#and its an extension of them so i want to love every inch of it

[glorified-red]

Your majesty frothing at the mouth? Well I’ll be damned.

but the thing is … passion twists don’t last 💔 but I know box braids will last 1-2 months. Then again, then mfs hurt!

you could be talking about Havana twists, or maybe Senegalese twists

-knight anon

I could go on an entire rant about how much I love natural hair and their styles.

I actually looked into the braiding styles and wanted to learn how to do them because you never know. I want to foster so I want to do everything I can to make sure any person in my life feels seen and safe. Hair is just an extension of safety so 🤷‍♀️

And yes!! I actually think my favorite style is this one

Tbh they could be passion twists (they look like them). They're just so bouncy!! I wanna stare at them forever. I think women with this style hair just look like goddesses I'm sorry, they're so regal and everyone looks hot with them in.

Ugh 😩

Ngl, I know pricing and time is a huge thing when choosing hairstyles but idk which ones are more expensive or more time consuming. I just know that braids hurt and owie.

[luveline]

Can you write where the reader walks into James room and he's crying and its the first time shes seen him cry so she comforts him pls xx

thank you for your request! fem, 1.2k

James’ house is a sanctuary to everyone he’s ever met. There are scratches on the wall by the door where Sirius has thrown it open, long deep welts of ruin under a drunken hand, two best friends laughing to the bedroom where they share a bed. You’re used to Sirius by now, an extension of James you love and make room for, but waking up to the heir of the most noble family in London sleeping off a hangover with his face buried in your boyfriend's shoulder still surprises you. His snores never change. 

Then there’s Remus, the sweetheart, tracking dirt into the living room because he so often forgets he’s wearing shoes, distracted by a book or a thought he shares in half smiles knowing James will listen. 

You’re everywhere. In photos like the rest of them, in your coat on the hook, your clean washing on the stairs, your shoes in the bedroom cupboard. There’s a red smudge of your lipstick on the wall at the top of the stairs where James wiped your bottom lip and then used the wall to hang over you, kissing. He keeps meaning to paint over it, you know. He says the same thing every time you bring it up, a laughing, “I’ll get to it, you thing!” 

You’re used to smiles and sounds here. You aren’t acquainted with this. Sniffles from the bedroom, long, stringing gulps of air and the answering sob. It makes your chest flip. James hasn’t cried in front of you in a year of dating and two years of knowing him. James doesn’t even get pissed off unless it’s for somebody else. Something awful must’ve happened. You rush to find out what. 

In the bedroom, James is just sitting there falling apart. Just, sat on the bed, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking like an awful jagged up and down, like he’s hurting; the shock of it is in every inch of movement. James is beautiful in everything, skin and hands and dark, dark hair, but he’s hurting now as he drags fingers wet with tears through frizzing curls. He must have heard you coming up but he can’t stop, lifting his chin, an apology twisted in his mouth that he doesn’t say aloud. 

“Lovely, what happened?” you ask, sure you’re gonna fall through the floor. “What happened? What–”

You aren’t giving him time to answer. You need to know. 

“No, it’s alright–”

“It’s not alright,” you say, standing in front of him with stiff arms. “What happened, James?” 

“It’s okay.” He cries a little, sniffs, looking up at you with swimming eyes. “It’s alright, I’m just– it’s just– well, it’s just everything, I suppose, but it’s…” He looks down, his mouth twisting again in an apology you don’t want to take. He shakes himself. 

“James, what’s everything?” 

“Silly stuff.” James takes your hand. Telling, that a boy who’s spent his entire life looking after the people he loves would attempt to comfort you with tears still hot on his cheeks. 

You look down at his long fingers. 

James plays piano. He learned your favourite song for you before he’d ever asked you out, and when he’d played it for you, he’d played so beautifully you felt sick for days, felt sick every time you thought of him, but in the moment he’d laughed at your teary eyes and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. Lovely girl, he’d said, laughing, I won’t play it again if you’re gonna cry like that.

You figure he must want comfort as he gives it, wrapping your arms around him to steer him toward a soft kiss, his hair like strands of satin under your lips. “Nothing that upsets you like this could ever be silly.” 

He pushes you away. Not without love, but pushing away regardless. He stands in the space you leave and wipes his cheeks with the backs of his hands. It’s nearly like he’s dancing. Just the way his arms move. But then he drops them and turns away from you, your heart plummeting to your stomach. 

“James.” 

“It’s not like that. I was hoping I’d be done before you got home. Should we go out for dinner or something?��� 

“James–”

“What?” he asks, smiling, at odds with his sad eyes. “Love, it’s really fine, I’m fine.” Love. You let out a long breath, chest a cold ache slowly warmed by his gaze. There’s care for you in every eyelash, but it still shocks you when he hugs you. “It’s okay. Sorry I scared you.” 

James. “Fucking hell, Jamie, I’m not scared, I want you to tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it for you.”

He chokes on breath. “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t believe it himself, a crack running straight through his words. “Sorry,” he says, sickly, kissing the top of your head as you’d kissed his. 

Clearly he’s not going to let you be the one domineering the situation, but that’s okay. He can kiss your head and hold you on the edge of too tight. You slip a hand under the edge of his T-shirt to stroke his back, until your hand is numb to it, and he’s sagging against you heavily. 

“You’re really not fine, I can see that much.” 

He’s quiet, but you can tell there’s something he wants to say. 

“But that’s okay,” you say, hand clasping his back . You pat a steady rhythm there as he sighs. “It really is. I don’t know why you think you have to be finished crying before I get home, but that’s not true. You can cry. You can cry buckets. Please don’t pretend you’re not upset because of me, I’d feel so bad.”

Something hot and wet touches your forehead. “M’sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” You pull back to pat his cheek. 

James stares at you. Tears well in usually warm eyes and get caught in the wet hedge of his lashes. You try to wipe them away before they can fall —you don’t wanna see your sweetheart crying. 

“Don’t frown,” he says softly. 

“I’m trying not to. Here, let me,” —you wipe his cheeks with your sleeve, voice a muttering thing as his skin pinks beneath your touch— “just get that there for you. Your eyes are red, Jamie, I hope you haven’t been upset for too long.” 

“No, uh. No, not too long.” 

“Can you please tell me what’s wrong? I’d like to know.” 

James’ face presses to your neck in seconds. He pauses, and then he sobs. That’s more like it. You stand there in the bedroom until your legs are stiff, and then you only move to lay him down in bed to be your little spoon. “It's not fine,” you say, your arm around him, the other playing in the swirl of his parting, “but it will be. You’re really too handsome for all these tears.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

He sounds sweet when he’s trying to make you laugh. You reach over him to kiss his hot cheek.  

[jjkamochoso]

Pt. 2 of Imagine… Soshiro Hoshina Finding You on the Brink of Death

Angst, Fluff

Soshiro Hoshina x gn!reader

Warnings: mentions of hospital setting/devices

You can find the all angst ridden part 1 here!

One week.

That was how long it had been since Soshiro had seen your alluring (e/c) eyes, heard your infectious laugh, blushed at your gentlest smile reserved just for him. The past 7 days of you in a coma after almost becoming a kaiju meal had been devastating for him and the rest of your teammates. You had many visitors over the hours you lied completely still on your hospital bed, but you weren’t the only unmoving person in your room. Soshiro had rarely moved an inch from your side, only getting up to go to the bathroom. He couldn’t remove himself from his seat next to your fragile body in case you woke up; he couldn’t bear the thought of you being alone in such a vulnerable state anyway.

“They’re under the best care here, Hoshina. Go get some rest,” Captain Ashiro had told him on day 3, when Soshiro was sporting dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He respectfully refused, and Mina knew better than to fight with him right now—he was as stubborn as he was talented with his swords. Every time the nurses came in to check your vitals, they looked upon him and his sad state of being with sorrow, feeling awful to see the man in such despair. They had taken it upon themselves to deliver meals for him since they all knew he wasn’t leaving to eat. Even if most of the time the tray sat untouched, they took it as a win when a pudding or fruit cup disappeared.

Day 5 was the hardest for Soshiro. By that point, he was delirious from staying up practically all night in case you needed something. His typed reports stopped making sense, his brain nowhere near as sharp as usual due to the fog of grief that had settled in his mind. The steady beeps of your life support machine haunted his every waking moment, a perfect symphony of the anguish he couldn’t escape. Thankfully, Kafka had heard about his vice captain’s condition and visited that night, offering to take over Soshiro’s watch in case you woke up. Soshiro was extremely reluctant at first, but he knew that you and Hibino were close; he also trusted the kind hearted man enough to know he’d be there for you in case something happened. With strong hesitation, Soshiro left your sight for the first time in 96 hours, heading to the shower. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t wash away the feelings of guilt he harbored over your injuries.

If only I was faster, stronger… I could’ve been there sooner. Stopped the kaiju from ever sinking its disgusting teeth into you. What kind of vice captain am I? What kind of… person am I? How could I ever expect them to love me back if I can’t succeed in my one job of protecting them?

He let his tears fall freely, mixing in with the water from the shower head.

Day 7 was the point where Soshiro was just… there. He barely felt anything anymore, whether it was exhaustion, anguish, or anything else. He sat next to you like normal, gazing at your chest as it sank and rose with shallow breaths, but his eyes were glazed over in a manner reminiscent of a man without hope. The doctors didn’t have an estimated time for you to wake up. With injuries as extensive as yours, there was no telling when your body would be ready to start running on its own again. Soshiro didn’t know how to process that news; he liked seeing tangible results, and the fact that you had been hooked up to all these damn machines for so long and nothing had changed? It was pure torture to him. He found himself inching closer to you, if that were even possible, and he took hold of your hand with the softest of touches.

“I miss ya, y/n,” he whispered, bringing your hand to his lips. He was careful to not disrupt the IV as he laid a gentle kiss on your cold skin, savoring the sensation of doing what had wanted to do since he first met you all those years ago.

“Remember the promise we made to each other when we were young and dumb? Now we’re old and dumb,” he chuckled humorlessly, “and you still have to keep up your end of the bargain. You have to survive. I can’t lose you.”

He took in a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t lose you because I’m in love with you.”

It was like the world was playing a cruel joke on him—he finally garnered the courage to admit he had fallen in love, but the object of his affections wasn’t able to hear it. He let his head hang in misery as he kept your hand close to his face, eventually placing it against his cheek. He closed his eyes, wishing with all his might that you would wake up. If you died… he wouldn’t know how to move on from such a devastating blow. He knew this macabre scenario had a high probability of happening in this career field you two chose, but he always had faith in his and your abilities to stay alive. To say that faith had been shaken was the understatement of the century.

“Y/n, please. I can’t do this alone. I need ya back with me. You gotta keep fighting.”

Soshiro went to place your hand back on the bed when he swore he felt your fingers move against his own. His eyes widened in surprise as his heart started slamming against his rib cage. Was that real or just his imagination?

It happened again.

And your eyes opened.

He slammed on the call button, informing the nurses of your awakening before turning his attention back to you.

“So-soshiro,” you tried to say, but your throat couldn’t form any words.

“Shh, don’t say anything, darling, I’m right here. Always have been, always will be.”

A grin swirled with anxiety and relief was present on his lips as he looked at you.

After a few hours of tests, doctors checking up on you, and small moments to collect your thoughts, you were finally able to form coherent sentences.

“You sat here the whole time? Now I feel bad,” you said, a small frown gracing your features.

“Don’t feel bad. I didn’t want you to be alone, that’s all,” Soshiro told you, nervously scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you… happen to hear anything I was saying before you woke up?”

“What, like how we’re old and dumb and that you’re in love with me?” you said, trying your best not to laugh at his shocked expression.

“Huh? You actually did hear me? I thought that only happened in movies!” he whined, his cheeks tinged with red.

“No reason to be embarrassed, Soshiro. I didn’t know how to tell you but I’m in love with you, too. I have been for a very long time.”

Soshiro was looking upon you like you had descended directly from the heavens, his eyes gleaming with unbridled joy as his fingertips danced over your arm, tracing shapes in an intimate, comforting manner.

“I‘ve been so worried about ya, sweetheart, but now that you’re back with me, it’s like I can breathe again.”

You relished in the calm quiet of the room, basking in Soshiro’s loving presence. He was exactly the driving force behind you willing your body to wake up. You could never leave him to walk this world alone.

“I also felt you kissing my hand,” you said after a long bout of silence. “That was very sweet of you.”

“Guess all I had to do was give ya true love’s kiss to wake up?” he joked, his little fangs peeking out of his lazy grin.

“I’m looking forward to my real kiss when I get out of the hospital,” you replied, attempting to wink at him.

He leaned his face over yours, his breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. “If you want, I can give you a preview of it right now.”

You felt your pulse quicken and apparently so did the heart rate monitor you were hooked up to; the machine started beeping, alerting that your numbers were abnormal.

Soshiro kissed your forehead before sitting down again, smirking. “Do I make ya nervous?”

Now it was your turn to blush. “Watch it Hoshina, or I’ll have you admitted into the bed next to me.”

Soshiro burst out in his trademark laugh, grabbing at his stomach and wiping away the tears forming in his eyes. You could be given all the medicine known to man but nothing could make you feel better than the promise of being loved by the easily amused violet haired man who will never leave your side.

[simplyhughes]

You’re My Girl - WS2

Synopsis: Childhood crush confession typa beat?!??

Warnings: none, just fluff lol and shit writing

AN: so sorry this is literally trash… but i love my smitty 🥹!! ALSO REQUESTS ARE OPENNNN!!

I’ve known Will Smith since before we could even walk. Our fathers were best friends from college, a friendship that felt like it was meant to last. After years apart, they reconnected by chance in a small Michigan town, both of them with young families and memories of shared adventures. It wasn’t long before they picked up right where they’d left off, as if the years between had been nothing more than a short pause. Weekends, barbecues, and game nights became routine, and before long, our families practically blended into one.

Our mothers bonded just as effortlessly. By the time Will and I were born, just two months apart, it was already decided that we’d grow up together. Each family felt like an extension of the other. We celebrated every holiday together, and we even had Christmas stockings at each other’s homes, as if we were siblings rather than best friends.

From the start, Will and I were inseparable. When my mom worked, his mom watched us both, and vice versa. It felt natural to grow up side by side, learning and exploring together.

Now here we are in our first year of college. Will committed to Boston College while I stayed in Michigan. It was very hard adjusting to life without him. Yet out distance didn’t stop us from texting every day.

We are now on holiday break, both back at the Smiths’ residence. Will sat next to me on the plush couch in his basement, the TV flashing the bright colors of whatever video game he was obsessed with this month. In a comfy pair of sweatpants and a Boston College hoodie, his eyes darted all over the screen. We were only a few inches apart as I lay against the pillow, wrapped in a fluffy white blanket, mindlessly scrolling on Instagram reels.

The screen flashed with Will’s loss, and he tossed the controller onto the pillow beside him. I chuckled, looking up from my phone.

“You suck,” I laughed.

“Ain’t no way you’re talking,” he retorted, shifting his gaze from the screen onto me. I felt his eyes on me, so I looked up from my phone.

“Hey,” Will said softly.

“Hi,” I replied, matching his tone.

“You know, I miss you when I’m gone…” he admitted.

“I miss you too, Will. It’s not the same without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get some of that blanket?” He nudged the white fluff that was draped over me. I lifted up the end closest to him, signaling for him to come closer. His body weight shifted the couch, pulling both of us deeper into it. I felt my heartbeat quicken, thudding against my chest. Our faces were only a foot apart. Will flung his arm around the back of the couch behind my shoulders.

“Getting comfy, huh?” I finally spoke.

“I’m always comfy when I’m with you,” he replied.

“You talk to all your Boston chicks like that too?” I joked. Will tossed his head back and chuckled.

“Y/N, you’re the only girl I think about,” he muttered, a sly smirk forming across his face. The smirk didn’t match the nervous fidgeting of his fingers.

“Huh?” I questioned.

Will just kept looking at me and shrugged. He lowered his body, positioning himself so that his head rested comfortably on my shoulder. His hand clasped the remote, switching the HDMI off his game and onto Netflix. My hand somehow found its way into his blonde curls, scratching softly at his scalp.

“I could get used to this,” Will hummed. “I wish I could take you back to Boston with me.”

“But what would happen when you go to California?” I asked.

“I’d take you there too.”

“What’s with the separation anxiety?” I chuckled.

“I don’t know. You’re my girl, what can I say?”

My face flushed a deep pink. He probably didn’t mean it the way I hoped, but I couldn’t help but wonder. He tilted his head, looking up at me, his eyes wide.

“You hear me?” Will said.

“Y-yeah, I heard you.”

“I want you to be my girl, Y/N.”

“I am, Will. I have been for 18 years.”

“No, I mean, like, my… girlfriend.”

My hand cupped his cheek. For a moment, I couldn’t believe this was happening. And surely, I couldn’t believe what I did next. I mimicked my other hand, cupping his other cheek, and sealed the gap between us. I pressed a kiss against his lips, holding it for a second.

“William, I wish you’d told me this sooner.”

[zackprincebooks]

🥘Feast Day 🥘

As a kitchen serf in the fortress-monastery, you love feeding your lord angels. If your meager work is one of the few pleasures they can enjoy in their endless war, then you are happy to serve. But your decadent meals are not the only pleasure they seek, and you will come to serve in a different way. (Gadriel x Reader, explicit. 2nd person PoV, Reader is not addressed with a name or gendered pronouns.)

Want to read this on Ao3? Click here!

-------------------------

Fragrant steam rises from the kitchen, fogging up the glasses of the head chef as you open the oven to remove your roasting pan. Some juices dribble off the saber bear roast and splash into the oven, making a sizzling sound and producing even more steam.

“Careful! We still need to braise the grand chestnuts in the sauce, so don’t lose too much jus.” The Master of the Refectorium cleans his glasses on his apron and puts them on, groaning as they immediately fog up again. You take a knee to remove the roasting pan, huffing as your sweaty, mitted hands struggle to lift it onto the counter. 

“I need an extra pair of hands here!” Immediately three people rush to your side as the roasting pan threatens to tip over, pushing it back with their hands wrapped in dish towels. Together, you hoist the roasting pan onto some trivets waiting on the counter. Your fellows clap you on the back and one of them offers you a towel. 

“Many thanks.” You wipe your glistening brow with the proffered towel before throwing it over your shoulder. “If I dropped this and wasted eight hours of roasting, I couldn’t show my face around the monastery.” The thought of explaining to the Lord Angels that they would go without dinner was enough to make your knees weak. 

You didn’t fear them; you loved them with every inch of your weak, mortal heart. Feeding the Emperor’s Angels was a holy duty in and of itself, and you could not meet their disappointed gaze if you had to tell them you ruined one of their few pleasures in life. 

The saucier takes the pan of drippings over to the stove with a bottle of wine and a sack of chestnuts, and you are forced to wash the pan’s rack as you let the roast rest on the counter. It’s watching you, teasingly, begging you to cut into it to check if the inside is done. For such a powerful animal, saber bear meat was notoriously finicky. One minute over its extensive roasting time, and those delicate proteins would start breaking down into gray, unpalatable mush.

“Are you trying to kill it again?” Your saucier teases, giving the chestnuts a little flip. Drops of wine sauce glitter in the air like precious garnets, but your focus is directed towards your precious roast. Every time someone walks by, your breath hitches for fear that they would accidentally knock it to the floor—despite the roast being too big and heavy for anyone but a Space Marine to nudge it off the counter.

Finally—fucking finally—you can cut into it. It’s a thing of beauty; adorned with spices and herbs and the carving knife cuts through it like butter. Each plump slice is a beautiful ruby red, adorned with glittering pearls of fat. More juice spills from each cut, flowing over your knife like reams of crimson silk. You swallow the desire to fawn over the individual slices; it will be almost dinner time, and serving the lords cold, flaccid meat would be a bigger disappointment than serving nothing at all! 

You’re halfway through slicing the roast when you hear the distant sound of a bell ringing, heralding the approach of the Lord Angels. Despite that, you hold off on cutting faster; the roast needs to rest for a second time before you can serve it, and you will have plenty of time during the first course. Nothing but the best for your angels.

The metal window opens up to the dining hall, and you briefly look up from your work to admire the gathered angels.  Many of them have come from the baths with hair still damp and cheeks flushed red from steam. Sometimes you envy the bath serfs, who tend to the lords at their most vulnerable, but you would never relinquish the joy you feel from filling their bellies.

Their first course is an array of broiled root vegetables, many of them slathered in cheese, erdripper bacon, or both. While you bemoan the sheer amount of grease and fat, reaching the ten-thousand calories required to keep a Space Marine fed and running was no easy feat. At least they were getting their vegetables, and not fully subsisting on nutrigruel and amino-porridge. You shudder to think of what your angels eat on the battlefield without your spoon and pan!

Lord Gadriel glimpses you cutting your roast, and his blue eyes light up. “I hope that’s for me later,” he says with a smile, nodding towards you. His blond hair is damp from the baths and the light glances off it, giving him a true halo. You blush and look down, continuing to cut.

From behind him, Lord Chairon lets out a deep throated chuckle that rattles your ribcage. “Don’t be greedy, brother! Leave some for us! That’s a prize of a roast.” He thwaps Gadriel on his bare bicep with a powerful fist and you watch it bounce.

When Gadriel takes his first course, he levels his gaze at you and the warmth in your lower belly tells you he’s not thinking about the roast. -------------------------------

If your fellow cooks knew you wanted to stay late to get a slice of the saber bear roast to yourself, they didn’t show it. The master bids you goodnight, tossing his soiled apron into the hamper as he leaves.

To your credit, you do wash, chop, and wrap the chimera fruit and cobblemoss in preparation for breakfast tomorrow, and you’re in the middle of cleaning your workstation when you hear footsteps down the hall leading to the kitchen doors. The bulky shadow on the opposite wall makes your heart throb in your chest and you abandon the washrag on the counter to approach the double doors.

“Lord Gadriel, may I assist you? Was tonight’s dinner not enough to satisfy you?” While mealtime was over, the kitchen was open to anyone who needed food.

He smiles at you, his head tilting to one side. “I am quite satisfied by tonight’s meal; it was delicious. Thank you for your hard work. I have never gone hungry, so long as you are in the kitchen. But I feel as though you have gone unsatisfied…”

Your breath stutters as your gaze drifts down to the bulge in Gadriel’s sweatpants. It felt too obscene to see that part of an angel; to know that they lusted and wanted just as a fragile mortal. It feels even worse to stare at it, but when you drag your gaze up to Gadriel’s face, you find his expression is as hungry as his body. Your legs clench as though you can feel his tongue against the apex of your thighs as he licks his lips.

“I would never demand you to feed me, my lord,” you protest weakly.

“Nor would answer your demand,” Gadriel counters. You try to hold your ground as he advances, but Gadriel's oppressive weight eventually pushes you against the steel wall behind you. It cools your sizzling skin but doesn't temper the flame of your arousal.

One of Gadriel's hands reaches out to touch the meat of your bottom lip, skimming the bite marks in the soft flesh. You can smell the nourishing oils from his bath earlier, making his skin soft and tender. You resist the urge to lick it, even though your mouth is watering.

“I want you to beg for it.” His growling voice makes your belly clench. Suddenly you feel horrifically empty; starving to feel Gadriel inside of you even if he would shred you alive.

“Please feed me, my lord. Fill me with your need and allow me to sate you.” Your lips brush against Gadriel’s thumb with each word, and you punctuate your pleas with a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb.

“Open wide,” is his only warning before Gadriel pushes you to the floor. He's gentle about it, but for an angel, it means you're lucky that your knees don't break when they impact with the floor. He winces when you do, and whispers “sorry,” as he runs his fingers through your hair as penance. With his opposite hand, Gadriel slowly pulls down his sweatpants until his cock manages to pop out. He's not as long as you expected him to be, but he is deliciously thick and veiny, with a large, red head. The dusting of golden hair on his crotch is well-groomed…had he been expecting you? 

Waiting for you?

Wanting you?

This is a delicacy to be savored. Opening your mouth, you press a sucking kiss to the head of his cock before sticking out your tongue to wet his slit. He's still too long for you to take him wholly into your mouth, so you use one hand to stroke what you cannot reach as your mouth slowly engulfs him.

Gadriel's primal groan is sweet on your ears, as is his hand pushing your face further into his groin. The head of his cock bumps the back of your throat and your futile attempts to relax your throat to take more only make you gag sloppily. A dribble of saliva is forced out from the corner of your mouth with his next thrust.

If looking at Gadriel's bulging cock was obscene, this is a blessing. Your only lament is that you cannot take the whole of his cock into your mouth so that he could properly fuck your throat. But you take some sadistic pleasure in watching the tremble of his hips as he valiantly holds himself back.

The hallway behind the kitchen is soon filled with the wet noises of your sucking and Gadriel's deep moans. Your muffled whimpering joins in as your free hand dives under your apron and into your pants to touch yourself. It feels wrong to take your pleasure when Gadriel hasn't finished, but the burning between your legs is only heightened by his noises.

Your sounds do not go unnoticed by his sensitive hearing, and his chuckle sends shivers down your spine. “Does this make you feel good? I can make you feel even better than your mere fingers. Would you like that?”

With your eyes watery, your lips puffy, and your face red with exertion, you're sure you look like a mess. But Gadriel's blue gaze is soft as he watches your mouth contract around his cock.

“Would you like that?” He repeats, gentler this time, and you nod, unintentionally bobbing around his cock so his breath stutters. “G-good.”

Your whine of pleasure turns to one of disappointment as Gadriel pulls his cock from your mouth, glistening with your saliva. You don't even have time to wipe your lips before Gadriel tugs you to your feet with one hand on your shoulder.

Lifting you against the wall until you're at eye-level with him, Gadriel pulls you in for a kiss. It muffles your initial “mmph!” on impact, but Gadriel's lips coax softer sounds out of you. You can taste the slight sweetness of cream on his mouth from tonight's dessert. Pressed between the bulk of his chest and the unforgiving wall, you just barely fit your arms around Gadriel's shoulders to run up and down his back. Under your hands, his broad shoulders flex and bulge.

Your kiss breaks with a quiet smacking sound and Gadriel steps back for a moment. He takes the time to step out of his pants, though he doesn't remove his shirt. There's a thin sheen of sweat gathering at his collar that you want to lick, but it dawns on you that you’re in the middle of a hallway behind the kitchen.

“My l-lord, should w-we really b-be doing this?” Gadriel’s hand pauses as he reaches for the strings of your apron.

“Do you want to? If you are afraid of the consequences, then I will cover for you. It is no trouble,” he says quickly as you open your mouth. “I want this.”

“I want this, too. I just feel a little…” You gesture to the hallway. “Exposed. And we are not fucking in the kitchen.”

Gadriel chuckles, pressing his powerful arms against the wall. His head tilts downwards until you are fully boxed in, sheltered by his body. Occasionally, you can feel his breath feathering the top of your hair. “Still feeling exposed?”

“Not anymore, my lord.” You smile at him, which he returns.

You meet again for another kiss; gentler this time. Gadriel's jaw rubs yours and you can feel the stubble under his chin where he missed shaving in the bath. His hands slide down your body, spanning the entire length of your ribcage before dipping down to cup your ass and lift once more against the wall. He breaks the kiss and tilts down to kiss your neck before nibbling. It's almost ticklish, and you giggle for a second until he bites.

“Oh, oh,” one of your legs attempts to kick out but Gadriel holds you firmly against the wall. Almost as if he's showing off, he holds you with one hand while his other unties the strings of your apron.

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. You manage a trembling no, and he nips underneath your right ear. Gadriel lets go of your legs again and backs up by a half step.

“Turn around for me and put your hands against the wall for me...yes, just like that.” Gadriel presses a fleeting kiss you the back of your neck before his weight leaves you. You feel his bulk settling somewhere behind you, under you, and his hands reach around to your front in order to unbuckle your belt and pull down your pants. The cool air hits your bare skin, but even as Gadriel pulls down your underwear, you still don't feel chilled. Not when his warm hands are caressing your ass and spreading your cheeks to reveal your tight hole.

“Now this is a treat,” he murmurs under his breath before leaning in and licking a stripe up your crack. The warmth and wetness of his tongue on your most intimate and vulnerable place makes you melt and moan. Your breath fogs up the steel wall as you pant from his questing tongue.

Not only is he skilled, but he is also relentless. Gadriel assaults your tight pucker with licks and sucks; if anyone dared to walk down this hallway, they wouldn't need to round the corner to hear the lewd noises that bounce off the walls. You hide your burning red face in your folded arms against the wall, but it does nothing to quiet your moaning and whimpering.

Once your hole is properly wetted, Gadriel sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork. You dare to look over your shoulder down at him. His expression is so fucking smug that it would be almost insulting, if it weren't for the fact that you were both naked from the waist down.

“You're being very good,” he murmurs, giving your ass a squeeze, “just a little longer, all right? I don't want to hurt you.”

“All right.” You turn your face back into your arms, but not before you watch Gadriel insert three fingers into his mouth. There's a soft sucking noise, akin to the sound he made while he ate your ass. He wets them thoroughly and pulls them out of his mouth with a pop.

Though your previous experiences with anal were few and far between, you know enough that you don't flinch when the first of Gadriel's thick fingers breaches your asshole. He's loosened you enough so there's nothing more than a brief pinching sensation before he's able to start pushing in and out.

“You're very tight in here,” Gadriel muses, “has it been a long time?” When you hesitate, he kisses the swell of your ass cheek. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“It's been a while,” you hedge, “with, ah, work and everything.”

“You work so hard,” and Gadriel thrusts more forcefully on the word hard, making you gasp, “let me help you relax.” He adds a second finger, and you moan at the stretch.

You attempt to raise a counterpoint, “I-I serve...the angels...”

“Then let me serve you, for a chance.” Gadriel spreads his fingers apart to scissor you open. “I wasn't lying when I said I'm always satisfied with your meals. You feed me so well.”

When he adds the third finger, your vision goes white. Your moaning has turned into sobbing, tears of pleasure running down your cheeks. You could cum like this if not for the larger prize awaiting you.

Gadriel seems to notice, and he slowly withdraws his fingers from your hole, making a lewd, squelching sound. You don't know whether you're more turned on by the sound or by what it means when Gadriel stands up. You attempt to brace yourself against the wall for the punishing pounding you're about to receive, but Gadriel grasps you by the waist and turns you around one final time.

“I want to see you when I take you.” You lean on him to untie your shoes and take your pants off all the way, and when he lifts you in his arms one final time, his blue eyes fill you with warmth.

“Thank you.”

This is a familiar position for you by now, with your thighs bracketing Gadriel's sides and his chest pressed against yours—only this time, the head of Gadriel's cock rubs against your stretched, wet hole. You rock your hips until it catches the rim of your ass. You're not sure who gasps when the head sinks into you.

You scrabble for purchase on Gadriel's back and he holds you closer, sinking in little by little. “Angel,” you choke into his ear, and he responds with a cracked moan of your name.

He's so big. That's the only thing running through your mind. Though you held Gadriel's cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago, it somehow feels longer and thicker as he sinks you down onto it. When you feel his balls on the swell of your ass, you can't help looking down to make sure there's not a bulge in your stomach.

“It's in?” Gadriel pants, and you nod.

“It's in. A-all of it. Oh, Throne, I took all of it...” He chuckles weakly, kissing your temple. 

“Do you think you're ready for me to move?”

“Yes!” The word is barely out of your mouth before Gadriel thrusts, pushing you upwards against the wall. You scrabble for purchase on his back, rucking up his shirt and exposing some of his ports.

“So tight, am I hurting you? You feel...so good.” Gadriel pants directly into your ear, his warm breath cascading down the collar of your shirt.

“No, doesn't hurt, but—” Gadriel fucking stops and you muffle your scream by biting his shoulder. “It feels like you're splitting me in half!”

“That's the plan,” he huffs, and resumes thrusting. The positioning is a little awkward; you almost wish Gadriel took you from behind. But on a particularly harsh thrust that makes your toes curl, you watch Gadriel's lips part softly and his eyes roll back into his head.

That alone makes everything worth it.

Despite your best efforts, you cum first. Gadriel holds you through it, continuing to grind his cock into your asshole so you can ride it out. When you pull back, you stammer your apologies at the wet spot your orgasm left on his shirt.

“No, don’t apologize. It was beautiful.” Gadriel kisses you, gently wiping your tears with his thumb. “Do you want me to cum in you?” When he grinds into you again, you swear his balls feel fuller than before.

“Please, Gadriel,” you whimper, and his next kiss devours your mouth. You can barely breathe even through your nose as your oversensitive ass is pounded by Gadriel’s cock, molding your hole to its shape. When Gadriel pulls away, the long string of saliva connecting your mouth snaps as his head throws back with a deep moan. You seize the moment to pounce and bite down on his exposed neck, relishing in the whine Gadriel makes as he pumps your ass full of hot, sticky cum.

After all the sounds you’ve made, the hallway is silent as you both come down. You nibble on Gadriel’s neck and rub his back, careful to avoid his ports lest you overstimulate him. His hands squeeze your thighs in appreciation before lowering you onto the ground. Both of you wince as his cock slips out of you.

“Oops,” Gadriel laughs sheepishly, reaching beyond you. Looking over your shoulder, you watch Gadriel touch a dent in the wall made by his forceful thrusts.

“It’s all right; nothing important is on the side of that wall,” you reassure him with a kiss. Gadriel helps you put your pants and shoes on, sneaking kisses and copping feels as he ties your apron.

“Did you at least enjoy it?” The shy expression on his face is so cute, you want to kiss him—so you do.

“It was amazing. But I think I would enjoy it more in a bed.” You lean back and stretch, wincing as your back cracks.

“That can be arranged, if you’d like?” Gadriel pauses in the middle of pulling his sweatpants back on. “I understand there is a stereotype of Space Marines sleeping on slabs of rock, but my bed is quite comfortable.”

“I’m very tempted,” and Gadriel’s nigh rakish grin is enough to make you reconsider, “but I have other plans for the rest of my night. Though you’re welcome to join me?”

It takes a few minutes to reheat the sauce, as it has coagulated since dinnertime. But soon, the kitchen fills with the sounds and smells of simmering red wine sauce and grand chestnuts. You let the sauce go while you prepare the roast. Gadriel’s patience is adorable; keeping his hands to himself as you occasionally pass him with hot pans and sharp knives.

The kitchen is quiet as you both eat, hunched over the counter. You savor every bite, letting the tender flesh fill your mouth. With the tender sweetness of the grand chestnuts breaking up the robust flavor of the roast and the acidic quality of the sauce, it’s the perfect dish.

Well…

Your eyes cut over to Gadriel. He catches you staring and gently nudges you with his elbow, eyes twinkling.

Almost perfect.

[daycourtofficial]

Hazelnut Latte pweaseies 🥺 need me some cute baby princess hestia 🥺 (mayhaps a smidgen of pumpkin spice will weave its way through in the most girl dad of girl dad flavours)

Furthering the horse girl Eris agenda 🫡 it’s canon to me that Hestia enjoys horseback riding the most and goes out with Eris riding frequently

Order a coffee for Gingerfucker week here

Also shoutout to @lady-of-tearshed for her horse knowledge 🫡

“I can’t do it - she hates me.” Her red hair glistened in the sun as she turned away from Eris, his daughter unhappy with being forced to do anything.

Hestia was a sweet girl, a mischievous glint in her eye that was damn near permanent. As sweet as she was, she was also both hardheaded and stubborn, traits she was now using to get out of horseback riding lessons.

“The horse does not hate you, Hestia. You haven’t even touched her.”

“I see it in her eyes. I can feel her hatred. She wants to eat me.”

His youngest sized up the mare, a fell pony with a coat so black it would blend in with the hair of Hestia’s twin.

Hestia was about to turn nine, a fact Eris detested every day they inched closer to her birthday. He missed having tiny toddlers running around, but he found endless purpose being able to watch them grow up and away from him, into their own lives. He enjoyed watching them become less of an extension of himself and more of their own person.

It was a part of parenting he didn’t expect to enjoy nearly as much as he did. As they grew older, he prioritized nurturing their own interests with a healthy mix of other knowledge he deemed necessary. For instance, Aster was much more inclined to tolerate math lessons if allowed to spend time pouring over history lessons.

The only person around Hestia who could say no to her was her own mother.

Hestia was the last of his children to learn how to mount a horse, something she had refused to do for the past two years. Eris had finally put his foot down, insistent she learn before she turned nine. Her brothers had already been riding for several years, but Hestia had been too afraid to try. It was a topic of endless argument between Eris and the two females he lived with - one determined not to partake in lessons, the other determined to for Eris’s hand.

He had planned it for no room for discussion, the end of breakfast seeing him practically dragging Hestia out to the back stables to grab the pony.

The pair had to bypass Eris’s own favored steed, Cameron, to find the pony, a fact not forgotten by him as Cameron was dramatically whinnying from the other side of the field. He had brought out Emma, a sweet pony who loved when his sons rode her around the field. After grooming her, Eris had checked her hooves, content at not finding any rocks stuck.

Hestia’s violet eyes looked up at him, the twinkle of fear in them tugging on his heart strings.

“Hestia, we’re not leaving until you get on the horse. You won’t be hurt, I promise.”

“Promise?”

Eris sighed. “I promise if this pony tries to hurt you, she’ll become dinner.”

“Daddy! You can’t kill the pony.”

“I certainly can if the pony hurts you.”

“Can I kill things that hurt you?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Hestia was a physical illusion, a trick of the eye. She looked just like Eris until she wanted something, her pouty lips turning her into her mother.

“How about we wait until you’re older before we begin discussing murder, hm? For now, get on the pony.” She looked at him, Eris quickly rushing to add, “please.”

Somehow his words worked, Hestia moving beside the horse until Eris held his hands out, helping her get her footing to reach the stirrup.

“One hand on the reins.” Hestia followed his instruction, her hand clutched tight to the reins, waiting for more. “Other on the pommel.” She listened, her hands holding the leather tight.

“Now, relax your legs. You want them firm, but you don’t want to confuse her.” She gave him a confused face, causing him to take a breath and simplify.

“Look forward. Keep your heels down.”

“You’re telling me too much.” Her voice came out like a whine, like she was much younger.

“Okay.” Eris held his hands up, taking his place in front of the pony. “Just look at me, Tia. Daddy’s got you.”

Hestia nodded, still unsure, but Eris grabbed the reins and the horse moved forward slowly, her steps mirroring Eris’s as he moved backward. Hestia kept her eyes on Eris, not looking away from him for one second.

Eris guided Emma in a full circle following the fence, her walk slow but comforting to Hestia.

“You’re doing it.”

Hestia kept repeating what she was told to do: eyes forward, heels down, relaxed legs. Over and over the words tossed and turned in her mind.

“I’m doing it, daddy.”

The two beamed at each other, pride pouring from every inch of their matching faces.

[n0cturn4]

Character: Jason Todd x Reader Summary: And so, under the incessant rain, you let yourself fall. Word Count: 777 Music: please love me - EASHA

The rain fell softly, painting Gotham's streets with its dull sheen. You were leaning against the damp brick wall of an alley, watching the water droplets slide down slowly, as if time had slowed so you could absorb every detail. The city seemed to breathe under the heavy mist, and the distant sound of cars blended with the soft murmur of the rain.

And then he appeared.

Jason walked toward you, the red hood now down, his wet hair clinging to his forehead. His gaze, always so fierce, now seemed to carry something softer, a tenderness you rarely saw. He was chaos in human form, the tornado you could never avoid. But in that moment, there was something in his eyes that made your heart race, as if all the stars in the sky had decided to align just for that encounter.

"You always choose rainy days to hide," he murmured, his voice rough and low, as if each word was a secret.

Your body froze for a moment. It was always like this with him – the intensity, the magnetism. You felt as if you were falling, even while standing still. But at the same time, there was a safety there, a comfort in the unknown that he brought with him. Jason’s hand touched your skin, his fingers cold, yet filled with an unexpected gentleness. He always knew when you wanted to run, when the inner chaos made the world seem too small.

"I... try to keep my distance," you whispered, fighting the urge to lean toward him. "But you always find me."

Jason smiled sideways, that smile that was a mix of irony and affection, as if he knew exactly what was going on in your mind but wouldn’t push you. He was an irresistible force, and you were the tide that always returned, even when you tried to resist.

"Maybe because I know what you need, even when you don’t."

Those words hit deep, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to disappear. There was no more Gotham, no rain, no cold surrounding you. There was only him. Jason. Chaos and peace, all in one person. Your eyes met his, and the intensity of that look made all the words you wanted to say evaporate.

"Jason..." Your voice faltered, carrying all the weight of the confusion he stirred in you. "I don’t know how... how this works. You and me. It feels... wrong, but at the same time, it’s the only thing that makes sense."

He stepped closer, and you felt his presence in a tangible way, as if he were an extension of your own thoughts. Jason didn’t need to say anything; he simply took your hand, pulling you closer. The smell of rain on both of you, mixed with the scent of the city, filled the air between you. His lips were inches from yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath.

"You never needed to know how it works," he said softly. "Just trust what you feel."

It was a simple request, but at the same time, the most complicated of all. Trust. Surrender to what was uncertain, to what couldn’t be explained. And there, under the veil of rain, you decided to give in.

Jason tilted his head, his eyes locked on yours, and then he kissed you. The kiss was gentle but filled with restrained intensity, as if he were holding back his own chaos so as not to overwhelm you with everything he felt. You melted against him, your hands clutching his leather jacket, seeking anchorage in that storm of emotions.

When the kiss finally broke, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily but in silence. The connection between you was palpable, something bigger than any word could describe.

"You make me feel like I’m falling, but I’ve never been so high," you whispered, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them.

Jason smiled, that rare and genuine smile. "Welcome to my world."

He pulled you closer, his hand holding yours firmly, as if he wouldn’t let go, even if you wanted to. "I’ll hold you," he promised, his voice low and sincere. "Even if you try to run."

And there, in that dark and rainy alley, you knew. Jason Todd wasn’t just chaos. He was the calm in the middle of the storm, the anchor you had always been looking for, even without knowing it.

"I’ll love you," you whispered, barely realizing you had said it out loud.

Jason laughed softly, the sound warming your chest. "I already love you just the way you are."

And so, under the incessant rain, you let yourself fall. Because with him, you had never felt so safe surrendering to the unknown.

[wherenymphsroam]

LUUUUUNNNEEEEEE :333

Got me thinking about Leon/Chris!!!

I want them 😭😭😭

MANDA !!!!

(oh my goodness this is so late we r gonna … ignore that)

but YEAH M STILL THINKING ABT THEM.

been thinking specifically abt…. like cuck leon. he will never admit it out loud, but he loves loves loves sharing his baby. loves watching and tracking every facial expression, every twitch and jump, every reaction as you acclimate to someone new.

but chris specifically? he’s squirming.

and fuck if he knows why, but there is just something about watching chris pull you onto his lap, onto his cock that pulls a whine from leon. and chris notices, of course he does — how could he not, Leon’s got you held against his chest. it’s like he’s fucking leon by extension in this position.

“try not to sound so jealous,” chris mutters under his breath, a strained groan as his pelvis settles flush against your cunt. it was no wonder why leon could never shut his mouth about you, your cunt was heaven.

“what’s that s’posed to mean?” leon forces a scoff, glaring up at chris through his lashes. it was almost cute, seeing the conflict etched over leon’s features. that furrow in his brow that begs to convey his attempt at preserving his pride. it still wasn’t easy, being honest about how much he liked watching the older man split you open on his cock. but you knew, if leons bulge rutting into your back had anything to say about it.

“come on now…” the older man chuckles as he hoists your thighs wider, thick fingers splayed firmly over your soft skin. “it’s about time we’re honest, don’t you think?”

chris’s gaze meets leon’s just as he pulls your thighs wider, wider until he’s sliding his hands to hold the backs of your knees, and he pushes. Pressing down until your feet dangle in the air, until your knees make contact with your chest, chris gives leon the best damn seat in the house. like this, leon is practically forced into seeing just how thick chris is, how much you were stretched around him. how fucking wet you are, slick glistening over the insides of your thighs.

“how long has she wanted this? huh?” Chris mutters, eyes trained on you. he’s talking to leon, sure. but everyone knows his inquiry is a double edged sword. his hips draw back, painstakingly so, ensuring you feel every damn inch as he withdrawals.

“told me all about hwo pretty she is, how fuckin- good this cunt is-“

and right back in he goes, pelvis mushing against your cunt once more. it’s obscene, the sight of the action, the way your cunt so eagerly swallows him back up. leon forces a hard swallow, doing his damn best not to audibly gasp when you keen beneath chris.

“I find it interesting you conveniently left out the part… about how greedy she is,” chris groans then, head bobbing with the effort of not letting it drop. he’s tempted to rest his forehead down on your shoulder, his body is screaming for him to smother everything you are, envelope you whole. but for the sake of leons view of you, he holds back. the satisfaction of watching leon see how you responded to him far outweighed the pleasured of taking what he wants.

“so tell me,” chris continues, biting back a growl. his voice is strained, his entire body tense. like a predator toying with its food, dragging out its eventual undoing.

“was this.. really your idea? or do we have a greedy little slut on our hands?”

I have emergency commissions open! please consider contributing/rb’ing :^)

[writing-in-glitter-pen]

I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH AND SAW THAT UR REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

Could i request childe x fem!reader comfort fic? Reader is feeling overworked and burnt out and when she sees her boyfriend when he came over, all her built up emotions come crashing out. You can decide how he comforts her! :3

Awww thank you love!!!

I didn't know how much I needed this fic until you requested it ♡ thank you darling now we can all give our stresses to Childe. Lord knows he'll handle them for us.

Childe x fem!reader II comfort, fluff

content warnings: self deprecating thoughts

The pressure of the room bore down on you like an elephant sitting on your chest. You’d made so many promises, commitments, stacked mounds of responsibilities on yourself…to the point where it felt like every square inch of your brain was occupied with no space left for you to rest. 

Your thoughts were buzzing with alarm bells ringing with upcoming deadlines or the imaginary voices of people you had to apologize to and ask for extensions from—and you couldn’t even jump on the work you had to postpone now because you were paralyzed with exhaustion. Your mind kept screaming for you to go go go! but your body just couldn’t keep up. 

So here you found yourself on your couch, staring up at the ceiling while shaking with anxiety, your brain pulsating with a mix of fatigue and self-loathing. 

Why couldn’t you get it right?

Why couldn’t you get anything right?

You were so lost in your despair, you didn’t catch the large, slender hand waving a few times in front of your face, nor did you hear the warm timbre of your boyfriend’s voice calling your name. 

What finally shook you from your stupor was the feeling of rough lips gingerly meeting your forehead.

Your eyes finally focused on Childe’s crooked grin, his blue eyes brightened with amusement. He must’ve let himself into your apartment. 

Childe was so good at everything he did. 

He held down one of the hardest jobs you could imagine having; a Fatui harbinger with hundreds of subordinates awaiting his commands, mounds of paperwork and physical labor paired with the emotional labor of working in the brutal environment…and he was fine. He kept going. He never asked for a break or took time off; he’d just cram the things he wanted to do into his already tight schedule and delegate what spilled over. Sure, he’d come home tired, he’d need extra loving from you to recharge after a particularly grueling mission…but he would be back up and at ‘em the next day, running into the next battle right after the last…

Which made you feel so morbidly inadequate. 

Even now, he’s just come home from a twelve hour work day without an ounce of wear on his face—a bundle of joy and energy. He probably planned a date for you too, or grabbed something for dinner on the way home, or picked up some extra paperwork during the work day so he could sleep in with you tomorrow—he just achieved so much.

His life is so much harder than yours and he’s not half the mess that you are. In fact, he isn’t a mess at all. 

It made you want to cry. 

Oh, no, you were crying. 

Your boyfriend’s face paled in horror as he watched you sniffle and burst into a fountain of tears upon the mere sight of him. 

“Hey, hey, sweetheart! What’s the matter?”, a nervous chuckle fell from his throat as he combed his fingers through your hair comfortingly—twisting one of the soft locks around his pointer finger subconsciously, a little habit he picked up long ago when he’d finally earned the pleasure of cuddling you and touching the parts of you he so admired. 

“I’m nothing like you.”, was all you could sputter out as sobs wracked your tired body. 

He tilted his head in confusion, “...that’s…right?”, he didn’t understand what made the distinction so blasphemous. 

“I just–”, you fumbled for your words as your brain short-circuited its vocabulary, “I suck so much.”

“WHAT?”

You’ve thrown your poor boyfriend through a loop. You’re the most incredible person he’s ever met! He’s charted the course for the rest of his life on the sole mission of making you happy, of giving you everything you’ve ever wanted, because he’d fallen so deeply in love with every inch of you. You were perfect. How could you think any differently when he spends every waking moment of his life telling you that? 

He doesn’t need to hear anything else. From the sight of you alone—your sunken eyes lined with dark circles, your eyebrows scrunched together in painful stress, your cheeks devoid of color, he could tell your body was quitting on you and your mind was suffering for it. 

“Aaah, sweetheart, don’t tell me you’ve been biting off more than you can chew again…or rather, not biting anything at all—when was the last time you’ve eaten?”

His question did not require an answer—he was aware of your habit of neglecting your physical needs over your metaphysical demands. Without another word, he snatched the fuzzy blanket draped on the end of the couch and collected his adorable little bundle of tears up into his arms before carting her off to the kitchen. 

You squirmed in his grasp, trying to push your way back onto your feet, but he wasn’t having it—taking both of your wrists in one of his large hands while holding you in one arm, tugging you over to his lips for a quick kiss as he never broke his stride. Childe’s strength was initially a big draw of yours to him; you drooled over him when he’d carry heavy things for you, swoon watching him train…but now that you’re his other half, his physical prowess gets to be a real pain in the ass when he decides to manhandle you. 

He carries you all the way to the kitchen counter where he plops you down on the edge and wraps you up the cozy blanket—an opponent easily and tactfully subdued. 

When you try to get up, whining that you have work you should be doing, he only slips his arms around you in a tight, loving vice; keeping you prisoner in his blanket cocoon. 

“Ah ah ah! Not so fast. You may be ignoring her cries, but I hear her loud and clear—your body needs rest.” 

“Childe, I’m serious! I’m already behind—”

“And you’ll fall even further behind if you keep pushing yourself past your limit. Tonight, you’re done thinking about any tasks you have lined up. The world’s not going to end if you save your work for tomorrow.”

He was accepting no further argument as he sighed into the big warm embrace, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck and humming contentedly. As he squeezed, you felt all of the stress drain out of you, letting go of your worries for the time being. No matter what flurry your mind might be spinning in, it’s like your body was programmed to go limp in Childe’s arms—he overwhelmed you with a feeling of safety. Nothing could go wrong when you were in your boyfriend’s hold, he guaranteed that. 

He pressed kisses to your tear-soaked cheeks, cooing reassurances to you between each one. 

“Your worth is not equal to the amount of work you accomplish.”

“In my eyes, you’ll never fall short of anything but perfect.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

For the first time in what felt like days, you were able to take a deep breath and feel the tension in your shoulders release. The stress fell off of you like a cloud of smoke, leaving you sleepy and spent while huddled in Childe’s embrace. He couldn't help himself from stealing a few long, indulgent kisses from your pouty lips---he was a man, after all, and your sweet, sleepy face made him want to devour you.

He chuckled as he felt your body stop fighting and yield to rest—a little win for him against his most beloved, adorable opponent. He pressed one last kiss to your temple letting go of you and strutting over to the bag of groceries by the fridge.

“I grabbed some stuff for dinner on my way here, I'll whip something good up for you.”

“I knew it.”, you thought, that same pang of incapability stringing your heart before you took another deep breath and let it go.

Yes, Childe has the capacity to go above and beyond in ways you can’t right now, but that doesn’t mean you’ll always fall short. You two are completely different people, you have strengths he doesn’t just as he has strengths you don’t. As you watch him roll up his sleeves and get to work chopping vegetables---your eyes roaming over the deep scars of battle that mar his skin, you recall how Childe struggles to open up about his emotions, while you can coax him into talking about his feelings and giving him the support he typically denies himself. You have a capacity for compassion many fail to mirror, bringing brightness to the lives of those around you—even strangers. And you have a cordial charm that draws others in, a big reason you’ve been saddled with the pile of work you’re suffocating under—people find you reliable and trustworthy. 

That’s why you and Childe work so well together; one of you can pick up what the other drops. You hold each other up so you can both move forward. 

So you know you can trust him when he tells you you’re perfect, because you think he’s perfect too ♡

[ikkosu]

Last one for you captain before I go off to bed 🫡.

Imagine you get pulled over, fully expecting it to be a normal traffic stop, nope, it’s prowl; he uses his holoform to arrest you blah blah blah. You’ve been kidnapped by him, and you’re in a secluded location and his holoforms materialized in the back of the car with you toying with your pants telling you how much he loves you and how long he’s been watching you.

💥🔥🔥🔥🔥HOW DO YOU KNOW IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS EXACT SAME SCENARIO COMPO💥🔥💥

But oh my gosh his holoform,,,HOT BUFF COP. he wouldn't be as buff as fortmax, but he's defn not as twinky as Roddy either. He's, like, the the in-between of the both of them with decent amount of muscles dear god (let me nuzzle your belly sir) 🛐🛐 I've headcanon my prowl Holo as sekingar because GYATT sir

ANYWHOO

prowl in his cop uniform 🛐 black sunglasses, and rolled up sleeved while you're on his lap, back against his chest.

While he's toying your pants , palming and kneading the sensitive spots that makes you whimper, he's breathing heavily, the crook of his nose is a soft nestle against the nape of your neck. And his lips suckle on the flesh, rolling it between his teeth as he murmers how good you smell.

And he talks about how you should use stop using the last bodywash you had on last week, keep using the recent one because its better.

The one that smelled like lavender. And, when you're silent with the dreadful prospect of how the fuck does he know that

Prowl just chuckles, "I know everything. Everything about you, you don't even know."

And soon, everything clicks together.

The missing undergarments. Your missing shirt. The strange cop car parking at the most unethical places you coincidentally always come across.

Worse, you remember meeting him once. And, you remember brushing off his darkly lit eyes and locked jaw when you're talking about a friend or anyone else in particular.

"Primus you're perfect. I want every inch of of that body."

His love bomb rant is occasionally interrupted by a groan as you squirm on his lap. The iron grip across your waist makes your ass rub against his very much hardened crotch when you move.

And Prowl feels it. His neck muscles strain when he grunts. Even if it's a holographic extension of his body, he feels it fervently and bucks his hips up for friction and you whimper.

Now, he's ranting in your ear. About his sleepless nights when his hands would glide up the slick shaft of his spike. About how your lips would feel so good against his member, throat gagging, milking down his transfluid.

"You don't know how many times I've hold back from breaking down that fucking window of yours, pipsqeak."

You live on the 13th floor.

And the only window across your bedroom balcony, is an abandoned building:'s. You suddenly remember the daunting feeling of spotting a shadow looming in that gaping hole. Blue flaring lights, dimming and skimming.

"Don't think you can hide from me."

[ziotithe]

ok so i wrote this smut chapter i thought was really good for my upcoming novel project, but i dont think its gonna fit so ^^ im just gonna put it here for the ppl who also like this shit.

i present, strangers spitroasting and bullying a bugboy in a filthy alleyway ^^

the roach clenches his last tab of xanax inside the pocket of his hoodie. he holds it tight so he knows that there’s no chance it’ll fall, and it’ll stay there with him as he walks. it’s like a fire exit in the back- he needs it. if he put it in his shorts they’d fall out the tiny pockets and he had to think explicitly about every safe option cause if you lose your last thing what are you? nothing? a person needs things. but more than that, he needs this. this is his.

he enters the alley and the smell of abstract trash and the littered little brown speckles running across the everyground makes his wings flutter beneath and between the fabric of his clothing. he throws himself into the piles of trash bags -- inches from the dumpsters they were supposed to be thrown in -- and lies in the muck for a while. if you do it enough, it becomes really interesting, honestly. you can parse the differences between a discarded apple core or a maggoty banana, now. the flies and the roaches all have their own smells too, like the difference between shit & vomit and sweet & sour. and same with the sounds, oh how many sounds there are in an alleyway. sleazy squealching squeaking sliming the ringing of cleaner drones sweeping overhead on their daily scans the droning sirens of ambulances and cop cars in a nearby sector the tumbling of empty trash cans and debris in the slight breeze that gets in because of the occasional car going down the street. though the street is one of the bad ones, where not even cars want to come often, and so his alley is even worse, even more unholy. but it's something. a place to take the pill out of his pocket and eat it and crawl into the corner deep among the trash where your body mushes into it all just perfect like it’s meant to be there and by extension you were too, even though it’s so inhuman- but you love that so much, don’t you? how far away it takes you- it’s so hard to hide beneath the fabric and the mask and the skin, to hold an ultimate facade for the rest of your years even if it comes natural akin to a language learned as an infant. the huge grey pill rolls down his dry throat like a bug. tickling legs down the stringy fleshy desert of his throat, long tumbling through the entirety of his sore, tiny organs into his stomach sending a wave of knocked pain through him before it is caught and dissolved in the web of his gut. he can only wait for it to come.

there's enough space between the brick walls and the overhangs of the neighbouring abandoned stores that he can still see the sky above him, peering through the trash. its dulled by a million sodium-vapor lamps and neon gasses twice as potent as the oxygen he gets to breathe, but its the sky, still. it's not black, it's not empty, it's an ocean of midnight blue, given fake stars by the spots of orbital colonization, and their own lights. It's beautiful, a constant show of colours and dazzle that tries to hide the gross but only spotlights it.

they force themselves into him and he throws up around it before it even gets inside. his eyes clench tight so he can’t see it but he can feel the chunks of bile and meat sticking down his chin and he can smell the mold and pipeline punch and whatever other gross shit abomination on the ground and and he can feel the anger whoever the person in his mouth was is feeling from his place beneath them. they yell at him because they know no one would hear and if they did they wouldn’t care anyway. not with his kind. “faggot” “fucking pest” “disgusting bitch” “rotted whore” any combination of words for disgust they could spill out. but they still pick him up and put him back in a good position, filth is filth, he still has use. he stares at his shorts on the ground, tattered and discarded. torn. he really liked those shorts. they hide him well. hid. he doesn’t know how he’ll find new ones. this train of thought hurts.

he doesn’t have to hold himself up this time at least. they fuck him into metal while one holds him up so the other can mount his face, they had to mount him so they could force his mandibles out of the way. they’re always a problem, poking out at the wrong time, wrong thing, wrong place, he gets yelled at about it a lot. but when people like it it makes being this so worth it. but these ones don’t like it. he can’t breathe since they need to keep it stuffed all the way in the back away from his teeth. his mouth is the part of his body he can feel the most, so he can feel the ichor and spit dripping over the man and his throat clench around the tip and he can still feel it the most just resting and thrusting and leaking almost over-stimulatingly even as the other one pulls roach’s little split tails up out of the way really hard and forces himself in his ass. no lube. never any lube. the back of his head bangs hard against the steel with every thrust of the man in his throat beating the back of it, stuffing the little hole where he needs to breathe so tight that he loses control of it. they grab at his hair holding him so he’s as close to his base as possible, and so it's only his chitin slamming into the dumpster now. chitin cracking is less obvious -- less annoying -- than hair tearing, after all.

he doesn’t know if the flies and the roaches and the centipedes and the worms on his arms and shoulders are real or not but he likes that they’re watching. he wants them to see. red neon from a slowly passing vertivehicle hangs above, it glows on him and makes him look like he’s bleeding. maybe he is, he doesn’t feel it anymore. all liquids are the same, his blood is ichor is spit is cum is energy drinks is piss is ichor is blood. bitches hate me for my black-red tar blood and fat fucking bug ass.

humans taste like antithesis, like what HE said roach would feel coming to this plane, all coalesced at once. maybe that's what keeps dragging him back to them. it’s irresistible, when you’ve never got to have it.

his carapace folds crush in on each other as they squish his body even smaller than it already was between them. it hurts like you'd expect, like bones moving and crunching and flesh bent wrong, but the sliding pieces inbetween shakes him just right, forces the ichor flow, makes him feel *something* something great something that rocks him alive and breaks him open and lets the other roaches inside finally and they can all together feel the two slam roach harder and harder and faster slamming his worn body into the gross like they want him to break and it feels like they’re gonna keep going until his spine shatters and he crumbles to bits but right when the bending before the snap comes they both suddenly stop in place, his face crushed into musky black tangled hairs and skull smashed as far as it’d go into the dumpster, his body bent into a right angle. they shudder and thrust mindless until he drops off of them both.

he lies in the alley, waiting for what comes next now that they’ve left. he talks to the roaches, not much left to say especially with his jaw slack, muscles utterly battered, but he mumbles and they always respond with the same nice little chitters no matter what. except this time they respond, and then they pick him up, and they turn into the people who were just inside him? and he’s up and the air hurts like a broken nose and he sees graffiti behind them and wants to look at it so bad because its so colourful and would be so much nicer than the pressure digging into his insides but THUNK. everything is grey, or green. or green darkened to grey? he knows where he is even when he doesn’t know. like with the city. there’s only a few roaches here, and no trash. He feels bad for the dumpster, but then he remembers he exists so in a way, there is trash. that's really nice, it's so nice to be useful- for him and the dumpster! he curls up as liquids seep from his holes, the only non-achromatic existence in the bin, and decides he’ll rest here until something comes to take him wherever trash goes in it’s next place, and then he’ll get a good look at that graffiti, and then-

[satansapostle6]

Lovers and Liars | Draco Malfoy

Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, both determined and resourceful from reputable houses, find themselves at odds in the name of love.

Warning: Mature themes/language. Violence. Sexual content.

Chapter Four

Chapter Five: Elegant

Three years before, Lorelei Morrigan had walked with Pansy Parkinson into Ollivander’s Wand Shop in Diagon Alley, helping her friend to find a suitable wand before the start of school. The two girls had been spending their day at Diagon Alley together, shopping for their school supplies alone after their parents had sent them out with more than enough money to get whatever it was they needed.

Both their parents couldn’t really be bothered to take them themselves. Lorelei had already gotten a wand about a week prior, when her parents had taken her to famously exclusive wandmaker Keiko Inoue, famed for her rather extensive collection of available materials.

Ollivander’s was the last stop on Pansy’s list, while Lorelei had already finished every stop on hers. So, she ventured into Ollivander’s with Pansy as mere moral support, knowing that Pansy Parkinson was often rather temperamental with those who worked in customer service.

The two eleven year-old girls walked into the wand shop to find that it was currently empty, apart from Mr. Ollivander manning the counter. The old man looked up with curiosity as they walked in. He seemed to immediately recognize them as he smiled to greet them.

“Welcome, ladies,” he said cheerfully.

“Hello, sir,” Lorelei said respectfully.

The wand maker nodded appreciatively. Pansy, however, unaffected by hesitation all her life, approached the counter eagerly.

“I’ve come to get my wand,” the dark-haired girl announced assertively.

Ollivander glanced behind her at Lorelei, who just smiled, fully aware of the experience Ollivander would be more than likely to have with her.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the shop owner said with a forced smile, maintaining some sense of sarcasm in his compliance.

“I want something powerful,” Pansy announced with determination. “And beautiful, and effective… Something that can’t be beaten.”

“I’m afraid wands aren’t quite that simple, Miss…?” he stopped as if to ask her name.

Pansy rolled her eyes, offended by the fact that he didn’t recognize her immediately.’

“Parkinson!”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Ollivander nodded with a certain regret in his eyes, “Of course… I believe I can find something suitable. One moment.”

He disappeared into a vast display of shelves upon shelves of wands, searching for one to offer to Pansy. Lorelei watched as she found humor in the situation, wondering just how badly this would go. She looked at her friend, finding that she still seemed rather satisfied with herself, as if she’d ‘won’ somehow.

After a short period of consideration, Mr. Ollivander returned with at least four different boxes, having found a decent amount of wands that might suit Pansy.

“Here you are, Miss Parkinson. Try this,” he suggested, pulling a shorter wand from its box.

“And what exactly do I do with this?” she demanded impatiently.

Lorelei sighed as she watched with her arms crossed, embarrassed by her friend’s behavior.

“Give it a wave,” the old man replied.

Pansy practically stabbed at the air with the wand, frowning as it yielded no result.

“What’s it made of?” she inquired.

“Aspen, with a core of dragon heartstring. Nine and a half inches.”

Pansy began aggressively hacking with the wand, until Ollivander interrupted, unable to watch any longer.

“Alright, alright, why don’t we try another one, hmm?” he suggested, taking the wand as Pansy just scowled.

He carefully returned it to its box, carefully taking another one from the pile of wands he’d selected. He found another, a longer, dark-colored wand.

“Perhaps this one will be a better match,” he provided, watching as she took it. “Chestnut, dragon heartstring core. Thirteen inches.”

As soon as Pansy took the wand, she brandished it proudly with a forceful flick. Lorelei looked up in surprise as one of Ollivander’s books whizzed up into the air, hovering at least two feet above the wooden countertop as he watched with satisfaction.

“Wonderful,” he remarked as Pansy laughed lightly in disbelief, looking proud and excited. “I believe a wand has chosen you.”

Pansy readily handed over the amount that Ollivander asked as she took her new wand, happy with the purchase. The shop owner eventually turned to Lorelei, who stood behind her friend.

“Will you be needing a wand as well, Miss…?”

“Morrigan,” she stated. “Lorelei Morrigan.”

“Lorelei Morrigan?” Ollivander stared at her, carefully examining her features. “Daughter of Eoin and Heloise Morrigan?” he concluded.

“Yes, sir,” she nodded.

The old man just smiled. “I remember the day I sold little Heloise Ackerley her first wand… How sweet she was, really...”

Pansy irritably rolled her eyes as soon as the conversation topic shifted from her.

“I haven’t actually spoken to your mother since, but she has grown into quite the elegant woman,” Ollivander recalled. “I’d be happy to help you find the perfect wand for you today.”

“Oh, I’ve already got a wand,” Lorelei told him, “But thank you.”

“May I ask the wandmaker?” he wondered with immense curiosity. “I’ve heard your father favors Gregorovitch, if I’m not mistaken…”

“My parents took me to Keiko Inoue,” Lorelei shared.

Pansy frowned, bored, as the look on Ollivander’s wrinkled face turned to awe.

“You… You have a custom Keiko?” Ollivander questioned.

“I do,” she replied.

“May I please see it?” he begged, immediately ashamed of his curiosity, “Forgive me…”

“It’s perfectly okay,” Lorelei promised, drawing her wand. “Here you go…”

She unsheathed her wand, handing it up to him as he took it even more carefully than he would one of his own wands, as if terrified to even scratch it. He nearly gasped as he held the instrument in his hands, amazed by the craftsmanship.

“Incredible. Absolutely exquisite,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it before… Potent, but elegant…”

Pansy crossed her arms as she waited for her friend.

“Made from cherry wood, I see. Thirteen and three quarter-inches. Quite elegant. Very rare in the west,” Ollivander observed as he held the wand in his hands. “And the core…?”

He carefully lifted it up to his ear, almost as if to listen to what it had to say for itself. His eyes widened even more as he listened.

“No. It can’t be,” he murmured, lost in the possibility, “It can’t be.”

He was petrified, as if with fear.

“Basilisk horn. However did she manage it?”

“It wasn’t cheap,” Lorelei explained. “But, when she handed me that wand… I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain, really,” she admitted.

“Please,” he said excitedly, “You must share with me. Please,” he pleaded.

“I don’t know. I just sensed it, you know?” she thought.

“Indeed I do,” Ollivander agreed. “That’s a very special wand you’ve got there… Treat it carefully,” he advised her.

“Thank you,” she smiled, taking it back.

Lorelei and Pansy left the store together, as Pansy demanded that they go and get something to eat. Just as the girls headed off, someone else appeared behind them, having been waiting in front of another shop. The young boy looked around nervously before entering Ollivander’s shop, looking only for one thing.

“Hello, Mr. Nott,” Ollivander said in surprise as he saw who he entered his store. “How can I help you?”

“That girl. The one who just left your store,” Theodore said finally.

“Miss Parkinson?”

“No, not Pansy,” Theo shook his head, “The other one. The one with the red hair. I’ve seen her before, but I don’t know her name.”

“Ah. That’d be Lorelei Morrigan,” Mr. Ollivander nodded.

“Yes! Her,” Theo realized. “Do you know anything about her?”

Ollivander studied him for a moment before providing an answer.

“I know very little about Miss Morrigan, unfortunately. However, I can say that I know her wand,” he responded thoughtfully.

“How would that help me, exactly?” Theo said inquisitively.

“Well,” the elderly man began, “Specific wands are said to be suitable to witches, and wizards, with different qualities. Such is the foundation of wandlore,” he explained.

“Wands can tell you about their owners?” the boy deduced quickly.

“That’s right,” Mr. Ollivander nodded, impressed by the child’s thoughtful and inquisitive nature.

“And what can Lorelei Morrigan’s wand tell you about her?” Theo asked him.

Mr. Ollivander thought for a while.

“Well, you see, Miss Morrigan’s wand is made from cherry wood. Rather uncommon, especially among English wizards, although certainly not unheard of. Cherry is a very fascinating wood. Prized among the wizards in Japan.”

Theo held onto every word he said with determination, trying to analyze every factor of the information that he was provided with.

“Many people see the beauty in cherry wood before they see the power, the potential. It has the potential to be a very lethal wood, especially when paired with a wand core of dragon heartstring,” Mr. Ollivander informed him. “The core of Miss Morrigan’s wand, however, is much rarer, much more powerful, and much darker than dragon heartstring.”

“What is it?” Theo questioned.

“Basilisk horn,” Ollivander said simply.

Theo looked up at him with a sparked curiosity in his eyes.

“Like Salazar Slytherin’s wand?”

Mr. Ollivander smiled, genuinely impressed by his knowledge. “Yes. Exactly so.”

“Does that mean she’s a Dark witch?” Theo asked in confusion.

“No. No, certainly not,” Mr. Ollivander assured him, “Wands are never quite that simple… Basilisk horn as a wand core would be more likely to choose an individual prone to more forceful, or aggressive magic, but Dark magic is not necessarily a given. Basilisk horn wands, as legend has it, supposedly only choose Parselmouth wielders, although I’m not convinced that this is true.”

“What else?” Theo prompted.

“Well… Basilisk horn wands are, I’m sure, fairly Dark in nature, coming from such a powerful Dark creature. The core is said to be highly powerful and highly intelligent in wands… I have heard that they can act with sentience, casting spells of their own accord in order to protect or serve their masters, and their respective agendas,” Mr. Ollivander recited his knowledge. “The basilisk horn wand would never choose a wielder who doesn’t strive for greatness… or, great evil, I admit. But at the risk of buying into old wives’ tales, the wielders of Basilisk horn wands are said to be less susceptible to most poisons.”

“Do you judge people by their wands?” Theo asked consequently.

“I wouldn’t necessarily use the word ‘judge’,” Ollivander considered. “But they do tend to be insightful indicators at times.”

“And what about my wand?” Theo asked him.

“Let’s see… Walnut, phoenix feather core… Twelve and three quarter-inches. Very pliant. You, sir, must be a clever and inquisitive individual, in my opinion,” Ollivander remarked candidly. “Walnut wands don’t choose unintelligent wizards.”

Theo considered this, seeming to be less impressed by this particular discovery than most would be.

“And, what would you make of both of these wand owners? Together?” he thought. “Their personalities interacting.”

“Well…” he said softly.

Ollivander took a while to consider the question.

“I’m not sure I’d want to imagine that,” he confessed truthfully.

-

Chapter Six

[enm-enthusiast]

The Exhibitionists' Club Ch. 7 - Sebastian Part 1

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

Last chapter followed Sebastian's boyfriend Thomas entering a male arousal study for extra credit, and ended up being milked by his insanely hot anatomy professor, and now he confronts his lover with the possible desire to have sex with the older man...

Sebastian

"Wait...you mean professor, ass of a Greek God, Ethan?" I said in response to Thomas bursting into the dorm room and shouting about how much he wanted to fuck a professor on campus.

"...yes" he said, meekly.

His eyes looked downcast, like he was ashamed. My heart sunk in my own chest and beckoned him over to me. He closed the door behind him and practically jumped into my arms on his bed. As I caressed his soft, wavy black hair I worked out the words I wanted to say:

"Babe, your going to run into certain guys that you are extremely attracted to, its natural. Like, there's a few bros in my Frat I'd love to bend over but I know I can't not just because they're straight, but also because it'd complicate things too much" I said.

He looked up at me, those sweet and sad puppy dog eyes never failed to make my heart melt.

"I won't forbid it, but I do want you to be careful, okay? don't do anything to get yourself hurt or in trouble, you got it?" I said.

"Don't worry Seb, I have it all handled" he said, smiling so warmly I couldn't resist kissing him, his warm velvety lips inviting further exploration which caused a stir in my groin.

But....I had somewhere to be, I had to get back to the Frat house and clean up my room and study for the rest of the night before bed. So I reluctantly pulled away before I found myself pounding away inside him once again.

He had a slightly pouty look on his face as I got up, but I merely smiled in return and said "Don't give me that look mister, you were supposed to strip down as soon as you got home, remember? be glad I didn't spank you again as punishment" I finished and a deep blush flooded his cheeks.

"I'll let it slide this time, but next time that ass is getting both a pounding AND a spanking, and I don't think you want both in a row" I said, giving him a mischievous wink as I closed the door behind me and started down the stairs of Thomas' dorm building.

I didn't tell Thomas this, but I was having some problems with the Frat lately ever since I bested the president, a real prick named Eric at a strip wrestling match in the Rainbow Room. The whole thing happened because of pledge week where we had to do one dare no matter how bad it was, and the vide president had dared me to wrestle Eric but I got to choose the time, place, and rules.

Eric lost. Badly. He ended up naked before his entire frat, who made sure to take plenty of photos of their senior's humiliation. He had been so angry lately, he was pissing off everybody and by extension some people were avoiding me because I was the source of his ire.

I got the impression that many of the seniors and other officers had grown increasingly tired of Eric's antics, I felt they were waiting for the proverbial straw. Until then I did my best to avoid Eric when I could, even try to apologize for things going so far but to no avail and I got the distinct feeling that he was planning some sort of payback.

Thomas already had enough to worry about with all this medical study business (which I found kinda hot, in a way) that I didn't want him to worry about me, besides I could take care of myself.

I was completely lost in my own thoughts as I walked across campus towards the frat houses I passed by a few security patrols. I recognized a few since I had recently landed a position as a student assistant to help pay my college expenses. This time it was that cute, blonde twink named....Daniel? and a bigger, beefy muscle dad named Jack who filled out every inch of his uniform which never failed to make me drool.

I waved at them politely but moved on without speaking a word, I had precious little time left in the day. I began walking up the steps to my two-story frat house and to my surprise there was a lot of noise going on inside. I heard loud, angry shouts coming a male voice from the main living room and a few others shouted back in response.

I opened the door and walked in and suddenly I heard the words much more clearly:

"-should be here to defend himself, you have no right to just go through a brother's room without him present or reasonable suspicion of banned items" I heard the vice president James say, who was unusually a nerdy tall kid with glasses and short brown hair. He was the smartest guy here and everyone knew it, and if Eric wasn't your atypical "popular jock" he'd be president instead.

"I have every right if I have personally witnessed him smuggling banned items into said room, and because those items were indeed found in his room, he needs to be punished accordingly" Eric, I now realized, said.

I felt a slight sense of dread as I suspected who he was talking about and slowly entered the living room and all eyes turned to me, some in sympathy, others in indifference to Eric's latest bullshit. James was up in Eric's face, and the latter had a sinister smirk that grew wide upon seeing me enter.

"Ah, the guest of honor has arrived, tell us brother Sebastian, why did I find *these* in your room today?" Eric said and held up a bag of weed in his hand.

My blood boiled as I realized what he was doing, I was being set up! but I wasn't going down without a fight.

"What?! But I've never seen that before, did you find a lighter, a bong or anything I could use to smoke all that with?" I said, as a point of fact. Some of the guys turned to whisper with each other, they seemed split on the issue.

"It's not just me, I have witnesses who say they saw you bring this bag into your room, besides myself" Eric said, and smugly gestured towards another frat brother, a junior named Casey who was reputed to be one of Eric's rivals. He also pointed to another guy next to him, Henry who was another freshman, rather fresh-faced and right now he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else right now. I was starting to feel the same.

"Hold on Eric, first let's hear it from them personally before dealing out any punishments" James said, and gestured to the two guys to come forward. Eric seemed a little annoyed at James's interference but said nothing in response, letting the boys speak for him.

"Now, did you or did you not witness Sebastian smuggle this into his room?" James asked them both.

"We both did, he came home late one night after seeing that boytoy of his, me and Henry here saw him slip the bag inside his room, isn't that right, Henry?" Casey said.

I clenched my fist at the way he talked about Thomas, but instead I bore my eyes right into Henry's who could barely look back at me and flinched every time. He knew full well what he was supposed to say was a lie, I only hoped that his conscience was stronger than his fear of angering the frat president.

"y-....y-yes, we both saw him" Henry said, his eyes glued to the floor like he was a child being scolded by his parents.

"But...that's a lie! can't you see James? they're both up to something!" I yelled in my defense, my face red.

James looked at both of them for a few long moments, scrutinizing them and asked one final time if that was indeed what they saw and they both repeated their stories, word for word.

The vice president finally turned to me with a look of pity and sympathy, one that wished he could stop this but his hands were tied, and said "I'm sorry Sebastian, but in light of this...you need to be punished" he said and folded his arms in disgust.

"That's right James, and as Frat president it is up to me to determine what befits our brother's crimes" he said.

"Don't forget Eric, first punishments should be handed out lightly, don't do a repeat of last year or I swear I'll..."

"You'll what? Report me? I will count that as interference in the performance of my duties as president, and I'll be extending Sebastian's punishment to you if you do" He said, viciously.

"Fine Eric, have it your way, freshman clear out this is not something you'll want to see" James said, giving me one last look of sympathy and escorted the Freshman out. Some of the sophomores and juniors left too leaving just me, Eric, and a majority of the seniors.

"Alright Sebastian, as punishment for smuggling of banned substances your clothing privileges have been revoked for two weeks. Strip." Eric said.

My eyes widened and I couldn't help but laugh a little despite my rising anxiety.

"Excuse me? What the fuck do you mean 'clothing privileges'?" I said.

"You heard me Sebastian, when freshman are punished we take all of their clothes and force them to walk around the house naked except for when they leave, I won't say it again. Strip." he said, this time more forcefully.

I looked around the room and noticed that some of the seniors were circling me like vultures, Eric's little sycophants no doubt, ready to jump at his command if I disobeyed.

Realizing I was trapped, I reluctantly, and very slowly I grabbed the hem of my shirt and lifted it up over my head, exposing my bare torso to everyone. A few of the seniors grabbed my nipples and twisted them, I slapped their hands away and felt heat flush in my face.

"I didn't say stop, drop your pants. Now. Or we do it for you." Eric said, stepping closer to me threateningly, along with his cronies.

I held my hands up before lowering them down to the hem of my pants and started unzipping them and to my embarrassment and shock...I realized my cock was beginning to stir within my boxer briefs!

I didn't stop but I felt a sudden feeling of humiliation as these guys might just be about to see my fully erect penis...I tried to ignore it but as I lowered my pants down my legs and stepping out of them I was sporting a very prominent bulge which I was quick to cover up.

Unfortunately, Eric noticed.

"What you hiding there Seb? or what are you...*not* hiding?" He said, chuckling derisively, his cronies mimicking him. He stepped closer to me, and we were face to face, my own expression was defiant despite the redness and when he said:

"Drop the undies." He said.

"Come on Eric, please don't make me do this" I said and Eric was about to call his brothers into action when I stepped in and slowly, every so slowly I slid my last garment down my legs. I felt my cock springing to life and my fully erect cock slapped against my stomach and was already leaking!

I stood back up, fully naked as the seniors gathered up my clothes and I attempted to cover myself but Eric was having none of it. "No no, keep your arms at your sides" he said but this time I wasn't having it.

"What the hell Eric? I'm not showing you guys my dick" I said.

"Awww, he's shy, let's help him come out of his shell you guys, grab him!" he said and on command I had two guys pounce on me, grabbing my arms and forcing them away from my crotch, exposing my erect penis as each of them held my arms behind my back. My dick was 7.5 inches long fully hard, cut, and was a caramel shade of tan that matched the rest of my body.

"Wow, he's not so little after all, we might need to change that" Eric said and I whipped my head towards him on confusion.

Suddenly he slapped my hard dick, and I groaned as he did it again, and again, and again. Tears stung the back of my eyes as my dick throbbed with pain and yet somehow was still leaking precum.

"Ha, not so mighty now, are you?" Eric said.

"He's crying like a little baby!" One of the seniors said.

"We should shave him smooth, make him into a little bitch boi" another said.

"Quiet you two, no, I got a better idea in mind for him" he said and nodded to one of the other seniors nearby who ran off to get something.

"What are you going to do?" I whimpered and my face was flooded with embarrassment and humiliation as I stood there naked and exposed in front of practically half of the entire frat! and if they kept to these rules I'd be showing myself off naked to them for two weeks...

"Just completing your punishment dear Sebastian, don't worry your pretty boy head about it" Eric said, ruffling my hair.

The other senior came back with a small bag and and reached inside, my eyes widened in horror as I saw him produce a cock cage from it and hand it to Eric and renewed struggling against the guys holding me, my cock deflating to the point it swung between my legs as I did so.

"Eric, come on this is going too far now, stop this" I said.

"No dear Seb, I decide when we stop, now then, Taylor!, Pierce!, shave his crotch so the cage will fit better" he said.

I felt my anxiety increase a hundredfold, my heart beat thunderously in my chest as the two guys on either side of me let go and walked to the front of me and each of them took out small electric razors from their pockets and didn't waste any time in shaving my crotch, already I could feel my man hair being forcefully taken from me.

I started to realize just how much this was planned in advance, I hadn't stood a chance the minute I walked in here tonight. Now here I was, stripped of all my clothes, and was being shaved of all my pubes.

Their razors cut through my bush like a hot knife through butter, I looked down in abject horror as they kept moving my dick to reach around my crotch, the stimulation was getting me hard again.

I wasn't especially hairy, but it still took them a minute to shave my bare crotch completely smooth, all the guys proceeded to practically point and laugh which just made my balls shrivel up and my face flooded with shame and embarrassment.

"Where's your man-hair? wow, what a loser!"

"His cock looks like a kid's cock, not like a real man's"

"If he didn't have such a big dick, it WOULD be a kids cock!"

I heard guys shout from all over, and Eric picked up on that last one and said "Don't worry guys, time to shrink him down to size, this cock cage here is specially designed to absolutely restrict blood flow to your dick while allowing you to piss freely without getting it dirty."

"And just how long are you making me wear this thing?" I asked.

A bunch of the guys started shouting off random different lengths of time. Eric ignored them all until they quieted down and said "I think....a month ought to teach you to learn your lesson" he said.

"Eric...you can't do this!" I said in protest but no matter how much I struggled I couldn't stop him as I felt Eric grab my dick and begin to wrap the cage around my cock. I had gone soft again and before it had a chance to get hard, he fit the cage right onto my manhood and proceeded to lock it with a key that he wrapped around his neck.

I looked down and saw the cage was small, round and made of metal and like Eric said put pressure on the base of my shaft which prevented any sort of blood flow. My face flooded with red once more, as well as anger, but the guys finally let me go and I fell on the floor in surprise.

The guys all began filing out, some of them muttering 'loser' and 'bitch' under their breaths, and maybe they were right, Eric had won. Here I lay, my clothes and dignity stripped away from me, Eric gave me one last look of triumph before leaving me there, completely humiliated, and I was left to stew in my shame.

I slowly got up and tried to make it up to my room, as soon as I reached the 2nd floor I heard a voice behind me say "Seb, over here" and I turned to see James come out from behind a corner at the top of the stairs.

"Please James, I just want to go to bed before anyone else sees" I said and James gave me a flat look in response.

"Show me" he said.

I guess there was no point in trying to hide it, soon enough I would be the laughingstock of the entire frat, so I moved my hands away from my crotch.

"Wow, that son of a bitch really did it again" he said, chuckling angrily.

"Wait, what do you mean *again*?" I said.

"Eric did almost the same thing last year to a sophomore who embarrassed him, no one dared contradict his blatant manipulation of the house rules, but I couldn't do anything about it then, I thought as vice president I could...but its still the same now" James said, sadly.

"He is *not* getting away with this" I said, baring my teeth.

"I never said he would, but I realize I can't do it alone now, I'm going to need your help" he said, smiling slightly.

"Help with what?" I asked.

"I'm not sure yet, but somehow Eric needs to be dealt with, play along for now until I can come up with something more, stay low if you can, but...I'm sorry I couldn't do more" he said, before finally walking away.

I walked the rest of the way to my room in silence, I decided I needed to trust James, he seemed decent enough and right now anything seemed better than Eric. I opened the door and my faint glimmer of hope was gone as I found my room stripped bare of any clothing, my cock cage clinked as I took the first step inside and just sat on my bed.

I looked down and the humiliation returned as I felt my smooth crotch and poked at the cage, I only hoped Eric would be satisfied by this, I just had to make it through the next two weeks and I'd get my clothes back at least.

I opened my phone, which Eric's cronies had left behind along with my wallet, and saw my text chat bubble with Thomas and thought about calling him, telling him what happened but right now I just needed to sleep. But as fitful sleep came, finally, I swore to myself that Eric would regret the day he messed with me, and by the time I was done with him he'll be remembered as the president who lost his frat.

End of Chapter Six.

Author's Note: Uh oh! the tables have turned on Seb at last as he finds himself at the mercy of Eric and his cronies, find out what else is in store for poor Sebastian as he faces the two most humiliating weeks of his life.

Keep an eye on the current timeline I have setup which you can see on my recent Tumblr posts, and in the meantime please enjoy this latest installment, and have a great week!

[studiofelix]

Little Guys that Look Like Me: Loving Myself by Proxy

There are few scenarios where a twenty-something with low self esteem would create something physical in their own image. At 20, I would have sooner eaten bird seed than intentionally made something to look like me. At 21, I found myself doing so, lovingly and painstakingly. It changed me.

It was a first-time-meeting-you-in-real-life present. I crocheted a small doll, no larger than four of five inches in height. I switched colors as I crocheted him, navy for the hair, peach for the skin, pink for the shirt, teal for the pants. I sewed a few flat pieces to his head to look like the fringe I had at the time and lovingly stitched “I <3 U” onto his chest.

It felt strange, blasphemous almost. In the same way young Catholics are told not to take the Lord’s name in vain, I hadn’t dared to create an honest and sincere depiction of myself since the 9th grade. And even then, the portraits that I had drawn at that point had a critical and angsty air to them, but in all fairness, can you really expect anything different from a fourteen year old?

My limited and self-deprecating journey in self portraiture had met its match: creating a simple, happy mini-me for someone I loved, a lesson in carefully crafted self image.

Anthropomorphism: assigning human emotions and traits to inanimate objects. This was a tendency I had growing up, have now, and will have for the rest of my life. It is carefully woven into my experience of growing up as a late-diagnosed autistic, my experience of navigating the world in a limbo state of partial understanding and uncertainty. The dolls, stuffed animals, virtual pets; they are often cast aside as unimportant and unworthy once a child has outgrown them. This makes perfect sense to the average adult. They are not human, not even animals. Their insides are plastic and polyfill and tiny, unsophisticated PCB; they do not bleed and die as we do.

But imagine being human and feeling those things so deeply and fundamentally without knowing why. Your peers are better than you; they make friends easily; they do not struggle to find understanding in each other. You, on the other hand, have had trouble—have been the trouble—in some capacity in nearly every interpersonal relationship you’ve had. This story is not new to you, reader—whether you’re the protagonist, villain, love interest, bystander—you just didn't know that you've been playing a part. I see these objects as extensions of my experience; I can’t stifle the thought of their plight.

I continued crocheting my mini-me, Pocket BF, as I called him. Suddenly he had a face, and this was what gave him feelings. I looked at him. I pet the side of his face as I sewed his hair into his scalp. “Almost done,” I said to comfort him. A mirror image of myself, but one that I now held inexplicable affection for instead of unremarkable, everyday disdain. I didn’t want him to hurt. I wanted him to be happy. He didn’t deserve to feel sad.

Despite this seed of self-love (if you can call it that), there was a disconnect. This love I had for this little guy that looked like me, confusing and paradigm-shifting as it was, did not transfer to my feelings toward myself yet. And as I wrapped Pocket BF in tissue paper, placed him in a box, told him he’d be out soon, and wrapped my gift to my soon(ish)-to-be ex-fiance, the spark of this near revelation would be buried for a while.

Obviously it didn’t work out. When you’ve been engaged for two years with no plans to get married or move in together or even to the same state, the writing is on the wall in a dull and uninspiring script, and it’s been there so long that the paint is starting to chip. Although I must confess, I do partially blame myself; there is a very specific intersection of youth, stupidity, charmingly trite dedication, and earth-shattering codependency that will possess you to propose to your long distance boyfriend of one year. He will dump you over text, the day before valentines day, almost exactly two years later, so don't make my mistake. You've been warned.

The absolute beacon of wisdom and mental fortitude I was (or wasn’t) at 21, aside, the unceremonious and, dare I say, absolutely out-of-pocket-cruel discarding of our relationship that he doled out a few years later devastated me. He’s not a bad person; I hope he finds happiness (and therapy. My God, I hope he gets therapy); I wish him well; etcetera. I coped the best I could, ruminated on everything I could have possibly said or done wrong, cried and cried and cried, standard breakup stuff.

One of the things that helped to carry me, though, was my special interest in a certain video game pairing. They outlived our entire relationship; they were there with me when it began, and they were still there as the rubbled ruin of it began to grow flowers through the cracked stone. I tend to pick a character that I see myself in and project onto them. My art of this character began as pretty on-model; he was very recognizable as his canon self with the only main differences being a matter of style, a few headcanons here and there.

This was at a time in my life where I had started to gain weight (think the freshman fifteen if it was a year later and also fifty pounds instead). Looking back on it now, this was only the natural course my body chose to take. The thing that no one tells you about testosterone therapy is that it quite literally turns you into a carbon copy of your father. My young, twink body softened into a round ball of a belly. My hairline began to recede. What I believed was the result of these objectively neutral changes was actually the result of deeply rooted, internalized fatphobia and a general fear of aging.

I so badly wished to be skinny again. I wished to look like my favorite character again. I wanted it so viscerally that I shuffled through diet attempts and would-be exercise programs in a desperate Hail Mary for a fleeting look akin to a starving Victorian boy.

In one of my nearly daily bouts of self-pity, I said out loud that I wished I could draw Felix, this character I loved and saw as myself, as fat. I had started drawing his partner (well, the character who should have been his partner) as fat, and I was able to get away with it without much pushback from the fandom. And then I had the cartoonishly obvious realization that actually, I could draw whatever the hell I want literally for the rest of my life.

This, honest to God, changed my life. No longer was I drawing this character as the unattainably skinny little twink I wished to be. I drew him to look like me. I gave him rolls and a stomach that protruded out past his waistline. Later on, I’d start drawing him with freckles and a receding hairline as well, hair on his shoulders, round cheeks.

I drew him loved. I drew him happy. I drew him confident in his body and in the space he took up. Broadly speaking, it wasn’t received well. I lost most of my engagement and a lot of my Twitter audience. A hoard of people whose fatphobia was conditional but still there; you could make some characters fat without a problem, but touch the designated fandom twink, and you might as well have deleted your account.

What came from this petty loss, though, were a select few who loved my Felix. A handful of people who felt seen by my art, seen by the care with which I drew these characters, with the realism of fat bodies drawn lovingly—not realism in the sense of style but realism in the sense of believability. I drew (and still draw) them so they feel real. I draw them in a way that I hope makes people like me feel at home.

This healed my self-image by leaps and bounds. Despite the discretely sour reaction I got from most of Twitter, I did find brief and minor Tiktok fame from making tutorials about how to draw fat people. When I draw Felix and Sylvain, I treat them, and ultimately myself, with the love and care deserved. He is another little guy that looks like me. And I loved him dearly. I still do.

My self esteem still needed work, though.

Six months ago, I picked Tomodachi Life for the 3DS back up. I got the game when I was a teenager and played it religiously for a few weeks before losing interest and cycling on to my next video game fixation. I would pick it back up a few more times sporadically over the years—this is the nature of how I play video games. In Tomodachi Life, you manage an island of Miis (Nintendo’s primitive customizable characters that date back to the Wii). You feed them, interact with them, buy them clothes and apartments, and watch their relationships form and change and break. The game starts with the player creating a character that looks like themself—or, how the game puts it, their look-alike.

My look-alike from this play through naturally looked drastically different from my previous play throughs. I made him look like a cute, low-poly version of myself. I made his voice sound as similar to mine as it could within the bounds of 2013 video game technology. I gave him a pink, sparkly apartment theme, dresses, shirts, accessories, his favorite foods, etcetera. I pet him on the head and listened to what he had to say. Just like Pocket BF, just like Felix, I felt a massive amount of love and affection towards him, different than before but still so much the same. This reflection of me could talk; he could walk around his little room. He got married to Sylvain. He had kids with him. He could tell me he was glad we met.

And he could tell me he missed me. By chance, I neglected to check on him for a few days while solving problems for the other Miis. When I tapped on his room, he came towards the screen and said something like, “My look-alike! I haven’t seen you all week! How have you been?”

A feeling of guilt washed over me. How could I have abandoned this little guy? This little guy that looked like me? Had I hurt his feelings? Had I made him sad? He seemed alright. He walked around his room while swinging his arms back and forth. And I soon realized, how could I feel such empathy and kindness towards him, but not feel any of that toward myself? Here it was, my empathy for inanimate objects, friendly pixels, and downright apparitions, in a violent coup against my own self hatred. I am not pixels on a screen or a handmade plush or my idea for what a video game character should have been. I am a living, breathing creature who bleeds when I’m cut. I am a person who has feelings, a person who does not deserve the pain I’ve caused myself by my own hand. I deserve the love and care that I show these self portraits, these vignettes of my simplest self. The rabid beast of my most complex self deserves it as well.

How many times have I looked at myself in the mirror and picked at my skin, picked at my image, picked at my actions, my voice, who I am, the very fabric of my fragile little existence? Too many, and yeah, I'll probably do it again. But maybe instead someday I'll greet myself with a smile, with a "My look-alike! I haven't seen you all day!" With a gentle touch, one reserved for a handmade gift. And maybe this one won't get put in a closet or given to Goodwill, or whatever ex-fiances do with iconography of their past. Little guys that look like me are my past. They are my present. And, although the battle is only halfway fought, they taught me how to love myself by proxy.

[screenmaven]

Film Share Sunday - with Banannasui

*update as of 10/27/23 I am no longer doing film shares do to a hectic time in my life, I do however appreciate anyone who has taken the time to join me in that spotlight. I may return to in the future, but for now I do not have time.*

I usually spotlight creators Top 5 Favorite Films each Sunday, via my SCREENMAVEN Instagram (now just starrymayx) but this week I welcome an extension of that to the blog. I love fashion probably as much as I love film, so it’s a two for one special when a film produces both.

I had the pleasure of connecting with one of my favorite fashion content creators Banannasui, and wanted to share her insight into why she highly acclaims these as her top 5 fashion films.

Charlie’s Angels (2000)

The 2000 Charlie’s Angels is fast-paced, flirty, lurid in both color and dialogue, and I feel like the outfits completely reflect that. The opening scene alone give us Cameron Diaz wearing the ultimate accessory that bridged the late 90s and early 00s: gradient sunglasses adorned with rhinestones (hers specifically were from Chloé). I remember reading that the costume designer had stacked up 3,000+ outfits for the movie, with each of the three girls having a wardrobe cultivated specifically for their character; Cameron is the all-American girl, Lucy is sophisticated and mature (her cooking muffins in a leather corset is amazing), and Drew is the scrappy rebel-type. Overall the movie is such a fun, campy feast for the eyes, but I think my absolute favorite outfits are the trio of glossy red white & blue jumpsuits they don on the racetrack.

The Bling Ring (2013)

God, it’s such a period piece of its time. A millennial’s period piece. The outfits aren’t ones I’d necessarily consider fashionable now, but (the year it came out) it was the pinnacle of it! The skinny jeans with pumps, the Uggs, the clunky jewelry, the scene of them walking out with their iced coffees wearing capes and vests and scarves and pencil skirts. All staples of that weird time period where office-chic infiltrated Polyvore boards. I love movies where the outfits are such a direct reflection of the person wearing them, it elevates the wearer to the point where you stop seeing them as the actor and start seeing them as the character. Especially when the one dressing them does their homework! Case in point, costume designer Stacey Battat said she bought every back issue of US Weekly from 2003 in preparation for dressing the cast, and then incorporated elements of the early 2010s as well, in order to make the time period of the movie feel more ambiguous. Although not included in the film, thinking of the outfits reminds me of a line from the famous Alexis Neiers phone call to Nancy Jo Sales: “..you saying that I wore six inch Louboutins heels to court with my tweed skirt, when I wore four inch little brown Bebe shoes.” It’s just so of its time.

Faster Pussycat! Kill Kill! (1965)

I love, love, love the outfits for Faster, Pussycat! It’s campy, visceral, with an appropriate amount of violence— you can see echoes of it in John Waters and Quentin Tarantino films (both of whom have cited the movie as inspiration). The outfits within the movie are very 60s, composed of simple shirts and jeans, yet are menacing, sexy, and striking. There’s no shortage of tight pieces and plunging necklines, yet the provocativeness doesn’t feel exploitative or demeaning. I like the idea of sex as armor in this movie, a notion expanded upon by Robert Ebert in a 1995 review. Despite the much exposed skin and cleavage, Ebert notes that the director, Russ Meyers, “from the beginning of his career and almost without exception, has filmed only situations in which women wreak their will upon men.” The trio of intimidating women in this film constantly leave behind a streak of havoc, literally snapping men’s spines and running them over with cars. They do all this whilst donning tiny tops, push up bras, hot pants, and bikinis, taking full control of their situations. It subverts the girly 60s look, both in attitude and appearance. Personally, I especially love Billie’s (Lori Williams) looks in the movie, in particular her iconic white hot-pants and polka-dotted crop top getup.

Female Trouble (1974)

I love 70s fashion, a lot. I also enjoy the garish vibrancy of camp, where the attitude of the story bleeds into the wardrobe. Female Trouble deploys all of that, served on a sickening platter of glitz and glamor. The John Waters film stars legendary drag queen Divine, and is chocked full of fashion references to the 50s and 60s, splicing decades of style together in a way that matches the pacing and overall attitude of the movie. There’s beehive hairdos and pastels, as well as brightly colored dresses, slick animal prints, heavy eye makeup, sequins, and fur coats. It’s very gaudy, very glamorous, and very much full of fashion inspiration. I actually originally found out about this movie due to fashion collections that took cues from the film, namely Miu Miu spring ‘15 and Adam Selman fall ‘15.

I love how despite the frivolity and outrageous storytelling that the outfits weave, they’re also very stylish in a wearable way. I mean, the orange transparent mini dress with a fur coat and sky-high hair? I’d wear it.

Blow Up (1966)

It’s a cult fashion movie, and for good reason. The movie takes place in the midst of the swinging sixties, and the clothing is accordingly immersed in the world of mod: flats with tights, kitten heels, a-line mini dresses, sharp lines and sleek ensembles that evokes imagery of both Twiggy in Vogue, and Edie Sedgwick in her iconic black tights and chandelier earrings (though of course, Edie had shrugged away the label of mod). It’s very much representative of its time, notably featuring a young Jane Birkin, as well as legendary model Veruschka playing herself. Some of the frames in the movie might as well have been pictures of collections from the iconic designers of that era, including Mary Quant, André Courrèges, and Pierre Cardin. It’s fun, simple glamor, encapsulating the time in which it was created.

I’ve always loved the style of this era of the sixties, and how it’s portrayed in Blow Up; simple mini dresses that accentuate attention-stealing pieces such as fur coats and red tights (which are timeless, even now). Nothing beats a barely there a-line dress to me, and they are bountiful in this movie.

I myself (screenmaven) absolutely love Blow Up!! That one is definitely on my film style list.

Thanks again, for sharing with me and my followers your insight into style through film.

Follow @ starrymayx on IG & banannasui for more great content.

[cimmeriana]

{ HEADCANON DUMP }

Melinoe in a relationship -- cw: romance, sexual relationships note: extension of this post and this post.

She would smile more, and it would light up her eyes.

Her voice would take on more of a purr.

She would always gift kisses to her beloved's temples and hands.

She would sneak slow, gentle kisses when she thought the other companions weren't looking.

She would enjoy just being naked together, just bare skin contact as intimacy.

When she does want to have sex, she would be so giving and tender. Kisses over every inch of her lover's body to worship them. Her fingers running through their hair as she drinks in every detail of their face with her eyes. Whispering sweet nothings in their ear. Begging in the sweetest of whines for them to release for her.

She would submit to them. Let them dominate her, if they desired. Bend her over. Pin her down beneath them. She would allow them to have control because she would trust them not to abuse it.

Even her dominance would be submission. Body straddling their lap as she bows down, her dark hair falling in waves over their face. Again and again she would ask if this is what they wanted, if this was what they needed. She would make it like a private dance, her lover's sighs and the beating of their hearts together the music in which she tunes to. She wouldn't stop until they asked it of her, until they gave her that blessed permission for her to let go and share her bliss with them.

She would leave loving marks with her lips and teeth, with their consent. A way to remind herself this isn't a dream. To remind herself that this is her person.

She would encourage they leave marks upon her. She would even carve their name into her inner thigh with a knife.

She would read her beloved poetry under moonlight and sing them her favorite love sonnets. She knows she's not the best singer, but she can carry a tune well enough that its not grating.

She would collect flowers for her beloved. Even put them in their hair if they allow it.

Would insist on helping her lover with their hair every morning. She'd loved to brush their hair for them.

She would bathe her lover. Run them a bath or guide them to the river. Take a sponge and so gently wash their back and limbs. Kissing the cleaned skin as if to christen them new.

She would remind her lover every night before bed, even if they had gotten into a fight, that they're her sun and her stars. That they can get through anything together, no matter how difficult. That they have her entirely - body, heart, and soul - until the world crumbles down around them and beyond.

"I am yours. For now. Forever. For eternity. In this life and all those that may come after."

She would kneel for them. She would kiss their hands. She would even kiss their feet if they asked it of her. She would absolutely worship them.

She would kill for her beloved. She would die for her beloved.