#and if i showed them this painting i did of him they’d be like ‘oh ok if he’s important enough to get art he will probably stick around’

[moookar]

Weird loser

(Rbs > likes!)

[deadsetobsessions]

Writing Prompt… kind of? Definitely write more if you want but this was a cute little “fic starter” that popped into my mind.

——

Danny didn’t know the first thing about art. This is an important fact.

“Sam, why am I even here?”

“Suck it up, Casper.”

“The show or the school?” Danny privately thought Casper the Friendly Ghost was the best thing to have come around. It did wonders for improving relations between Amity and inhabitants of the Zone.

Sam smacked him on the arm. “You know which one. You’re just here to be the normie judge. You don’t need to know anything about art.”

“Everyone here is like an art acolyte or something, Sam! I’m an engineering newb in a room full of people with art PhDs!”

Sam rolled her eyes and checked her manicures. “If you call Fenton Works newb level, then the rest of the world would be Neanderthals. Seriously that’s why you’re here. The art’s gotta appeal to the untrained eyes too. I trust your judgement.”

Danny gave in. “Thanks, Sam. That means a lot.” He followed after Sam but after a moment, he whined, “But couldn’t you have taken Tucker? Dude’s got four untrained eyes!”

“He’s busy with his internship. And you were already in Gotham.”

They reach the exhibition, Sam and Danny being welcomed in. Sam’s parents, while not the richest of the rich, were known art connoisseurs and respected people in the communities that dotted around the world. On top of being the descendants of the man that invented the deli toothpick cellophane twirling device, that is. Sam was standing in their place today- begrudgingly- because they’d promised to pay for an entire month of Gotham architecture tours and a trip to Japan. After all, Sam had much of their knowledge too. If anyone could say anything about the Masons, it was that they were passionate in their chosen field. L

“The contestants are in the room next door. The judge panel is beginning.” The person at the door informed them. He gave them a slip of paper and a pen to mark their choices in each field. Danny breathed a sigh of relief and began wandering around.

After he wandered between the oil paintings- “oo, this one. Reason why… the vibes are nostalgic. I like it.”- and the various depictions of a specific ship, Danny was pulled to a stop by his core reaching out. He looked up and what he saw took his breath away.

It was just a photo.

But it felt like he was there, on that rooftop, crouched among the shadows and watching the early rays of muffled light hit the tops of his city. His core thrummed. It felt like protection. It felt like he was being fulfilled, like Danny was once more becoming Phantom and that he was watching over this city he’s beginning to understand.

Danny, almost fevered, scribbled down the name [A Robin’s Nest- by Tim Drake] as his number one choice to win the contest over all. And, at least, to win the first in the photography division.

——

“Oh, Ancients, are you okay?”

Danny had wandered around in the interim as the votes were tallied. He hadn’t been paying attention when he smacked into a little kid that could have been his little brother.

“Uhm. I’m good.”

Danny helped the kid up. “I’m Danny. I’m sorry I smacked into you. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yeah. I’m Timothy Drake. I’m good.”

Danny’s smile widened in shock. “Like the photographer? Oh, wow! I really loved that photo! It was amazing! It felt like I was up there with the vigilantes!”

As he spoke, Danny glanced around for the kid’s designated adults. Hm. That’s odd. Everyone and their parental figure was accounted for.

“Oh.” Timothy flushed. “Thanks! I hoped the judges liked it too.”

Danny smiled, a small secretive thing. “Oh, I’m sure they will. Will you tell me more about your photography?”

“Oh, if you want!”

——

[princessbrunette]

ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅PRINCESSBRUNETTES SCREAM SALON INTRODUCES … ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵ ࿁ ˂̵ ꒱ྀིა

PICTURE YOU ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

♩chappell roan — picture you ♩

pairing: pervy pope, jj, john b x reader

cw: sexual fantasies, the pogues being peeping toms, masturbation.

you are responsible for your own media consumption. welcome to kinktober day five. better late than never!

pope knew was he was doing was wrong. you were his neighbour for christs sake.

at the end of the day, he was but a man— and whilst he had no intention of stooping to full pervert level like this, he had slipped up and bragged to the wrong people, AKA — jj maybank, about how his fine ass neighbour had a certain… routine, every friday night… and would leave her bedroom blinds open for it.

the regret fully kicked in when he opened his front door, seeing the excited expression on his two best friends faces.

“no. i shouldn’t have told you.” is how pope greets them.

“dude it’s fine,” jj reiterates, easily moving past him in the entrance to his house with a clap on the shoulder, an only slightly less enthused john b following closely behind with an awkward but willing smile. “we’re not gonna watch. we’re just gonna… like — happen to glance out the window. while she’s flickin’ the bean.”

“thats — that doesn’t make it any more okay.” pope stresses, following his friends up to his bedroom.

“look, she leaves her blinds open right? isn’t that what you said? have you maybe considered that… possibly, and hear me out on this… she wants to be watched?” john b, usually the voice of reason finds it in himself to convince pope just that little more, wide puppy-like eyes doing most of the convincing. he’s probably the only reason pope hasn’t grabbed them both by the scruff of the neck and hauled them out.

the night goes on, and honestly — the perverted plan is nearly forgotten about until their attention is brought to the window just across from popes, the lamp switching on as you arrived home from work. john b swivels on popes desk chair, nodding his head toward the sight with a whistle.

“oop, shows starting.”

“honey, i’m home.” jj sings out in a high pitched voice, excited for what’s to come.

“you’re so much better than this, john b.” pope deadpans, double taking at jj as he switches off the lights to the bedroom sending them all into darkness. “what the hell?”

“do you wanna get caught creepin’ on your neighbour? no? didn’t think so.”

“you done this before jayj?” there’s a lilt of teasing to the brunettes voice as his blonde counterpart grabs a seat and drags it up beside him, the young adults gathered as they watch your figure dart around the room going about your nightly activities.

“shh.”

the boys curse, ducking down slightly when you suddenly appear at your window, fingers grazing the blinds. they stay deadly still in the dark, barely even breathing as to not draw attention to the fact they’re gathered round to watch you. you look pensive, hesitant, like you’re about to draw the blinds and shut the world out and yet… you don’t. you back away, leaving them open.

“huh.” pope breathes, glancing at his wavy haired friend.

“likes an audience. interesting.” routledge hums, voice deep and breathy.

you begin to undress, and they swear the air in the room gets thicker. peeling your leggings down your legs like they’d been painted onto you for the day creates an audible reaction from your neighbour and his friends, jj even going as far as to stick his knuckle in his mouth.

“god damn.” he garbles, earning a hum of agreement.

“oh you really lucked out here pope. the only neighbour i ever had was a 70 year old woman. trust me when she left her blinds open you look the other way.” john b doesn’t remove his eyes from the scene as he recounts the anecdote, causing pope to screw up his face.

the truth was, pope did have his own fantasies and perversions. he told himself time and time again, he wasn’t watching. he was at his desk first, you left your blinds open. visions of you at the library you worked at, helping him with research in that little mini skirt he saw you wear once. bending over to rummage shelves, sweet fat crescent of your pussy on display through your panties. pope would have no choice but to take you right there on the table behind the bookshelves, the two of you trying to stay quiet as he disappears between your thighs, seeking out that sweet nectar…

when he snaps out of it, you’re already on the bed, in perfect eyeshot of the window. just you, that dim lamp that made your skin seem to glow, an oversized tshirt and some panties.

“you guys don’t feel wrong doing this?” pope speaks in a hushed voice like you might be able to hear.

“how could something so right be so wrong, my friend?” jj pulls out a joint to stick into his mouth, only to have it plucked from his lips and tossed aside by the heyward boy.

“i’m drawing a line.”

“alright, that’s fair.”

“you guys are missing it.” john b hums, entranced by the way you palm at your tits through the top, eyes fluttering shut as your body starts to relax into the bed. “putting on a show for us.”

silence falls upon them finally as they stare, your hands trailing down to lift the hem of your shirt up and over your breasts, massaging the fat and plucking at the nipples.

“oh wow.” pope breathes, jj breaking out into a grin.

“this is some american pie shit right here.”

“grow up.”

“i’m just saying.”

it seems like forever before your hands reach down to your panties, fingers gingerly dusting over the thin fabric of what appears to be baby blue panties with a pink bow at the top centre. jj even swears he can see the gloss of your arousal on your open thighs from where he’s sat. you begin to rub yourself through the material, teasingly and you pull your bottom lip beneath your teeth, sucking in a breath.

“th’atta girl.” john b murmurs, and the air in the room suddenly feels too hot, too stifling. it wasn’t this hot five minutes ago.

“its like i… can’t look away.” pope justifies in just above a whisper, finally perching down to a more comfortable view, watching the way your head tosses side to side, back arching just that little bit as you try and find a better angle. patience leaves you, and you’re pulling the panties off all together.

“would you look at that.” jj marvels, before glancing at his two friends. “y’all mind if i jerk off real quick?”

“what?” pope screws up his face, and john b glances at him.

“yeah, uh. i mind.”

“it can’t wait?” pope adds, shaking his head and jj throws up his hands.

“i thought that’s what we were doing’ here alright my bad!” he dodges john b’s disapproving swat, eyes wide. “oh that’s where you draw the line? y’all are not real freaks.”

“no.” john b shakes his head, pope chiming in with a “thank god.”

but as their attention lands on you once more, your fingers sinking into that glossy hole — they begin to really reconsider their choice.

[rooksunday]

thinking about fox getting his first poll card after the vode get citizenship. the guard scattered after sithsplosion day, but he and a score or so that were functionally useless without each other, like nervous space greyhounds with military training, all ended up bundled together on some planet in the mid rim.

he’s been working on a book about his years at the senate. no one knows about it aside from thorn, who has been checking his basic, and advising him where he needs to wind the reveals back a little because libel. the rest of the time he does payroll for a number of small businesses, picking and choosing his hours, and delighting in sending invoices for his business: the shiny security fund, he’s called it, to continue the tradition in a more official manner.

(when they’d been on triple zero, the fund had been for rations. blankets. bacta. they’d conned credits from tourists and stolen them from senators and turned those credits into hope for the poor bastards shipped to the city that ate shinies before they could ever earn paint. these days, the fund was for whatever his guard wanted. aside from a pony. fox couldn’t figure out where hound would keep the pony.)

the book had been born from two lists. one was the blackmail and gossip the guard had collected during their stint on coruscant; that was where thorn needed to check for dangers, but since most of those senators had died in sith-related incidents, or had been jailed when the media got hold of their dealings, all fox was doing was providing context.

the other part of the book was fox’s List. thire sometimes called it a manifesto, because he had been studying for his degree and liked to show off occasionally. the list was a suggestion of changes to the republic, some small, some large. it was a silly fancy of fox’s, as the whole book was, but if he couldn’t indulge himself in his own karkin’ book then they might as well have punted him off the high levels back on coruscant.

yet for all that he’d settled—and paid taxes, even—fox hadn’t felt part of the citizenship of the planet. then the poll card had arrived. and suddenly he mattered in a tangible way. just like the bothan baker next door did. just like the twi’lek downstairs, the one with the noisy kriffin’ speeder, did.

thorn found fox in the kitchen, still staring at the scrap of card. he rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

“you okay there, chief?” he asked. he’d been trying out alternatives to ‘sir’. “noise complaint again?”

fox shook his head. he didn’t look up. “voting thing. there’s an election.”

“oh! yeah, we got ours yesterday. are you— what’s that face you’re making. i don’t think i like it.”

fox raised his head and gleamed his smile at thorn, who backed away slightly, one hand drifting to where a blaster once hung. fox’s eyes felt very wide. he jabbed the poll card like a vibroknife.

“do you know what this means?”

“democracy comes in two postal batches?”

“no! well, yes, apparently, and that’s inefficient, but— no!” fox jabbed the card again. “this means i am a citizen and i am about to make that a senator’s problem. where’s my manifes— list, thorn? it’s time for an update.”

[ellecdc]

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSFx4A93R/

Dude in my opinion, the moonwater couple are like tidy couple? Do you get what i mean? Like they will keep everything at their place amd everything clean?

What will be their reaction if reader shows them this video and ask them if they would do the same to reader as a lesson?

It'll be cool if it can be a fic. But idk if your request is open. I just immediately went to this ask without checking it first

omg first of all - fuck that guy fr fr lolllll. Also that is such a sweet headcanon to have about moonwater - what does everyone else think? I totally agree with Regulus being super organized and tidy, but I'm not sure about Remus? Perhaps if he was with Regulus then yes, he'd be pretty tidy.

poly!moonwater x fem!reader who has hair ties and bobby pins and wears makeup

It was sort of comical the way that the three of you created some sort of spectrum of tidiness in your relationship.

Regulus was by far the tidiest of the bunch. As a matter of fact, if you didn’t see Regulus haunting the halls of your flat, you’d be hard-pressed to believe another person lived with you at all. He was so tidy, in fact, that he would often follow behind you as you tidied in order to re-tidy, though he never made a big deal about it.

“Don’t worry, mon amour, I’ll handle it. You go sit.”

He was simply just a tidy person – something that likely followed him into adulthood from his home life as a child – and he, as well as you and Remus, readily accepted that.

Remus was less tidy than Regulus but not nearly as liberal as yourself. Sometimes, you’d find Regulus picking up the odd stray half-finished cup of tea, or books that were turned face down and never returned to, but that was roughly the extent of Remus’ mess. 

Remus was what you called a piler – he had various piles of things throughout your shared home that may look random or out of place to the layperson but seemed to be the pique of organization in Remus’ mind. He was also the kind of person who would clean as he cooked and wouldn’t sit down to eat until the kitchen was cleaned up behind him.

Couldn’t be you, however. 

You were sure you seemed like chaos personified compared to your two boyfriends, always leaving a ‘trail of destruction’ behind you as Regulus once (lovingly) referred to it as. There was evidence of you everywhere – hair ties, bobby pins, half-finished drinks, books, magazines, and the likes. No one would have to wonder if you were home from work, seeing as your shoes were hastily tossed aside, your keys thrown onto the console table rather than hanging in their rightful place, your bag hung over the back of a chair, and your hair tie sitting on the kitchen table – all screaming “your girlfriend’s home!”

And though your boyfriends have occasionally taken the piss for your untidiness, it had never escalated to anything more than a “hey dove, can you come rinse your paint brushes that you’ve left in the sink” or a “amour, I don’t know where your makeup goes, can you come put this away?”

So, when you saw this video on Tiktok, you couldn’t help but ask them if they’d ever consider doing this to you to teach you a lesson. 

“‘Teach you a lesson’!?” Regulus repeated incredulously, already looking horrified and you hadn’t even shown him the video yet.

“Why…why does he have a hammer?” Remus asked cautiously.

Suffice it to say, the boys did not like the video.

“I’m not watching this.” Regulus spat and stood from his spot on the couch next to Remus rather abruptly. You momentarily felt bad for showing it to him, knowing that signs of even mild aggression like this could be triggering to someone who grew up in a tense household, but felt better when he turned to glower darkly at you, knowing then that his ire was only half-hearted. 

“Dovey,” Remus pleaded, his face looking horrified as he watched the man smash his girlfriend’s makeup. “Why…oh my god. If I ever do something like that to you, you fucking leave my arse, alright? Punch me right in the face whilst you’re at it, too.”

“Not me.” Regulus added, not making it very far after refusing to watch the video and leaning against the back of the couch to continue watching it over Remus’ shoulder. “Just kill me; put me right out of my misery if I insist on being such a miserable wanker.” 

You snorted a laugh as both boys scoffed derisively at the “I heart you” written on the mirror, Regulus looking thoroughly disgusted and Remus still seemingly horrified. 

“Oh, he loves her. I guess that makes it alright then.” He muttered sarcastically. “What’s this woman’s address? Tell her we’re sending her a gift card to…. what’s the store that you like?”

“Sephora.”

“Sephora; tell her we’re sending her a gift card to Sephora.”

You chuckled and leaned further into Remus’ shoulder. “You have to keep watching, he says he’s going to take her shopping for all new stuff after.”

This caused a pained groan to rip through Regulus’ throat as he began muttering angrily in French and finally wandering away. “Idiot absolu. On dit que ce n'est pas tous les hommes, mais il y a des hommes comme ça. Je ne peux même pas les appeler des hommes, plutôt des putains de bambins.”

“Why would you show me this?” Remus turned to look at you, his bottom lip jutting out comically. “This is making me so sad.”

“I wanted to know if you would resort to something like this because of my mess!” You defended.

“Oh, dove. You’re not messy, you’re just not as tidy as Mr. Clean-Freak over there.” He motioned towards the direction Regulus had gone with his head earning him a “you watch yourself monsieur les tas” from his boyfriend’s disembodied voice.

Remus pressed a lingering kiss to your lips and only broke away because he couldn’t stop smiling. “I would clean up after you for the rest of my life if it meant getting to keep you around.” He said proudly, and you felt your heart stutter in your chest.

“Remus.” You moaned, pressing another kiss to his lips. “So, you wouldn’t ruin my makeup for leaving it out?”

Remus scoffed and turned back to his book. “Not in a million years.”

“Come on amour! Get your jacket, we’re leaving.” Regulus called to you from the door. You could hear him jingling his car keys.

“Where are we going?” You called back.

“Sephora. I have to buy someone makeup now. If I can’t send some to the internet girl, I may as well spoil my own.” 

[stars-obsession-pit]

So a person requested (in messages) me to write a drabble thing based on this prompt. I’m not really into de-aged characters, but I thought of a way to focus it more on Jason’s reaction rather than the childcare part and felt cool with writing that.

So, uh, hope you like this I guess, @phantomrosereader…

Alright. Alright. Alright alright alrigh—

Nope. They’re still there. Fuck. Jason is not at all prepared to be a father. Nor does he want to show back up at the manor right now carrying two children and be forced to explain all this.

Wait, how did the kids even get there? Who was the mother? Why did they never contact him before?

…Did they contact him before? Can he really be certain he’s not missing any more memories?

He forcefully shook his head. No. No focusing on that right now. He’s fine. No spiraling allowed. He has to deal with this first.

Seriously, fuck. How is he a dad?

He… he should look into the mother. At least then he’d have more to go off of when he talks to Alfred. The note did give a name, but it wasn’t nearly enough to go off of on its own. Danny is hardly an uncommon name. Although, it does seem like a guy’s name—maybe Danny is trans? That would narrow the search down, but would that be enough? Even if he could get it down to just a handful of options, he had no way to determine which Danny was his. The kids seemed to have mostly inherited his own appearance…

Wait, that’s it! Genetic tests!

Despite his strained relationship with the other Bats, he still has access to their resources. A test wouldn’t take too long to give results. And also, it might reveal some other info like allergies he’d need to know.

***

Jason frowned at his laptop as his eyes flitted across the details of the error message. Apparently, some parts of the kids’ genes had been completely unreadable to the scanner and thus it couldn’t form a full profile.

Sighing, he clicked the popup closed. He could at least look at what results had come through. Maybe they’d be enough.

That hope dwindled as he scanned the full data, the corruption looking more dire than he expected. Even if the legible parts did succeed at painting a picture of the kids being related, the swaths of gibberish made meaningfully searching for the mother likely hopeless. However, there did seem to be a pattern to the broke areas. Something tickled at the back of his mind. He felt like he’d seen this before. Could that mean the mother was a meta or alien? Those were on a separate database, so that might resolve the issue. But that would require him to go to the manor, and he was still very hesitant to do that.

So instead, he pulled up his own test results to compare. Maybe they’d let him figure something ou—

He froze.

That’s why he recognized the corruption. Ever since his revival, his own genetic results exhibited almost the exact same pattern of issues.

Oh Hell, did the kids inherit the side effects of the Pit from him?

He looked over at the kids, sleeping peacefully in their seats, and prayed that they hadn’t. He didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if they had to suffer through the Pit Rage their whole lives just because of him.

He… he had to go to the manor. There was no pushing this off any longer. This situation was far too big for him to deal with on his own. He couldn’t risk leaving his kids to suffer alone.

Hopefully Alfred with his parenting skills and Damian with his knowledge of the Lazarus Pits (and similar experience of being descended from a user of them) would be able to help. Or if that failed, maybe he could guilt trip Bruce into getting the Justice League Dark to help.

[lordprettyflackotara]

dollhouse || jeff the killer || bonus part

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+ tw: spanking, jeff has a daddy kink, slapping, jeff’s just a sadistic asshole in this one, blood, brief description of gore

a/n: what’s this?! a double feature in one day?! yeah fuckers yall got the bonus part! i apologize for the delay my mind stayed lagging. i hope you all enjoyed the mini series <3

“This is our last chance. Dont fuck it up!” You hissed.

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Oh yes because taking out the target is sooo hard. I think I may cry,” He barked sarcastically. Slender had given you both one final chance to right your wrongs. Your last mission had ended with one too many news channels showing the camera footage of you and Jeff escaping the hospital. Nothing too identifying could be found of course, detectives puzzled on how Jeff was able to paint the walls and leave no fingerprints behind.

Little did they know the culprit had burned off his fingerprints ages ago. You crossed your arms, frowning. “The motorcycle was the best thing Ben could find on such short notice?” You asked. Jeff shoved his motorcycle helmet on, reving up the engine. “You are always welcome to walk doll,” He snickered. You stomped over to the motorcycle, shoving your own helmet over your head. You mocked him under your breath, throwing your legs over the seat. You couldn’t decide which was worse, dying at the hands of Jeff driving a motorcycle or being tortured to death by Slender.

As the motorcycle roared to life, you began to wonder just how bad Slender torturing you to death would be.

It was no secret you and Jeff were an item. The two of you were the obnoxious married couple of the mansion, terrorizing not only everyone around you but each other. There was a guarantee if you both were in the same room that you’d bicker until you’d go upstairs and fuck the anger out. It made the other residents sick. Sometimes they’d place bets on who would win the fight. Other times they’d high tail out of the room if you both entered. You’d argue with Jeff until your very last breath and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Slenderman was not happy with either of you. His alternative was having you both dress up as scarecrows to defend his garden in a hundred degree heat. You both agreed to this mission without hesitation. It should’ve been simple enough, killing the newspaper chief who insisted on covering the story. As you wrapped your arms around Jeff from behind, you realized you never really knew how easy a mission was going to be with Jeff coming along. To you, Jeff was an anger filled imbecile who thought with his rage and not his mind. And to Jeff, you were a smart mouthed bitch who talked too much. The two of you together versus anyone else was a lethal combo.

It was around two in the morning when you both arrived to the house, parking the motorcycle blocks away as to not draw attention from the loud sounds. You grabbed your knife, following Jeff’s lead as he picked the lock to the back door. It was moments like these, when Jeff had shut the fuck up, that you were attracted to him the most. Once he picked the lock you both crept inside, watching each others backs. It was always unpredictable, home murders. There was always the chance the owner had a dog or some kind of pet to try to protect its person. Then there was always the possibility of an alarm system, an investment the chief of this newspaper company should’ve seriously considered.

You both scanned the kitchen and living room. Due to the time you guessed he was asleep, like most humans were. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, the ticking of the old grandfather clock the only audible sound. That was, until you reached the main hallway. Thankfully for you and Jeff the chief lived alone, providing them with zero additional witnesses to send to hell. His soft snores alerted you of where he was located. Jeff slid in first, crouching down to the floor on the left side of the bed. You went to take the right, a loud creaking floorboard alerting the newspaper editor awake. He shot up out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat that was laying by his nightstand.

“I knew you’d come for me! You witch!” He hissed. You were caught off guard, his sudden alertness causing you to take a step back. He jumped off of the bed, attempting to swing his bat at you. You barely managed to dodge the attack, Jeff’s arm wrapping around the editors chest. “Surprise bitch. Bet you thought i’d let you kill my girl huh? Fucking stupid asshole,” Jeff snarled. He brought his knife to the editors neck, slicing his throat open in a quick and fluid motion. The crimson paint sprayed out of him, washing over you like a rainfall. It splattered onto your face and body, the editors body slumping to the floor. You frowned as you looked down at your jacket. “Are you deadass Jeffrey? I just got this!” You barked. Jeff raised his eyebrows.

“Are you kidding me? I just saved your life!” He argued. You glared at the dead editor, a pool of his blood forming at both of your shoes. “Oh great. Now it’s on my new heels too. You’re going to have to replace these!” You spat. Jeff threw his hands in the air dramatically. “Oh cmon it’s just a little bit of blood. You’re telling me you can’t handle blood?” Jeff questioned. You crossed your arms, clenching your jaw. “I can handle blood Jeffrey but my tory burch heels cannot,” You gritted through your teeth. Jeff twirled his knife around in his fingers lazily, clearly unamused. “Maybe get better shoes then. Not my fault you made this mission a fashion show,” He replied dryly. You grabbed him by his hoodie, shoving him back onto the bed.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, you know that? You’re such a fucking dick! I can’t stand you,” You snarled. You crawled on top of you, straddling him as he relaxed against the mattress. “You look pretty hot covered in blood babe, remind me to soak you in it more often,” Jeff grinned. You rose your hand, delivering a sharp slap to his cheek. Jeff’s cocky expression fell, his gaze hardening. “Oh that’s how you wanna play? Fine,” He huffed. He flipped the two of you over, his fingers wrapping around your throat. His grip restricted your airway, a smile spreading across your lips. “You pain addicted bitch. I’ll show you pain,” Jeff growled. He flipped up your skirt, before throwing you over his knees. He delivered a sharp slap to your ass, a painful whine escaping your lips.

“Fucking count them or i’ll leave you to get off on the dead guys dick,” Jeff spat. He delivered another smack, a shock of pain electrical as it went down your spine. “One,” You let out lowly. He slapped your other cheek as hard as he could. He grinned sadistically as your skin turned a dark red. He wondered if he could get it to bruise. “Two,” You whimpered. Jeff’s hand strayed from the mounds of your ass, exploring your drenched panties. “This wet from me abusing you? You really are a pain slut,” He snickered. He delivered three more spanks, your body shuddering in pain as you counted them all. Tears had welt up in your eyes, your body tense as he yanked your panties down your legs.

“Awe don’t cry doll. I’m no where done with you yet,” He purred. Roughly he shoved two fingers inside of you, keeping you bent over his lap. He refused to curl his fingers, his slender digits just barely brushing against your g spot. “J-Jeff I need more,” You whined. With his spare hand Jeff delivered another smack to your ass, causing your waterline to finally flood with tears. “Well you’re not calling the shots, are you babe? Now shut the fuck up and take what I give you,” He snarled. You were a whimpering mess, the slightest touch of your abused skin making you cringe in pain. But Jeff’s fingers. His long and thick fingers. They filled up your cunt so nicely, so good. “What do we say when I make you feel good?” Jeff asked. Your mouth was running dry, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Thank you,” You mewled. He grabbed a handful of your hair, roughly yanking you towards him. “Call me daddy bitch,” He growled. Your gaze met his dark obsidian eyes, that were determined to see you squirm. “Thank you daddy,” You whined. Jeff released your hair, shoving you back to your original position. You could feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your body hanging on to every little thrust Jeff made inside of you with his fingers. “S-s-so close,” You stuttered. Jeff delivered more harsh smacks to your ass, sadistically chuckling as you whimpered. “Go on then! Be my little painslut and cum,” He huffed. With one final slap you came around his fingers, humiliated as goosebumps spread across your skin from the cold air.

He flipped you around as he pleased, treating you like you were his fuckable ragdoll. “Go on doll, do that thing I like,” He instructed. You grabbed your ankles, placing both of them almost completely behind your head. As Jeff undid his belt he delivered a sharp slap to your clit, causing you to audibly whine. “You sure are a noisy little bitch, aren’t ya?” He asked tauntingly. He wiped away some of your tears, the splattered blood staining his thumb. Lazily he slapped the head of his cock against your folds, before slamming himself into you. You gasped as he quickly began to snap his lips into yours. “I know you can handle it. Your cunt is begging me for more, so fucking tight,” Jeff grunted. He rutted into you like he was in heat.

He pressed down against your thighs, sinking your body into the mattress. His grip was tight you knew bruises were forming, the unholy noises vibrating off of the victims walls. He pounded into your cunt like he despised you and the ground you walked on. You were so addicting, so mesmerizing. He muttered your name as he slammed into you. You held onto your legs, Jeff’s cock so deep inside of you that you were seeing stars. He delivered a sharp slap to your cheek, before roughly grabbing your face. He forced your lips to pucker out like a fish, an evil grin spread across his lips. “Such a stupid fucking whore,” He panted. You hardly had time to process the pain, his cock abusing your g spot perfectly.

You gripped onto his hoodie, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. “Fucking shit, Jeff!” You moaned. You came undone on his cock, squirting profusely over his bottom half. Jeff groaned your name as he came inside of you, his seed painting your inner walls. You both were panting messes, the sound of car doors shutting catching your attention. “Fucking hell,” Jeff grunted. He slid off of the bed, fixing his pants as he looked outside. “The neighbors called the cops on us. Goddammit. Let’s go,” Jeff growled. You shoved your panties on, the two of you running out of the back door of the house. You ran like your life depended on it, ready to go home.

\/

“What’d they do again?” Ben asked. He munched on some kettle popcorn as he floated beside Slenderman. The two were in his office, watching you and Jeff pretend to be scarecrows to defend his garden. “Besides terrorizing my existence they left semen at the scene of the crime. Both of their identities are going to be traced,” Slenderman sighed. He ignored the irritating sound of Ben munching loudly. The blonde had decided to be in ghost form today, allowing him to float carelessly.

“Gross. Hey boss, is there a particular reason you partnered them together in the first place?” Ben asked. They watched as you and Jeff tried to fight with pitchforks, both of you sweating in the relentless heat. “They’re the only individuals in this mansion that’ll love one another. If not for my pairing Jeff would have gotten his fan girl pregnant by now,” He replied. The supernatural creature straightened his back, pausing for a moment. “If Jeff unfortunately reproduces I cannot handle a carbon copy,” Slenderman elaborated. Ben fell upwards, flying around his head. “Oh I see boss! You played matchmaker. Good for you! I always wondered what you did for fun,” Ben chuckled. If Slenderman had eyebrows, he would’ve raised them.

The two watched you launch yourself at Jeff, both of you dressed in ridiculous farm clothes.

“Hey boss you wanna set me up with somebody next?”

“Watch yourself Ben.”

“Yes sir.”

[lulublack90]

Prompt 23 - Inspire

@jegulus-microfic October 23, Word count 539

The bowl of fruit was doing nothing for him. They’d been working on it all week. He’d painted them, drawn them in pencil, crayon, charcoal, literally anything he could get his hands on, and he wasn’t satisfied. His next medium was clay, but he could already feel it was not going to help. 

“Gahhh!” He exclaimed as he mashed the perfectly sculpted banana into a squashed mess. He let his head drop into his hands. How could a simple bowl of fruit cause him so much irritation? The truth was it didn’t inspire anything within him, which was why he couldn’t get what he wanted out of his art. 

“Is everything alright in here?” A voice asked from the doorway. Regulus peered around his easel and spotted the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. “Oooo, bananas!” The man said excitedly, striding across the floor and picking one from the bunch. Regulus watched as he carefully peeled the fruit and lifted it to his mouth to take a bite. 

“You know that’s for an art project, right?” Regulus asked quietly. Shocked that the words had even left his mouth. The man froze, the banana hovering close to his open mouth. The man’s eyes darted around the room until he spotted where Regulus was sitting. 

“Crap sorry,” He started to lower his hand. 

“No, wait!” Regulus jumped up. “Don’t move!” He grabbed his sketchbook and began drawing. His pencil flew across the page as he tried to capture the likeness of this absurd man. 

“I’m James, by the way,” James introduced himself. 

“Regulus,” Regulus answered, his eyes constantly flicking from his page back to James, and the image began to shape. James didn’t move the entire time Regulus sketched. He waited patiently for Regulus’s instruction. Regulus was lost in his work, oblivious to how much time had passed. 

“Hey, Reg,” James asked, his voice slightly strained. “Can I lower my arm yet, it’s starting to cramp,” Regulus jolted out of his quiet focus, he’d half forgotten that James was even still standing there. 

“Oh… Yes… Of course. He stammered.

“Excellent,” James grinned as he took a bite of the banana. Regulus dropped his pencil. He shook his head and bent to grab it. “Wow! Did you really just draw that?!” James was leaning over, staring at the picture Regulus had just drawn. 

“It’s not finished,” Regulus told him, holding it protectively against his chest. James didn’t bat an eye at Regulus’s possessiveness. 

“Well then, you’ll just have to go on a date with me once it’s done so you can show me the finished product.” James winked at him and headed towards the door, pausing to grab an apple from the bowl. “See you later, love,” James called as he walked down the hallway. 

“Wait!” Regulus yelped, racing after James. “I don’t even know who you are. How will I find you?” 

“James Potter. Don’t worry, love, I’m not hard to find,” And with that James turned the corner and was gone. 

Still stunned, Regulus went back into the art room, picked up his discarded sketchbook and got back to work.

A week later, he dialled the number he’d tracked down for James Potter. It rang twice. 

“Hi, James, it’s Regulus,” 

Next part

[lovlidollie]

ik you're in a kenji zone but I still can't get over Feyd soooooooooo

Feyd always expects you to come and paint him before he goes to arena. What would he do if you forgot to show up to paint him one day?

savage

pairing ; feyd x gn!reader

wc ; 1.2k

cw ; slightly gore-y description at the end

rating ; general audiences, perhaps slightly suggestive at the end ?

author’s note ; oh no don’t you worry !! feyd is still on my mind 24/7 :3 him and kenji are both my husbands ehehe also wtf this is such a good prompt i love the way your mind thinks ! i don’t particularly think this is very good but i hope you like it anyway 😞 not proof read ^^

feyd is uncharacteristically loud. usually he’s quiet, like a viper, sneaking up on you when you least expect it. he’s calculating and cold, likes to observe before making an important decision. before his fights he’s more often than not calm and collected (well as much as he can be anyway). he’s confident, he knows he’s going to win so what’s the point in worrying? this time however, he’s murderous. he’s yelling and breaking things. he’s barking orders at the maids, veins on his neck protruding dangerously. feyd’s eyes are narrowed in contempt, mere slits as they flit about the room almost in panic. he isn’t able to stay still, can’t look at the same place for more than a second.

the battle’s already been postponed by fifteen minutes and while the general public is too scared to push him, his uncle is not. it wouldn’t be long before the baron is floating down into the staging area, hissing orders and forcing him to get on with the show.

his heavy leather boots stomp against the ground, and he grunts. he’s given you the absolute honour of painting him before his fight and you simply decide to not show up? are you not aware of the hundreds that would die to be in your place? did you not know about the dozens he had to feed his harpies in order to keep them appeased?

“where is she.” feyd growls, low and furious. not a question, more so a threat. the maids tremble in a corner, trying not to look at him or at the three bloody bodies piled on the ground. they’d pushed him too far, tried to paint him when he’s made it clear that only you have his permission to do so. his blades were through their hearts before they even noticed what they did wrong.

like a petulant child throwing a tantrum, he doesn’t just walk into arena. no, the pre-battle painting is tradition. it’s important. and you not being here to do it for him is disrespectful. feyd is seething, teeth grinding together so hard it makes the maids flinch. the sparring knife he has in his hand cracks as the wood splinters. he grunts and throws it against the wall, shards of metal and hard wood ricocheting.

where. the fuck. were you. you never not showed up. feyd’s made sure of it, cleared out your schedule and ensured that you’d have the best guards on the harkonnen battalion to escort you. you always came.

the cries and screams of “feyd-rautha!” get louder and he feels his head pound. a headache begins to build at the base of his neck as the his adoring fans stomp harder. an animalistic noise is ripped from his throat and his eyes shutter close, neck rolling in an attempt to calm down. oh he was going to kill you. he was going to rip you apart. he was going to ruin you. he was going to-

the doors to the chamber fly open and there you are. there you fucking are. panting and struggling to catch your breath, your wide eyes zero in on him and you gulp, forcing stuffy air into your lungs. the hair on your arms stand up with static when you see the ferocious expression plastered on feyd’s face.

“i-” you try open your mouth to explain your absence but you can’t speak. he’s enraged, anger pulsing through his blood. feyd’s mouth presses into a tight line and he snarls at you. his teeth are blackened and he looks like a monster.

“quiet.” it’s harsh and a jarring difference from how he normally speaks to you. the room seems to buzz in silence. you shrink back. you have a reason for being late, you really do!

feyd stalks backwards, never taking his eyes off you and snatches the small carafe of thick, viscous liquid from a table. his gaze trails your figure slowly, checking you inconspicuously for injuries, trying to figure out what the fuck took you so long. he strides towards you and you fight the urge to spring back and runaway. you didn’t like him when he was like this. he was scary and vicious, a savage beast.

he glares at you as he thrusts the carafe into your chest, a silent order. you’re smart and say nothing, shaky fingers reaching out and taking it. feyd’s chest ripples when he turns around. he can’t look at you right now, doesn’t think he can stomach it before he’s roughing you up. you see the way his biceps flex with barely restrained rage.

you work quickly, already deeply aware of how far the fight’s been delayed. it isn’t your best. the lines are messy and crooked, splatters spread over the expanse of his wide back because of your trembling. he’s silent the whole time, taking in great heaving breaths. adrenaline is running through him, he’s itching for a fight. needs to feel blood against his skin and the roar of applause in his ears.

when you’re finished with his back you move in front of him. you’re shorter, barely reaching his shoulders. feyd grunts and you sense him roll his eyes. you work faster, dragging inky oil over his obliques and down his nipples. you barely restrain a shiver.

the second you mutter a soft “done,” and your fingers leave his chest, feyd rips himself away from you, shaking his head. he feels his heartbeat thundering and it’s making him restless. you think he’s a lot like a cornered animal right now.

he dresses quickly, throwing his armour on haphazardly. his chest plate is crooked but you don’t have the courage to say something. feyd marches down to the entrance to the arena, not even sparing you a second glance. he doesn’t bother with his dual blades. he’s after gore tonight, blood and guts and agony. you’re shaking, tears welling up in your eyes as you think of what he’ll do to you.

you sniffle just as he pauses at the door. a low, demeaning laugh leaves his lips, guttural and raspy. you shrink into yourself, feeling humiliated.

“chambers.” he mutters after silence takes over. the implications are clear. you are to meet in his chambers the second the fight is over, when no one else will be around to hear what he does to you. you start growing anxious, sweat beading on your forehead.

feyd doesn’t wait for a response before he’s walking through the doors, cheers overpoweringly loud. you don’t make your way to the stands, too afraid of what you’ll see.

(the fight is one of feyd’s longest. instead of playing around with them for a bit and then killing them almost instantaneously, he lets one of his opponents scamper to the edges of the arena while he deals with the other. feyd prances around him, like a leopard, toying with his prey. when he pounces, it’s with his mouth, teeth tearing into his carotid and ripping it out. he’s fuelled by pure anger and adrenaline, nails clawing at his rivals’ chest and face. feyd turns the first body into a mutilated, bloody mess, so destroyed that he’s barely recognisable. he makes the other opponent watch before stalking after him and doing the same. when he finally, after hours of battle, shows up at his chambers, he’s covered in blood and intestines. and there you are. pretty, innocent you, perched in his bed for him. oh, you were in for it.)

[louloulemons-posts]

Bumps and Binx

Eddie Munson X ScareActor!Reader

Summary : You worked as scare actor at Halloween events, you weren’t expecting to make someone jump so much he fell in love.

Word Count : 0.9k

Warnings : Not proofread, halloween-y, swears, blood (it’s fake blood), clowns, eddie hits his head, 3 uses of Y/N, rambles for the spooky season, in true Lou fashion it was written at 1am 🫶🏻

~ / / / * \ \ \ ~

You’d worked as a scare actor a few times now, loving all things horror, you always enjoyed making people jump. The fact you could dress up and give people a good fight was incredible.

You lurked around the haunted house, well it was actually a haunted big top. Dressed as a clown, you had black paint on your teeth making them look sharp, blood dripping from your mouth, contacts that made your eyes appeared white.

That wasn’t what scared people though, it was your ability to hide in the darkness and appear, screeching as you did so. This made people freak out, not expecting you to be there.

It ended up in screams of their own, hysterical and fearful laughter, and sadly, but rarely, tears. It was a huge mix of emotions. That’s why Binx (your character) had become a favourite of many.

The night was in full swing, many people had already passed through, you terrified the majority of them. Even having one run away from you whilst you chased after them like a maniac - it was fun.

Another group was making their way towards you, you’d heard them scream and laugh as they’d passed your colleague. It sounded like there was quite a few of them, oh this will be a good one.

Hiding in a dark corner, you crouched down, hearing them get closer. It was great, you’d make them thing they were safe and then just appear. A lot of people thought your too was the end of the attraction … it was not.

“No! I don’t want to go first,” you heard someone say, a whine in their tone, clearly scared. “Fine, fine I will. Jesus christ Red this was your idea and now you’re freaking,” another spoke.

The curtains were pushed back, a figure entered the room, turning to face the rest of his group, “Oh I think it’s over,” he said, shrugging. Sneaking closer to him, you smiled, cocky fucker.

More and more people entered the room, around ten in total. A big scare - a challenge you absolutely loved. Following after the first boy, he chatted away, “It wasn’t even that scary, you’d think they’d have one huge scare at the en-“

Leaping out with a screech, the bodies flew, everyone letting out a shriek, especially the first boy. Shouting, and losing his footing, ending up on his ass.

He went down with a thump, hand coming to rest against his head, “Holy shit, that was- oh my god my heart,” he laughed, smile appearing on his face.

You had to stay in character, keeping the scene, but you couldn’t help being concerned for the way he winced as he touched a particular part of his head.

Snarling and snapping at the group, bare and bloody teeth on show, another boy with dark hair helped the curly haired one up off the floor. The younger girls squealed and laughed, the two older ones linking fingers, squeezing tightly.

Making their way to the final room, you heard screams and shouts, another group was coming your way. Your eyes remained on the boy until he was out of your sight.

~ / / / * \ \ \ ~

The night had been a great one, full of people coming to enjoy the spooky festivities. It was time for you to go home and rest now, which you were thankful for, your throat sore from the work.

Your face was clean of makeup, attire now normal and comfy, you headed to your car, bag full of special effects makeup slung over your shoulder.

You made it to the car quickly, wearing through the few remaining guest, none of them paying much attention to you now. You had to admit you were thankful for it now.

Something caught your eye, or rather someone. It was the boy from earlier, the one who bumped his head. Quickly shoving your bag and costume in your car you jogged over.

He was stood by an old van, it look rickety and kinda creepy. It was actually pretty cool and suited him in a strange way.

“Excuse me,” you called out to him, as he looked up you smiled, “Hey.”

“Uh hi, what can I do for you?” he asked, his head tilting to the side slightly, it reminded you of a puppy.

“This might sound strange, but I wanted to check if you were alright,” you chuckled, playing with your fingers, now realising how weird this situation was. “I’m fine, why do you ask?”

“I play Binx, you know the clown, I gave you quite the fright earlier and you bumped your head. I just wanted to make sure you were all good.”

“No way! Oh man you’re so cool. Sorry I didn’t recognise you,” he said sincerely. Shaking your head, you shrugged, “It’s fine, I look different out of character, Binx is pretty scary and I’m well-“

“Very pretty,” he spoke softly, taking in the features of your face, but his expression soon became panicked, “Shit sorry. That was weird.”

“No no, it’s okay. You’re very pretty too uh ..”

“Eddie,” he finished, “could I get your name or would you prefer Binx?” he joked.

“It’s Y/N.”

“Well Y/N, I think it’s only fair that due to you and Binx scaring me so much you make it up to me,” he grinned. Matching his smile, you questioned, “And how can I do that?”

“Go on a date with me.”

“A date?”

“Mhm, somewhere that I’m not going to become concussed preferably.”

“We can do that, I’ll need your number though.”

“Oh yeah sure,” he moved quickly, opening the door of what must of been his van. He pulled out a marker and an old takeout menu.

Handing it to you, you couldn’t help smiling at the messy scribbles. “I’ll call you then.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“Have a good night Eddie.”

“You too Y/N.”

~ / / / * \ \ \ ~

Thank you so much for reading!

Please leave any requests 🤍

[taintandviolent]

feed my Frankenstein ; Frankenkyle x reader

summary: stripper!reader decides to dress up like a zombie for Halloween, and when the girls bring Kyle to the strip club…. He makes the decision for himself that he’s going to be with his kind. w a r n i n g s: 5k words! stripper!reader, female reader, cunnilingus, rough sex, violence, mentions of blood, biting, graphic descriptions. kyle being a big, horny zombie who doesn't understand his strength. a/n: [🎃 part of lizzie's halloween fics! 🎃] probably some errors, whoops. I didn't want to label this as dead dove don't eat, but Kyle literally tries to eat reader, so be warned, I guess??? also my ending is very... cliff-hangery. don't come for me, this fic took on a life of its own very quickly. thank you for reading if you did!!! full fic & taglist under cut!↓ / ao3 link here! / ♪ recommended playlist here! ♪

You dab a stippling sponge against your neck, hiding an edge with a speckle of grey makeup. You’d put a lot of effort into your silly little zombie look - but it was Halloween after all, and hardly any of the other girls had dressed up. Sure, they’d started out in low-effort costumes of Dorothy Gale and Snow White, but as soon as those came off, they were just their normal selves again. You… not so much. You went the extra mile. You’d spent hours applying prosthetics on your limbs, and painting your flesh to mimic the rotting corpses seen in cult classic horror films. Specks of blood around your perfectly lined lips, uneven skin, stitches from your neck down the front of your body.

It wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, you knew. Some of them would lose their boners at the sight. It was time for your first shift. The club was rowdy, you heard it from behind the door. You lean against it, gulp down the last of your water, and fluff your hair before spinning on your red, patent leather heels and pulling open the door.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea, Madison…” Zoe confesses, nervously. She holds onto Kyle’s arm tightly, guiding him around a booth like an elderly man. He was already entranced by the vibrant lights that swept back and forth in shades of orange and green. It reminded him of his show. Colours….

“Oh, please.” With a roll of her eyes, Madison flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. “This is the best place to put a braindead man… look, they’re everywhere.”

Men cluster around the stage, watching hungrily as women take their clothes off, gyrating their hips close enough to their faces that they could reach out and take bites  out of their full asses. The bouncer in the corner makes sure that doesn’t happen, though.

Over the PA, a loud voice says: “Alright! Put your hands together for our resident nerdy girl, our very own reanimated sexpot…”

As though it was on hinges, Kyle’s head swings heavily to face the stage. H

“Look, he’s already fitting in.” Madison nips.

You prance forward, reaching for the pole in the centre of the stage. Men holler your name, the few regulars that came every night you were working. You’d earned yourself a reputation as the nerdy girl because of your penchant for dressing up on the themed nights. Your hips roll to the beat of the song, coming daringly close to the hands that hold dollar bills. When they don’t get the chance to slip them into your outfit, they flutter at your feet, decorating the stage. You undo the tie of your shirt, revealing white bikini with gratuitous blood spatter. You’d done that yourself.

You wrap one leg around the pole, latching onto it. As it spins, you reach behind your back, undoing the tie of your top. Your breasts fall free, nipples hardening in the air conditioning. You hold the bra out proudly, smiling as the hoots and cheers fill the room.

“C’mon,” she starts, taking hold of Kyle’s thick wrist. His skin is always slightly cooler than everyone else’s. She remembers how cold the inside of his mouth was when they first — She blinks away the thoughts, actually disgusted by the idea. After all, she’d never really wanted to fuck a dead guy…

“Hey!” “Watch it, sweetheart!” “Get outta’ the way, you’re blockin’ the view, toots!”

Madison ignores the heckling, and continues to the front, pressing her bony hips against the lip of the stage.

“Hey! Dead bitch!”

Her voice is loud enough that it carries over the music, and you furrow your brow. She wasn’t wrong, but the bitch part seemed unnecessary. Still, you make your way over to the cluster of them, and bend at the waist to hear her.

“Yeah - what?” You ask, still swaying to the song.

“This is our little zombie — ”

“His name is Kyle,” The other girl interrupts pointedly. Madison throws a look towards the other girl, who nods with a fake smile. Truly, she didn’t care what you called him. As long as she didn't have to deal with him, she was happy.

“Kyle — and he needs a babysitter. He’s a little…” she makes a face, stretching her mouth out in a sneer. You knit your brows together again, unsure what that means.

Kyle, you think to yourself. What a frat boy name. In fact, he looks like a frat boy with really really good makeup. Full head of curly blonde hair, dark eyes, strong but soft features… looks like he can absolutely devour a keg.

He’s wearing an open black shirt and jeans, and beneath the black shirt, you can see raised flesh, scars like he was put back together. Funny that you’d chosen to do a dance number to Feed my Frankenstein.

“Do your job and keep him entertained, okay?” She pulls the peeking string of your thong far enough out to freely press a one hundred dollar bill against your hip and lets go. It snaps back against your skin, hard enough to sting. You wince.

Before you have time to protest, the girls are walking back towards the entrance without their little zombie in tow. One of them casts a woeful glance over her shoulder, and you’re left wondering why if she cares so much, why was she still walking away? You fill your lungs with air, exhale and lower yourself down onto your haunches.

“Hey baby,” you coo, wrapping a single blonde curl around your index finger. It’s angel-soft, and bounces back as you let go, straightening up. He seems to melt towards your touch, starved for it. “I like your costume.”

He watches as your ample cleavage sways with the gentle motion of your body. He repeats the word back to you, laboriously. “Cos…tume….”

“That’s right,” you say, running your hands over your thighs as you stand upright. The long heels of the shoes elongate your legs, making you tower over the club’s patrons. “I like it, it’s cute.”

Kyle watches wordlessly as your hands glide over your body, carefully skipping over the stitches at your knees, along your stomach, and finally up to the long stitch around your neck, which to him is holding your head on. Kyle’s eyes blink repeatedly with recognition.

You dip down, reaching for his hand. The crowd woooo’s as you hand him the string of your skirt. He grips it hard before looking at it deeply. You take one step back, flashing a coy expression to the men in the front row. Another step, and the tie begins to slip through the bow, unravelling. Another step and the skirt falls to your feet. A cacophony of approval fills your ears.

You’re in nothing but the blood-spattered bikini bottoms now, and you sink to your knees again, flashing Kyle a bright smile. He blinks, your skirt awkwardly hanging from his hand by the string.

On all fours, you crawl towards him, popping your ass to the beat of the song. Dollar bills shower the stage,  and when you slide your knees out to the sides, allowing men a delicious view of your backside, someone tucks another $100 in your bikini.

Kyle is watching you, but his hands drop to his groin where he makes a fist, and rubs it awkwardly over his now-throbbing erection. You immediately notice this, and your eyes widen. That’s a sure fire way to get kicked out, and for whatever reason, you’ve clocked him as too innocent to let that happen. There’s either a) something wrong with him, or b) he’s really committed to acting like a clueless, braindead boy. Both options require action.

“Okay, okay,” you murmur, guiding him to the side of the stage. There’s an empty chair, and with a heel, you push him back into it. Sit. Stay. He does. Good boy.

He never takes his eyes off you though, and every time you’re looking at him, his jaw hangs slack, staring at you with half-lidded eyes. He keeps trying to get up, and you have to slowly shake your head at him, teasingly. He seems to understand that gesture, and stays put.   

As you dance, you find yourself watching him, too. Inexplicably drawn to him, for whatever reason. You don’t usually take guys to the back, but $100 is a pretty good tip. Besides, you didn’t want to run into that girl again, and especially not angry.

As your routine comes to an end, Kyle gets up out of his chair, knocking into the edge of the stage. A few guys turn their heads, trying to figure out what this guy’s deal is. You’re too busy picking up your tips, and gathering your clothes to notice. With arms full, you race to the back, throw on a t-shirt and bolt back to the front, praying that Kyle is still where you left him.

He is. He may be trying to climb up on the stage, head craning in the direction of where you exited, but he's still there. You heave a relieved sigh, and saunter up to him, softening your expression.

“Hi, Kyle…” you murmur sweetly. You slip your arm underneath his, linking it with yours and softly pulling him down into a normal standing position again. There’s a small moment of processing and trust before he looks at you and smiles very weakly.

Destinee is next, and while she’s a nice girl, you absolutely loathe her taste in lighting. You enjoy a good rave, sure, but this is like the Electric Daisy Carnival in a much, much smaller space.

You learn very quickly that Kyle doesn’t like it either. At all. In fact, he might dislike it more than you. As soon as the beat is thumping and the bright red and orange lights are washing over the establishment, Kyle wrenches away from you, covering his ears. A low groan starts in his throat, bubbling up through his lips until he’s practically screaming.

“Shhh, shh it’s okay!” You try desperately to console him, but he can’t seem to hear you. Glancing nervously at the guests around you who are starting to take notice of him now, you smile apologetically. “Kyle, it’s okay!”

There’s only one solution - the private dance rooms. They’re quiet, secluded and a perfect spot to store a stressed out zombie boy for a few hours. You looked towards the spiral staircase that led upstairs, and hesitated. You were a dancer who rarely used the private rooms. You had been hard pressed to avoid being alone with any man, especially one that had paid you and felt entitled to whatever he wanted to take. Kyle, however, didn’t seem like the type to… well, do that. Or even articulate that he wanted to do that — did he even understand that you’d been paid to babysit him? Likely not.

You force his hand down as gently as possible, interlacing your fingers with his. “Kyle,” you say. “Kyle, look at me.”

His head moves sluggishly, and his eyes gradually follow. He looks at you with big, black eyes, the surrounding skin darkened and mottled. In the changing lights, he looks so lost, and your heart throbs desperately. Shucking the worries of whispers aside, you lead him through the club towards the wrought iron staircase.

“Hey Lance,” you say. “Private room open?”

“They sure are…” he replies with a large grin, his heavy accent coming through. Lance was one of the bouncers and rotated positions, so you had gotten semi-close with him. He enjoyed your presence and penchant for the strange. “Last door on da’ left.”  

With Kyle in tow, you head down the long, red hallway. Each of the doors were painted black, with gold trim. Kyle’s gaze travels from each door, picking up on the various sounds that seeped from behind them.

“Okay…” You say, your voice a touch softer than before as you push open the last door, praying that it’s been cleaned adequately. You cock your head to the side, urging him inside. His concerned eyes swept from you to the door and back to you before he finally decided that it was safe enough for him to enter. “Look, no strobe lights. No loud music. Just you and me.”

“You… and me….” He grumbles. The door clicks shut behind you. His words are painfully slow and slurred, but you can’t help be charmed by the innocence of them. “You…. You’re…. l-like me.”

“That’s right, baby… I’m like you.” In a quiet, joking whisper, you say: “Raaaaauuuuggghhhhhh…. Brains.”

Kyle seems to like this. The tiniest of smiles forms on his mouth. His chest heaves, and without warning, he lunges for you. His strong arms wrap around you in a steely grip that at first terrifies you; your arms are pinned at your sides, locked into place. His tongue slips over your collarbone, wet and cool like he’s just finished eating ice cream. It slips over your neck, along your jawline, and up behind your ear. He’s licking you, devouring you with such pressure that he has to have eaten some of the makeup by this point. You wince as he nips at your ear lobe, his teeth grinding down on the flesh. With some inhuman gurgle, he descends, covering your chest in his saliva.

You were used to men being hungry for you, acting like rabid dogs the second that they caught a glimpse of your plump tits or your juicy ass. It was part of the gig, came with the territory. But not this. This guy was on something. Had to be. Without warning, he yanks your cropped shirt up, and his jaws clamp down on the meat of your exposed breast. You yelp, pushing him off. He looks hurt or confused, or maybe both. Immediately, you scramble, feeling like you’ve just taken candy from a child.

“Hey no.. it’s okay. You can bite me… I like being bit. But not too hard, honey… that hurt.”

He doesn’t understand. Or he doesn’t look like he understands. His brows knit together sadly, while the dark, ink pools he has for eyes glaze over.

“….biiiiiiiiiiiiiite….” He says.

“Softly,” you finished, with your cutest zombie voice. “Biiiiite soft…ly….”

He cranes forward, mouth finding your flesh again. His teeth continue to graze your skin, slightly softer than before though, so maybe he does understand. His tongue lolls out sloppily to taste every inch. He nears the jumbled up mess of liquid latex on your elbow, and you expect him to stop, or skip over it — but he doesn’t. He feels uneven, soft flesh and his front teeth clamp down on it with a guttural sound. He rears his head back far enough for the liquid latex to streeeetch, and snap.

This gorgeous, blonde boy has a chunk of faux flesh hanging from between his teeth. Fake blood dots his pale lips, and he’s looking at you with the most confused expression you’ve ever seen on a man. It’s a grisly sight, really, but it fits the theme of the night. He’s committed to the zombie act, you’ll give him that.

“Hey, hey, take it easy, spit that out…” You reach up, rubbing the fake blood off his bottom lip. flatten your slender fingers on his broad chest, skin smooth like stone except for the deep scars. These are really good prosthetics. You can’t even see the seam. Because there aren’t any…

Like a dog, he drops the wrinkly skin-toned mass from his mouth and frowns. He looks genuinely disappointed, like he expected blood and guts. “B-bad… th-that… didn’t taste….. gooood…” he stammers. "Hun..gry…..”

For a moment, you’re frozen. Your realization clicks into place painfully slowly, slower than his brain seems to move. He’s really too good at the whole zombie act, and a panicked thought writhes its way into your mind, penetrating it the way that a tissue absorbs blood. Just sucks it in, becomes a part of it. No, no way.

Heavily masking the nerves in your voice, you clear your throat and reach for his shoulder. You stroke the smooth roundness of it, raking your nails against his skin.  “You want something that tastes good, baby?”

That ‘something good' is your cunt. You’ll let him eat you out so you can think. You assume he’ll eat you out like most men do — boringly — and you can process the realisation that this poor creature in front of you is actually really badly scarred, and possibly, a victim of head trauma, or something. Because there’s no way you’re meeting an actual zombie. Even on Halloween in New Orleans. That’s insane. So, you’re going to let him eat you out while you sort this out in your mind.

That was the plan, anyway.

Except the second you sink into the vinyl chair, he’s on his knees, looking at your pretty cunt with hungry eyes and the visual wipes your brain clean. It was like you put a plate of food in front of a starving man. His mouth opens. You untie both sides of your underwear, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes drop heavily, watching every move.

At first, his tongue juts out, curiously tasting what you’ve put in front of him. It presses between your folds, pauses, before wiggling around. Your eyelids flutter; you were ready to zone out, but Kyle’s inexperience, his curiosity feels so good.

“Good,” he growls, the word vibrating your cunt. His cool breath washes over your core, sending a chill up your spine. He delves deeper, tasting more of you.

His tongue flicks at your clit, flipping the swollen bundle of nerves mercilessly. Your whole body is trembling, and you feel the first of your orgasms rushing towards your centre. Carefully, not wanting to scare him, you grip his angel curls and ride his mouth slightly. Shit. Almost instantly, the throbbing starts and you make a mess of his poor boy’s face, squirting over his lips and chin.

“You like that?” You ask, through uneven pants. The first of the night always feels sooo good.

He nods heavily on your cunt, still lapping up the juices that leak from your slick hole. Your legs start to quiver and a fire burns deep within your cunt. You try to pat his shoulders, wordlessly telling him to stop. His tongue delves in, and he freezes.

“Kyle?” You ask nervously. Unconsciously, you clench around his tongue. He snaps to life, like someone flipped a switch in his brain. His strong arms wrap around the front of your thighs, tightly. Very tightly. He starts to pull you off the chair, lifting you up into his arms. Your ass cheeks are pressed against his chest and the back of your head is on the chair’s cushion now. He’s holding you tightly, upside down, still swallowing mouthfuls of your sopping wet cunt. He can’t seem to hear your desperate, pleading cries to stop.

You blink back tears, your vision throbs. You don’t know if it’s because the blood is very obviously rushing to your head, or because you’re coming again so quickly, but he’s drilling his tongue into your cunt like there’s a cream centre. If there is, he’s found it.

A scream fills your lungs and your body lunges upwards, trying to find leverage — something, anything to hold onto. She clenches again, pulsating around his cold, slippery tongue. Kyle’s practically drinking you with each clench. The overstimulation is crippling, and you can’t help but scream out.

“KYLE! STOP!”

At the shrill sound, he immediately drops you and your body hits the ground with a heavy thud. Your ass aches a little from the fall, but it’s nothing that’s going to ruin the night.

He’s frowning at you, his lips and chin glazed with your cum.

“S-sorry…” he grumbles. “Sorry. Bad.”

“No, no… not bad. Accident. Accident. Kyle?”

You call his name and he’s looking at you with those big, hopeful, dark eyes of his. You can tell — he isn’t sure if you’re going to scold him, or praise him and the uncertainty terrifies him. You get to your knees, crawling towards the sofa. Once you’re up on it, you pat the spot next to you three times.

“Can I see?” You gesture to your own body, tracing the remaining prosthetics with a single finger before pointing to him. He looks down, his bottom lip jutting out. He nods after a few seconds and lumbers over to you, sitting down heavily.  

Your fingers dance over his skin. He was literally pieced back together. His head, his arms, his legs, the lower half of his torso… he was sewn back together like Frankenstein. Different parts connected as one. You’re sitting next to an actual zombie.

And then it dawns on you. Those girls. You’d seen them before. You knew their faces. They lived in the massive mansion on Jackson Avenue. They were witches. Witches were a dime a dozen in New Orleans — in fact, it was weirder if you didn’t practice some kind of craft. But zombies… you’d only ever heard stories. You’d never seen one, let alone be eaten out by one.

You stroke Kyle’s broad chest. For being a zombie, he’s surprisingly soft. You’d always imagined them as dried out, crusty creatures, but he only had a few patches of dry skin. In fact, he had more patches where you could see dark blue pooling underneath his skin, where blood had settled after death. He is cold however, and that’s the most jarring part.

You ease him back on the leather sofa, making sure his head goes down softly onto the arm rest.  

“It’s okay, Kyle…. I like your body.”

“Costume….” He says. You shake your head.

“Body. Body.”

His hips give the tiniest little buck, and it slips between your ass cheeks. He whimpers, trying to get a visual of what he’s feeling. Gradually, his thrusts increase in pressure, and you adjust for your own pleasure.

When you adjust, forcing his cock to slide in between your cunt instead, he feels the slick warmth, and his feral nature returns, stronger than before. His thrusts pick up, and he seems to realise that you are a living thing, with pulsing blood and a throbbing heartbeat. Something else is throbbing again, too.

You whine and match his thrusts, letting your head loll back.

Kyle has a different idea, and before you can stop him, he has your forearm in his mouth, teeth clamped down on the soft, warm flesh. It only takes a few seconds for you to feel the stinging ache consuming your arm. It hurts… bad. The muscles in your fingers contract, twitching limply. He aggressively shakes his head, and your heart drops. The terror sets in, and you’re suddenly running cold.

“Kyle, no- OW! KYLE!”

He shakes his head again, biting down harder and digging his the ridges of his teeth deeper into your skin. You don’t necessarily feel the flesh tear, somewhere near the top, but you certainly feel the warm flow of blood that drips down your arm, dribbling onto his chest. Your pupils dilate. The blood keeps flowing, and you feel him start to rear his head back. Something pulls back with him. The ache is replaced by a searing burn, and you realise that if he pulls back any further, he’s going to pull off skin. You’re panicking now, and don’t know what else to do but try again. This time though, you roar at him, bringing back your zombie voice. It’s not so cute this time. “Raaaaaaaaauhhhhhh, KYLE. KYLE STOP. STOP!”

You try to rip your arm away from his mouth, while pushing his head. Thankfully, his powerful jaw goes slack and your arm slides out, strings of spit stretching from his lips. Your blood is smeared across his chin and bottom lip, and collects in the corners of his mouth.

With your vision bouncing thanks to Kyle’s furious thrusting, you look at your arm, watching the bright crimson well up in the indentations of the bite mark. Amidst the rest of your makeup, the bite doesn’t look out of place. You hold your arm out further, trying to come up with a story for this one. Maybe the makeup had stained in an absolutely mind-blowing way. And you had a reaction to it, hence the bizarre swelling and scabbing. That sounds good, sounds believable.

“Want… more…”  He says, and your stomach drops, praying that he doesn’t mean more flesh. You’re not sure you can handle another one. Mid-thrust, Kyle’s thick, veiny cock angles just right and slips into your cunt. She swallows him easily, still wet from being eaten — a mixture of cum and Kyle’s viscid, slimy saliva. You plant both hands on his chest, letting out a breathy, melodic moan. He feels good enough to make you forget about the bite, and as you begin to ride him, it seems that he forgets too.

You’re taking control, grinding on top of him, using his cock like your own personal toy. It’s hitting every spot you want it to, pressing into your walls with its girth, and you can’t help but whine about it. Pausing to smear your blood across Kyle’s chest with your middle finger, you leave deep, red streaks across pale skin. You shouldn't find that hot, but you do.

Kyle wraps both hands around your waist, pulling you down onto his cock relentlessly, each thrust feeling harder than the last. You lean forward, pressing your tits against his almost bare chest, and allowing him to take control, thrusting his cock up into you. The slightly bent positioning of his cock, head grinding against your spongy insides is enough to make you cum right then. You don’t though, holding back, clenching your pussy as tight as you can.

“You like it, Kyle?” You ask, through shaky pants. “You like that?”

Kyle nods, heavily, his darkened eyes watching the way that your body quivers on top of him, wordlessly marvelling at the way your thigh muscles contract and shake on top of him every time he slips out, and buries himself inside your dripping pussy again. He loves how it feels, even if he can’t articulate it the way he wants to, the sensations are everything he wants. Everything.

He grips you harder, lifting you off his cock and slamming you back down, repeating this violent display of strength over and over again. Your cunt shudders, unable to hold back your orgasm any longer. Kyle feels it first, and the sudden tightness has him growling, snarling and pushing his length into you as deep as he can. Kyle digs his heels into the sofa, lifting his legs. You feel the pressure against your cervix as he bottoms out, and press against his cock, forcing his cock deeper into you, until you feel the ache. You ride out the waves of your own orgasm, feeling his as it comes in thick, sticky ropes.

There’s a gentle knock at the door, and you quickly get to your feet, pulling your shirt over your head. You scramble, trying to find the bikini bottoms and once they’re tied, you throw open the door. It’s Lance, who is looking very concerned. Your legs are pressed tightly together, in fear that Kyle’s load is going to start dripping down your thighs and onto the floor.

“Miss Y/N. The club is closing… are you alright in there?”

Closing? What? It was bareley eleven when you brought him into the room. The seedy, slick realisation that you’d been fucking this zombie for almost four hours made your cheeks blossom with heat. You immediately tuck your bitten arm behind the door, flashing Lance a charming smile.

“Yes! Fine! Just uh, finishing up a dance. Hey - Lance… did two girls ever come back, asking for this blonde guy in here?”

He pauses, thinking. After a few moments, he shakes his head and apologises.

Okay, guess he’s coming home with me, then. “Thank you, Lance. I’ll be down in just a second.”

You shut the door and lean against it, looking at the zombie on the sofa. He’s staring up at the ceiling, a small smile on his face. “Kyle, do you live on Jackson Street? Where do you live?”

He sits up abruptly, turning his head to face you. “Uhm…” He murmurs. “Big…… white.”

“Big white house?” You repeat, making a house shape with your hands. He nods.

“You wanna’ go home?”

~

After throwing on a pair of dolphin shorts, collecting your duffel bag and giving Lance a generous tip, you have Kyle in tow, fingers laced tightly with his. Jackson Street was maybe a twenty minute walk, something you both could handle.

Despite it going on 3 AM, the streets were still filled with partiers, people in masks, and drinks in their hands. You and Kyle blend in as you walk, heading down the busy roads. Once you arrived at the Mansion, the gates were open, a fine mist spilling into the sprawling yard.

The woman who answers the door is beautiful, graceful and composed. She wears all black, her honey blonde hair cascading graceful over her shoulders.

“Good Evening,” she says.

“Good Evening. Um.. this is going to sound strange, even for Halloween, but, um…”  You want to continue. Desperately, but for some reason, you already know the answer. He does belong here. As though she’d said it to you, plain as day, he belonged here, this is where he stayed.

Zoe and Madison must’ve forgotten him.

Your brows furrow, indignantly. How could they?

Cordelia’s plump lips flatten into a knowing smile. You swallow, suddenly feeling uneasy. You scratch at the liquid latex on your neck, fiddling uncomfortably with one of the edges of the prosthetic.

“Well, Kyle… here you go. Go with…?”

“Cordelia.”

“Cordelia. Go with Cordelia, you’re home now.”

Kyle seems somewhat hesitant, but when Cordelia holds out a hand, he obeys and lumbers inside, looking over his shoulder at you one last time.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she says, softly. “Would you like to come inside?”  

You consider that for a second. Deep within the wetness of your bones, and the warmth of your blood, you feel like you should. There’s something extremely comforting about this place, but… “No, no thank you. I should be getting home. It’s Halloween. Weird things happen on Halloween.”

She smiles again. “That’s quite a bite you have on your arm… did Kyle do that?”

“Oh, uh… yeah. He got a little excited earlier, I’m a dancer, and uh, y’know. Men.”

“I have something for that.”

You look down at your bite again, it looks nastier than before. You clear your throat, ready to reject and explain that your older sister is a nurse and she’ll help, but instead, and you’re not quite sure how that happened, you’re walking through the doors. Kyle is delighted to see you again, pausing on the grand staircase to look at you.

Cordelia’s hands end up being very, very soft.

t a g l i s t : @kaismanwich / @redwoodghost / @elsamars / @silverzoomies / @kaissweetlamb / @thewolveswithin / @80strashbag / @twinkiemaximoff / @spill-the-t / @stucktothetwo / @evansb1tch / @enchanting-evan / @petersevans / @yesdevineruler / @enchanting-evan / @anonymous0316 / @eventually27 / @violetharmonscupcake/ @my-own-walker / @kai-slut / @evanpetersfansblog / @fuckedbykai / @iluwmycats / @nova-kayne67 / @dewberryobssesed / @the-goblin1 / @dirtyfairy97 / @jellyluvr / @strangerthings420 / @kai-anderson-whore / @piecesofcain / @lilthbunny / @quickandsilvers / @tatelangdonsweater / @ifeeltoofuckingmuch / @howtobesasha / @randodummy / @throwinginmythai / @hyperharlz

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[the-modern-typewriter]

The Art of Turning 30

“So, am I allowed to talk?” Annabelle gave an awkward little laugh, that she immediately wanted to stuff back into her mouth. “I’ve never done this before!”

“You can talk.” Julian flashed her a quick, reassuring smile. “At least until I tell you not to.”

They both laughed, then. Julian’s laugh was not awkward.

It was six months until her thirtieth birthday.

She had met him at her girlfriend Camille’s twenty-ninth birthday party, a few weeks ago, only to be surprised that they’d somehow never crossed paths before. London was big, but it wasn’t that big surely, and Julian was an artist.

Annabelle felt like she spent half her free time at artsy bohemian parties and amateur gallery openings, though maybe that was why. He wasn’t an amateur, was he?

She’d looked him up online after and seen several shining reviews of his first exhibition, and a rosy buzz of anticipation at what he’d do next.

She remembered that buzz. People used to get that buzz when they talked about her. Apparently, his work was ‘visceral’ and ‘felt startlingly alive’.

It seemed impossible that he wanted to paint her, of all people.

Annabelle shifted on the stool, glancing around Julian’s studio space as he finished setting up his easel and paints. Oils. He’d said he was using oils. That mattered in painting, didn’t it?

The studio was everything she’d always imagined a professional artist’s studio to be. It was quite large, with clean wooden floors and white walls crowded with stacks of sheet-covered canvases in progress.

There was only one that was ready and visible; a painting of a beautiful blond man, probably nearing thirty too, lounging on the same stool that Annabelle was perched upon. He gazed out at the viewer with a hungry sort of hope. Like they were the best thing he had ever seen.

The studio smelled like drying paint and the sandalwood diffuser wafting its calming scent from the window sill. Sunlight coated the room like honey, or gold.

“You’re not going to make me look ugly, are you?” she asked.

He smiled again, meeting her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly.”

He probably flirted with all of his models, but she still felt a blush of heat rise to her face.

He looked like he could be in a painting, or one of those classical sculptures still concerned with archetypal ideals of beauty. Of course, she was with Camille, so nothing would happen…but still. The attention made her heart pound. Camille was usually too tired from work to flirt with her anymore.

Annabelle wasn’t sure how good she’d be at seeing a painting of herself that she hated, and not letting it show on her face. She’d probably tear up. It would be embarrassing for both of them. She shifted on the stool once more, and tugged at the hem of her summer dress.

“This is for your next exhibition?”

“I think I’m going to call it ‘The Art of Turning 30’.”

“Explains why I’m your muse instead of some gorgeous twenty two year old ingenue.” She laughed again. He did not. She continued, even as she willed herself to stop babbling, because he wasn’t looking at her with the expectation that she do anything. He plucked up a pencil, beginning his work. “It’s like, when you’re a woman, after you turn thirty your life is over, right? It’s like with my acting. And then by the time you’re forty all of a sudden all you can possibly be is, like, a mother or a witch. Or, you know, the dead wife. It’s all downhill.”

“You wouldn’t want to be a witch?” He raised a brow. “They always seemed pretty powerful to me. I could see you as a witch.”

“But do you know what I mean?”

“Can you turn your head a little the left, please?”

“What? Oh. Yes.”

She turned her head to the side, towards the window, and hoped the sunshine made her seem younger rather than highlighting every growing crag and wrinkle.

She could only watch him out of her periphery vision now; a wistful muse, seemingly unaware that she was being observed. She tried to look deep and mysterious.

“Perfect,” he said. “Thanks. You’re just perfect.”

The canvas of the blond man fell to the floor with a soft thump.

Annabelle jumped.

“Sorry.” Julian shook his head, another easy laugh on his breath. “The landlord never lets me put proper hangings on the wall here. Says it wrecks them. I guess so long as they don’t do that at the exhibition?”

“I don’t know, you could probably play it off as a stunt…lean into the photorealism.”

“Now, there’s an idea. Genius.” 

She probably didn’t look deep and mysterious. She probably just looked smitten.

***

She sat for Julian three times a week for the next several months.

It became a pocket of peace in her life, the hours when it was okay to finally stop and be for a while, because everything else seemed to be hurtling through her fingers faster than she could clutch hold of it.

She’d always imagined that she would be a successful, or at least up-and-coming, actress and screenwriter by the time she turned thirty.

Sure, women only made up around 30% of the directors or writers behind the camera, but back in school everyone always said that maybe she’d be the one to change that. She wasn’t entirely sure when they stopped saying it, but they had.

It was three months until her thirtieth birthday.

“Here.” Julian caught hold of her chin, featherlight, angling her back towards the sun. The days were getting shorter. Time was running out for them both. “You were like this.”

She had got in the habit of always sitting a little wrong, because he’d always adjust her, oh so careful and attentive, like she was his masterpiece.

She would have probably preferred to be her own masterpiece, but being his seemed like the second best option. She could practically feel the ghosts of forgotten, underappreciated female muses-past screaming at her that no, it was always better to be somebody than someone’s, but frankly she wasn’t sure she could be picky.

She’d been getting less and less call backs, and was starting to feel more like she was a part-time waitress dabbling at film than a part-time actress-filmmaker working hours in hospitality to make ends meet.

It was like a window was closing. Her window. That morning she’d found an honest to the devil grey hair on her head!

Camille told her that she was being ridiculous – that she’d become increasingly vain since Julian started painting her.

Annabelle had snapped back that vanity wasn’t vanity for an actress. Her looks were her currency.

It hadn’t always been so hard, had it?

All in all, it didn’t seem like a sin to let him touch her. It was nice to be touched. There was nothing untoward in that.

She peeked up at Julian, standing over her, his star ever on the rise. Their stares met again. He smiled that quick, reassuring smile of his.

“You look tired,” he said softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, no.” He widened his eyes. “I didn’t mean—” he huffed gently, and let go of her. “I haven’t got to your mouth yet. If you want to talk about it.”

Annabelle grinned back before she could stop herself.

It had become a standing joke. She sometimes felt she spent their whole time together talking about herself, but he always said it was interesting and made the hours fly. He was a very good listener.

More privately, she sometimes suspected that he was leaving her mouth for last just so they could continue chatting, but she wasn’t allowed to see the painting to check. The thought was thrilling though.

 “It’s nothing,” she said, even if she already knew she’d probably tell him everything on her mind. “I don’t know.”

What would she do when the painting was done? She’d see him at his exhibition opening, probably, but there would hardly be a reason for them spend time together like they did when she was sitting for her portrait.

Maybe it was silly to consider him one of her friends. She’d miss it, though. She’d miss him.

Maybe he’d want to do another one of her, but who was she kidding? Maybe in ten years, when he did a gimmicky but charming follow up. The Art of Turning 40: Where Are They Now?

What did he know about turning thirty anyway? He couldn’t be more than twenty-five. He had loads of time.

“There’s an intimacy,” he murmured, “to painting someone. Especially like this, in the old fashioned way. A lot of people use photographs and quick studies because they’re more convenient and you don’t have to catch the right light, you know? But I love it.” The air filled with their breathing, and the soothing dab of his paint brushes on his palette, mixing up the colours of her. “You really get to know people this way. It adds soul to the work. It’s magic.”

She felt, more than saw, his gaze cut over her again.  Her blood was electric beneath his scrutiny.

He continued, softly.

“I knew from the moment we met that I wanted you to be my centrepiece for this one.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true!” He laughed. “You have this great energy. I knew you were going to be interesting, and I was right. And you know how to model well. Because you’re an actress, right? You’re used to people looking at you.”

An actress, no ‘wannabe’ or ‘aspiring’ or ‘failed’ tacked on front. She couldn’t help but sneak a glance at him as best she could without turning her head.

“My boss always says I should have more energy, then I’d wait tables faster.”

“What does Camille say?”

“Camille—” Annabelle blinked in surprise, then swallowed. Her hands curled in her lap. She resisted the urge to sigh.

“Uh-oh.”

“No, no,” she said. “It’s fine. I just – she thinks if I’m not happy I should do something about it. She’s always telling me about other things I’d be really good at that have better pay, or more sociable hours.”

“So, give up on your dreams already.”

“Yeah.”

Annabelle deflated. She knew that Camille didn’t mean anything bad by it, but that was what it implied, right? She was never going to be a famous and successful actress or screenwriter, so she should settle for something manageable.

“Well, she’s not a creative, like us,” Julian said. “She doesn’t get it.”

Like us. Annabelle was a horrible girlfriend for feeling a swell of pleasure at that. It was true, though. Still.

“We’ve been together for a really long time, and she’s been really supportive. I think she’s just finding the whole ‘me turning thirty’ thing annoying. Mainly because I won’t shut up about it. Which I’m sure you sympathise with!”

Camille said that anyone who claimed life stopped at thirty was an idiot. There was no limit for potential, no one age where everyone had to have their life together and perfect by.

She was probably right, but Annabelle could still feel the panic of it clawing at her the closer her birthday got. Even if she was successful after thirty, she wouldn’t be one of those young geniuses that everyone had expected her to be. She wouldn’t be exceptional.

She would just be Annabelle. It didn’t feel like enough. Maybe if she could see herself like Julian apparently saw her, it would be better.

“Chin up,” Julian said.

Annabelle cleared her throat again. “Right, yeah.”

“No, I mean.” His voice was deadpan. “Your head. You’ve moved. Drooped.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. The melancholy shoved itself down again in the pit of her stomach.

He tossed her a wink from behind the easel, to indicate he was joking. Only trying to cheer her up and lighten the mood.

“So, I still don’t get to see what else you’re working on, huh?” she asked.

“I’d have to kill you.” He switched to another, smaller brush in her periphery vision.

She snorted.

“It would be very inconvenient all around,” he said. “Rigor mortis sets in fast. I’d never get the painting done in time.”

“Well we can’t have that. After you’re finished with me then, I suppose.”

“Our art is a part of us, Annabelle.” He shot her another glance in turn, brush poised above his image of her, considering. “So how, then, could I ever truly be finished with you?”

Her breath hitched in her throat. She debated possible responses to that, and how he could have meant it. Her body felt warm and flushed.

He gestured that she angle her head left once more, not looking away for a second himself.

Annabelle turned.

The summer waned outside the window, but in the painting she would still be in her sundress, legs tanned and toes painted sky blue.

Thank god he kept his studio warm. The minutes ticked by, the air between them settling tranquil once more.

“Sometimes,” she said, softly, “I wish we could stay like this forever. Freeze the moment. Is that stupid?” It felt a confessional thing to say. Bold.

“No.” She could hear the equally soft smile in his voice. “It’s not stupid. Isn’t that how I got you to agree to do me this favour?”

She remembered the party; an adult version of what they all used to do, even if it still felt like they were all pretending to be grown-ups. Or at least, Annabelle felt like she was pretending. She didn’t feel twenty-nine.

She’d clutched her glass of wine and hovered near a somewhat strained conversation about mortgages and the state of the housing market, and how none of them were going to be on the property ladder before they were fifty, before she caught sight of Julian coming in. 

She echoed his words, and didn’t have to fake her wistfulness that time.

“To be remembered in art is the closest any humans’ get to immortality.”

He echoed the next line back at her. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

And she’d said yes.

***

“I’ve got a date for the exhibition,” Julian said, from behind his easel. “A few weeks after your birthday. Short notice, I know. Soz.”

“Ugh, don’t mention the B word. But that’s exciting! Can I come?”

“Of course you can come,” he said. “It’s why I’m telling you. This wouldn’t be possible without you.”

“I mean, while sitting here is terribly difficult,” she said, “I do feel like you should get some of the credit. Just some.”

She heard him laugh.

She’d grown to love Julian’s laugh; he was so ready to do it, at least in their sessions.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Camille laugh at something she said. Then again, she wasn’t sure the last time she and Camille had spent all that much time together.

By the time Camille got back from a day of teaching, Annabelle was usually already out for the night shift at the pub she waited in. Yet another thing in her life that wasn’t working like it was supposed to!

Camille said that could be worked on if, hey, Annabelle was willing to actually prioritise their relationship.

It had been one of their worst arguments to date.

“There’ll be thirty paintings in total, I think,” he mused, more talkative than normal. “Yours being the main one, like I said.”

“I’m sure you will perfectly capture the raw turmoil of turning thirty.”

He laughed again. It had been one of the most notable reviews of his first exhibition – except the exact wording had been that his work perfectly captured ‘the raw turmoil of adolescence, as an emotional and nostalgic period of change and growth’.

He’d finally caved and showed her some of his previous pieces, other than the ones she’d managed to find online, as a compromise of his refusal to show her how his painting of her was coming along.

Most of the individual pieces from his first exhibit had been sold off, but he’d kept the main one.

His main piece – Girl On Swing – got the most praise, so it had apparently been a bit of a scandal that he hadn’t sold it. He’d had offers.

It was a triptych (Julian’s word) of a girl, unsurprisingly, on a swing.

In the first of three paintings she was a child, carefree and giggling. In the second, a young teenager, her face a storm of emotion. In the final one, she was a young adult, caught mid-leap flying off the swing she’d been sitting on for seemingly eighteen years. Her arms were painted halfway to transitioning to a bird’s wings. She was no longer looking back at the viewer but forward, to all that life had to offer.

Annabelle wondered what people would say about Julian’s version of her.

People liked to fantasise about how amazing being a teenager was when they were an adult, but she hadn’t met anyone who fantasied about turning thirty. It wasn’t nearly as glamorous.

She hoped he made her glamorous.

“Of course,” he was continuing, “with the date so near, we might need a few more sessions to get finished on time.”

She looked over at him again, then, even if she wasn’t supposed to be moving.

The golden light danced across his handsome features, and caught the edges of the canvases behind him. There were twenty nine of them waiting.

“I make a pretty good lasagne,” he said, biting his lip. “If I say so myself. Compensation. If you don’t mind finishing late. There’s also a nice wine I got for Christmas that I really couldn’t drink alone.”

“I don’t mind,” she heard herself saying, before she’d even thought about it. “I don’t mind at all.”

“It’s a good venue,” he said. “A really good venue. Everyone’s going to love you.”

With him, maybe, the window wouldn’t close.

***

“I’m done, except for the varnish.”

The words sent a bolt through her, stirring away the sleepy content that came with posing for an extended period of time. She felt seen. Now, though, she wanted to see. Finally.

It was the day before her thirtieth birthday, and Camille had a massive surprise party planned, that Annabelle was both pretending that she didn’t know about, and dreading like a punch to the gut.

It was sweet that Camille was doing it. But also, maybe, if she didn’t celebrate the date she could still, somehow, be in her twenties for another year. That was how it worked, right?

“You are?” She leapt off the stool, and felt her joints click. “Can I see? I feel like I should have a right to see before everyone else. I won’t tell anyone.”

“It is top secret.” He pretended to consider.

She took the opportunity to relish actually looking at him for once; there was a kiss of red on the cuff of his painting shirt that hadn’t yet dried. It was the exact colour of her lipstick. She smiled.

He really had left her mouth for last.

“Fine,” he said, and gestured her over, eyes bright with amusement. “But only because I know you won’t tell.”

In the short space of walking over, Annabelle had time to feel her stomach clench. Her old fears boiled nauseously to the surface.

What if it was awful?

What if it wasn’t what she wanted, as if that had ever been the point?

What if her immortality looked like the part-time waitress she didn’t want to be?

She would have to keep a straight face, and not hurt his feelings. He’d been working on it for so long. It would ruin everything if he knew she hated it. It would no doubt be technically very skilled. She should have researched painting techniques she could comment on.

She rounded the easel, a little dizzy.

His hand fell on the small of her back, thumb tracing the curve of her hip, idly almost.  

She stared.

Her painted self was lovely. So alive, as if thirty couldn’t possibly contain her.

It was not as realistic as ‘Girl On Swing’ though.

She was caught in the motion of talking, hands gesturing animatedly in the air despite her best efforts of posing, and though her face was turned towards the light of the window it was as clear as confession that her eyes were always turning towards him, trying to steal a glimpse.

She looked at him, at the viewer, like he was the best thing she had ever seen.

Camille would see the painting too.

She had already said that she had to come to the opening, especially ‘after all the time her girlfriend had spent with this Julian fellow instead of her.’

Annabelle swallowed.

The perfect bubble burst.

She released a shaky breath, abruptly more aware of his hand through the thin material of her dress.

They hadn’t done anything.

Even the night when she ended up staying over at his, after lasagne and wine, they hadn’t done anything.

The painting made it look like they had, though. She wasn’t even sure she could accuse Julian of exactly making it up, either.

He had painted the truth. Raw. Even when it would have been politer to hide it.

“Oh,” she said. “Wow. Um. Julian—”

“Happy Birthday,” he murmured. “For tomorrow.”

His hand moved up to the back of her neck and all of the colours of the painting swirled and rushed forward to meet her.

“Oh, and Annabelle?” His voice sounded very far away. “This is the bit where you stop talking.”

***

Annabelle had been thirty for nearly a month. Well, not exactly.

They all said that she looked amazing. So realistic.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t feel her body. But, she could watch, from her frame.

She’d watched as Julian approached her with a paintbrush dipped in varnish – to seal the work – and she’d watched with her world turned sideways as they carried her canvas from the studio to the gallery.

She’d watched as they hung her up on the wall and made comments about her like she wasn’t there at all.

She’d screamed, too, or tried to. They hadn’t been able to hear her.

Julian had approached her again when they were alone, hands in his pockets, perfectly relaxed and pleased with himself.

“It’s a good trick, isn’t it? I’ve always had the knack of turning people into portraits.” He’d flashed her the same quick, reassuring smile he always did as he peered up at her. “As I said, it’s all about getting to know the person. Getting them to pour their soul out to you.”

He’d laughed, like he so often did, only this time it was at his own joke instead of hers. Or maybe she had always been the joke. 

“I did worry for a moment that I wouldn’t be finished in time. But, don’t worry. We made it. You’re twenty-nine forever! Just like you wanted. Just like I promised. I’m not that cruel.”

She’d wanted to tell him that this was not what she’d wanted. She wanted to ask a million questions. She wanted to punch him.

Instead, Annabelle watched as Camille stepped into the exhibition room, on opening night.

She watched Camille scan the crowd, feverishly, expecting her to be there.

She watched as Camille’s attention snagged on the vast painting of her across the room.

God, Camille.

Her girlfriend made a beeline over. It had been an age since Annabelle had last looked at her, properly looked at her, hadn’t it?

Camille’s face crumpled a little as she studied the portrait; a myriad of regret and fear and confusion. Hurt. Her eyes were red and swollen like she’d been crying. She raised one hand towards Annabelle’s life-sized face, as if to touch, but didn’t. Her fists curled at her sides instead.

Guilt twisted in Annabelle’s gut. Camille looked exactly like how one might when learning that their girlfriend had cheated on them.

She felt an absurd surge of hope, despite everything, that Camille might see her where no one other than Julian had. The portrait, for all of its intimacies, suggested a grand love affair. People didn’t vanish fairly from grand love affairs, they just didn’t! It was suspicious, right? He was the last person to see her. The proof was in the painting!

Camille stared at her for a moment longer, her jaw set with grim determination. Then she scrubbed a hand over her face. Her shoulders hunched against some unbearable, undefinable weight. Her dark hair was greasy with worry.

“I’ll find you,” Camille still whispered. “I swear, I’ll find you.”

Annabelle’s stomach sank.

“No, Camille—” Of course, the words didn't come out. Nothing did.

She’d had been such an idiot, hadn’t she?

She felt a fresh stab of longing for that surprise birthday party.

How long had they waited for her to arrive? Waited for her.

Had Camille reported her missing? There would be no body to find, no evidence. The painting, the wanting limited eyes she looked out of, felt like a mockery.

Maybe the life she had with Camille hadn’t been perfect, not by a long shot, but at least they’d been alive. At least they’d been real.

Camille began to turn away.

“Please.” Annabelle’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry. I’m here, please. Don’t leave me! Camille!”

More attendees bustled to claim prime spot in front of the painting, murmuring about how talented Julian was, speculating on if Annabelle was his lover. Camille flinched.

“It makes me feel,” one of gallery attendees said, “like I’m interrupting them in a private moment, you know? Of course, it’s so Julian that she’s not actually a nude—”

She couldn’t see Camille anymore.

She was never going to see Camille again, was she?

CAMILLE. CAMILLE. CAMILLE.

Annabelle screamed it with everything she had, every atom of her, with the absolute certainty that if her girlfriend walked out the gallery door that Annabelle would never escape the painting.

She would never get to say sorry, or kiss Camille, or tell her properly that nothing had happened or would ever have happened, despite what she may have let her foolish heart feel.

She’d just liked the way he looked at her.

She didn’t want to stop the clock.

She wanted her life back, to live.

The painting hit the floor of the exhibition with an almighty crash.

Everyone scattered back. Red wine spilled like a crime scene against the polished floor.

Camille whirled back around too, alone a few metres away, her eyes wide and startled.

Julian appeared, clutching a glass of champagne in one hand.

“Goddamn these hooks. Who set this up? It’s a hazard. Everyone alright?” He looked around at his adoring fans, and summoned up a rueful smile. “I should have just got eyes to follow you all around the room instead, huh?” He looked down at her, where she stared up, in the same narrow periphery vision he’d painted her with. “Really leaned into the photorealism.”

Past him, past his taunts, Camille looked between the two of them. Uncertain misery flashed across her features once more. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, before closing it.

Annabelle willed her painted self to move again too, to speak, to do anything. She willed Camille to question, to press, to not give up on them and on her. Not now.

“Camille!” Julian had caught sight of her too, and straightened. He gestured for one of the gallery employees to get Annabelle back into position. “I’m so glad you could make it! Is Annabelle not with you? She was so excited for the exhibition…”

“You haven’t seen her?” Camille’s voice broke. “I – I thought she’d be here, at least. With you.”

“With me?” Julian spoke mildly. Innocently. “No, no. I haven’t seen her. I thought she was with you. Is something wrong?” His tone gentled, as he walked towards Camille. “She mentioned you’d been having some problems…”

“No – it wasn’t like that – Camille—”

Crowds swarmed Annabelle’s painted self once more. She was lifted back on the wall, as if nothing had happened.

"Let me get you a drink," Julian said. "You can tell me everything."

She caught a glimpse of Julian's arm wrapped around Camille's waist. The way she leaned into him, looked up at him. His lips by her ear.

"Camille—"

By the time the room cleared, they were already gone.

[shadowsatdawnx]

———

i’ll be honest. i never thought they’d get to the point of calling us anti-azriel for shipping him with the woman that he canonically wants to be with. so let’s dissect that a bit!

(i’m not going to even bother with the “his shadows hide from elain which is bad!!” take because at this point it’s obvious that is willful misinterpretation and we’ve beaten that dead horse long enough, i think.)

but let’s go through this point by point;

“want him with someone who has seen his darkness and can accept it”

did i miss the part where gw*n sees his darkness and accepts it? or where she really sees anything of him at all, especially when it feels like it’s pulling teeth for her to get him to open up to her in the first place?

Elain, on the other hand;

She seemed so small before him, so fragile compared to the scales of his fighting leathers, the breadth of his shoulders. The wings peeking over them.

But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded—just once.

Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, “Beautiful.”

interesting, that she does not balk from him and even finds the scars on his hands from his childhood to be beautiful.

let’s not forget him giving her truth teller to defend herself with;

Azriel, still limping, merely nudged aside Cassian and extended another option.

“This is Truth-Teller,” he told her softly. “I won’t be using it today—so I want you to.”

“It has never failed me once,” the shadowsinger said, the midday sun devoured by the dark blade. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true.” He gently took her hand and pressed the hilt of the legendary blade into it. “It will serve you well.”

Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade.

I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection … that knife.

doesn’t seem like she’s scared of him and his darkness at all in this scene, even when presented with his shadows and his weapon of choice while on a battlefield.

on to the next point

“someone who makes him feel relaxation and joy”

aww, this one’s easy!

“Az, this one’s for you.”

“Elain turned from where she’d been speaking to Nesta. “Oh, that’s from me.”

“I had Madja make it for me,” Elain explained. “It’s a powder to mix in with any drink.”

Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.”

Silence again.

Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.

I’d never heard such a sound, deep and joyous.

Elain smiled again, ducking her head.

Azriel mastered himself enough to say, “Thank you.” I’d never seen his hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and gray like veins of emerald. “This will be invaluable.”

seems pretty joyous to me!

another one;

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading.

how lovely and relaxing!

as for the last part;

“someone who sparks goodness in his heart”

while i would argue my previous examples show her sparking goodness in his heart, that’s more my opinion/interpretation rather than irrefutable fact. i’m going to take a guess this is in reference to that lil spark he feels in the bonus chapter, and while i disagree and interpret it differently i don’t mind giving this one a pass (even though it’s under pretty suspicious circumstances, i don’t mind letting y’all have this one, even though it still doesn’t make sense pertaining to gw*nriel, because it’s about the only thing y’all have going for this ship at this point.)

all this is to say; if you’re going to make so bold a claim as to say elriels are anti-azriel for shipping him with the woman he wants to be with, at least try to use examples that can’t be directly refuted with canon text from the books, especially when you hardly have any examples for your own ship. it does not help your case.

[meidui]

as you know, i am absolutely obsessed with 'seven years in heaven'. do you have any recommendations for similar fics where they teeter on the edge of a breakup or divorce, or where exes get back together? i'm looking for stories where the tension is all based on miscommunications and assumptions, and nobody is genuinely angry/there's no hate between them. i need that stupid yearning and longing when, in fact, they both still want each other. i've read a few but i can't get enough 😩✨

DO I EVER!! 🥰

In Too Deep by @fohatic

Steve knew that he was asking for trouble when he agreed to let the gallery auction off a date with him for charity, but he needed to get in the director's good books if he wanted to make it as an artist in this cutthroat town. He never imagined that his participation would ignite an outrageous bidding war, or that the infamous, billionaire ex that he hadn't seen since their sudden breakup two years prior would show up and stake his claim.

a *slightly* twisted, darker spin on meidui's "frequencies of sea and space"

frequencies of sea and space by meidui

“One mil,” a voice says, firmly, and Steve would recognise that voice anywhere. Like thick amber honey, like smoke from a fire, lighting him up and burning him down.

There are no higher bids.

Steve looks across the room and gazing back at him is the face he’s spent two years squeezing his eyes shut at night trying to block out, but those eyes meet his and it’s all over.

From the Ground Up by @omg-just-peachy

Tony and Steve broke up years ago and Tony never quite got over it. When they finally see each other again at Pepper's wedding, Rhodey convinces Tony this might just be his second chance.

Paint the Town Blue by @omg-just-peachy

Ten years since he’d seen or spoken to Tony Stark, ten years since they’d broken up to go away to school. And now this email. It could be his only chance to see Tony again.

I'll keep your brittle heart warm by @omg-just-peachy

They got married when they were young, just twenty-four years old, despite the arguments from their friends that they should wait, that neither of them were ready for a commitment like marriage so young. Steve distinctly remembered Sam pointing out that the male brain isn’t even fully developed until age twenty-five. But they were young and passionate, so sure they’d found their perfect person that they could overcome anything and everything life threw at them. 

And it was true.

For six months. 

it always leads to you by @arabellamonkey

Slowly at first, and then all of a sudden, everything made sense: the way Tony had looked at him that first time when Pepper had introduced them, the way his eyes were always searching for him everywhere they went, and how Tony had asked him about his suit, voice clearly flirty now that he thought about it again. And that smile, oh God, that smile… it had been the same he had given him all those years ago when they flirted in their kitchen. “Wait, you… you recognized me?” Steve asked, eyes wide and voice incredulous. Tony scoffed, expression still bemused, “don’t insult my intelligence, of course I did.” Steve stared at him, both eyebrows raised. “Okay, it might have taken me a few days to figure it out,” Tony ended up admitting.

*** Or, after breaking up five years ago because of heavy miscommunication, Steve gets assigned to be Tony's personal bodyguard.

dreamt of you all summer long by @ifmywishescametrue

Steve spends months after the breakup trying to forget Tony, but it never seems to work. That's alright, though, because Tony can't forget him either.

all I ever knew of love by @stovetuna

For six months, nobody knew that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers were dating.   Which means no one knows they broke up six weeks ago.

Catching Lightning in a Bottle by @sabrecmc

College student Tony meets janitor Steve at MIT and they fall blissfully in love, until Howard happens and things fall apart. One divorce paperwork snafu courtesy of the ever-helpful Jarvis, and ten years later, Tony has to get re-divorced from Steve.

This does not go as he imagines.

Or, the Sweet Home Alabama AU that no one--well, okay, a few of you--asked for.

Modern Love by @captainneverever

Tony drifts into a relationship with Steve after a one night stand. He thinks that Steve is modern and well adjusted to the 21st century but finds that Steve is old-fashioned in unexpected ways.

Captain Coffee by @captainneverever

Steve is content managing his own coffee shop and life is full with friends and neighbors. But an owner of big coffee chain pressures him to sell and someone from his past reappears. And now Steve needs to fight a bully, an ex, and himself to get his happy ending.

Never Worlds Apart by @kandisheek

It's been six years since he's seen Tony when he walks into his favorite diner and sees him sitting in their old booth, as if nothing ever happened. Steve can't believe the nerve of Tony to just show up out of the blue after the way he ended things.

Turns out Tony has a reason for wanting to make amends. And Steve doesn't appreciate only finding out about it after Tony has already almost died.

Plausible Deniability by nowalee

Tony and Steve broke up a month ago. Now, Tony is back because Fury wants him for an undercover mission. Only catch? Steve has to go with him, because the public doesn't know they broke up yet. It's a perfect cover.

And Tony can totally be alone on a mission with his ex who he isn't over yet. What could possibly go wrong?

You, Me and the Christmas Tree by @wikketkrikket

Steve thinks Tony is drinking. Tony thinks Steve is cheating. They both think their marriage is over. They are just going to give Peter one last family Christmas because he thinks everything is fine.

None of them are wrong, but none of them are right either. When Steve and Tony get snowed in together 3 days before Christmas, will the enforced proximity be the time they need to figure things out?

(Spoilers: yes, yes it will)

[fairykazu]

hi pookie !!!!!!! congrats on 500 u deserve it frfr 🫶 for the event, can u have a bouquet of petunias with dan heng? thank you and congratulations again teehee :3

petunias with dan heng prompt: realizing feelings side note: oh mu god i think i brainrotted and then forgot my train of thought. this isn't exactly the prompt but he does realize it i swear. i might write a follow up afterwards because i hate the way i ended this. event masterlist 𝜗𝜚 hsr masterlist

nervous was a feeling that dan heng never allowed himself to feel, he only let it fleetingly pass by like the winter breeze. but he doesn’t understand how he began to feel anxious around you, just simply on edge just by being near you. he could just sweat pure bullets from the amount of sweat he could feel, making his palms sweaty. 

when the both of you went on an assignment for collecting extinguished cores, he nearly left mid-fight, not that he’d leave you in the middle of a fight, but your hand briefly touched his and he died within that moment. after that, he zoned out the entire mission, just focusing on the touch between his thumb and your index finger. his and yours, and his and yours- 

frankly, he doesn’t understand this feeling. if he asked someone on the express, surely, they would know why he’s acting this way. but he doesn’t want to seem like a bother to them. maybe he’d resort to them after a good dive into the archives. 

there was a gentle knock against his door but he didn’t hear it, head too deep in various books that were wide open. stacks of books and stacks of books littered the archives’ floors, it was like a maze to even just travel to dan heng. there were books like feelings and how to understand them and are you anxious? there are reasons why in the shelves. although, he was confused how they got there, maybe when march got them to read for fun, he was thankful. 

did he get the answers he needed? no. but they were helpful regardless yet he was in a dead end. well, it’s time to ask the express, maybe they’d know and surely, they would tell him. but when he tried to seek out answers from himeko and welt, they exchanged a look and laughed with each other. 

welt cleared his throat. “okay, himeko, let’s not laugh too much, maybe he knows why.” 

himeko wiped a tear from her face from laughing too much, catching her breath, “welt, c’mon, just look at him. he doesn’t know anything!” 

“dan heng isn’t clueless.” they were talking about him as if he didn’t even exist. until both of them looked at dan heng as if there was something he was supposed to know.  “is there something im missing?” dan heng asked, confused. 

“no…” 

“okay?” 

. ❀

back to the drawing board, he walked into his room, seeing march and stelle sitting in there. march raised a brow, “dan heng, your room’s a mess, even messier than stelle’s!” it was true, despite the silver haired girl protesting against the so-called “allegations” march is painting on her, his room was messy. there was post it notes on the walls, books on the floor, mattress and even the fan? was he really that deep into researching this feeling, if it is even real? 

“i was curious about something, that’s all.” 

“about what?” 

“name, something about name. they’re confusing me.” 

stelle quipped back, “what? that you like them?” the girl in pink gasped, march slapped stelle’s shoulder, “stelle!” she continued in a whisper-yell, “you weren’t supposed to tell him, he was supposed to figure this out himself.”  

dan heng tilted his head, deep in thought, ignoring the commotion the couple was making in front of him. 

what? no, no, he doesn’t like name like that. 

“look what you did, stelle! you broke him.”  march said, tapping on dan heng’s shoulder as if he was a buzzer in a game show. 

sure, sometimes, dan heng imagines a world where the two of you are together. tranquil hours spent in the park, just looking at each other. or cooking with each other, have a cat or a dog and rest together until the end of time or he’d pray to an aeon for eternity to exist forever just to see you as you both grow old.

but that’s because this is how friends act, right? 

[twoelectrichearts]

My mom and I are currently watching a show together called Miracle Workers. We checked it out because Daniel Radcliffe is a part of the cast. It’s a pretty unique show, each season is set in an entirely different environment and the actors are the same, but they play different characters. I don’t think I’ve ever watched a show like it. Anyways, we’re on season 3 and boy oh boy, I wanna scream because I just got done watching episode 3. So there’s this character named Ezekiel who’s in love with his best friend Prudence. Prudence is married to this guy named Todd. Their relationship is absolutely horrendous. I literally don’t understand how they even became a couple in the first place. Maybe they’ll explain how later, but wow it’s toxic with a capital T. Todd even asks Ezekiel if he should stop fighting for something that will never work and if he should let her go. You know what Ezekiel says? That he shouldn’t give up. That he should try and make it work. That he should tell her how he feels. And you know what Todd says? That he’s not good with words like Ezekiel is. So you know what Ezekiel does? He says he can write something for him to read to her.

Ugghh… sweet, selfless, dumb dumb Ezekiel writes exactly how he feels about Prudence, how she’s his best friend, how she’s the most amazing woman he’s ever met, how he promises to always be by her side, and that he loves her. He assumes that Todd must feel that way as well. I mean, they’re in a relationship. They’re freaking married so he must feel that way, right? Yeah, no, he doesn’t. It literally doesn’t matter that they’re together and married. Their relationship is garbage. They’d be broken up if Ezekiel wasn’t selfless to a fault. He saved their relationship with that letter. He saved their relationship with his feelings that he disguised as Todd’s. Sound familiar? But did he really save their relationship? I can guarantee you that their relationship isn’t going to last. There’s no way in hell that we’re supposed to be rooting for Todd and Prudence. That was clear from the beginning of the season, but even more so now that Ezekiel’s love was added to the equation. Why make Todd and Prudence an unbearable couple and have Ezekiel in love with Prudence then? Oh yeah, because we’re supposed to be rooting for Ezekiel and Prudence to end up together. Anyone who watches this show would be able to see that. I swear, the only reason why some people don’t see that with Byler is because they’re both boys. If Byler was a straight relationship everyone would be eating it up. I can just look up to see if Ezekiel and Prudence end up together, but since I’ve agreed to watch it with my mom, I won’t spoil myself. I know that they’re getting a good ending anyways. Daniel Radcliffe’s characters are always in love with Geraldine Viswanathan’s characters. It’s always a good ending for them. There’s no reason why this season would end differently. But yeah anyways if Byler doesn’t end up together, it’d make ZERO sense. I cannot make sense of them not ending up together. I’ve tried and I can’t. It’d be beyond horrible writing. They made Mike and El’s relationship so bad, they made Will in love with Mike, and they made Will “fix” their relationship with the painting and monologue where he disguised his feelings as El’s. Again, if Byler was a straight ship, everyone would be rooting for them to end up together.