock sucked off by his ex-girlfriend Crow. Imagine their surprise to see Crow on her knees as Johnny placed his hand on the back of her head. Locking and weaving his fingers into her deep burnished copper hair, Johnny’s eyes rolling to the back of his head as Crow continued to work her tongue along his thick, veiny shaft. 

She stared at him through her long, thick, dark eyelashes. A little smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Studying every reaction he made, every move, every twitch. Taking his entire length without any trouble what-so-ever. 

Johnny didn’t have to beg her to touch him like that. Not like he felt like he had to with you. With a gentle nudge, he encouraged her to take him deeper. Which she eagerly obliges. Cheeks hollowing with each bob.

The sound of her saliva, smacking against his shaft, echoed through the living room. A sweet symphony of lust. A song you could have sworn belonged to just the two of them. Belonging to another time, to another place. 

Here it is. Right there in front of him. You can’t blame him for seeking comfort elsewhere, right?

Their dance of carnal desire. A dance which never ended just because the two of them decided breaking up was the better outcome. 

‘Am I The Asshole if I seek out comfort from my ex-girlfriend because my current girlfriend won’t give me any?’ Johnny’s question popped into his head. 

‘Am I The Asshole if I break up with my cheating girlfriend to get back together with my ex?’

These questions lingered around his mind. As his resolve continued to wane, to dilute and wash away. Like a candle’s light flickering, spluttering inside the melting wax. Warmth from Crow’s mouth around his cock, warmer than the cold reality of his life now. His current situation. The end of his relationship. 

She looked up at him, their eyes silently talking of the connection they still have, the one neither of them denied. Her tongue swirled around his tip tasting, taking his pre-cum eager to please. To be at service. 

Her enthusiasm sent a jolt of electricity through him. Johnny’s grip on her hair tightened by a fraction. Guiding her faster, deeper. The warmth from the cavern of her mouth felt like home. Getting closer and closer to his orgasm. Getting so close to the edge of cumming in her mouth. 

This is a dance he knew well. A dance he knew like the back of his hand. 

The way she looked up at him. The little sounds she made as she took him completely. The way she'd swirl her tongue around the tip of his cock—it was all so familiar, so comforting.

Her hands firmly gripping his thighs as she continued to take him. Getting closer to the edge, throwing his back against the plush couch, the deep emerald green velvet couch grabbing one of the cushions to muffle his deep groan. To muffle his moans. 

Crow’s eyes, an amber honey coloured eyes with charcoal and copper streaked through. Johnny’s hand slipped away from her hair, his eyes focusing on the way the light from the setting sun kissed the edges of her cheekbones, casting shadows over the sharp lines of her jaw, highlighting the piercings that glinted as she moved. Her mouth a wet, hot sheath felt like velvet around him, her tongue dancing with a skill that had him clenching his teeth to keep from crying out.

Working him to an orgasm which shook through his entire body like a seizure. He came hard, spurts of cum shot into her mouth, her eyes never leaving his. Crow took it all, swallowed with a smile, and licked him clean like a kitten.

Crow’s deep kiss afterwards, the taste of his own cum mixed with her saliva. Remnants of his cum on her chin, the sides of her mouth and cheeks. She would have wiped it away with the back of her hand. It would have happened had Johnny decided to stop. He loved to see her marked by him. Claimed by him. Completely and totally his. 

Her eyes looked into his, searching for any kind of guilt, remorse, something he couldn’t quite define. Then it hit him like a freight train in the middle of June. She was looking for any form of regret. Instead, all she found was the raw need inside unsated, 

His wants, his needs denied to him by his current girlfriend.

[cartoonbah]

DRACULAURA ; CHANNEL THREE

Name(s): draculaura, laura, rose, lucy, darling, doll

Gender(s): transfem, eldrilovic, elecutehorroric, cuvampiric, girlthing, lovebattic, gothgirlic, darlingvamp, lovebite

Pronoun(s): she/hers, vamp/vamps, bite/bites, fang/fangs, pink/pinks, rose/roses, idol/idols, cute/cutes

Orientation(s): pansexual, sapphic

Age: 1,600+ chronologically, 16 - 18 mentally

Role(s): caretaker, comforter, soother, socializer, confidence holder, emotional processor, femininity holder

Emoji / signoffs: 🩷,🖤,💄,👠,👝,🌹,💘,☂️,🌙

Brief description: draculaura is the sweetest vamp you'll ever meet - friendly, peppy and always smiling, her thoughts are sickly sweet with thoughts of clothes, romance and her next trip to the mall. intelligent but a bit naive, she tends to act on her heart above everything else.

Personality traits: peppy, upbeat, romantic, sweet, kind, vain, selfless, helpful, sensitive, childish, emotional

Presentation / fashion style: high femme, feminine, edgy, alt

Likes: fashion, makeup, umbrellas, shopping, lolita, 2000s anime, vegetables, cloudy days, fall, long nights, romance novels

Dislikes: blood, meat, horror movies (esp slashers), summer, heat, days without clouds, bad hair days

Aesthetics: scenecore, emo, lolita, agejo gyaru, old web, pinkcore, vampire goth

Hobbies: gardening, cooking vegetarian dishes, trinket collecting, blogging, journaling, diy'ing current closet, drawing fashion designs, making pinterest boards, writing

Front triggers: fashion, blinkies, glitter graphics, shopping, makeup, 2010s alt music, bows, genders similar to current hoard, overstimulation from front

Kins: dolls, cats, witches, magic, bats, wolves, fog, moon, sky, demons, angels

Favorite song: "psycho" by mia rodriguez

Typing quirk: mostly types in lower case. replaces her "w" with "v" to simulate her accent, spaces out her commas and other punctuation marks

"vell , vell , vell ! it seems you all have to admit, i vas right about the look ! im so cunty rn !"

Source memories:

she had a sensitive nose, so she would be able to tell her friends apart even if her eyes were closed by the scent of their unique perfumes. she still remembers the sweet petuinas of frankies fresh and floral perfume, the amber musk of cleo's and the strong lavender of clawdeens.

sometimes age regressed when stressed, triggered or emotional to the age of 2 - 6. her main caretakers were clawdeen and frankie, who would put on elissabat movies for her and let her color in peace.

[valentine-cafe]

˚◞♡ 𝒋𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒚𝒊 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒓𝒂 209 — the snake-hybrid mad doctor◞ ₊˚

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ “ darling, i have dealt with many hearts, but I've never come across one as pretty as yours, ” ꒱

. ˚◞꒰verse꒱ 209

. ˚◞꒰face claim refs꒱ ( x ) ( x ) ( x )

. ˚◞꒰species꒱ grim reaper, snake hybrid

. ˚◞꒰ethnicity꒱ chinese

. ˚◞꒰age꒱ 46

. ˚◞꒰gender꒱ male

. ˚◞꒰mbti꒱estj

. ˚◞꒰aliases꒱ the doctor, the surgeon, doctor herrera, the heartless, the black plague ( by enigma, the resistance ), snakie-boy, snake-bitch ( by haitao )

. ˚◞꒰appearance꒱

𖹭. oftentimes seen wearing his deceptively kind smile, fooling even the most skeptical of people when they catch a glimpse of the red painted lips stretched out on his face.

𖹭. deep amber snake eyes are often hidden by a pair of maroon contacts, hiding away the truth like the rest of his general body language and confident posture.

𖹭. long, silky black hair that falls past his shoulders, usually put into a half-ponytail or let loose.

𖹭. is able to unhinge his jaw, putting on display, his forked elongated tongue, rows of sharp teeth and his two snake fangs protruding whenever he yawns

𖹭. wears a wide range of jewellery, thin gold necklaces and chokers covering his neck and shoulders. while his ears are covered in a pair of standard lobe piercings, along with a helix — right ear covered in a conch and tragus piercing. rings covering his fair toned fingers.

𖹭. stands at the towering height of 6’7 ft ( 201cm ), with a lean and well toned figure.

𖹭. androgynous, sharp and soft facial features.

𖹭. very fluid and elegant in the way he moves and overall looks.

𖹭. primarily dons the red makeup styles.

𖹭. extremely vintage styled aesthetic in fashion choice, loves wearing poet shirts and suits.

𖹭. he has a frenum piercing ( peepee piercing )

. ˚◞꒰personality꒱

𖹭. deceivingly kind and serene demeanor hiding the sadism and manipulative intentions and ulterior motives.

𖹭. he is deceptive in every way and form, his sharp intelligence silencing those who speak against him or try to prevent him from succeeding his goals.

𖹭. has a silver-tongue riddled with false kindness and care the fools that decide to affiliate themselves with him, bringing them into a sense of comfort and security that never was there to begin with — using their confidence as an advantage

𖹭. on the inside, you see the sinister, sarcastic and malicious sociopath that is the true part of the so-called “goodhearted” poet.

𖹭. charming and charismatic words and actions concealing the greedy and sadistic side of him.

𖹭. prefers silence over loud talk, and maintains his anonymity and mystery due to this factor — getting him to talk is not a possibility, even if you tried by forcing it out of him.

𖹭. can be sassy and give blunt replies to people he finds himself irritated with.

𖹭. moodiness is a result of both his snake dna and his traumatic past — or because his husband is not around.

𖹭. calculative and witty — has a great memory and uses it often to note down the speech patterns, movements and body-languages of the people around him.

𖹭. his perceptiveness is the next in line to his intelligence, you cannot outlie the master liar and manipulator, he knows your tricks.

𖹭. hard to anger and irritate, and will applaud you for your audacity and stupidity for trying so.

𖹭. should this man find himself infatuated with someone, he will put his possessiveness and obsessiveness on display. showing you his yandere tendencies and greedy behaviour around them.

. ˚◞꒰with a lover꒱

𖹭. very sweet. very verbally and physically affectionate. you see the more humane side of him that others do not

𖹭. he is exceptionally patient with you. always assuring you when you need and comforting you

𖹭. he loves spoiling you. especially taking you out clothes shopping and letting you try out whatever it is that you may wish. loves seeing you flustered whenever he pulls you into a clothing shop. flustering you whenever he snatches your waist in front of a mirror

𖹭. always worshipping your skin with kisses. he can barely keep his hands off of you

𖹭. possessive, but hides it well with his poetic and loving words. he is most definitely a yandere type. willing to do whatever it takes to keep you at his side.

𖹭. very verbal about how much he obsesses over you, as much as he is clear in his actions that he wants you for himself and no-one else. should anyone look or talk to you in a way he does not like? he will gouge their eyes out, or use them as his newest “patients”

𖹭. loves teasing you and flirting with you until you have lost your breath from giggling or whining for him to shut up

𖹭. a very passionate lover and has no problem in showing his passion for you neither. even when it’s in public

𖹭. pda? what’s that? he’ll pull you into his lap even in a cafe. or kiss you in booths. have his hands on you. anything to show that you are his

𖹭. if anyone lays a finger on you. . . they are dead.

. ˚◞꒰strengths꒱

𖹭. increased bodily function: advanced strength, speed, agility and durability.

𖹭. heightened senses: advanced sight, smell, hearing, taste and awareness of surroundings.

𖹭. healing factor: an average healing factor that heals his injuries far quicker than most

𖹭. fangs and bite: has a set of snake fangs that can secrete two venoms: a paralytic, which he uses for sedation, and a fatal. he can switch between them. and especially powerful bite

𖹭. talons & venomous touch: he has talons that secrete high levels of venom. this venom is extracted by thin wired implanted on his wrists that carry his venom to his nails, resulting in venom-induced touches should he use them on someone.

𖹭. snake physiology: has the flexibility of a snake, therefore his body is able to move in the fluid motion that a serpent would. he is able to dislocate his joints with ease and twist his body in whichever way he prefers. his jaw can unhinge as well.

𖹭. poison immunity: immune to poisons.

𖹭. elastic jaw: the ability to unhinge his jaw to drastic measures

𖹭. hyper climbing and clawing: able to slither up surfaces

𖹭. seismic sense: able to feel vibrations in a seismic way whenever his limbs touch surfaces. he can feel these from quite awhile ago

𖹭. enhanced lung capacity: able to hold his breath for longer

𖹭. stealth: can move around swiftly and quietly

. ˚◞꒰weaknesses꒱

𖹭. poison addiction: due to building up a poison resistance by intaking the substances, he is now immune to poison but in turn has grown addicted to the intake of them. he now does it for the fun of it and as a coping mechanism.

𖹭. abandonment issues: if he is away from the people he loves. this can result in erratic episodes and even have a negative affect on his physical well-being

𖹭. fainting: should he grow overwhelmed, he is prone to fainting.

𖹭. apples: has a mild allergy to apples and takes medication for it.

𖹭. reapers: not much is known of this condition. . . come back later and perhaps you might find out?

𖹭. apples: has a mild allergy to apples and takes medication for it.

𖹭. oranges: has a bad allergy to oranges.

𖹭. daylight: as a nocturnal reaper, daylight and other bright sources of light can weaken his senses of sight as he is used to the darkness of the night.

𖹭. d’akar: an anti-magic material that can greatly weaken him if he comes into contact with it. he, especially is affected by this.

𖹭. extreme emotional attachment: while reapers may remind one of humans, they are not. they are beings with very empathetic instincts and have souls bigger than the average mortal being — a thing that has been with them since their creation. they become extremely attached to things they love and it may cause them to become erratic if enough they love is taken away from them.

. ˚◞꒰relationships꒱

𖹭. rishen herrera: husband, business partner, best friend

𖹭. yuè mèng yáo: mother, deceased

𖹭. zhào mùchén: father, deceased

𖹭. zhào hàoyú: younger brother, deceased

𖹭. zhào haitāo: younger brother, enemy

𖹭. zhào xīyáng: younger brother, deceased

𖹭. wèi lìxuě: enemy

𖹭. liú tàishī: enemy

𖹭. alessio agresta arias: “rival”, deceased

𖹭. lorenzo agresta arias: enemy

𖹭. park tae-hyun: enemy

. ˚◞꒰story꒱

sly grins and skilled yet devilish hands. hidden by kind eyes and serene smiles. how could a gaze like that watch with glee the suffering of experiments?

a mad doctor to match his mad scientist for a husband, experimenting and tormenting enigma and inhumans with the excuse of making a better world. jingyi herrera designs medicines that no other verse has even seen. so what if it's at the cost of a few souls? it's for the greater good. 

so he'll indulge in his insanity. in his horrid morals and his lust for knowledge, for his twisted sense of justice. all if it means succeeding in all of his ambitions and staying at the side of his beloved.

. ˚◞꒰extra꒱

𖹭. he is a doctor and has a clinic on the second floor of valence. he specialises in most areas of anatomy and is a skilled doctor and surgeon.

𖹭. he is also the co-chairman of valence

𖹭. he is fluent in asl and csl

𖹭. he speaks chinese ( mandarin ) and spanish ( latin american )

𖹭. has a cat named Beatrice Herrera Reina the 2nd queen of the abyssal dread

𖹭. loves old-timey romance movies

𖹭. as much as he is mature, he does love giving his assistants a good scare every now and then when he thinks they are being lazy. . . and by scare we don’t mean by lighthearted pranks.

𖹭. likes collecting tea sets.

𖹭. he sometimes smokes