#the texturing and shading on him is perfect

[iichfilwypj]

loml | percy jackson

ღ percy jackson and mortal! reader (both are 27 yo!!) ღ warnings: angst, very very sad, mentions of blood and injuries (past) ღ wc: 1.429

The park was ideal to visit at that time; the sun would set, bathing the sky in a stunning orange glow, and most of the little ones had gone home, leaving a serene quietness in the park. The dogs were already resting in the shade of the trees, and the air felt much softer.

Indeed, at that time, the park felt enveloped in calm, making it the perfect place to enjoy her small haven. She could settle into her regular bench, beyond the reach of noise and people, and concentrate on her work as the peaceful atmosphere intertwined with her thoughts.

While she listened to music and focused on the paper, a faint little voice emerged around her, barely noticeable at first. She thought she might be delirious, too weary to trust her senses completely; but then, a gentle touch came, as if a tiny hand had softly landed on her leg.

Her sight fell immediately, and there, in front of her, was a little girl.

The vision brought an instant smile to her face; the little girl was the sort of child you might believe to be an angel in disguise if you looked closely. 

Her hair was blonde and curly, with a nearly platinum shine. Her cheeks were delicately flushed, as if she had just been running in the park, and her large, radiant eyes stared at her with an innocent intensity, so big they seemed to take over her entire face.

Green.

Her eyes were green.

They reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t remember who.

Just as she was about to speak, to ask the little girl where her parents were or what she was doing there, the child surprised her by sitting down beside her, her curious eyes scanning the papers.

“Are you reading? My mom loves reading a lot” 

The words hovered in the air, and for a moment, she simply looked at her. as if her words carried a quiet wisdom, a familiarity she couldn’t ignore, an echo in her mind that she couldn’t quite place.

Even though she tried to, something changed when a third voice joined the conversation. In that instant, something in her chest tightened, and it was as if the very air had changed in texture.

She recalled exactly who those green eyes belonged to.

Percy Jackson.

He was running toward her, a look of relief on his face as he fixed his gaze on the little girl. He was wearing a hand-knitted blue scarf, a hat in the same color, and a dark jacket.

His hair was as dark and messy as when she used to run her fingers through it, his hands still fiddling with his fingers—though at one point, those fingers had been hers—, and from a distance, she could scent the ocean that always seemed to follow him.

And his eyes.

His eyes were still just as green as before.

Her mind was paralyzed, and her body felt strangely both cold and hot. She clenched her hands, sure that if the pencil had been between her fingers, it would have bent, but it was already lying on the floor.

“Sweetie, hi,” Percy walked up to her without even glancing in her direction, his eyes fixed on the little one. He gently took the child's face in his hands, sighing and pressing a kiss on her cold forehead. “You slipped away in a second, didn’t you?”

“Dad, she likes reading! Just like mommy” 

And as the child pointed at her, she wished she could vanish. Run off, without saying a word, without providing any explanations.

He had done it once, so why couldn’t she?

“Really, wow—”

And just then, she knew he had recognized her. 

She could tell by the way his eyebrows bent, by how his eyes opened slightly, by the way his cheeks went pale. By the way his lips curled into a pout.

“Hi, Percy,” she said, voice low and quiet.

“You remember me?” 

Of course she would remember. The memories hit her all at once, like lost bullets, like something that had been trapped for so long it broke free with all the power it could find.

She felt as if someone had stepped into her heart, uncovering in seconds what she had desperately tried to keep sealed under lock.

And that lock she believed to be shut found its key; the same key that had locked it years ago.

“Hi, I—I don’t know what to say.” He was speechless, what do you say to someone after 10 years?

The situation had stolen his words. His lips trembled with words kept for years, with explanations hidden away, with thighs he had felt. The truth, why that had been his only choice at the time, and how much he regretted it now.

“Who’s this sweet girl?” She decided to ask, leaving her stuff besides her and standing up briskly. The small child answered timidly, her cheeks warmed by the adult’s caresses, yet she broke into a wide smile. 

“She’s my daughter, uhm—Why don’t you go find mommy? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

And as the child walked off, the silence became unbearable.

“I married Annabeth,” Percy said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

He didn’t dare look at her, his gaze locked on his shoes, as if the weight of his confession was too much to face.

“Congratulations?” She replied, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Her tone was sharp, but the faint quiver in her voice betrayed her. She took a step back, shaking her head as if trying to process what he’d just said. “Percy, I should—” 

“I’m sorry, for everything.” He interrupted, finally looking up at her. His eyes shimmered with a guilt that made her stomach churn, that made her want to vomit.

“Oh, you’re sorry?” She snapped. “That’s supposed to fix it, right? All the tears, the therapy, the fear I felt without you?” 

Her breath was ragged, the anger and hurt bleeding into every syllable. 

“Do you know what it felt to wake up alone? To wake up terrified, expecting to see the love of your life beside you after almost dying, and find nothing but a letter? You said you’d never leave!”

The words hit him harder than any punch.

But it wasn’t fair. 

She wasn’t the only one who remembered. 

He remembered it all too well.

Carrying the girl to his room, her blood soaking his blue sheets. 

Gripping her hand tightly, repeating over and over that everything would be okay, when he wasn’t sure it would; when all he could do was pray for a miracle.

Her desperate screams, begging for everything to stop.

Her life slipping through his fingers, pulling his own life along with it.

She wasn’t meant for that world, for the God's sick kingdom. How could he let her get hurt again? 

“You almost died!” he said.

“No, I died the day you left!” she shouted, the weight of her anger pushing her forward. “I just needed you!”

Percy stood silent, the weight of guilt now completely suffocating him, as it hit him like a wave sweeping away any defense he might have had and leaving him exposed before the woman he had once loved and lost.

“Percy, I honestly didn’t want to see you again,” She grabbed her bag and turned toward Percy, tears in her eyes. “But this might be the last time I look at your face. I don’t know what’s happened in your life these years, I hope you’re okay. I can only wish that you’re happy, that letting go of me was worth it.”

She paused, a lump forming in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

Percy’s heart beat erratically, each beat feeling like a hammer. He opened his mouth again, but his voice was caught, the silence between them more deafening than any words could be. 

“I forgive you, truly. Because when you left me, you lost the one real thing you’ve ever known, and that will be enough for me to rest in peace.” Her voice was quieter now, almost to a whisper. She took just one step closer, almost felling his body heat.

But all she wanted to do now was get away form it.

“Do you remember how we used to talk about getting married? Picking out names for our future children? Daydreaming about houses on family trips, like two naive sixteen-year-olds who thought growing up was all that mattered? Maybe we could’ve had it all.”

He winced, his expression contorting while those memories consumed him.

“But because of you, we’ll never know. Maybe in another life, but not in this one.”

Percy’s eyes filled with unshed tears, his throat tight, but he still didn’t speak. He stood there, watching her as she slowly turned away, feeling the space between them grow, the years of loss and pain stretching wide.

Watching the love of his life walk away. 

But then something seemed to stop her. She paused for a second, glancing back over her shoulder at Percy, her face softening as she hesitated.

“What’s your daughter's name?” She could feel Percy frozen, his breath catching. 

And when she heard her own name leave his lips, she had no trouble accepting what was lost, what once was and would never be again. 

She looked one last time at the loss of her life.

maybe i am overreacting but i wrote this with a pout on my face!! this is based on all to well and loml!

[thetomorrowshow]

love is such a drag

Chapter one: Scar's first encounter with the angel (and Grian gets to eat ice cream)

welcome to my scariana griande drag college au. this will be quite the ride from start to finish.

~

Scar spots her from across the bar.

It would be hard not to notice her, honestly. Despite the dim, almost cloudy lighting of the room, she glows, as if a heavenly spotlight is set right on her to make it clear that she just descended from heaven.

Scar sneaks glances at her over the fun green umbrella in his drink. She's sitting by herself—an absolute crime, if you ask Scar—, swishing around the little black straw in her drink. Her dark blond hair falls in gorgeous ringlets down around her shoulders, outlining her face the way a pure golden frame would surround only the most beautiful of paintings.

Her nose is small, turned up just a little bit in a peak, the bridge delicate and sparkling with a small amount of angel dust that must be left over from the aforementioned descent. Her eyes are almost comically doe-like, large and accentuated with soft pink eye shadow and long eyelashes. Scar can't quite tell what color her eyes are from this distance (brown, maybe? Black?), but he knows that whatever color they are, they are absolutely perfect.

Her lips are pink to match her eye shadow, glittery, small and pursed, as if her drink isn't near good enough to pass those delicately soft lips.

Scar hasn't even met the woman, but he wants to kiss those lips. He wants some of that angel dust to find its way onto his own lips.

Her cheeks are rosy and full, and her round chin rests on her palm as she casts a bored look around the bar.

Scar downs the last bit of his drink for courage.

He sticks the umbrella in his shirt pocket for good luck.

Then he picks up his cane and saunters over, frantically sorting through every pick-up line in his repertoire—though none of them seem to match the beauty of God's creation before him.

She looks up at him as he approaches, peering at him from under those long lashes, and now he can tell—

Her eyes are grey, but not grey like clouds, or the sea, or the bartop that her arm rests on. Her eyes are grey like the comforter on his mom's bed, like the bricks around the fireplace back in his grandpa's old house, like the silver colored pencil he'd taken all his notes in for a semester to try and prove to Cub that it worked just as well as a normal pencil (it hadn't).

Her eyes are grey like the backdrop of Scar's dreams, the firmament that rests between consciousness and all else.

And then, of course, he's right there.

And she's waiting.

There isn't a single smooth pick-up line in his brain, which is offensive if Scar does say so himself, because he always has words. He could wax poetic about a frying pan for an hour just to annoy someone, but now that his skills are put to the test he can't hold on to his wits long enough to use them.

Goodness gracious, but she's beautiful.

She's wearing something pink and small, a cut-off that reveals a slender torso and adorable bellybutton, the sleeves long and flowy but off the shoulders. Her skirt is a lighter shade of pink, cutting off just above her knees, and it looks like just the kind of skirt that she could spin in and it would twirl along perfectly with her, the kind that sort of looks like a cupcake wrapper.

Scar's always wanted to wear that kind of skirt.

How long has he been staring at her?

"Hi," he manages, readjusting his sweaty grip on his cane. "Um. Come here often?"

She rolls her eyes.

It's breathtaking.

"Sorry, worst line in the book and all that," Scar excuses himself. "Can I order you another drink, then?"

She glances at the half-full drink she's been slowly working her way through. "I'm good, thanks," she says, and Scar nearly swoons.

The angel talked to him!

And her voice! Fluttery, but something deeper underneath! Textured like a symphonic piece of music, as soft as the faux fur carpets in the back of department stores!

She's perfect.

"I'll just cut straight to the point," Scar says, trying valiantly to not feel light-headed. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. May I take you out on a date?"

She blinks.

"You don't even know me," she says, leaning back down to take a dainty little sip out of the straw.

"No, but I want to," Scar reasons. "Can I get you anything? Some chips? A little umbrella?"

"The umbrellas come with the cocktails," she scoffs. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and Scar definitely doesn't almost fall over. "I'm not in the mood for a cocktail."

Scar leans forward. "You can ask for an umbrella with any drink," he whispers, winking conspiratorially. "I always do."

"What is it you really want?" she says, sounding almost tired, and Scar puts his hand to his heart.

"I just want to take you out on a date, I swear, nothing else," he says. "Scout's honor."

"Scout's honor?"

"Troupe 2906," Scar says, lying through his teeth. He was never a scout. Well, he did Cub Scouts, but he never made it to Boy Scouts. And he definitely didn't have a troupe. "Once a scout, always a scout."

Almost reluctantly, she giggles (a sound like windchimes softly jangling), then pulls her phone out of the tiny white purse at her side. "All right, fine. What's your name?"

"Scar," he tells her, pulling out his own phone. He unlocks it with a quick swipe, then pulls up a new contact card and trades his phone for the angel's.

"Your phone looks like it got ran over," she observes, picking at the tape on the side.

"If you pull that tape off, it goes dead."

She stops picking at it.

Scar types in his number slowly with one finger, leaning against the bar as casually as he can manage. He's been standing for a minute too long, but he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable by sitting down.

When he's finished, he passes the phone back to her, receiving his own in return.

"I'll text you," he promises.

She laughs again, nods. "Okay."

The way she dismisses him—

The conversation is clearly over, based on the way she turns back to her drink, her lips once again pursed but this time turned up at the corners.

Scar hurries out as fast as his body will allow him, which isn't very fast even on the best days.

Once he's outside, out of view of her, he checks his phone.

The contact is there, ten exquisite digits.

And her name.

Ariana.

-

"Cub, do you mind if I have someone over? I need to opine."

Cub looks up from his laptop, then flinches away when Scar turns on the lights.

"Scar, do you know what time it is?" he gripes, putting a pillow over his face.

"It's not even midnight, mister, so don't pretend like this is late. You're always up at all hours of the morning, anyway."

"Why can't you opine to me?" Cub sighs.

"You don't opine back! I need someone who will wallow on the floor with me."

Scar can practically hear Cub raise an eyebrow. "Ren?"

Scar grins. "Ren. He basically isn't even a guest, since he lives right above us. And it would only be for an hour at most!"

"Fine, fine," grumbles Cub, sitting up and setting his pillow to the side. "Call him. But I have a quiz tomorrow, so this better be quick."

Ren's over within five minutes, a two-liter of diet pepsi in one hand and a bag of candy in the other.

"Leftover Christmas candy, my dude," Ren says, tossing it on the floor. "You said you need to opine?"

Scar carefully lowers himself to sit on the floor, then flops down onto his back, his arms splayed out dramatically.

"Why are we doing this in my room?" groans Cub.

"I've seen an angel," Scar declares, and his heart flutters just the slightest bit.

"Ugh."

"Ooh!" Ren says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Tell me more."

"I was at the bar in Aquetown, right?" Scar starts, adjusting his arms to look more dramatic, one thrown over his forehead. "The good one. The quiet one."

"Right," nods Ren. "I know it well."

"And there she was," Scar says reverently. "The angel."

"What was her name? What happened? What did she—"

"Her name is Ariana," Scar breathes, the name as sweet on his lips as he knows her kiss would be. "She's perfect."

"Did you get her number?" Cub asks boredly.

Scar scoffs. "Of course I got her number! We're going on a date."

"Oooo!" Ren teases, slapping his shoulder. "My man has a date with a pretty girl!"

"She isn't just a girl," Scar says dreamily. "She's an angel. You should've seen her, Ren! If God himself turned up and told me that there had been a mistake, that she was supposed to be in heaven, I wouldn't have even blinked! She—"

"Yeah, she's a beautiful angel, we get it," interrupts Cub. "Can you do this in the living room?"

"What color are her eyes?" Ren asks.

"Grey . . . I've never met anyone with grey eyes. Not like those."

"What did she say? Is she into you?" Ren shakes his head. "What am I saying? Of course she's into you! Who wouldn't be?"

Scar. . . .

Scar hadn't even thought about that.

He'd just been so preoccupied with getting a date with such a perfect woman, he hadn't even thought about whether or not she might want one with him.

What if she secretly hates him?

What if she just told him yes to get him to go away?

"No, it's okay," Ren says quickly, patting his arm. "Don't cry! She's totally into you, dude! Don't even worry about it!"

"What if she isn't?" Scar asks, the hand thrown over his head moving to tug at his hair. "What if I was bothering her? What if she gave me a fake number?"

"No, dude, it's not—"

"Scar," Cub says, kneeling down on the floor beside him, "look at me."

There are already tears welling up in Scar's eyes when he looks up, straight into Cub's dark, unyielding eyes.

"Any woman would be lucky to have you," he says seriously. "If she was lying, that's her loss. Got it?"

Reluctantly, Scar nods, wiping away a tear with the heel of his palm.

Cub claps him on the shoulder. "Now get out of my room."

-

"Mumbo! Mumbo, you're never gonna guess—"

"In here!" Mumbo calls from their shared bedroom.

Grian shuts the front door and locks the deadbolt, then dashes down the short hall—past Pearl's empty bedroom—until he arrives at his own room. He shuts and locks that door behind himself as well, then leans against it, hands splayed on the old poorly-painted wood.

"Mumbo," he breathes. "Mumbo, it happened."

Mumbo is lying on his stomach on the floor, sleep shirt riding just a bit up his back from clear readjustments of position. He pushes his laptop a bit away, shuts whatever textbook he'd been studying, and rubs his eyes.

"You look cute," Mumbo says when he's done rubbing his eyes, blinking blearily at Grian. "Is that a new skirt?"

Grian stands up straight for a moment, twirls it back and forth. "Yeah, it's one of my new favorites, I think. Do you like it?"

"Looks great," says Mumbo. "Good show tonight?"

"It was fine, but that doesn't matter!" Grian falls back against the door again, letting himself slide all the way to the floor. "Mumbo, it finally happened. A man asked me out."

"No way!" Mumbo cheers, sitting up. "Like, legitimately? He thought—"

"He thought I was a girl and he asked me out!" Grian says. "This is the best day of my life. Nothing can top this."

"After—wait, after the performance? Or before? Because you think he'd know, after the performance, that it was drag, but maybe—"

"Oh, no, no, no," Grian waves him off. "This was at a different bar. I stopped by that one in Aquetown—you know, the dead one?—just on my way back, to try and get a decent drink before heading home. And he just came over to me—Mumbo, he called me the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen."

"Dude!" Mumbo waves his arms around like Kermit the Frog. "I think—I think we need to celebrate! Break out the ice cream, dude, because it's time to throw a party!"

Grian just breathes slowly, chest lifting and falling dramatically. He feels just like a girl in the movies after kissing her date goodbye, only better. More giddy, if that’s possible.

It's getting late, though. He should probably slip out of his heels, take out his hair extensions, wipe off his make-up, take off his boobs, change into pajamas. . . .

Or he could go eat ice cream in their tiny kitchen with Mumbo and animatedly recount every moment of the night.

Which is how Grian finds himself eating ice cream in their tiny kitchen with Mumbo, animatedly recounting every moment of the night.

"He has a cane," Grian remembers suddenly, halfway through telling Mumbo exactly what he'd said for the third time. "It was one of those old-fashioned ones. With the golden handle?"

"Okay, so he's, like, the rich heir of a mansion," Mumbo nods. "You could do a lot worse. Unless he was old—was he old?"

Grian shrugs. "I don't think so. He looked pretty young—he had a scar across his cheek, actually, kind of like—like this—"

He traces along his own cheek, starting from his jawbone, curving up a bit almost to his nose.

Mumbo frowns. "A scar? I think—"

The front door of the apartment opens, and in trudges Pearl, kicking off her muddy boots.

"Pearl!" Grian says excitedly, holding out his scraped-up plastic bowl, a couple of bites of melting ice cream still left. "We're having ice cream to celebrate!"

Pearl drops her blue backpack on the floor of the living room (right beside the front door, the dead carpet there dividing it from the tiled entrance space that leads into the kitchen). She looks first to Grian, then Mumbo, then the carton of vanilla ice cream on the kitchen counter.

"Sounds like a party!" she says, sticking her hands in her hoodie pockets. "You both look nice!"

"Oh! Um, thanks!" Mumbo says, while Grian does a little spin, his skirt lifting in the air (not that Pearl can see, standing on the other side of the counter as she is).

"A man asked me out," Grian tells her. "While he thought I was a woman!"

"Well, of course he did! You make a very pretty girl, Grian."

"Yeah, but you have to say that. You're my sister. He called me the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen."

"Awww," Pearl coos. She comes around the counter, pulls a chipped bowl out of the dishwasher (used to dry dishes, not wash them) along with a spoon, which she uses to load some ice cream into the bowl before sticking a spoonful in her mouth.

"What was his name?" she asks around the ice cream, words muffled.

Grian frowns. "I don't remember. He didn't write it in the contact. That isn't important, though—he asked me out!"

"Are you going to go?"

Grian freezes.

Is he going to. . . ?

"Oh no," he says, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. "I—I didn't even think about that."

"Think about what?" Mumbo asks, scraping his spoon along the side of his bowl.

"I don't want to go on a date," Grian says. Oh, this is dreadful! "I just liked the attention! What do I do, Mumbo? I gave him my number and everything!"

Pearl scoffs. "You gave him your number? You're basically required to go on a date with him. If you give a man your real number, it means you're interested."

"Did you tell him you'd go on a date with him?"

Grian cringes. ". . . Maybe?"

"Grian!"

"I can't help it!" Grian defends. "I love flirting, you know that!"

Mumbo covers his face, bowl abandoned on the counter.

"Grian," Pearl bemoans.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . ."

"Well, we'd better hope he's a creep!" Mumbo says loudly, face still buried in his hands. "Because then you don't have to feel bad about ditching the date!"

"Was he nice?" asks Pearl.

Grian shrugs helplessly. "I guess? He tried to give me a drink umbrella."

"Oh. So, very drunk."

"No, I think he just wanted me to have one."

"Goodness, Grian. You've got yourself in a bit of a situation," Mumbo says, finally emerging from his hands. He looks into his bowl, frowns at the lack of ice cream.

"Maybe he'll forget about it?" Grian suggests, but his heart isn't really in it.

He doesn't have much hope. Not with the way the man had talked to him. No, he's probably just set himself up for a month of progressively creepier and more disgusting texts until he blocks the man and files a 'do not contact' directive with the school.

Assuming this man is a student.

What if he's, like, an old man? 

Like, thirty?

Okay. This is too much.

Hopefully, he just doesn't text. Then Grian won't have to worry about it. Which won't happen, but he can dream.

"We can talk more about it tomorrow, all right?" Mumbo says, tossing his bowl in the sink. "It's getting late. And G, you should probably put your, er, appendages away."

"My bosom?" Grian says, raising an eyebrow.

"His tittie-tatties?" Pearl suggests.

"My breastily breasting boobs?"

"His badonka donk—"

"Please just get them off the counter."

[flyingspicerack]

☠️➕⚾️🟰💛

A gift for @oh-gh0st of Shinushi

[pucksandpower]

What the Eyes Can’t See

Charles Leclerc x blind!Reader

Summary: you may not be able to see in the traditional sense, but Charles won’t let that stop you from seeing him

The crackle of the fireplace fills the cozy living room as you snuggle deeper into the plush couch cushions. Your head rests on Charles’ chest, rising and falling with each steady breath. His arm wraps around you, fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder.

“This is nice,” you murmur, nuzzling against the soft cotton of his shirt. “Just you and me.”

Charles presses a kiss to the top of your head. “It really is. No racing, no interviews, no cameras. Just us.”

You smile at the rumble of his voice vibrating through you. “You know, there are times I’m actually grateful I can’t see.”

“Oh?” His thumb strokes your arm. “How so?”

“Because it means I experience things purely through the other senses. Like right now.” You inhale deeply, savoring the smoky wood blending with Charles’ warm, earthy scent. “I can really focus on the sound of your heartbeat, the feeling of you breathing, that wonderful smell ...”

Charles gives a contented hum. “I’ve never thought about it that way before.”

You shift to gaze up at him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Of course, there are other times when not being able to see is … difficult.”

“Like what?”

You consider this for a moment. “Hmm, well, I’ll never get to admire the Monaco skyline or see you celebrating on the podium after a win.”

A hint of sadness tinges your tone as you continue. “And as much as I love listening to you talk about racing, I can’t fully picture the circuits or the cars or … or you in your race suit.”

Charles’ chest rises and falls with a soft sigh. You can sense his gaze studying you intently.

“Is there anything you wish you could see? If you could have your sight for just a day?”

You don’t even have to think about your answer. “You.”

You feel him tense in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes.” Your hands roam over the strong lines and curves of his face, trying to commit every plane and angle to memory through touch alone. “More than anything, I wish I could see what you look like with my own eyes.”

You trace the sweeping arches of his brows, the aristocratic slope of his nose, the firm line of his lips. Lips you’ve kissed so many times yet never seen.

“I want to see the exact shades of your hair and eyes,” you murmur. “Whether your skin has any adorable little freckles. What expressions flit across your face when you smile or laugh or ...”

You trail off as emotion clogs your throat. Charles pulls you closer, cradling you against his chest.

“Hey,” he says softly, tilting your face up toward his. “Maybe this will help.”

His warm fingers alight on your hands, gently guiding them until your fingertips brush the graceful curve of his cheekbone. You freeze, caught off guard by the tender intimacy.

“Charles?” You breathe. “What are you doing?”

“Letting you see me, in a way,” he responds. “Go ahead, map out my face with your hands. Don’t hold back.”

You swallow hard, heat creeping into your cheeks. Taking a steadying breath, you begin tracing the striking angles and planes of his features with feather-light touches.

First the high forehead, smooth and unblemished beneath your questing fingertips. Then the regal swoop of his nose, the delicate arches of his brows. You brush across each, imprinting the shapes and textures into your mind’s eye.

When your fingers graze the plump curves of Charles’ lips, he presses a soft kiss to each fingertip in turn. You shiver at the whisper of his breath fanning across your skin.

“Keep going,” he murmurs, voice low and husky. “Don’t stop.”

You let your hands roam freely over the stubbled planes of his jaw, the hollows of his cheeks, the strong column of his neck. Every slope and angle, every tiny perfect imperfection imprinted into your consciousness.

As your fingers trace along the high planes of Charles�� cheeks, you can’t help but notice two tiny indentations forming in the skin. Little divots that crease and deepen as an affectionate smile blooms across his lips.

Dimples. Charles has dimples.

The discovery hits you like a bolt of lightning, a rush of tenderness and endearment flooding your chest. You find yourself helplessly, hopelessly captivated by those adorable little dents punctuating his smile.

“You have dimples,” you murmur in awe, fingertips stroking over the precious divots again and again.

A low chuckle rumbles through Charles’ chest. “That seems to delight you.”

“Of course it does!” You exclaim, feeling your own lips stretch into a beaming grin. “Dimples are the cutest thing. Especially on you.”

You lean in to nuzzle your nose against his cheek, dropping feather-light kisses into each crease. Charles gives a contented hum, strong arms winding around your waist to pull you flush against him.

“I had no idea you’d be so smitten over a couple little dents in my face,” he teases, smile evident in his voice.

You shake your head vehemently, still peppering those blessed dimples with adoring kisses. “Not just dents. They’re absolutely adorable.”

A burst of affection blooms in your chest as you realize this is the first time you’ve been able to fully appreciate this charming little detail of Charles’ features. All the times you’ve laughed and joked together, exchanged warm smiles and loving embraces — you never knew the true adorability of his dimples until this very moment.

Pulling back, you cup Charles’ face in your palms and simply drink in the shape and feel of that beautiful, dimpled smile pressing against your skin. In that instant, you fall just a little bit more in love with this incredible man.

“I’m so grateful I got to discover this about you,” you murmur, stroking the pads of your thumbs over the grooves in his cheeks. “Your dimples are my new favorite thing.”

Charles gives a soft laugh, the rumbling vibrations resonating through you both. “Well then, I’ll just have to keep smiling so you can appreciate them.”

As you continue to trace the sharp edge of his cheekbone, you can’t resist leaning in to nuzzle against the warm, fragrant skin. Charles sucks in a sharp breath, fingers tightening around your wrist.

When you finally pull back, you feel as if you’ve beheld and memorized every nuance of his face. Every dip and curve, every tantalizing detail.

“Thank you,” you whisper, drinking in the comforting scents and sounds surrounding you both. The crackle of the fire, the rhythm of Charles’ breathing, his warm, intoxicating essence. “Thank you for letting me see you like that.”

Charles doesn’t respond at first. You feel his piercing gaze raking over you, studying you with an intensity that raises goosebumps along your arms.

“You know,” he says at last, voice rough. “There’s also something I want to see.”

Before you can ask what he means, gentle fingers are slipping beneath the frames of your sunglasses. You tense instinctively, pulse skyrocketing.

Nobody ever sees your eyes.

You start to pull away, shaking your head. But Charles simply holds you steady, thumbs stroking your temples in a soothing caress.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Let me in. Let me really see you this time.”

There’s no demand or expectation in his tone. Only tenderness and an affection so profound it steals your breath. Your throat works as you swallow hard.

Do you trust him enough?

You think of his face — the face you’ve just meticulously mapped and memorized. And in the cadence of his breathing, the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, you find your answer.

Slowly, you give a tiny nod.

The sunglasses slip away, and for the first time you’re baring the full weight of your sightless gaze to another soul. You can’t see Charles’ reaction, but you feel his sharp inhalation, the minute tremor that courses through his body.

Panic grips you for a moment, wondering if you’ve made a terrible mistake by exposing such a vulnerable part of yourself. Maybe he’s revolted or pitying or-

“Beautiful.”

The hushed utterance shatters your wildly spiraling thoughts. You clutch at Charles, needing an anchor.

“What?”

“Your eyes,” he clarifies, reverence ringing in every word. “They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

Gentle fingers cup your face, thumbs tracing the delicate skin beneath your sightless gaze. You yearn to ask him a thousand questions — what color they are, if any scars are visible, how he can possibly think them beautiful.

But then his lips are on yours, silencing your whirling doubts with a scorching, openmouthed kiss. You melt into the heated embrace, pouring all the unspoken words and insecurities into the slick slide of your mouths.

When you finally part, both of you are breathing raggedly. Charles rests his forehead against yours, fingers still mapping the curves of your face with infinite tenderness.

“Thank you,” he whispers again, voice tight. “For sharing this with me. For letting me all the way in.”

His thumb brushes the fragile skin beneath your eye, and you understand that he’s thanking you for more than just revealing your eyes. He’s grateful for the soul-deep intimacy you’ve permitted by exposing your most vulnerable and closely guarded self.

You swallow hard past the lump of emotion clogging your throat. No words can adequately express the depths of what you’re feeling. So instead, you simply lean in and capture Charles’ lips in another kiss, hoping he can taste the love and gratitude and trust shining through every caress.

When you finally pull apart, you cuddle back against Charles’ chest with a contented sigh, feeling more seen and cherished and adored than you ever have in your life.

As Charles trails tender kisses along your brow, his deep, soothing voice rumbles against you.

“No matter what, I’ll always be here to show you all the beauty and wonder you can’t see ...”

The words wrap around you like a warm, comforting blanket, chasing away any lingering insecurities. In this moment, cuddled in the arms of the man you love more than life itself, you’ve never felt more grateful for the unique way your senses experience the world.

Because really, what use are eyes when you can simply close them and see with your heart instead?

[doritochoi]

Teacher's Pet | C.S

pairing: fem!reader x teacher!choi san

genre: pure smut, 18+, mdni ( because its always my fav)

warnings: san is in his late 20s, reader is 21 years old, public sex, unprotected sex, big!dick san, teacher x student relationship.

Every day when you left the school building, you would see your art teacher, Mr. Choi. He was sitting in the schoolyard with the other teachers, smoking a cigarette. Even if you weren't a smoker, this sight was inexplicably appealing. You noticed how the pronounced veins on his hand gripped the cigarette with undeniable elegance. It was a small detail that fascinated you every time. You didn't know exactly what attracted you so much to Mr. Choi. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, always with an air of mystery and distinction. Or maybe it was the passion he put into teaching art, inspiring you, to explore your own artistic talents. Despite the fact that you couldn't explain exactly why you were attracted to Mr. Choi, your obsession with him grew day by day. You knew everything about him, from the car he drove—a sleek black Bentley that gleamed in the sunlight—to his daily habits. Indeed, your obsession with Mr. Choi could not be explained only by the external details you observed about him. It was something deeper than that. You are seeing him not only as a teacher, but also as a protective and inspirational figure in your life. In his every gesture and every look you felt safe around him, like he was an anchor in a sea of ​​uncertainty. Being a strong and wise mentor, you wanted to learn more from him and feel protected in his presence.

It was Wednesday, 7 PM. You always waited in the hallway to see your favorite teacher. You even knew when he arrived. You waited until you heard footsteps approaching, knowing it was him because his footsteps had a distinct sound you recognized. You see him climbing the stairs, and hurriedly you enter the classroom. You sat impatiently in the chair, looking towards the door and waiting for Mr. Choi. Finally, the door opens, and he appears in the doorway, exuding an air of safety and elegance. His black jacket matched his hair perfectly, and the slightly unbuttoned shirt revealed a bit of his well-defined chest. His hair framed his face impeccably, and each strand seemed to be carefully placed to highlight the fine features of his face. But the most captivating were his eyes. They were a warm, rich shade like melted caramel. In the sunlight, his eyes were shining in a charming mixture of gold and brown. His gaze, penetrating and mysterious, had the power to hypnotize you. Your eyes traveled further down, noticing his slightly transparent shirt and loosened tie. His slim waist was always a temptation for you. You wanted to feel the texture of his skin under your fingers, notice how it felt to hug that waist that seemed to be ripped from a work of art. Those pants, which sat perfectly on him, accentuating his well-defined figure, were hard to ignore. You couldn't help but turn your gaze to them, noticing how they molded perfectly to his legs and highlighted every movement of his graceful body. With every step he took, the pants seemed to draw your attention more and more, and you couldn't help but want him to get closer, to notice every detail of that charming appearance.

He sat down in the chair and you assumed he was sitting with his legs spread, imagining you could sit on his thighs and move lightly on them. This thought made you feel a little excited rubbing your thighs together. After that, he announced that the next mark would be given for a drawing that would impress him. You didn't hesitate and took out a sheet, starting to draw immediately. In less than ten minutes, you've created a perfect drawing of Mr. Choi in all his glory. His position was exactly the same as sitting on the chair, and every detail of his expression and posture was captured precisely. Mr. Choi sats up elegantly from his chair, and the subtle scent of his perfume wafted throughout the classroom, captivating your senses. With quick and sure steps, he began to walk through the students, finally stopping behind you. He bent down a little, put his hand on your shoulder, and you flinched a little from the movement he made. He looks at your drawing, smirks, then brings his lips to your ear whispering in a husky voice. "Can you meet me after class?", he said so softly that only you could heard. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. You didn't even know what to answer, so you turned your gaze towards him, now staring at his features and nodded.

The hour passed extremely quickly and you have to go home, but you remembered your teacher's words. Before going to his office, you went to the bathroom. You unbuttoned 2 buttons on your shirt and lifted your skirt a little so that your red panties could be seen. You honestly didn't know what was in your head to do something like that, but you couldn't resist anymore. Seeing him so many times with that innocent face, pretending he doesn't notice you, it annoys the hell out of you. After you got your things, you headed to his office. You stopped in front of the big wooden door. That door made you to feel different things, especially since you know very well who is inside. You took a deep breath, put your hand on the doorknob and opened the door. As soon as you opened the door, you started to feel an intoxicating scent of vanilla that was present in the whole room.He was there, sitting on the chair and looking at the laptop. He looked at you from time to time, enjoying every part of your body. "I knew you would come", he closed the laptop making you startle a little. He got up from his chair now seeing how he looked. His shirt was almost undone, and his pants looked wrinkled, you didn't know what or who brought him to that stage, but he looked different. He was getting towards you, and you ended up hitting your back against the wall. You couldn't look at him, so you started lowering your head, looking at the ground. "Look at me, miss," he moved so close to your face that you could feel his breath. You didn't do what he was saying, you continued to look down, annoying him. He wasn't happy with what you were doing so he took your hands and stuck them to the wall above your head forcing you to look into his eyes. "Don't avoid the situation", he started to put his hand on your waist and then lower reaching your panties. He looks at them, then keeps playing with the material. "We both know what you want, and you know well that I can offer you everything you want", this time you could feel his breath on your neck, until you felt something wet. He kissed you in a unic style making you feel things. Mr Choi grins a little, watching how he can dominate your body and see what things he can do to you. "Tell me pretty girl, what is your on your mind?", his voice was so low that only you could hear it. His hands began to roam your body, undoing the buttons on your shirt, now remaining with only the bra visible. "Please, fuck me" ,these were your last words, not thinking twice about what you were going to do.

He picked you up in his arms, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he took you to the front of his desk, making you sit with your ass on it. His hands started going everywhere, from your firm breasts to your panties. He undid your bra, and a hand massaged your left breast, kissing you passionately. You let out a moan, making him even more excited than before, rubbing his cock against your leg as well. "Bend over ", you didn't even stop to think, because you got off his desk, and you bent over showing him an amazing view. He got down on his knees, tore your skirt, now showing only the red panties you chose for him. "Fuck, I can't wait to taste you", he starts running his hands on your inner thighs, then approaching with his lips, applying small kisses. "Stop teasing, please" , You knew he was the type of person who likes to tease, especially you. He always did this and he likes it a lot. With a determined hand, he starts and removes your panties, looking with such a charming look as if it was all he wanted. He licked his lips, started to come closer and without saying anything, his tongue was already doing its job. Mr. Choi’s tongue moved with deliberate precision, exploring every sensitive spot with a teasing slowness that drove you mad. Each flick and swirl sent waves of pleasure through your body, making you arch your back and press against his mouth. The room filled with your moans, the sound echoing off the walls, blending with the intoxicating scent of vanilla that still lingered in the air. He pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your wetness as he spoke, "Tell me how it feels, pretty girl. I want to hear every detail." You could barely form thoughts, but you managed to gasp out, "It feels amazing... please, don't stop." A smirk played on his lips as he continued his sensual assault, his tongue now circling your clit with agonizing slowness before giving it a gentle suck. Your hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as you fought to stay grounded under the intense pleasure. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, he slid two fingers inside you, curling them in a way that made stars explode behind your closed eyelids. "You're so wet for me," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "I can feel how much you want this." , "Yes, Mr. Choi... I want you so badly," you panted, your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. "Patience, pretty girl. I want to savor every moment of this." He continued to work you with his fingers, each thrust and curl perfectly timed to keep you on the edge. His thumb found your clit, rubbing it in slow, torturous circles that had you teetering on the brink of climax. But just as you were about to tip over, he stopped, pulling his hand away and leaving you panting and needy. You let out a frustrated whimper, looking down at him with wide, pleading eyes. "Why did you stop?" He stood up, his body towering over you as he undid his belt, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops making your heart race. "Because I want you to beg for it, pretty girl. I want to hear you say exactly what you want." Your eyes locked onto his, filled with desperate desire. "Please, Mr. Choi. I want you inside me. I need to feel you." He slowly lowered his pants and boxers, his hard cock springing free. He stroked it a few times, letting you see just how much he wanted you too. "Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "Yes," you breathed, your eyes locked on his impressive length. "I want you to fuck me. Please."

With a satisfied smirk, he positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against your wet folds, teasing you just a bit more. "You’re so eager, aren’t you? Such a good girl, asking so nicely." You could only nod, your breath hitching as he slowly began to push inside you. The sensation of him stretching you, filling you completely, was almost too much to bear. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, needing to feel every inch of him. He started with slow, deliberate thrusts, each one hitting just the right spot inside you. "You feel so good," he murmured, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "So tight and wet." Your nails dug into his back as you clung to him, your body trembling with pleasure. "Faster, please," you begged, needing him to take you harder. He didn’t need to be told twice. His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more urgent. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure. You could feel the pressure building inside you, the familiar coil of your impending orgasm tightening with each thrust. "Oh, Mr. Choi," you cried out, your head thrown back in ecstasy. "I'm so close.", "Come for me, pretty girl," he urged, his voice rough and demanding. "I want to feel you come around my cock." That was all it took. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your walls clenching around him as you screamed his name. He continued to thrust into you, riding out your climax, pushing you to heights of pleasure you’d never known before. As you came down from your high, he slowed his pace, giving you a moment to catch your breath. But he wasn’t done with you yet. He pulled out and flipped you over, bending you over the desk. The cold wood against your heated skin was a stark contrast that made you shiver. He entered you again, this time from behind, his thrusts deep and relentless. One hand gripped your hip while the other reached around to play with your clit, adding to the overwhelming sensations. "Do you like this, pretty girl?" he asked, his voice strained with his own pleasure. "Do you like being fucked like this?", "Yes," you moaned, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I love it. Don't stop." He didn’t. He kept up the punishing pace, driving you both closer to the edge. You could feel another orgasm building, this one even more intense than the last. "I’m going to come again," you warned, your body trembling with anticipation. "Come for me, pretty girl," he commanded, his voice a growl. "Come all over my cock." With a final, powerful thrust, you did. Your orgasm ripped through you, more intense than anything you’d ever felt. He followed soon after, his own release spilling into you with a guttural moan. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the only sound your heavy breathing and the pounding of your heart. He stayed inside you for a moment longer, savoring the feeling, before finally pulling out and collapsing onto the desk beside you. You both lay there, spent and satisfied, basking in the afterglow. "That was incredible," you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming. He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You were incredible, pretty girl."

[youaresimplylovely]

Plane Rides

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐆𝐟!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 & 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐨

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝!!

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 200 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬!! 𝐒𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫, 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 "200 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭" 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮!!

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭, 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 ^^

https://forms.gle/KLSuGXUEbYs4Jku18

"ʟᴏᴠᴇʟʏ'ꜱ 200 ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ 02"

Plane Rides with Lando were always amusing and fun but most especially difficult. It's not that you don't love Lando you really it's just that he is very clingy as in VERY clingy to you on Plane Rides.

Lando knew to himself that he was a clingy person. He would always say "you can't blame me, you're just so perfect I always want to be next to you." He can never get enough of your touch, his love language is physical touch that's why your touch is basically his life support.

That's why when you and Lando took a plane ride back home boy, were things crazy.

"I really like this jet you bought baby, it's so cozy." You say softly, while you and Lando enter the private jet. Your hands touching and feeling the texture of the seats while Lando had his hand wrapped around your waist as he peppers kisses on your neck.

"Where should we sit baby?" You smile as you look at him.

"Anywhere you want." He utters, his hand still tightly close on your waist.

"Oooh here, I like the softness of the seat here. Even if they're almost the same." You giggle, sitting on the seat which is a few seats across the bar. With your immediate sitting, Lando's hand was swiftly taken away from your waist.

"Um excuse me? Why are you sitting there?" Lando raises his eyebrows, seeing you sit on the chair which is closely across his seat which he eventually sat on.

"Should I be sitting somewhere else? Is there a problem?" You furrow your eyebrows, looking for an answer from your boyfriend seeing as you were so comfortable already.

"Yeah, you're not next to me." He crosses his arms, fluttering those eyelashes of his at you with the most convincing and cute face he could ever give.

"Baby." You say, glaring at him playfully wondering how on earth you can be next to him when you're just across him. "We're not gonna fit in one seat."

"Yea we will, there's my lap for a reason." He argues back well in a playful demeanor, patting his lap as he looks at you while smirking.

A laugh comes out of your mouth, seeing how clingy your boyfriend is. You stood up from your seat and settled in on your boyfriend's lap, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck which you knew he loved so much.

For almost 30 minutes, you snuggled with Lando. Eventually, Lando fell asleep with his head on the crook of your neck. Snoring softly, you couldn't help but take a picture of your boyfriend's cuteness.

Moments later, you feel your stomach gurgling. Shit. You ate too much earlier during the buffet. You groan loudly, feeling the ache. Noticing that Lando was sound asleep. You gently and softly try to get out of his lap.

With your feet now on the floor, you sigh softly. You stand up, not realizing that Lando's hand was still on your stomach wrapped around.

Lando groans feeling you go away, he immediately pushes you back down to his lap. "Where are you going?" He mumbles, kissing your neck.

A small laugh comes out of you, knowing that you weren't able to escape. "Baby, I need to go to the bathroom." You whine softly, feeling the ache on your stomach get worse.

"why?" He mumbles, shifting his kisses from your neck to your cheeks.

"cause I need to poop and pee." You exclaim, still hurdled on his lap.

"Why?"

"Cause I ate too much and drank water." You argue, knowing the game he was playing.

"why?" Lando says in a playful voice.

"Because I was hungry and I was thirsty!!" You protest, whining at your boyfriend.

"why?" He continues teasing you and pushing your buttons.

"Lando Norris! I need to take a shit!" You hurriedly take your boyfriend's hand off you as you rush to the bathroom.

Lando giggles at your playful argument, he hurriedly follows you to the bathroom. Despite him pushing your buttons, he still was clingy to you. Whether you're pooping or peeing, he'll always want your touch. He'll gladly hold your hand just to feel you while you poop.

After your long comforting and weird poop. You got out of the bathroom with Lando holding your hands that were washed of course. You couldn't help but smug and laugh at your boyfriend.

"your poo doesn't smell, it's nice." He laughs giving you a kiss on the cheek.

"God, you're so weird." You chuckle as you and Lando head back to your seat. Eventually snuggling back together.

TAGLIST

@euphoricchills @charlesleclerx @Inchident-jgp @amethyst-bitch @dr4g0ngirl @likedbygaslyy @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @httpstoyosi @evermore555 @bibissparkles @lokideservesahug @emmy626 @hiireadstuff @urfavouriteanon @darleneslane @anon555xxx @shelbyteller @spookystitchery @bearryyy @justtprachisblog @alliwantisadonut @kika-writes @casperlikej @funnelcakeee

[sturnsdoll]

𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙂𝙁 ˚୨୧⋆｡ - M.S

(headcannons!)

pairing: matt x girly/hyperfem!reader

warnings: hc's, sfw and nsfw but they are labelled as such.

nsfw warnings: dom!matt, sub!reader, implied spanking, dirty talk, mostly just super suggestive.

authors note: multiple people requested a matt version so here you go <3

SFW !

ೃ⁀➷ one of the first things matt loved about you was the way you express yourself through your style.

ೃ⁀➷ how could he keep his eyes off you with bows dangling and intertwined through your hair, belt loops or pretty much anything else you could stick em' on

ೃ⁀➷ watching you lay peacefully against your pink silk sheets never fails to lure him into crawling under your matching covers to cuddle and stroke your perfectly cared for hair into further relaxation.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime your cake-esque fragrance is sprayed around him he has to pull you into him. he's addicted to it like crack. he has to bury his face into your neck, inhaling like he'll never be graced with it again.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime he's out he's looking for things you'd accesorize with..

ೃ⁀➷ matt would be searching through every color of ribbon in every store he's in for a color, size or texture that you don't have.

ೃ⁀➷ matt would want to buy you makeup because he knows how good you feel about yourself while wearing it.. not saying he'd be good at picking out the right shades but hey, he tries right??

ೃ⁀➷ matt loves watching the bottom of your skirt dance and twirl while you bounce around your room with your fav artist playing..

ೃ⁀➷ you hum the lyrics while organizing your closet that's drowned in shades of pink..

ೃ⁀➷ "need help sweetheart?" "i'm okay, thanks" and even though he knew you were sincere from the sweet grin on your pretty lips, he'd get up from the comfort of your bed to assist anyways. he couldn't let your pretty little head get too exhausted now could he?

ೃ⁀➷ he knows how capable you are though, there's no doubt. he enjoys taking care of you but knows your more than able on your own

ೃ⁀➷ he would try his hardest to be assertive when he's angry but it was always impossible.

ೃ⁀➷ mid arguement you'd find yourself inching closer till you reach him. you take his hand. he can't ignore your perfect shiny acrylic nails (that he paid for) grazing along his palm to slowly interlock with his longer, masculine fingers.

ೃ⁀➷ "i'm sorry matt, i'll make it up to you. " you'd apologize sincerly.

ೃ⁀➷ before he could even think about saying no, your lashes batting up at him with doe eyes beneath them would usually force him to the final decision of teaching you how to behave another way...

NSFW !

ೃ⁀➷ "you think you look all innocent don't you?" now your backed up and corned against your makeup table. a few lipglosses knock over when the back of your thighs hit the table, your hands coming behind to steady yourself.

ೃ⁀➷ you'd nod your head. matt's dry laugh makes wetness pool beneath your skirt faster than you're willing to admit. "we'll see how much of a good girl you really are then yeah?" then next thing you know you'd be holding off your orgasms, being left begging for at least the 3rd time in a row.

ೃ⁀➷ and it never took much to get him going.

ೃ⁀➷ matt and you would be with his friends and all it'd take would be a graze of your perfect nails against his jeans for him to crave them wrapped around his dick.

ೃ⁀➷ your perfect pink lips pouting at him as you asked to go home early..

ೃ⁀➷ your eyes telling him you weren't wearing the shortest skirt you could find for no reason.

ೃ⁀➷ matt never really cared about you doing much for him sexually. making you feel good is what got him off. you were his princess and you needed to feel as such, in and out of the bedroom.

ೃ⁀➷ contradictory to that though, being a princess means being a bit of a brat and he knows how to deal with you when needed.

ೃ⁀➷ if it came to it, he'd pull you out of any social event (dinner, party, hangout, doesn't matter) and take you to his car.

ೃ⁀➷ your sweet demeanor never stopped him from ruining you.

ೃ⁀➷ "you think that shit's cute?" you quickly mutter back a "no" while knowing damn well that being bent over his lap in the backseat as your tears of pain and pleasure ruined your makeup was exactly what you were hoping for.

ೃ⁀➷ "who's dog was in here?" nick would ask matt the next day, eyeing at the nail shaped imprints in the seat cover. chris' head whips around from the front to spot your hair ribbon discarded on the floor. he put two and two together. "matt, there's absaloutely no way dude... in nick's seat seriously?!"

(sorry if any of the tags didn't work) tags ᥫ᭡ : @mattsrod @sturncakez @sturniololovesss @sturniolosstar @sstvrnioloo @watercolorskyy @pettydollie @sturniol0s @6ix9inewiturmom @sonicsmacks @orangelala

[hitlikehammers]

PART FOUR: wherein regular-guy!Eddie is ✨finally✨ reunited with his soulmate famous!Steve

He doesn’t remember reaching, but everything’s a little bit hazy. ⭐ 💛

<<< back to the charity soirée // back to the beginning

But then Eddie’s catching sparkling eyes, and his pounding heart-in-his-throat jolts like an electrical storm’s striking in all its chambers at once but at different angles, so he’s dizzy, he’s faint, he’s not just tasting his heart, he’s holding it whole in his goddamn mouth, ready to cough it out into his hands on the coattails of ozone from the lighting seizing it up, the lifeblood pooling in it fit to fucking burst, he’s—

"We've met."

Those eyes are everything he remembers. That voice is the only thing he dreams of every night, but now, it’s like it’s his dreams and recollections were the knockoff version—though what that makes the advertisements, then, Eddie can’t even begin to guess—but the genuine article, living and breathing in front of Eddie now puts all the memories he’s been clinging to to fucking shame, because…

Eddie’s maybe died. Probably that makes the most sense. Definitely he is now dead. He slipped looking for Chrissy, hit his head. He had an unexpected allergic reaction to one of the actually-really-simple hors d'oeuvres. Tasting his heart in his throat in the first place was more serious than originally supposed.

And now, at the end of everything: he gets Steve. The real deal.

Which is so much better as an afterlife than he ever expected.

“Remember when I did that charity thing in Indianapolis?” Steve is turning away and Eddie doesn’t like that, this is his afterlife and he wants the totality of Steve’s attention and affection and adoration and—

“Like I forgot a whole three months ago—” and wait.

Wait, because that’s Buckley, and she shouldn’t be in Eddie’s afterlife. It makes sense that Steve would turn to talk to someone, but why would he be talking to anyone in Eddie’s afterlife, and Eddie’s hand goes automatically to his own hip and pinches hard enough to split skin, he’s sure, and it fucking hurts and he can still taste his heart in his throat because it’s still pounding and why is it pounding in Eddie’s afterlife—

“It was you?” Eddie rasps, and Steve turns on a dime, his attention zeroing immediately in on Eddie but…Eddie hadn’t quite weighed the glaze of distance in those eyes compared to what they’d been that night, that morning; he hadn’t clocked it wholly: they were always bright but something was missing, now, and Eddie notices it best when it’s gone and all the shine is there again, but it’s shifting to a sharp kind of intensity as that gaze takes in Eddie’s whole person and seems to find…cause for concern, if the slightest downturn in those lips, the little furrow between those brows is anything to go by.

“It,” Eddie swallows hard when Steve makes a half-aborted step in his direction, moves the littlest bit closer and that’s the right cologne, that’s the right glistening pool of subtle shade-shifts in those irises—and fuck.

Hooooly fuck.

There’s just the slightest curls of chest hair peaking above where his shirt’s unbuttoned only the littlest bit. Tantalizing. Perfect.

Goddamn…perfect.

“It is you?” Eddie whispers, the moment, the impossible gift it’s promising feeling too precious, too…delicate, to push, lest it disappear. Lest Eddie drop it and lose…more. Again.

He doesn’t remember reaching, but everything’s a little bit hazy, he thinks he can hear the spark that makes his heartbeats, he knows he can hear the blood surging in his veins, he feels stupidly alive inside the hope he’s breathing in and then—

Then there’s a hand that meets his own. And Eddie knows it’s shape. Everything in him recognizes the weight, the texture, the warmth.

His pulse stumbles at the contact, like something slipping into place where it’s been barely connected, a cable for his very being having been hanging half-outside the power socket all this time and now: there. Like the circuit’s complete.

Eddie stretches his fingers on instinct, needy, and when Steve responds by slotting their fingers and locking his around Eddie’s hand, steady and sure, Eddie’s whole fucking body lights up, all sizzling, magnetic wonder.

“Steve,” he marvels at this man, because it is this man, and Eddie’s chest feels buoyant and his heart’s a balloon full of helium knocking wild against the ceiling of his ribcage but all it knows how to do is rise, rise, rise.

“Steve,” Eddie exhales again, reaching his other hand—like fuck he’s letting go with the one already wrapped safe in Steve’s grasp—to graze Steve’s cheek ever-so-slightly, needing one more proof of reality against all the wishful daydreams he’s been tormenting himself with.

“I thought I was losing my mind seeing you everywhere,” Eddie knows he’s gaping, like a man in a desert with a mirage, and he cares not-one-fucking-bit; “but I was actually seeing you, it wasn’t just me being lovesick and pathetic,” he’s a little breathy, kinda gasping and he can’t see entirely straight but, but…

What if—

“Lovesick, you say?”

Eddie feels the way he blushes so fucking hard. He can’t even try to hide it.

He’s not solid enough in his own skin just now to even try.

“Umm,” he clears his throat, then makes himself make full-on eye contact.

“Yes,” he admits a little bashful, but Steve’s eyes just dance and fuck, Eddie will humiliate himself in any way necessary in order to earn that look. No hesitation, all in.

“Underscore pathetic, please. Make sure that’s front and center.”

He does need to make sure that part is really clear.

“What if I find it endearing, though?” Steve says like he really means it, not like he’s just trying to cushion Eddie’s ego from the burn of his honesty; “and not at all pathetic?”

Before he can process it fully, let alone think of a response, Eddie feels a hand on his arm that not Steve’s, and glances dumbly around to see Robin bustling them pointedly but unobtrusively, with no eyes on them but Steve’s on Eddie and Eddie’s fixed on Steve, shit she’s good, and Eddie recognizes where they end up, just a side meeting room, a little table with chairs, nothing special.

Except Steve is in this room. And Eddie cannot think of a more special thing. At all. Anywhere.

Ever.

“You really didn’t know?”

Eddie blinks, because he’d kind of been mooning and he needs to snap back to the now, so he makes his eyes focus on Steve’s face, Steve’s words, rather than getting lost in the all-encompassing spell of him.

Which is hard, for the record. But Eddie perseveres.

It takes him a couple seconds to reorient—just the two of them, Robin is fucking skilled—and then to put together what Steve must mean.

Like: almost definitely the fact that he was always the guy on the billboards.

So Eddie just shakes his head, and tries not to get sidetracked by how extra fucking insane and unheard of this all is, with the superstar element tacked on.

“You were the most beautiful human being I’d ever seen,” Eddie’s barely breathes the words, airy and light and not wholly there but honestly he’s pretty impressed he manages that much; “and you bought me a drink.” He laughs, shaking his head:

“Did I think you were movie-star gorgeous and then some? Duh,” because seriously: duh. “But I didn’t know, god, didn’t even notice until after you left, and before that? I wasn’t gonna blab that shit, open my mouth and make you think twice, scare you right off.”

Steve’s studying him, like he’s a puzzle when Eddie’s never felt more like an open book in his life, raw and unvarnished and heartsick over it all, and wanting so bad, tender with the suggestion the universe is offering just now that maybe he’s allowed. Maybe he can even…maybe he has a chance to have.

“Kinda remember your mouth doing anything but,” Steve shoots back wryly, leaning back on the table before dimming a little:

“You never texted me.”

And Eddie isn’t proud of the little whine he gives for the pout, the resignation in Steve’s posture; he’s not proud, but fuck if he’s ashamed.

“I started to by like mid-afternoon the same day, absolutely zero chill,” Eddie tries to steep every syllable in earnestness, in the heartfelt truth of it all; “my phone didn’t save your number.”

Steve doesn’t seem to be expecting that one.

“Seriously?” he blinks, edges softening a little as he chuckles humorlessly. “I thought you’d figured all this out,” he gestures beyond the closed door; “and that was why.”

Eddie would like very much to be able to grab that thought out of Steve’s head and crush it under the heel of his Docs. Like, not shattered, just pulverized into a stain on the ground. Unrecognizable and insignificant and easily forgotten as all absurd notions should be.

“Sweetheart, I’ve created my own dry spell out of sheer misery, over having missed that chance,” Eddie states it plain, lays it out on main between them.

And Steve? Steve just stares some more, a deeper version of the calculating look he’s had on and off since they locked eyes again, against all fucking odds.

Like maybe Eddie’s been right the whole time. That they’re something other, like something fated. That this really looks like it is the great love of his life, and everything in him knew it.

Which: fuck. Of course Eddie was right. He didn’t actually doubt it—couldn’t, not when he felt like something had died, too big to even mourn.

Until right fucking now. When it feels like he’s breathing with both lungs for the first time in months.

Then Steve’s eyeing him up and down, worrying his lip before he says, almost quips save for the way his hand seems to nervously brush back through that gorgeous fucking hair:

“Would you like another?”

Eddie takes a second to trace back to what he last said: chances. Missed ones.

Would he like—

“What?”

It cannot be that simple.

(Please be that simple.)

“Wanna know a secret?”

Eddie’s still tongue tied, brain firing randomly and out of any particular pattern to follow, just giddy disbelief and the urge to start fucking bawling for emotional overload and the implications that he might just be entitled here to feel sheer relief: the way Steve tips himself toward Eddie a little from the waist, just enough to notice him closer, does absolutely nothing to make Eddie more inclined to coherence.

He just nods frenetically, like a goddamn bobble head.

“Been in kinda a funk of my own, thinking about you, moping pathetically,” he emphasizes with feeling, and a raised brow to boot; “about how you never called, according to my best friend,” he cocks his head behind himself again, no doubt indicating Robin and, and…

Is it too good to be true?

Fuck if it is; Eddie’s not letting this go again.

“Let me make it up to you?” he blurts out, and watches Steve’s eyes widen and…wait.

“Wait, wait, fuck,” Eddie says all breathless, because he’s taking liberties, isn’t he; he wants this, whatever it is and all it can be but Steve’s, Steve is—

Eddie just propositioned a movie star. His very-likely star crossed lover, but, Eddie can’t just assume that they’re both on the same—

“Name the date.”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. Steve doesn’t hesitate.

If this isn’t real, if Eddie’s reading it all wrong…

Eddie isn’t brave, like, that’s a categorical fact. But there’s a primal sense of purpose, not to mention self-preservation, in leaping at this and grabbing with both hands, with his whole heart.

“Tomorrow?” he asks, hopeful as hell, but that’s when he sees it: Steve’s eyes hadn’t widened in surprise. His pupils had dilated.

His eyes are more black than anything, now, when he says with absolute definitive certainty:

“Done.”

Eddie can’t help but stare, can’t tame the childlike dizzy joy bubbling over in him as he asks, wondering:

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Steve smiles small, emanating like a banked fire on a cold night; “you’re something special, Eddie,” and he tilts his head, looks up through his lashes and holy fuck, but if Eddie is lucky enough to be the target of that look for any time at all beyond this encounter, here and now?

It would be the most incredible way to fall apart on the goddamn daily.

“We spent one night together,” Eddie feels himself mouth, just, baffled in the brightest way that this can possibly be happening for real, that for all the certainty he’s felt in the face of every logical voice of sense, he’s known and now the other half of his equation is standing here, like maybe he knows too.

“And a lovely morning,” Steve leans into his space before his gaze changes, not in a bad way, exactly, but whatever the right word for how it changes is?

Eddie doesn’t like it.

“You feel differently?”

And that would be why he didn’t like it.

“Fuck no,” Eddie hisses, aghast at the notion. “Just,” and he licks his lips, tries to straighten out his thoughts; “you are,” and, hey: looks like he sucks at straightening out his thoughts, wow, okay—so he just grabs a clump of hair to hide behind a little, but more like a tether than a shield, and he resigns himself to just…spilling his words all clumsy as shit, willy-fucking-nilly.

“Even if I agreed with you about being special, if I was, then I don’t have a word for how out of my fucking league you are.”

He drops his hair when there’s no reply for a few beats, and he makes himself look up at Steve properly.

Steve, who is watching him with curiosity, and warmth, and with no small amount of genuine fucking affection, the kind that threatens to make Eddie’s heart try to escape out through his mouth again, only this time he’d really be aiming for it to land in Steve’s hands.

Or Steve’s chest, if he was bold enough to hope at being that lucky, after all of this already.

“Did you play sports?” Steve asks, weirdly casual, the kind of tone you’d expect from someone looking wholly bored as they stared to the side into the distance, which is the opposite of what Steve’s doing, tipping his chin the way Eddie remembers from the bar. Considering, but somehow inviting for it. Wholly contradictory.

Fascinating.

“Like in school?” Eddie asks, only a little bewildered, and whole-ass snorts when Steve nods.

“Do I look like the jock type?”

“Then how about you leave the league thinking to me,” he lifts his palm to Eddie’s waist and pulls him a little closer, and Eddie is suddenly very aware of just how much he missed being in a close enough orbit to this man to be able to feel when he breathes; “and take me out tomorrow,” and Steve, because he’s otherworldly and spectacular and shit, reaches up to tuck Eddie’s hair behind his ear and hell if Eddie doesn’t shiver from the base of his neck straight down for the featherlight, fragile little gesture’s quiet intimacy, good god.

But then he’s pulling back, and Eddie feels his eyes widen and his jaw drop because no, no, that’s not right, that—

“And you let me put my number in your phone right now,” Steve gestures very close to the clear shape of said phone in Eddie’s back pocket, like he wants to grab it himself but isn’t sure where they stand yet, or maybe because they are still ‘in public’ no matter how much Robin must be making sure they’re not bothered in this side room, but then Steve grins, and it’s so soft and it’s molten in his eyes and Eddie thinks he gets it.

Steve’s hands have been more than his on Eddie ass before, but.

This is gonna retrace some of the steps they had to skip, for circumstance’s sake. Eddie doesn’t hate that.

Watching Steve’s eyes darken as his lips quirk a little higher, yeah. Yeah: Eddie doesn’t hate that at all.

He hands Steve his phone wordlessly, maybe a little desperately as Steve flicks his thumb and starts to type, grinning as he does while he speaks a little sly:

“So we can both maybe do something about the cases of blue balls it sounds like we’ve been fighting?”

Eddie chokes on something dangerously close to a giggle. “Does it count as blue balls if I’ve been jacking off more in the last twelve weeks than I have since high school?”

And god, Eddie lights up like fucking chandelier when Steve cackles, and shoves Eddie’s bicep, as easy as that morning in the kitchen had been.

Just like that.

“I think it counts if we were only able to jack off,” Steve raises a brow with a smirk as he passes Eddie’s phone back to him, and Eddie only glances away to look down at the screen when it vibrates right after Steve hands it back, just to see the contact S.H.😘, with a simple message below:

fuck ‘missed chances’

“You can take that both ways, just so you know,” Steve says softly, not pushing, but definitely sure. Presumptuous because he can read it seeping out of Eddie’s pores, not because he expects it as a matter of course.

Which is really fucking hot, basically. Like.

Really fucking hot.

“How do you feel about Italian?” Eddie asks before he can’t think any further, can stumble when his heart’s doing all the stumbling necessary for the moment, and in truth: Eddie isn’t at all unsure.

Like: not even a little.

Plus, with the way Steve smiles?

Worth all the fluttering happening in his chest, fucking twenty-fold.

💛💛💛

<<< back to the charity soirée // part three ✨or✨ on to date night // part five >>>

for @pearynice 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @sadisticaltarts @bumblebeecuttlefishes @shrimply-a-menace @wheneverfeasible @1-tehe-1 @themoonagainstmers @dreamercec @ravenfrog @live-laugh-love-dietrich @stealthysteveharrington @tinyplanet95 @theohohmoment @samsoble

divider credit here

[tteokdoroki]

imagine silently vibing in the kitchen with katsuki bakugou.

you help yourself up into the counter, dressed in nothing but his shirt (haphazardly thrown on after spending all day kissing and getting nasty in bed) and a pair of fuzzy socks because he’d told you the apartment was cold since he runs warm and you need to keep your feet warm.

the kettle rumbles loud and proud beside you while katsuki gets the mugs from the top shelf. you’d made them together on your sixth or seventh date — a pottery painting class. bakugou’s is a creamy shade of Orange, like the sun setting outside the kitchen window, warm on your back. and yours is a soft pink, like the blush that dusts his cheeks from being caught staring. staring at you.

you let him make you some kind of herbal tea. watching bakugou grab the tea bags from another cupboard. this time, you’re the one staring, eyes caught on the motion of his back muscles rippling before cascading down to his unfairly slender waist, his grey sweat pants that hang a little too low on his itty bitty hips, and the rough textured skin on his side. the battle scar you love so much.

“what flavour?”

you hear him mumble, your gaze that was once tethered to the eighth wonder of the world (his phenomenally beautiful body) shoots up to bakugou’s face. a lazy smirk lies on the plump edge of his lips and compliments the his chiselled features illuminated by golden hour outside. you see the sun reflect off the brownish flecks to his gorgeous ruby eyes and the soft tint of blonde to his hair (you make a mental note to thank mitsuki for this later), before mirroring his smile.

“peach.”

to people on the outside of your lovey little bubble — there’s nothing significant about your choice of tea. but to you and katsuki, you know that it’s the same flavour as the lip glaze you wore on the night he first kissed you. it’s the scent of your body wash, the one that you leave at his place because you know that bakugou adores peaches on you. peaches, like the fruits you cut up for him whenever you’re able to join him for lunch at the agency, swiping your thumb over his chin as the juices run down it — sucking it off with an affectionate laugh.

“sweet,” bakugou hums into the quiet ambience of the kitchen. “just like you.”

his hands, though capable of intangible levels of destruction, work delicately and quickly to brew you the perfect cup of peach herbal tea. before you can even ask, he sweetens your cup with a tea spoon of brown sugar and a dash of golden honey — pushing it towards you gently. with a loving whispered reminder. ‘careful, it’s hot.’

katsuki waits for you to take a sip before he does the same with his own. he won’t admit to how cute you look on his counter, in his apartment, in his clothes with his marks on your neck, glittering under the setting sun. his bare feet pad on the vinyl flooring as he crosses the kitchen to meet you and his chest bristles with happiness when your legs part to make room for him.

“good?”

“always,” you chirp, looking up at kastuki through your lashes with your big bambi eyes. “i love you.”

katsuki looks taken aback but quickly recovers, rubbing his cheek on his bare shoulder as if to rid himself of the heat rising underneath its skin.

“love you even more. now drink up b’fore it gets cold.” he says gruffly but he’s lovesick all the same. you think that bakugou is so cute, you might implode.

and there you are, vibing out in the quietness of his kitchen — clinking your misshapen mugs together and drinking tea, letting the world go by as if you’re the only two people in it.

[nwarrior777]

making Hamlet fanart in 2024, slapping Juicy (main hero of Fat Ham, a modern play, Hamlet version, played by black fat queer person) on char design i saw in old b&w film while listening MCR playlist was an experience

highly recommend. also pls watch/read Fat Ham upd: image description added! (in alt text, but also under the cut)

(Image Description: List of sketches with 3 drawings. The textures used here are elegant looks-like photo silk (for clothes), soft shades and gradients. Shapes are sinking in each other depth. No color, black and white

It's fanart depicting Hamlet character being combination of different versions of him from different media: fat black queer masculine person being elegant, wearing mascara and lipstick (took from modern play Fat Ham) wearing vintage royal clothes (took from old classic film). The narrative of sketches also mixed of modern play (Fat Ham) and classic one

There are 3 sketches:

First one. It's the character described above (TC in text further) sitting in side view. His eyes is closed and face has melancholic emotion. TC is holding a scull. There is a simple-shaped silhouette of crown above his head. This image represent classic play melancholic vibes of character fused with modern play appearance

Second sketch. It's TC singing, while holding white pigeon in hands. It had previous classic-modern fusion vibes + a little vibe of disney princess song (because of bird and emotion expression similar to disney musicals). By left side of this sketch is stylized speech babble with music notes symbols and deformed text, visualization of singing. The text saying: "I want a perfect body", quoting singing of TC from modern play. By the right side of sketch there is arrow pointing at character with text "has most perfect body ever".

Sketch Three. It's dynamic sketch of TC in a duel (opponent is out of the frame), waving a thin sword (idk how it in eng, in my first it's шпага, a sword but specific type of it). From the chest of TC it's going steam, like character is heated mechanism pushed to limits. The face of TC is strong and determined, with mouth wide open trying to catch breath. Near this sketch is text: (text starts here) "He is fat and scant of breath" - original play quote. i know Fat Ham message. this one [the sketch with duel] here for slay jpeg reason (text ends here).

End of Image description)

[grimmtells]

✦ 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞.

Yamikage is one of my favourite characters in the anime, so naturally he gets tossed in the "redesigned to perfectly fit my tastes" + extremely self-indulgent lore adjusments. Because if the scenarists won't care about him, I WILL ! ((More Info below !))

✦ 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰, 𝐘𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐬 ───

𝕭𝖊𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘 Yabunreis are beings born from shadows and moonlight, only when the clock strikes midnight. They are assassins who possess powers that are to be feared. Their homeland, Evernight Star, is a planet casted in the shade of an everlasting night; and their capital is a large edo-style village located in a region called "Dimland". The village is the home of the Nichibotsu Clan, consisting of only yabunrei assassins. Other such villagers are nocturnal inhabitants of Evernight star, including bioluminescent cappies ! Yamikage is almost the perfect default of a yabunrei. They always have white hair, strangely textured, ashy purple-y skin of varying tones depending on the person, and usually, stark white eyes with no pupils. Yamikage's are red. They all dress in dark blue clothes. and silent chain mail.

✦ 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ───────────

As unmatched assassins, yabunreis are highly prized mercenaries. Many people from all planets travel far and wide to Evernight Star in order to pay for their services. The village’s riches stem from the Nichibotsu Clan’s work across space, taking care of whichever target their visitor wanted them to. They are neutral and do not care for the agendas of whoever pays them. The Nichibotsu Clan was sought out by King Arthur when the war against Nightmare broke out. He offered no monetary compensation, but a promise on his honour as king that Fable Star, his kingdom, would ally themselves with them if Evernight Star ever came to face extraterrestrial peril. As the threat that Nightmare posed would also affect their side of the galaxy, the yabunreis accepted. While they did not all go, they sent a generous number of assassins to the GSA.  The yabunreis that took part in the war are currently located in Nightmare’s fortress after betraying the GSA, and sent out on different planets to carry out assassinations for HNM.

✦ 𝐀𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 ───────────

Yabunreis are inherently linked to the moon, night, the shadows cast during that time and the Arts of Ninjutsu. Their abilities include :

((Most basically lifted from Aragami 1 and 2, my biggest inspiration for this lore))

✦ 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ───

Yabunreis don’t evaporate or turn to dust in the sunlight, but not only does it weaken them, it renders all their abilities unusable. To put it simply, yabunreis are only regular ninjas in broad daylight. While their physical prowess remains formidable, they become a much lesser threat than if it was nighttime.

✦ 𝐎𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 ──────

When a yabunrei is born during a lunar eclipse, their eyes are red, unlike their kin whose eyes are completely white. It’s a testament to their link to the Blood Moon, a symbol of high power and an omen of greatness in the eyes of the Nichibotsu Clan. Only two Yabunreis were born during a lunar eclipse : The former deceased leader of the Clan, Shokukage, and the current leader, Yamikage.

+ Some random doodles I was too lazy to finish

[chwocolatte]

♪ 𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓫𝓸𝔂 𝄞♭♪ . .

yūta okkotsu x reader ﾉ sfw — domestic fluff ﾉ features a sweet doting reader . . (⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝) ﾉ reader is admiring yūta’s handsum self ( a hundie percent warranted hehe ) ﾉ lottsa lottsa smoochies between reader ‘n yūta . . ﾉ ‘princess’ used as a petname tew refer tew reader ﾉ vrrie yumeshippie coded ‘n self indulgent . .

ohhhh . . . nu words cld ﾉ possibly ﾉ b adequate enough tew describe da sheer gorgeousness of yūta . . i did try m’ vrrie best but .ᐟ .ᐟ he is simply tew beautiful fwor mi tew paint wif jus words alone . . (⸝⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ⌑ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀⸝⸝⸝) doesnt he shine sho pwettily ⭐️ .ᐣ

twinkling like a thousand stars, your eyes shine with a brilliance that could rival the cosmos, the universe itself. you are captivated within his gaze, the pools of cerulean that peer into your own. they hold abundant affection, the adoration evident in the way he regards you, the ardour a tangible thing.

gazing upon his visage, it's easy to lose yourself in the ethereal beauty that is his features. they are sharp, chiselled to perfection, a masterpiece of the gods, an effigy carved from marble. how could anyone compare?

yuuta may be considered average to some, but to you, he is a paragon of celestial splendor. he's the epitome of beauty, the pinnacle of perfection. a small pinch of his essence could send the most stoic of individuals into a frenzy, their minds clouded with the fervour that is him.

to put it simply, the young man is an angel in your eyes. an angel in every sense of the word. the term 'beautiful' fails to encapsulate the full extent of his splendor, the magnitude of his radiance and the depth of his ethereality. but it's all you have to describe him, and so you use it anyway, the adjective a pitiful attempt at expressing the immensity of your devotion.

“beautiful…”

the whisper leaves your lips in a reverent breath, and the sound of it causes the young man to flush a lovely shade of red, the tinge rivalling the vermillion hue of a rose. a shy smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and his teeth are a flash of pearly white as he laughs bashfully. the sound is melodious, a symphony of harmonies that reverberates throughout the room, the tune a cacophony of bells and chimes.

the flush reaches the tips of his ears, and the colour bleeds down the column of his neck, the sight reminiscent of a summer sunset. you can't help but reach out, the desire to stroke his flesh an undeniable pull. and so you do. your digits graze the planes of his visage, the contact feather light and delicate, a whisper against his skin. a lean in to your touch, a pause, a deep breath, and then…

he sighs contentedly, his eyes fluttering shut, the lids a curtain that shrouds his irises— twin windows to his soul. he leans further into your palm now, his profile nuzzling your hand, the gesture tender, loving. a silent plea for more.

and who are you to deny him?

mapping out the contours of his face, you commit each feature to memory, snapshots of him immortalised in your mind.

soft like a dream, his complexion is smooth beneath your fingertips, the texture akin to satin, the skin a silken sheet. his lashes are dark and full, a lush canopy of sable strands that fan out prettily, a feathered brushstrokes against his cheeks. they tickle you— oh, but not as much as the faint cupid’s bow that swiftly steals a kiss from your fingers does, a chaste peck that has you giggling like a fool. the sensation is fleeting, yet the effect lingers, leaving the pair of you smiling fondly.

it's a moment so intimate, the pair of you cocooned within a bubble of your own making, the rest of the world fading into obscurity that a part of you wishes to preserve it. to freeze time, to capture this precious fragment of life and etch it into your soul.

simple, yet exquisite, memories such as these are worth their weight in gold. they're treasures, and you want nothing more than to hoard them, to stow them away in the recesses of your mind, a gallery of cherished remembrances.

with a gentleness that speaks volumes of your feelings, your fingers dance until they meet their destination, the pad of your thumb brushing against his plump lower lip.

the flesh is velvety and inviting, and you can't resist the temptation. you give in, and, with a slight nudge, part his lips, your thumb slipping into the crevice, a small breach, before standing on your tippy toes, feet rising to meet him.

the miniscule space between the pair of you closes, and your breaths mingle, the air shared between your bodies, the heat radiating off of his person and seeping into your own. your nose is a hairsbreadth away from his own, the distance almost non-existent. and, in a moment so quiet and fragile, the tension so palpable it could be slit with a knife, you share a breath.

one, two, three… the beats pass in a pregnant pause. then, with a swiftness that belies his previous timidity, yuuta swoops down, taking your mouth into his.

confectionery sweet and sugar coated, the kiss is a concoction of love and longing, a decadent delicacy you can't seem to get enough of. the taste of him is a nectarine bliss, the sensation a pleasure akin to none. so special, so unique, you doubt there could be anything in this world that could compare.

you indulge yourself, drinking your fill, savouring the flavour of your loved one, the ambrosial treat a luxury. it's a sweet surrender, the submission a mutual one, gooey strings of honeyed saliva connecting the pair of you when you pull away, your bodies clearly unwilling to part.

however, the need for air wins out, and you reluctantly withdraw, the loss keenly felt. a whine, high pitched and petulant, escapes your throat— a child's tantrum, albeit an admittedly justified one.

the separation is a temporary one, though, and you're quickly pacified when peppered across your face are a barrage of kisses, the sticky film of his saliva sweeping over your skin as if to paint a picture. his mouth is an artist's brush, the tip dexterous as it dabs a mélange of imaginary pigments upon your features.

the final kiss lands squarely on your nose, a dot. the finishing touch makes the button twitch, the appendage quivering with a tingle, and the sound that leaves you is an amalgamate of laughter and giggles.

the pair of you are a mess, your visages smeared with the evidence of your affections. and, by the heavens, do you love it. the attestation of his infatuation is a badge of honour, the smudgy slaver a token of his regard. you don't dare to wipe it away. rather, you wear it with pride.

who could blame you? surely not him, judging by the grin he sends your way.

so dazzling, the beam is blinding, the brightness of it akin to that of the sun itself. it's a sight you would die a thousand times to behold.

"you really are the most beautiful boy, yuu.." the compliment tumbles from your mouth unbidden, truthful and raw. your words are nothing but an echo of your thoughts, an unconscious murmur of the musings that occupy your headspace.

"not as beautiful as you are, princess.. not even close." his response is immediate, spoken with that simper of his, the curl of his lips so pretty and soft.

in preparation for a protest, your mouth opens, the objection ready on the tip of your tongue, but a single finger to your lips is all it takes to silence you. a pout forms at the contact, the expression a puerile pucker.

"let me love you." the plea is a soft thing. "let me love you like you deserve. let me love you.. like you love me." yuuta repeats, a quiet request. his tone is a beseeching, the desperation written clear as day across his countenance. it's an entreaty that melts the last dregs of resistance left in you.

so, with a nod, you acquiesce.

you hear a suspire of relief, and then you're swept into the arms of a boy so in love, he's willing to do anything to show you just how much. and as you're carried off into the depths of his heart, the place that's reserved only for you, a singular thought occurs: perhaps, just this once, you'll allow him the win.

for a boy as wonderful as him, there's no harm in giving him the upper hand, is there?

[dalamjisung]

A muted shade of green ✧ Chapter 4: Pushing the limits

genre: mostly fluff... with a tiny bit of angst because I just can't not write angst LMAO

word count: 5861

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: for once, you have a good day. and you feel untouchable. until, that is, you're not.

a muted shade of green masterlist

previous chapter // next chapter

author's note: sorry for the delay on the update, but it's finally here! I'm excited to see this story evolving! what are you excited about with this chapter? Let me know in the comments! <3 if you want to join the taglist for this series, please let me know in the comments!

It’s weird to think that once upon a time, you lived in New York. 

You had always loved the city in all its might. A lot of people complained about the grey, tall buildings, but you used to think that the colour suited you. That the lifeless of it all didn’t really matter, because life was all over New York City. The bustling of the people, the voices and languages mixing in every block, the smell of food from the falafel carts in every corner; sure, the city was dead, but my god were the people alive. 

You were alive, back then. 

So much so that you think you might have attracted the dead, because the night you met Josh was a night you felt invincible. You felt like you had enough power in you to light up the entire grid of the city that never slept, so when he approached you, with his light blonde hair and bright blue eyes, you were up for the challenge. Even your friend was impressed when you didn’t coil away from his eager hands, and maybe she regrets it now– maybe she curses herself for not pulling you away from him, for not stoping you when you left with him. Maybe she hates herself for what she let you do back then, but the truth of the matter is that even if she had tried, you don’t think she would’ve succeeded.

Josh was different than most guys you knew, but that didn’t mean much– your aversion to human interaction had always plagued you when it came to romance and friendships. Alas, you found your similars; you met people who loved book just as much as you and you found your place with a selected few. You didn’t mind, not having all that many friends when you had an amazing handful instead; they were all loyal, understanding, and kind, much like you. 

Meaning that Josh wasn’t. But you didn’t know that at first, too blinded by the flowers, and the expensive dinners, and the beautiful gifts. Whenever you remember them– the moments, the memories, the things– you’re washed by a sense of shame and embarrassment unlike anything else you felt before. You’d like to stand up for yourself and deny it, deny all of it, say you’re not materialist like this, but that would be a lie. You are a bookseller, for crying out loud. A collector. For you, mementos mean something; the feeling of something familiar in your hands, be it the weight or the texture or just the shape, enough to bring back moments that are long gone in the hands of time. Objects and souvenirs are the next best thing you have to a photo album of memories that can’t be captured by a camera, and you are not ashamed of it. 

What you are ashamed of was how easily you fooled yourself for him. For Josh. It was all those damned fairytales you’ve read growing up, it had to be. Or maybe it was his friends and their comments of how perfect you two were together. Whatever it was, it had to be something. You’d hate to believe that you were shallow enough to endure him on his worst days just because of the things he gave you on his good days. 

Naturally, Josh was a much more extroverted personality. Keeping up with his social life was exhausting. Every night there was something to do, a dinner, a party, a meet-up. And those weren’t all that fun, either, though you learned to fake it pretty well. During these public appearances, you let yourself believe that yes, you two were this amazing power couple. You allowed yourself a moment to push away from all the regret and just enjoy the small things– the touches, the fleeting kisses, the loving nicknames. Because you knew that once you got home, all of that would fade and disappear until the next event you’d be forced to attend.

The question that most people asked was why did it take so long for you to leave him, why did it have to be that bad before you allowed yourself to go; and the answer was always the same: you don’t know. You don’t fucking know why you stayed with him, you don’t know why you loved him, you don’t know anything except the fact that you did– you did stay, you did love him, you did everything you wished you hadn’t. And it still led you to that night, to that rotten smelling taxi, to you crying in a red eye flight, to you landing, lost and hurt.

Because that night might have been the first time he laid his hands on you, but you doubted it would be the last. And it was up to you to do something about it. 

————————————

“Y/N? Are you up?” 

It’s a rhetorical question more than anything– you’ve been awake all night and Spencer knows. He blinked awake with every twist and turn, and in the morning, when his alarm went off, you were stiff on your side, trying to pretend you’re asleep. 

This has nothing to do with him. Last night, things ended in a positive note. After he showered, he came to bed to find you still wearing his FBI hoodie, and the smile on his face was enough to have you smiling too. You fell asleep to the sweet sounds of him reading you The Illustrated Man. Ray Bradbury is a common name in your guys’ conversations and it’s cute how he spends almost fifteen minutes looking for one of his books in the mess that are his shelves. According to him, they used to be alphabetised by author’s last name, much like in your store, but because of the time you’ve had in there, things have gotten a little… messy. You have a habit of reading different things at the same time and Spencer finds that adorable, even if it breaks his system with how you leave books scattered around the house.

“Yeah,” You call back, meeting his eye when he pops his head through the door. His hair is pointing in all directions, and you can smell food coming from the kitchen. “Are you cooking something? Spence, you said you don’t cook, what are you doing?” 

“I’m a thirty year old man,” He said, laughing at how you push the duvet away so desperately you trip on it to run to where you assume the fire is. “Careful! Oh my god, Y/N, you’re breaking my heart here, I’m not burning anything!”

It’s not your fault that your mind immediately goes to the worst case scenario. From all the stories you’ve heard, all the ones that ended in disaster were set in his kitchen. “Spence, you could’ve woken me up,” You shake your head when you see that he actually just made toast with butter and jam. “I would’ve made you something to eat.” 

“You’re not my maid,” He says, standing behind you with his hands in his pockets and this is when you notice– he’s wearing sweatpants. Previously, when he was sick and you brought him medicine, he was wearing casual clothes too, but you were too busy fussing over him to fully appreciate the beauty that is Casual Spencer. His grey sweatpants and crumpled white t-shirt are enough to have you blushing and averting your eyes. In your store, he is excited. At home, he is relaxed. Those are two different things in the best of ways. “And I wanted to… talk.” 

Immediately, you have alarm bells ringing in your head and he notices it. It’s kind of funny, how you learned to read Spencer while he is reading you– you know when things set him off when his eyes widen a little, like a little tell he does every time. Maybe you’re better at this than you think, proud of yourself when he immediately waves his hands in the air, a desperate gaze in his eyes making you snort. “No, no, no,” Words fall from his lips a bit too fast for you to not trip up on them. “No, it’s nothing like that! It’s nothing bad, I just want to know how you’re doing and… check in on you.” 

“You want to check in on me?” You shouldn’t sound this enamoured, and you hate yourself for it. For the first time, you two are having an open conversation about what is happening and you want to make sure you’re present and paying attention.

“Of course I do,” His mumbling is barely audible from the living room, but when he yelps ouch and turns around with a plate of toast and coffee, you hear him loud and clear. Words mean a lot for someone like you, someone who lives off of them, but actions might just mean more because of who they are coming from. Because of his shy nature, when Spencer is direct and a bit more abrupt, it means something– it means that he is angry, or happy, or emotional, or dedicated. You like that he is dedicated about this; about you. It’s selfish in nature, but it’s true– him making you breakfast, him fussing over you, him trying… it’s all just Spencer’s way of showing that he is serious about this, and you don’t mind one bit. “Here you go. Eat up.” 

Instead, you show him you’re serious too. You smile, and wait until he has grabbed his own food and joined you on the couch, to start talking. “Spencer, thank you,” You whisper, looking down at the little space that keeps you two apart as a reminder: things might be getting better, and they might be on the mend, but there is still a long way to go for things to get great. 

Surprisingly enough, though, it’s quite easy to forget about Cat Adams when she’s not harassing you with unwanted gifts or letters, and it feels quite powerful to do so. Just like how easy it was to forget Josh when he couldn’t call you anymore, or touch you anymore, or scream at you anymore. What felt like the weight of the world on your shoulders now is simply the touch of a butterfly, floating away as soon as the moment of overthinking and anxiety is done. Some days, it lasts longer than others, and those are the bad the days. But on the better days, the ones that you are able to busy yourself with your store, your crush, your family; yeah, those are the days that Josh and Cat simply can’t get to you. 

Today is a better day. 

Hell, you might even dare to say that today is a good day, and more and more, you realise just how rare they are. So for today, you don’t allow the ghost of past and future lives to haunt you. For today, you’ll enjoy the blessings of the present. 

“Thank you for… helping me through all of this,” You continue, sipping on your coffee to try and keep your hands busy and away from his. After you got a little taste yesterday, feeling the warmth of his palm enveloping yours, you can’t help but want more. You want more touches, more smiles, more sneaky glances. You just want more Spence, however you can have him. “You didn’t have to help me through it all like this. And you certainly didn’t have to come back in the middle of a case just because of this whole mess. So thank you. This really means a lot. You… You mean a lot to me.” 

“Y/N, I didn’t come back because of this situation, I came back for you.” 

All air is knocked out of your lungs when he says that. In a very Spencer fashion, he doesn’t say it like a confession, like it’s a secret he couldn’t keep it inside anymore. This is nothing more and nothing less than a fact, like all the many others he has told you in your year or something long friendship. He came back for you, and the Earth is round. He came back for you, and the Russian Orthodox Church excommunicated Tolstoy. He came back for you, and Plank’s constant is a fundamental universal constant that defines the quantum nature of energy and relates the energy of a photon to its frequency. 

Simple as that. 

“I came back for you,” He says again, nervous finger ripping his toast apart until there is no longer a toast there anymore, just bits and pieces of what it once was. Cleaning your hands from crumbs and butter, you gently extend your arm, wanting to show him support in the best way you know how to. But then you remember: Spencer is a germaphobe. He’s reserved and he prefers to wave rather than shake hands, and you pause, hand hovering over his in unsureness. Just as you’re about to pull away, he moves, a flash of limbs and plates that leaves you not time to react.

Spencer is fast and it actually surprises you to see the clumsy man being so agile. He takes a hold of your hand and the familiarity of it all spreads a blush through your body. Even if he had stopped then and there, giving you just this little taste of affection, you would be happy. The way your cheeks flush to that rosy tone he loves so much and never says anything is enough of a hint to how you’re feeling, and this time around, Spencer wants to push the limits just a little bit, just a little more. And it’s obvious by the way his eyes shine with a mischievous glimmer of intent, grabbing you into him until your bodies crash together. 

This is the first time you two hug. It’s the first time your arms go around his shoulder, and it’s the first time his arms hook under yours. Spence hugs you like he needs to hug you, face rubbing on your neck like he’s trying to bury it there and hide from the whole world. Like you can actually protect him, and this time, you actually think you can. Your hands move up and down his back, a soft touch for the man that hated them so much. Sadness sweeps through you when you think about little him, avoiding touches and waving from afar instead. “Spence…” You mumble, pushing away for a second to try and talk to him, but he is quick to hold you in place. 

“Stay,” The way his voice breaks off makes you hug him even tighter. “Please. I… I’m happy you’re here.” 

“Spence, what’s going on?” Maybe it’s good that you can’t really look eye to eye. Those honey orbs, always so shiny and expectant, render you defenceless every time. 

He takes a moment to answer and you know he’s thinking, the machinery in his head whirring to lifer. “When you called me that night, I think my heart stopped. I thought… I thought something had happened to you, and I couldn’t… be there. I couldn’t be here. And it broke my heart, because this is my fault. It’s my fault that you’re scared and that your entire life changed, and I’m just really sorry, Y/N.” 

That is a hard pill to swallow. You knew he was feeling guilty; you know more about Spencer than he thinks you do– but what you didn’t know was that he was feeling bad. “Spence, I’m okay. And I’m safe. All because of you. I… I’ve been doing some research, and I know this is not usually something that would take priority for the FBI, considering that besides a note, Cat hasn’t really done anything to me, and if it wasn’t because of you, I’d probably be going through all of this alone.” 

“You are a priority to me.” 

“I know that now,” You whisper, shaky fingers raking through his hair in a desperate attempt to calm him down, praying, begging, hoping  he won’t ask you to stop. “At… first I did blame you a little. Like, not blame you, but… it was like I couldn’t separate you and what was going on and I was angry and upset and I’m sorry too. I pushed you away when I think we both needed some support from each other, and I didn’t mean to make you worry even more, you have to believe me, I swear!”

You don’t know when the roles reverse, but it’s like a war of tug, sometimes you pull and sometimes you get pulled, and right now, Spencer is pulling you into his arms with the strength of a man who needs you. “No, Y/N, no no, you don’t have to apologise! This… God, this is a mess.”

Chuckling with him feels better than chuckling at him, and you take the moment to just enjoy the feeling of being in his arms with no rhyme or reason. “It really is, but it’s our mess and I think that, all in all, we’re dealing with it quite well, Spence.” 

Everything about that moment is soft. The light is trying to come through the curtains and you smile to yourself. Spencer has always been stubborn about sunlight and he prefers the apartment on the darker side, but you can’t help but let your fingers move from his shoulder, dragging the tips all the way from his shoulder, down his arm, and extending to the end of the curtain, hooking them on the corner and raising a little bit. “It’s a nice day out…” You mumble more to yourself than him. 

“Do you want to go out?” Spence asks, raising his head away from your shoulder to look at you, but you just shake your head. “What do you want to do? I have the day off today, so we can do anything you want, I swear.”

“Hmm, can we go to the store?” Sure, it’s not the most exciting thing ever, but you miss it. You miss your books that you keep in a special corner behind the counter, and you miss the deliveries that are probably pilling up with your neighbour. The question is more amusing than anything, though, because you know the answer already. 

And him shaking his head only confirms your theory. Even though you know, you’re still frustrated. “Spence, please…”

“Y/N, your house is above your store,” He does seem to be upset with his own answer, and though that does not make you feel any better, you at least know he understands where you’re coming from. “We can’t risk it right now. Cat just sent a note straight to your address, and we don’t know if she knows you own the store or not, or if she has a partner working with her from the outside, or–”

“I know, I just– I don’t want to lose my store. It’s all I have.” The way your fingers fidget, playing with each other in a familiar nervous manner that you’ve surely picked up from him, has Spencer reaching out to hold your hands with both of his. It leaves you a bit breathless to notice just how big his hands are, covering yours completely. 

“You will not lose your store. I will not let that happen. But I think this could be a good chance to maybe think about a hiring a manager or a helper for a while. Temporarily! Just until we can make sure that you are safe.” Without noticing, his thumb slides over the top of your hand, a calming back and forth that eases the frown on your forehead when you think about a stranger at your store. “Just someone to be with you when the store is empty, Y/N.” 

Logic is on his side, as usual, and although you would never consider this under normal circumstances, you are reaching a point in which there are no other options. “A couple of days ago I sold out of stock for the first time since opening the store. I’m finally turning profit after being barely able to keep the place afloat. I love my daily routine there. I can’t let her take this away from me, Spence.”

“And she won’t. But don’t you think the help will be good? With new stock coming in and the reading events you wanted to prepare, having a trusty helper will save you some stress. And we’ll have Penelope run a check on every candidate!”

“I don’t know… is it fair for me to get someone involved in… this?” He instantly knows what you mean. “Can I think about it?” 

“Of course you can. I understanding this was not in your plans, and I know you love your job and your routine and we’ll make a new one for you! We’ll create a schedule and we’ll alternate days so that you don’t have a predictable location and-and we can make it a fun thing, you know? Creating the week’s schedule, like the Sunday crossword! We could do the schedule on Saturdays and the crossword on Sundays– what do you think?”

You think this is a plan. A future plan. A future plan that is reliant on the fact of you still living in his apartment and part of you hates it, because part of you, a big part of you, wants to go home and stop feeling like such a burden to him. But then there is the smaller part of you; the part that likes waking up and hearing his hoarse voice first thing in the morning; the part of you that feels spoiled with the breakfasts in the couch; the part of you that hasn’t really been loved in a while and really missed it. That is the same part of you that swoons every time he smiles at you, and you nod, and nod, and nod. “That sounds perfect,” You whisper, looking around the living room and seeing this future he talks so much about. It truly does sound… “Perfect.”

That afternoon, he helps you write a job ad for a store manager. It’s fun doing this with him because you get a chance to pick that brain that always amazes you so much. “No, no, you should give them a feel for the store,” The way his breathing hits the nape of your neck with every word he says while reading over your shoulder makes you shiver. “Oh? Are you cold?” What you miss is the the little smile he gives you from behind, turning to quickly grab the blanket you left on the armchair to cover your shoulders.

“But I don’t want them too comfortable, it’s still my store,” You grumble, leaning back without even thinking about it. You are both by the kitchen counter, and you’re sitting on a stool with Spencer right behind you, so when you fall back, arms curling around your body and wrapping the blanket tighter around you, you fall right onto his chest. The shattered pieces of that wall you two had between you two lay on your feet, no completely gone but simply lowered; the jitters of having him so close, the anxiety of maybe having him pull away, the strong beat of his heart right on your back. It’s all there, and it all amplifies when his arms wrap around your waist. It’s too careful, the way he holds you; too light and gentle and oh so slow. You just want him to hug you like he did before, to show you more of that hidden strength he kept suppressed all the time. Spencer is not dominant by any mean, but he isn’t someone to be walked all over, either, and the more that Cat pushes you, the more you are starting to see him push back. 

And you love when Spencer push back. 

“Okay, focus!” His voice snaps you back to reality, so close to your ear and his chin digging on your shoulder. It’s cute how he likes to fit his face in the little nook of your neck, between your cheeks and shoulders, and it’s… oddly intimate. The kind of intimate that makes you tense up a little just at the thought. “Hey… I know this is a big step for the store, but I’m proud of you. It’ll be great to be able to share the responsibility of the place with someone else. A team is not so bad, Y/N.”

If he is any indication of what is like to have a partner, if having Spencer by your side and ready to back you up is a little taster of what being on a team is like, then he might just be right. “I know, I just… this is my baby, you know? I moved to Washington with a backpack and an email from the agent to lease the place and there is a lot of effort and emotional energy and money that went into this!”

“You moved to Washington with just a backpack?”

Curiosity is a natural response for a man like Spencer. He is curious about virtually everything and anything, and it makes your heart beat faster, every time, when he asks something to you. It feels like a sign of trust, that he is willing to actually learn from you, to listen to you, and to store all you say into his hungry brain. This time, however, when your heart speeds up, it doesn’t have those same palpitation of adoration, those same butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Instead, it feels like there’s a rock, heavy and cold and hard, being thrown around your gut, all sharp edges and precise hits. “I, uh,” Immediately, you want to move– you want to push your hair back or scratch the mysterious itch on your nape or rub the tension off of your forehead– but then you remember that he is an avid reader. And that, apparently, you are his new favourite book. 

You try to play it cool, hand coming back down to the laptop’s keyboard to type out some basic information on the store and the schedule. “Yeah, it was a weird time,” And that’s all you say on the subject, even if the way he squints, those molten brown eyes running over every inch of you that you’re sure he has committed to memory, tell you that he has gotten much more information than you were willing to give. “Okay, I think it’s ready?” 

He knows what you’re doing, but he doesn’t care. Uncomfortableness is written all over you, from how your shoulders hunch forward to how you stick your hands between your thighs to stop them from fidgeting. Spencer is very careful of your self-awareness. He has seen you shut down before and he knows the telling signs– you pull away, withdraw back and back and back, until you disappear in the background of your anxieties. The last thing he wants is for you to not speak to him again, arms squeezing you a bit close in fear that you might just get up and leave him behind again. Having you sit on the armchair, so close yet so far while he slept in the couch next to you, had been hard. Incredibly hard. And Spencer isn’t sure he can handle that again.

So he lets it go. 

He hums, and nods, and lets you think you’ve fooled him. He lets you think that you’ve successfully whisked his attention away from the topic he wants to chat through and dissect so badly. “Looks great,” It’s cute how fast he reads the ad, and before you can overthink about it, he clicks ‘send.’ “Spence! Oh my god!”

“You weren’t going to do it,” He laughs, shaking his head and turning the stool so that you two are face to face. “I’m sorry you have to do this.”

“It’s okay,” You whisper, breath hitching on your throat with just how intensely he’s looking at you. There is tension between you two, strong and growing, and it’s not the first time you’ve noticed it. 

Sometimes, you think that this weird connection dates back to the first few months you knew each other. At first, it was about stupid things like what authors were truly considered cult or what were the best tropes. Banter, with Spencer, was always fun, like a little debate filled with smiles and giggles and… privacy, almost. Intimacy. It’s like every time you two talk a bubble forms around you, and no one can steal his attention. He is present, at all times, and it makes you feel like you matter; it makes you want to be present, too, happily listening to his rants and lecture with attentive eyes. Sometimes, you even pulled out a little notebook after he was gone to work, noting down the facts you’ve managed to remember, and whenever you were a bit bored, you would pull your notes out and read them over, smiling at the memories of him. The memories of him that are now locked in the drawer behind your counter. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I need to go get some stuff from the store,” You mumble, looking up at him with begging eyes. “I know you said to keep out, but please, Spence, I need more clothes and I need my things.” 

It doesn’t take much convincing to have him ready to go, and you are almost giddy at the sight of Spencer in jeans. Everyone can, or at least they should, see beyond the slacks and the sweater vests. Underneath it all, you know there is a man who needs some tender loving– you know there are scars, maybe visible, maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. Without his tie and his button ups, Spencer is just like any other guy, and the walls come down. Right now, he is Spence, your favourite customer and the guy that makes your heart beat faster, and you kind of love that you get to leave Agent Reid behind for a day or two. 

“Let’s go, Spence!” You call, excited to get out of the house for a bit. The fresh air coming in from the open window teases you enough to have you stomping, shouting for him again. “Spencer!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” His laughter echoes in the apartment and you smiled when you see him grabbing his phone and keys. 

This is too good to be true. It has now been eight days since the initial package you received in Spencer’s name, and as much as you know his intentions are good, you do wonder if maybe he is going a little overboard out of guilt. “I’m so excited to go to the store with you again!” You shriek, going down the stairs with him in tow. You’re not really looking where you’re going, constantly turning back to look at him just to catch a glimpse of that adorable smile he tries to hold back. 

“Y/N, watch out–“ In all fairness, Spencer tries to reach for you and hold you back, but the moment your feet touch the ground floor, your body hits another with such impulse that you sway back into Spencer’s hands. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes, yeah, I’m–“ Turning to the person, a young woman with an expression of as much shock as yours, you immediately start to apologise. “I’m so sorry! Oh god, I’m so sorry, I–“ “Don’t worry at all,” She smiles and picks up her boxes again. “I couldn’t see because of the boxes, it’s my fault.”

“Are you moving in?” 

You know that tone of voice. It’s stored in your brain as the tone of voice you never wanted to hear again, after hours of it back at the BAU office. “Hey, come on,” You whisper, allowing him lightly. 

“Yes! I’m moving into apartment 13. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Abigail. Do you guys live in the building?”

“Oh, I uh, I’m just–“

The way he slips his hand in yours, fingers folding with yours. “Yeah, we live upstairs,” He says vaguely, slowly continuing to walk own the hall. “We’re a bit late, but it was great meeting you Abigail. See you around.” 

You barely have time to wave before he has you out in the street, phone out and ready to go. “Sorry, I just need to call Garcia for a second. Go ahead, yeah? I’m right behind you, I promise.” 

Under his watchful eyes, you take the lead in making your way to the bookstore. The sound of his shoes crackling in the sidewalk behind you is comforting. “I’m going in, just call out for me when you’re ready, okay?” 

As soon as you get inside, it’s like you’re home. The books are everywhere, and you feel their warm embrace as they whisper stories in your ears. You’re like a hurricane in there, moving around with such trained expertise that no one could ever contest that you belong there, in your sacred place. Your backpack is by the counter, slowly filling up with books you want to take with you, and you enjoy the fact that Spencer is busy to check your emails for online orders and stock. So far, no big losses have taken place and you’ve only been closed for a couple of days, but you are realistic about the future of this place and you know this cannot continue. The more you see the store suffering from all of this, the more you agree that having someone mind the place while you’re out might be a good idea. Hesitancy still swirls in your heart, but you’ll do anything to avoid the heartbreak of losing your bookshop. 

You don’t turn around when the bell rings. “Spence, I might need a couple more minutes–“

“We got to go. I’m sorry Y/N, we need to go, grab whatever you can.”

A sharp exhale escapes you like a knife just wedged itself in your lungs. “What’s going on?” 

“Officer Kaper just called for backup,” Everything is fast again, moving forward, forward, forward, and Spencer knows how overwhelming this must be, specially after the slow and soft morning you two had, but he is working on a one track mind. He needs to get you out of there. 

“Backup?” Cars honk while you two cross the street in a hurry. “Spencer, stop running, stop! What’s going on?!”

He doesn’t answer you until you’re both in his apartment, door locked and phone in hand, nervously squeezing it while he paced around. 

“Spence,” You call again, careful with how you approach him when he is trying so hard to keep control of himself. “Spence, I– What’s going on?” 

His eyes tell you everything. In those whiskey coloured pupils, you see the hurt and the pain, and you see the hesitation. One hand moves to push his hair back, frustration lacing every movement he makes, from walking to the couch and letting his body plop down to how his head hangs low. 

“He’s on his way to the hospital. His house got broken into and… we have no confirmation, but we think it’s–“

“Fucking Cat.”

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

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[astermath]

mark of mine ⋆୨୧˚

pairing: ethan landry x fem!reader

summary: you getting ready turns into something more intimate with your boyfriend. he doesn’t realize he’s about to go out with marks of your affection all over him.

word count: 1.4K

tags: established relationship, fluff, praising ethan for being the prettiest boy, him being so vulnerable to your kisses, marks of red lipstick, idk what else to put here lmao

notes: just a bit of a fluffy blurb, I’ll be trying out a new character soon but for now my ethan landry brain rot must be satisfied. please let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for further ethan landry related writing!

The room was filled with soft music, the smell of freshly applied perfume and dim, cozy lighting. The two of you were getting ready to head out with the rest of your friends to a party. Or, well, at least you were. Ethan was sat on your bed playing a mobile game, since all he really had to do was get dressed. Sometimes you envied him for not having to put in a lot of effort to look good, but then again, you did like the entire process of getting ready to go out.

You rummaged around your makeup bag, somehow not being able to find your favorite lip gloss, before you remembered you’d let Tara borrow it. You decide to look for something else, until your fingers came across a lipstick you hadn’t touched in forever. It was a gorgeous dark red, and you vividly remember begging your mom to get it for you when you were just a teenager. The memory brought a smile to your lips as the pads of your fingers touched the luxurious packaging.

You looked back into the mirror and took off the cap, twisting the lipstick up and gently applying it to your lips. The texture was smooth, creamy, the color resembling a deep, almost blood-like shade of scarlet red. It worked so well with your skin tone and your features, you wondered why you hadn’t touched it in so long.

You ran it across your bottom lip, twisting the lipstick back down again and putting it away before you rubbed your lips together, releasing with an audible ‘pop’. You admired yourself in the mirror, before a pair of familiar hands distracted you.

Ethan hummed softly, hands finding their place on your hips as he pressed a gentle kiss to your neck. “Hmm… You almost done? I’m getting lonely just sitting on your bed…”

You turn around to face him, hands sneaking up his chest and settling on his shoulders as your back bumped against the sink. “You’re so impatient…”

He leaned his head down to rest his forehead against yours, thumbs gently running circles over your hips. “Can you blame me?” He leaned further down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “Hm… You look so pretty…” He smiled against your lips. Funny he was saying that right when he had his eyes closed to kiss you.

You returned the kiss, body relaxing under his touch. Of course he always thought you looked gorgeous, often sneaking glances at you even if you two weren’t talking, and complimenting you any chance he’d get. But seeing you all dolled up like this, it truly brought something out in him. And when you’d put on that fancy perfume, he’d always be all over you by the end of the night. 

You pulled away and held his face, eyes widening just a little at the slight red stain on his lips. Now you remembered why you didn’t wear this lipstick that much again, it was not transfer proof whatsoever. But that just gave you an idea...

You smiled gently and placed another kiss on the corner of his mouth. A perfect kiss mark adorned his face, and he had no idea. “Hm... We have some time before we have to head out, right?”

“Wh... Oh, uh, yeah... I think so.” He always got so into kissing you, he sounded a little out of it afterwards. “Why?”

“No reason in particular, just wanna spend some alone time with my boyfriend.” You grinned, having to hold back a giggle at the sight of your lips marked onto his skin. You took his hand and guided him back to the bed, getting on his lap when he sat down, straddling his hips. Your dress hiked up just enough to expose your thighs, those gorgeous thighs he could never get enough of. Even now, his hands gravitated towards them, settling gently on the soft flesh.

You leaned in again, one hand sliding into his curly hair, gently scratching his scalp as you peppered gentle kisses over his cheek, before moving onto his jaw. “You’re so pretty...” You mumbled against his skin. You felt Ethan’s hands grip your thighs just a little harder, his hips shifting slightly at your words. He was so easily influenced by you, like your presence alone excited him. 

You dipped down to his neck, his breath getting caught in his throat when you kissed the sensitive skin below his jaw. His hands started moving back and forth, softly rubbing, almost massaging your thighs. 

“My pretty boy...” He could practically hear the smile on your lips when you whispered into his ear, shivering when you nipped at his earbud. The kisses on his neck got more intense, and he responded well to them, making sweet noises as reward for your efforts. He spoke your name softly, almost as a warning, as if to say “if we keep going, I’m going to have a problem”.

You pulled away, looking at him and feeling satisfied with the masterpiece you’d created on his face. He was a little flustered, pink cheeks decorated with deep red marks of your affection. Your lipstick was perfectly intact, but anyone else looking at him would quickly realize what you two had been up to before. 

You were rudely interrupted by a loud notification on your phone, startling you both. 

[chad]: r u guys coming or are u too busy fucking?

[mindy]: please don’t be fucking rn

[chad]: they’re def fucking

[tara]: U GUYSSS just get down here already it’s cold :’(((

You smiled at the screen and texted back a quick “omw!” before tossing your phone to the side.

“Alright, we should head out. The others are getting cold waiting for us downstairs.” You pressed a final kiss to his cheek before getting off his lap. Ethan’s hands remained in place for a moment, ghosting over where your thighs had just been, not fully registering your words yet.

“Right! Right, we should uh... Yeah.” He adjusted himself a little and grabbed his jacket as you put on your heels. 

You were already downstairs, waiting with the rest as you were trying to defend your case of not having sex with your boyfriend right before you were going out.

“Right, what else would have been taking you two so long?” Anika rolls her eyes and teasingly bumps her hip against yours. 

“I’m telling you, I seriously couldn’t find my phone!” You giggled.

“Alright, alright, let’s just hope he hurries up so we can actually go.” Mindy said, hands rubbing her own arms to keep herself warm a bit. “I love your lipstick by the way, I’ve never seen you wear it before.”

You smile at her compliment, and right as you wanted to respond, the sound of the front door opening interrupted you. Everyone turned to look at Ethan walking outside, a smile on his face as he waved.

“Hi! Sorry it took so long, I seriously couldn’t find my keys.” His smile faded a bit when he noticed everyone was staring at him. You felt your own cheeks heat up at the sight of his kiss marked face. In the heat of the moment, you’d completely forgotten to tell him to take it off, and now your alibi for what you were up to earlier was totally ruined.

“Are... You guys okay? Do I have something on my face?” Ethan questioned, oblivious as usual. Chad broke out in laughter at those words, and the rest followed soon after as you brought your hands up to cover your embarrassed face.

“Oh, man! You guys suck at lying!” Chad says between fits of laughter. 

Ethan opens the camera on his phone and his eyes widen at the sight. “S-Shit, I didn’t realize your lipstick rubbed off on me like that.”

Tara and Anika had already snapped multiple pictures of Ethan’s face, so there was no way either of you were ever going to live this one down.

“Alright, alright, very funny, haha.” You try to interrupt. “You might wanna go wash that off babe.” You look at Ethan, and he nods with a bit of a nervous smile.

“I don’t know girl, I think it’s a look!” Tara comments, and they all laugh again.

You rolled your eyes, but secretly, you agreed. 

That picture Anika took of Ethan became your lock screen soon after. 

tag list <3

@kometqh 

[dorkszn]

logan howlett x blk!reader hcs <3

for both masc and fem readers !! these are kinda stupid and crack-ish lmao

— you always let him pick your next braids color and he pretends he doesn’t love it.

— he grumbles when you leave shiny lipgloss kiss marks on him but after a while, he just stops trying to wipe them off.

— but he does love kissing you on the lips with your gloss on, especially if it’s flavored. he loves seeing it all smudged and messed up when he pulls away. and he just grins at you when you swipe your thumb over his lips, removing the lip gloss he stole from you.

— if you not the one cooking, he ain’t eating. i know he had some soul food once and it touched his soul forever.

— you’ve put your bonnet / durag on him. he may or may not have been asleep but who’s really checking?

— one time, you gushed to him about how megan thee stallion was coming to your city and told him you’d literally die if you didn’t see her. he said you were being dramatic and he didn’t see the big deal. but he got you the tickets.

— i can see you forcing him to come with you which he reluctantly does. of course, he’s unamused. until he actually sees her. you can’t even be mad at him for it because.. real?

— he gets jealous when you gush over male celebrities, especially if they’re caucasian. he’s supposed to be your favorite white boy.

— loves your natural hair. like he loves it so much. short or long, tight coils or loose curls, he doesn’t care. he just loves it.

— and your body. utterly obsessed with you and your body. he thinks your skin is so pretty and perfect and soft, that your eyes are just the most perfect shade of brown, that you just smell so sweet and nice all the time, that your skin bruises to nicely when he sucks his marks into it.

— idk how he’d feel about rap or hip-hop but i think he’d mess with r&b.

— he used your hair products in the shower once and got the ass-whooping of a lifetime because apparently he “used too much” and “it’s not even for his hair texture.”

— calls you ma’am or sir in front of your family

— you bought him a nice, little silver chain to replace his dog tags with the initial of your first name on it and he never takes it off unless he’s going on a mission or something. only because he knows if it breaks, he’s breaking the neck of whoever broke it.

— hates chitlins.

— watches spooky scary sunday with you. he doesn’t really understand it or see the point but he’ll watch it if you ask.

— he’ll pick you up and carry you past big dogs if you’re scared of them. he’s gonna tease you first, of course. maybe push you towards it a little.

that’s all !! and sorry again, ik these are pretty bad 😭

[elizaleclerc]

you’re good to me 🎨

lando norris x reader

summary: perfectionist painter!reader & poet lando enjoy a relaxing day in their apartment

song: wasteland, baby! by hozier

author’s note: lando reads a poem he wrote (part of the hozier song lol) and you paint something beautiful. neither of you can truly see the beauty of your own work.

word count: 1.4k

You sat in a comfortable cross-legged position on the carpet of your living room. Your back was slightly curved as you delicately maneuvered the bristles of your paintbrush across the canvas propped on the easel before you. With each stroke, you lost yourself in the colors and textures, creating a masterpiece with every dip into the paint. Lando lounged effortlessly on the couch nearby. His book of poetry lay open on his lap as he drifted between reading and writing his own verses, occasionally glancing over at your focused form with admiration.

As you meticulously adjusted the details of your painting, Lando watched you with rapt attention. His eyes traced every movement of your fingers as they delicately flicked and swirled, expertly mixing colors on the palette before you. A small smirk played at his lips, knowing how much you loathed having your hair fall in front of your face while you worked, but he couldn't help but find it endearing. Despite the messiness of your pulled back hair, you were a vision of determination and grace as you poured your soul onto the canvas before you. The room was filled with the subtle scent of paint, creating a serene atmosphere that enveloped both of you in its embrace.

You almost forgot Lando was in the room with how hard you were concentrating and how lost in your own work you got. Your mind had become an amalgamation of paint swirls and the fleeting visions you had for the finished product. You'd pause in your work, tilting your head to the side as if listening for a whisper from the canvas. Your eyes would narrow in concentration, searching for any missing touches that could bring the painting to life. Speckles of dried paint adorned your hands and lower arms, an accidental splattering of colors and textures from your passionate strokes. Some droplets even found their way onto your jeans.

After roughly three hours you emitted a sigh, “I hate it.” You proclaimed, dropping your brush in the water cup with frustration. 

“What?” Lando replied, his voice filled with disbelief as he shifted to get a better view of your work. It was a painting unlike anything he had ever seen before. The landscape seemed to stretch on for miles, depicting a fantastical realm that existed only in dreams. Cobblestone steps, now aged and overgrown with moss, wound their way up to towering trees with branches adorned in shades of blue and purple. A sense of magic emanated from the painting, transporting Lando to another world entirely. “Love, this is exquisite,” he breathed, unable to tear his gaze away from the mesmerizing scene before him.

You rolled your eyes in frustration, the words dripping with disappointment. "You always say that," you muttered under your breath. The painting before you felt off, no matter how much you added or changed. The colors, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed dull and lifeless. You let out a heavy sigh and pushed yourself up from the floor, walking over to the kitchen sink to wash off the paint from your hands. As the water splashed against your skin, you couldn't help but feel a sense of defeat. All that hard work, all those hours spent perfecting every brushstroke, and it still wasn't good enough. You considered tossing the painting altogether, feeling disheartened by its lack of beauty.

Lando couldn’t believe the words that came out of your mouth. “You must be joking.” He almost laughed, “I think you’d be the only person on the planet to hate this painting.”

You walked over to him lounging on the couch, his notebook resting on his broad chest. The warm glow of the sun filtered through the large windows, casting a golden halo around his head. His tousled brown curls lay playfully on his forehead, and his tanned skin was like honey. He motioned for you to join him on the couch, and without hesitation, your body molded to his as if they were made to fit together. Your chest pressed firmly against his side, and your arms naturally draped over his toned torso. From this close distance, you could admire every tiny detail of his face - the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the slight dimple in his cheek, and the gentle curve of his lips as he focused on his notebook. You couldn't help but feel a rush of love and admiration for this man who captivated you with just a mere glance.

Your body rose and fell in sync with his breath, a gentle rhythm that calmed your frustration over the failed canvas beside you. “May I share something with you?” He asked in a hushed tone, flipping through the pages of his worn notebook.

“Always, my love,” You grinned, anticipating the words he was about to share. Lando had a way of weaving you into each of his pieces, making every poem and story feel like a love letter written just for you. Over the years as partners, he had slowly but surely merged your essence into all of his work.

All the fear and the fire of the end of the world / Happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl / Happens great, happens sweet / Happily, I’m unfazed here too. / Wasteland, baby, I’m in love, I’m in love with you 

Your lips curled into a smile as you listened to his poetry, savoring each carefully crafted word that flowed effortlessly from his mind and onto the page. It was like a river of beauty and emotion, twisting and turning through your thoughts as you marveled at his ability to weave such intricate and poignant verses.

All the things yet to come are the things that have passed / Like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass / Like the bonfire that burns / At all worth in the fight fell too / Wasteland, baby, I’m in love, I’m in love with you 

“That’s breathtaking Lando, truly.” You look into his gorgeous gaze as your hands rested on his chest.

"Do you really think so?” He questioned, his critical eye scanning over his own work. And in that moment, you realized just how much of perfectionists the two of you were. Never satisfied with your own creations, always searching for flaws and imperfections. But in each other's eyes, the flaws were transformed into a unique kind of beauty, every word and brush stroke telling a story of its own.

“I know so,” you whispered, leaning closer to him. As his lips met yours, a surge of electricity shot through your body, causing your heart to flutter and your stomach to do somersaults. In that moment, you were painfully aware of how deeply in love you were with him - with his mind, his touch, the way he loved you back with such fierce passion. A million stars seemed to explode around you as you lost yourself in his touch.

As you basked in the warmth of his embrace, his lips traced a path of delicate kisses along your neck and collarbone. His breath was sweet with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, intoxicating your senses. Lost in the moment, you couldn't help but smile and revel in the feeling of complete contentment.

With a smirk on his face, he pulled back slightly to look into your eyes. "How did I get so lucky with you?" he asked, his words dripping with adoration.

You returned his gaze, feeling your heart swell with love for him. "Some may say it's fate," you replied softly. But as you melted under his touch and the sound of his voice, you knew that it was something much deeper than mere chance.

It was a force stronger than any other, binding the two of you together in an unbreakable bond.