#try to draw something serious challenge (impossible)

[hoshifighting]

I’ve always thought about this but, how would seventeen react to you faking your orgasm

seungcheol “wait, what?” he’ll say, eyebrows furrowing as he pulls back, looking at you like you just pulled the rug out from under him. “are you serious right now?” he’s not mad, but you can see that competitive side of him flare up. he wants to know if he’s not doing something right. “come on, babe, you gotta be honest with me. if you’re not there, tell me so i can fix it.” he’s the type to take it to heart. seungcheol wants to please you, and if he thinks he’s not, it hits him hard. but if he realizes you’re playing with him, oh, you’d better believe he’ll turn it around. “you think you can fake it with me? nah, i know you better than that. now let’s see you really enjoy it.” and from there he’ll definitely give you a show, making sure you feel every bit of pleasure until you can’t help but give in for real.

jeonghan “let’s see if you can keep that up, hmm?” he’ll definitely ramp it up, hitting all the right spots, making sure you’re squirming and gasping for real this time. jeonghan knows how to play the game, and he’s determined to make you admit you’re enjoying it. “really? you think i wouldn’t notice?” he’d tease, the corner of his mouth lifting. “you’re cute, but come on, babe. you gotta do better than that.” he’d be so amused, finding it kind of funny that you’d even try to pull that on him, jeonghan isn’t one to let that slide. he’ll take it as a challenge.

joshua’s the type to notice the little things, so when he catches on that you’re not being completely honest, his brows would furrow a bit. “wait, why are you… faking it?” he’d ask, his voice soft, but there’s a hint of disbelief in it. “did i do something wrong?” he’d sound genuinely worried, because the last thing he wants is for you to not enjoy yourself. if you tell him it's because you wanted him to do this or that, like speed up; “you know, if you wanted me to go harder, all you had to do was ask baby.”

junhui’d be totally thrown off. “huh? wait, you didn’t…” he’d stammer, pausing to look at you, his brows knitting together. he’d be a bit hurt at first, like, did he not make you feel good enough? “are you okay? did i mess up?” but then, as you explain, you’d catch a glimpse of that funny side of him coming out. “oh, so you just wanted to see me work for it?” he’d tease, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “well, now i’m gonna make sure you feel it, every inch of it.”

hoshi hears that little moan you let out, and he pauses, tilting his head like a puppy. “babe?” he’d ask, a little breathless, his brows raised. “did you just…?” when you finally confess, he’d burst into laughter, his bright smile lighting up the room. “ya! you little sneak!” he’d tease, shaking his head. “you’re lucky i love a challenge.” he’d dive right back in, he’d ramp it up, making sure to work you up until you’re genuinely moaning for him.

wonwoo’s usually pretty observant, so when he hears that breathy fake moan, he raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly to look at you. “really? is that how it’s gonna be?” he chuckles. and then he’d hit you with those slow, deep thrusts, a wicked smile on his face as he watches you squirm. “come on, give me the real thing this time,” he’d tease, stimulation you where he cans, tits, clit, neck.

woozi’d pause for a second, giving you that signature eyebrow raise, looking way too cute to be caught off guard. “no, you didnt.” he’d frown, trying to process what just happened. “you can’t just go around faking it like that. let’s see how long you can keep that act up. i’ll make you cum so hard that faking it won’t even cross your mind.” makes you double tired.

minghao'd know exactly when you're faking it, that sharp intuition of his kicking in right away. he'd probably play along at first, all smug and calm. “is that how you really want to do this?” he’d chuckle, making sure you know he’s about to make it impossible to fake anything next time, drawing it out until you're absolutely ruined.

mingyu would take it personally. if you fake it, he’d definitely pout for a second, confused. “did i… not do it right?” but once he gets over the initial hit to his ego, he'd go all in to prove a point. “you won’t have to fake it next time, trust me,” he’d mutter, then absolutely rail you until there's no mistaking how good he’s making you feel.

seokmin would probably be a combination of adorably flustered and a little offended. “wait, really? you faked it?” he’d sound almost hurt but would quickly turn it into a challenge. “no way i’m letting you get away with that.” he'd get serious real quick, making sure you’re not faking anything next time, putting in extra effort just to hear you scream his name for real.

seungkwan omg, seungkwan would be so dramatic about it! “you WHAT?!” he'd be half in disbelief, half ready to give you a lecture on honesty. but deep down, it’d spark his competitive side, and he'd be determined to make you feel it all the way. “okay, no more faking. i’ll make sure of that,” and then he’d put in work to have you trembling for real next time.

vernon would be the most chill about it, but he’d definitely call you out. “wait… did you just fake that? i mean why would you—” he’d ask, eyebrows raised. “nah, we’re not doing that again,” he'd say in his low, calm voice, all serious, before starting to pound into your again, reaching for your clit, or your weak spots, working harder so you don't act it.

chan would know exactly what’s up. with his own praise kink, he’d catch on quick if you weren’t really into it, and he’d take it as a confront. “oh, you wanna fake it with me?” he'd smirk, his hands gripping your hips harder. “lemme show you what it feels like to really cum.” he'd flip the script, making sure he works you over until faking it isn’t even an option.

[werew0lfb0y]

I mean it when I say I need children to be in the online therian/alterhuman community less. Y'all are stupid. Like I get it, you find an older creator that you like and absorb every opinion they have and spout out on their youtube or tik tok. But I need any younger alterhumans that see this to understand that this community it not made for children! Especially online, nothing online is made for children. The alterhuman community has become so divided over the stupidest things. Yes, kink exists here because adults and sexually active people exist here too. I don't need to hear another 13 year old whine about how "but animal packers mean you're a z00! You're so disgusting ew go kys paraphile!" Because guess what. A piece of fabric or silicone that looks like animal genitals does not make someone a zoo.

Like, teenage therian community try not to water down incredibly serious labal challenge; impossible!

Do y'all want to know what makes you a zoo? Being attracted to actual irl animals! Not having an animalistic packer, not drawing nsfw furry art, not pleasuring yourself to art like that . No, none of these things make you a zoo because no actual animals are getting involved it's that simple guys!

I also need therian creators to stop dating each other, especially online. It's just dangerous. I see too many therian couples that break up and then one will post a supposed exposé about their ex. YOU ARE ALL CHILDREN. YOU ARE NOT READY TO BE DATING YET OF COURSE YOUR RELATIONSHIP WAS BAD YOU DONT KNOW HOW THEY WORK! I see therian couples where one of them has lied about their age to the other person or they break up and the larger creators fans will swarm the other one with death threats.

I'd briefly like to touch on idol culture in the community as well. I'm just gonna say it, it's creepy as fuck. I don't like it, it makes me uncomfortable. Also rating chanals is wierd to me like just don't? It's so to me if you rate what is essentially someone's online portrayal of their life or hobbies.

That's all for now cause this post is long enough but if anyone thinks of something else to add then tell me.

[toribellsa]

tw: touching without consent, violence a little

No one was surprised to watch Franco Colapinto laugh cheerfully at something in garage number 4. Week after week, he, like a shadow, appears in the McLaren garage, always trying to be in the field of view of the senior pilot of the team - Lando Norris. The charm of Alpin's young pilot was incredibly magnetic. His relaxed mixture of flirtation and confidence attracted people, but under this charming appearance there was something dangerous hidden from the views of ordinary observers. Franco's smile was a bright spark from which flames could flare and his eyes glowed with mischief. He moved around the paddock like a predator, gliding smoothly behind Lando, adjusting to his pace, trying to be close enough to touch Norris.

Franco's manner of communication was seductive. A slight playful tease that enveloped Lando's feelings, making it impossible to simply ignore. The youngster's words were light and tantalising, but also contained the promise of something bigger, tucked away on the surface. Every racing week he found new ways to draw attention to himself. Franco easily touched Lando's palm during the conversation, leaned a little closer into his personal space, whispering something funny, flashed a smile, for every successful and not very Norris joke. Franco's charisma was intoxicating, a dangerous charm wrapped in a wrapper of cute face and soft curls.

Lando, naturally charismatic and good-natured, responded with a playful grin. He flirted easily in response, threw witty remarks and laughed with the Arghenin, because he sincerely found him funny and cute. Their communication was like a light game or a light-hearted dance. Nothing serious, Norris was just himself. Easy to climb, a popular pilot who could afford nothing insignificant friendly flirting with one of his colleagues on the grid.

Oscar watched every interaction between Lando and Franco from the outside, immersed in his own doubts. He saw Colapinto's flirtatious glances, the way the Alpin pilot's eyes lingered on Lando for too long during the interview, the way his hand could seem to touch accidentally. All this was an open manifestation of interest, a playful challenge, to which he received the same playful answer. Piastri bites his lower lip painfully, seeing how Franco does not hide his feelings, but openly and boldly declares his interest in teammate Oscar. Because he could not afford the same ease in his feelings.

And Piastri, watching what was happening, plunged deeper into the abyss of uncertainty. Their relationship with Lando remained something fragile between them. McLaren's drivers teetered on the edge between teammates and friends with privilege. They exchanged steamy kisses after races, spent holidays together during long breaks and hugged tightly at night in one of their apartments, but were too cowardly to talk to each other straight. Oscar's heart was bursting with this ambiguity. After all, every touch, every gaze of Lando seemed like a fragile thread that tied them together, but somewhere deep inside, the young man was painfully aware that all this might not be enough between them.

The guy's heart tightened painfully every time he caught the gaze of his teammate during the pilot parade, not facing him. Piastri watched as Norris's attention seemed to be focused on the young Argentine, on his confident, teasing smile. Lando's eyes lit up with jokes whispered in his ear, and then he completely bent with laughter while his hand lay firmly on Franco's side. Oscar saw Colapinto's gaze: pleased and confident, looking directly at him in moments like he knew something. Something that he and Lando tried to hide as deep as possible in this harsh world of Formula One.

By the end of the season, the tension between in McLaren's garage was slowly approaching its boiling point. Franco's flirtation became more and more bold. His touches were longer, his fingers gliding confidently over Lando's hand as he whispered something playful that made a mischievous grin appear on pilot McLaren's face. The guy's flirty smiles, the way he looked at Norris with defiance, seemed to suggest that he wanted the man for himself. And Lando, in spite of everything, did not actually even try to resist this frenzied dose of Argentine charm. He only played along, grinning and joking back.

Oscar was painfully aware that things were changing. If earlier he was still sure that all this would not have serious consequences, now every slight flirtation, every grin with which Franco looked at Lando, reinforced the feeling of uselessness in Piastri. He began to distance himself from Norris, desperate to create distance, hoping that if he withdrew physically and emotionally, the pain of uncertainty would lessen. If he is not there, perhaps his heart will not shatter when Lando inevitably prefers Franco to him.

Lando, meanwhile, struggled to talk to Oscar about their uncertain relationship, about their feelings, but Oscar steadfastly avoided those conversations. When Norris finally cornered him, seeking clarity, they engaged in a bitter tussle - the words harsh and bitter, the accusations flying like sparks. The tension between them was growing and eventually resulted in a storm, the power of which no one could predict.

It was hard not to notice that Oscar increasingly began to avoid his gaze, and his movements became more and more nervous when Lando approached him. There always seemed to be a shadow of tension in the deep brown eyes. Norris firmly decided for himself that it was time to clarify the situation, this could no longer continue.

On the day they were finally alone, he immediately came closer, trying to start a conversation, but his teammate only turned away, as if trying to avoid a collision.

- Oscar, what's going on? - asked Lando, his voice sounding urgent and genuine. - Why are you avoiding me?

Oscar sighed heavily, his face was tense, and a shadow of hidden pain lay in his eyes.

- Nothing happens,- he said quietly, avoiding the eye of the senior driver.

- Don't lie to me, - Norris insisted, feeling the urge to understand boil over inside. - I feel something is wrong. And you know I'm not going to fall behind.

He tried to find the right words to try to reach Piastri, but in response he met only a dull silence, which seemed deafening to him.

- I just thought you and I were more than that, - Suddenly Oscar's quiet but furious voice cut through the air. - It looks like I was wrong.

Lando felt his heart breaking, everything that happened seemed unrealistic to him. He tried to reach the guy in front of him, but he stepped back sharply, his face twisted in pain.

- Do you even need me, Lan? Or am I just a fallback you don't have to worry too much about?

- Where did that come from? - Lando's eyes widened in shock. - Osс, I...

- You're flirting with Franco right in front of my eyes, as if what's between us never mattered. - Oscar's laughter was bitter, and his expression twisted in the likeness of a smile. - Do you know what it is? Or are you so busy basking in his attention that you seem to forget I'm even here?

- Franco? - Lando frowned, sincerely surprised. - God, Osс, it's just... I didn't even think it mattered to you.

- You don't understand, do you? It's not about flirting, it's about you acting like I don't matter. I'm like invisible when he's around. - The young man's eyes glistened moist, he shivered finely, his hands clenched tightly in fists. - Do you even see how you make me feel?

- Oscar, please listen. - Norris came closer, lowering his voice, trying to smooth things over. - I didn't want you to feel that way. I swear I'm not interested in Сolapinto. I always look and only looked at you. Everyone else is just background noise.

- really? Because I feel like I'm fighting for your attention every damn day. - Piastri turned away from him and began to slowly adjust the clasp on his racing suit. His voice sounded hollow and tired. - What is the point of us then?

- Oscar, don't say that. - Lando reached out, his voice full of regret. - I had no idea about it all, but...

- You never notice. - Oscar interrupted. - I may be overreacting. I may just be insecure and have it all in my head, but I'm scared, Lando. I'm scared of losing you, and every time I see you flirt, I feel like I'm falling apart on the inside. I see how you look at him and just can't get rid of the thoughts that he is not good enough. That there will always be someone else, someone better, more interesting, sexier. And you don't help fight it.

- Don't say that, Osс. I never meant to hurt you. - The guy looked dazed, the words cut into him like a punch. Norris's face was pale. He reached out again, his voice trembling. - You matter to me. And I don't want to lose you.

But Piastri only stepped back, there was nothing but fatigue in his hoarse voice.

- No. No, thank you. Just - just leave me alone. Please.

Their argument was an emotional encounter, scarring both of them. Oscar felt crushed, stung by Lando and his own vulnerability. Every word was like a punch, every silence like a painful reminder of what eludes him. The day dragged on, and Lando's thoughts were occupied with only one thing: how to regain Oscar's trust, how to make him understand that he was still important.

After a grueling race, Lando's emotions flooded. He finished exhausted, his thoughts full of regret and longing. Lando had just left the pedestal, walking slowly to the garage, idly watching the movement around, as if trying to find answers in the noise of motors and the crash of tires. Inside, his thoughts boiled, his anxiety and determination intertwined in a tight lump that made his brain boil. He knew the situation had reached a point where the silence could no longer last. His heart told him it was time to sort out what was going on between them all. Finally being honest with Franco, with Oscar, with himself.

Franco was flirtatious and charming, his playful energy like a small whirlwind whizzing through a pen along with his laughter. And the spark in his eyes made him return his energy against his will. The Argentine popped up outside McLaren's garage every weekend as if it was the best part of his race weekend. His assertiveness and interest in the papaya boy created tension that was keenly felt in the air. Norris understood that Franco wanted more than just friendly flirting. Each time, this young man challenged him, urging him to go further, checking Lando's boundaries.

But the Briton's heart ached for the Oscars. Lando saw deep uncertainty emerge in his teammate, so familiar to Norris. He understood that their relationship was vague, that everything could disappear at any time if he was not careful. But Oscar's sincerity, his soft, lovelorn looks and the warm smile that could melt any anxiety in Lando's heart were special to him. This guy was getting closer to him, and his heart was developing an affection that he hadn't known before.

Such games can destroy what the guy so wanted to save. And Franco was the spark that could burn everything. Clarity has finally settled in Norris's heart.

Lando understood that in order to preserve what was dear to him, it was necessary to act. He decided to find Franco to sort out. Not only to clarify the situation, but also open to confront him. After all, he should have dotted the "and" long ago.

Pierre, observant as ever, told Lando that Franco had gone to the McLaren garage to search for him. Without hesitation, Norris slipped out of the paddock chaos, wading through a crowd of busy team employees, journalists and racegoers. His heart was racing. Because no matter what, the Oscars were still more precious to him than anything. And as confusing as their love triangle became, deep down he knew he couldn't let Colapinto's charm or Piastri's doubts ruin what they had.

The narrow lane behind the McLaren garage was a shaded corridor shrouded in twilight, only slightly diluted by the measuring neon and light of the lights that illuminated the track. The muffled hum of distant conversations, the faint thud of moving work equipment and the sound of wind were the only sounds breaking the tense silence. This place was a secluded space, a small snug where drivers could escape to be alone with themselves and their thoughts.

But on this evening, that quiet retreat became a trap.

Franco's hands were aggressive and strong, clutching Oscar's hips with the possessive air of a hunter claiming his prey. His knee, squeezed between Pistri's hips, kept the guy firmly pressed against a cold brick wall, and crafty eyes sparkled with a mischievous, predatory sheen. Colapinto's lips curled in a grin that was both confident and dangerous, like a silent warning that he wasn't afraid to move on.

Oscar's face was ghostly pale, his cheeks blazing with exhaustion and adrenaline, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. His lips, parched from the heat, stirred faintly, unable to articulate a coherent protest as his trembling hands thrust in vain against Franco's chest and shoulders, trying to create space to break free. His whole body trembling with fatigue after a difficult both physically and emotionally race, Oscar is sure that the damn heat of Singapore gave him a heatstroke, but also out of fear, because this situation was definitely not the one he was used to. Piastri's breathing was interrupted by adrenaline. Sweat glass along the hairline, and all his muscles felt weak, leaving no chance of normal resistance. His fingers clenched into fists, his nails dug into his palms, as if trying to strengthen him in reality.

Franco's lips gently touched Oscar's neck, leaving a hot, damp trail that appeared to burn the pilot's skin McLaren. This made the young man shudder, but not out of desire, but out of fear. The Argentine's breath was warm and heavy, Colapinto whispered something passionately into Oscar's burning ear, he could not make out what it was, but his tone. He made Piastri's insides twist in horror. The tone was demanding, possessive and hungry as hell. Oscar screamed faintly as Franco's teeth fell into his shoulder through the nomex tissue, definitely leaving marks on his pale skin.

Oscar's eyes darted frantically for a way out or a savior, but all he could focus on was the whirlwind of emotions within him. Fear, shame and despair that they sang so closely with each other that he could not understand where one begins and another ends. His hands trembled violently as he tried to push Franco away, to break out of his stranglehold, but his body was weak and resistance slipped from his hands like grains of sand.

Franco's fingers slowly, deliberately brought out the patterns at Oscar's waist, then slid under the fabric, trying to touch the exposed skin underneath. The guy's other palm clung firmly to Oscar's thigh, lifting him with an imperious squeeze that made Piastri's body unstoppably tense. The predator's smile appeared on Franco's face as he leaned closer, touching Oscar's ear with his lips.

- Relax, - Franco whispered, his voice full of mock tenderness. His lips pressed fleetingly against Oscar's skin, leaving a long, hot print on her like an invisible property mark. His teeth tenderly nibbled at soft flesh, a calculated gesture marking his territory. With his free hand, he grabbed pilot McLaren by the chin, tilting his face so as to look into his eyes.

Piastri's wide-eyed eyes ran desperately around, panic and helplessness raging in his mind. His lips opened slightly, but he did not utter a word - only a stifled sigh - and instinctively tried to break free. But Franco's body pressed even closer, holding him motionless like a slamming trap.

- You know, I never wanted Lando, although he's definitely hot. - Alpin's pilot's lips were sliding slowly down Oscar's cheek but he was turning his head straight away, which caused Colapinto to grab him tightly by the chin. - I always wanted you, Osс.

Oscar winced at how mockingly Franco uttered the nickname Lando always used. Softly and gently in Norris's lips. And now it sounded so wrong that it made you close your eyes.

Suddenly, a loud, imperative voice broke the tense silence:

- What the fuck, Franco? - There was naked rage in Lando's voice, every word as sharp as a blade.

Norris burst into the alley, his appearance was impressive, his eyes burned with rage and a sense of ownership. His jaws were clenched so tightly that it seemed as if he were grinding his teeth; fists were pressed to the sides and trembling with barely restrained rage. His chest heaved with heavy breaths, the veins on his neck swelled with efforts to remain calm. Without hesitation, he rushed forward, pondering each step, taking his eyes off Franco and Oscar.

Lando stepped forward, each step was heavy and purposeful. His eyes were fixed on the stage in front of him, on Oscar's weak figure and Franco's smug expression.

The tension in the air increased as Lando's gaze turned murderous and his voice dropped to a growl. Colapinto's grin faltered for a split second but he recovered quickly, eyes sparkling with defiance and an exasperated grimace appearing on the youngster's face.

- I just get what I want,- Franco said quietly, his voice full of feigned innocence but at the same time provocative. His smile was slow and deliberate, his eyes sparkling with fun and defiance. - Oh, I've never said who I'm interested in, right?

Lando's jaws clenched, his fists trembling with pent-up rage. His chest billowed as he fought the urge to pounce, to punish the Argentine for crossing a line he should never have approached. Slowly, he reduced the distance, standing high and imposing, his face inches from the face of Franco, still clutching the Australian in his grip.

His voice was cold and even, each word carefully weighted:

- If you ever touch him again, I'll make you regret it more than the Alpine contract, okay? - His eyes dug into Franco, furious and adamant. - Oscar is mine.

Franco's lips curled again in a smug grin, but a glimmer of wobble on his face betrayed grudging respect. He shrugged, slowly removing his hands from Piastri's body, as if accepting a silent challenge.

Meanwhile, Oscar froze in place, shaking uncontrollably. His breathing was intermittent, his eyes filled with tears, which he refused to shed, but his body slowly betrayed him; a wildly pounding heart and trembling lips betrayed his inner chaos. His legs gave way, and a whirlwind of shame, fear and an unspoken desire to be safe reigned in his head. Every nerve in his body screamed for salvation, but he was chained to the spot, as if paralyzed. Even though he had already been released. His hands trembled as he instinctively tried to brush off Franco's touch, as if physically taking away the memory of what had just happened.

Lando's gaze softened slightly when he finally shifted his focus to Piastri. He turned to Oscar, gently but persistently directing him toward him. His voice was gentle but commanding, a lifeline in a storm of chaos.

- Are you okay, Osс?

- I... I need a minute. - The youngster's voice was weak and Norris saw Oscar's always calm shell slowly bursting at the seams.

- Hey, hey, you're safe now, - he whispered, gently wrapping his arm around Oscar's face. His thumb slid across someone else's cheek, stroking gently. - I got you. No one will touch you.

Franco, watching the scene with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction, took a step back and finally spoke in a cold, calculating voice.

- Just remember, Lando, I'm not done yet.

Norris's eyes darkened, his promise glowing.

- Stay away from him, Franco. Or next time I won't be so gentle.

The lane went quiet again, full of unspoken words and heavy emotions. Oscar leaned toward Lando, seeking solace, while Lando held his boyfriend tightly as he watched the Argentine move away.

[riinniies]

|| ITOSHI RIN ||

Plot : Some short stories of Rin and you after marriage, Rin and you from Soulmate AU and red string of fate.

Fluff! Husband rin, Wife you, rin is no longer tsun tsun.. he's growing up guys :'(, and i'm seriously wanted to write smut but its impossible and embarassing idk why..

this is BONUS CHAPPP ! !

Words count : 795

PART ONEEE ! !

PART TWOO ! !

My writings

I hope you like ittt !! <33

BONUS CHAPTER : After the marriage

• A Few Months After

Marrying Rin was a journey full of small surprises. No life is truly perfect, but with Rin, you learn that imperfections make your relationship stronger.

That morning, you were busy in the kitchen trying out a new pancake recipe. The pan in front of you started to smoke, and the pancake batter in it looked more abstract than a perfect circle. Rin appeared at the kitchen doorway, wearing a jogging shirt slightly damp with sweat. He leaned against the doorframe, surveying the messy kitchen.

"Are you experimenting with food or inventing a new weapon?" he teased, folding his arms across his chest.

You rolled your eyes, giving him a look of protest. "I'm trying to make pancakes for us. But clearly, I'm not as good as I thought."

Rin walked closer, peering into the pan on the stove. With his signature deadpan tone, he remarked, "It looks like this pancake has given up on life."

"Then why don’t you help instead of criticizing?" you challenged, glaring at him.

He sighed, took the spatula from your hand, and started making pancakes with surprisingly skilled movements. You watched in silence, slightly confused but impressed.

"You know how to cook?" you finally asked, breaking the silence.

Without looking at you, he replied, "When you live alone long enough, you learn to survive. I don’t like relying on others."

His answer was simple, but somehow, it made you smile.

• One Year After

Your life together had found a comfortable rhythm, even though Rin was often busy with his training schedule. You continued your art projects, which were becoming more recognized. Still, there were simple moments you always cherished together, like that evening.

Rin had just returned from a long training session. You were sitting in the living room, reviewing sketches for an upcoming exhibition. He approached you, looking tired but still making time to come closer.

"What are you drawing this time?" he asked, glancing at your sketchbook.

"Landscapes of the cities we’ve visited," you answered, showing him a few pages.

He studied the drawings carefully. "Why always landscapes? Why not try something more… abstract?"

His question made you look at him, raising an eyebrow. "You like abstract art?"

He gave a small nod.

"Sometimes, things that aren’t clear are more intriguing. Like us when we first met."

You fell silent, realizing how far your relationship had come. Even though Rin wasn’t the best with words, everything he said felt sincere.

• Five Years After

After five years together, your relationship was filled with small routines that made your home feel warmer. Rin often spent his time coaching young players, while you worked from home on commissioned art projects.

One day, Rin came home with a serious expression. You were busy in your studio, working on a large mural you had just started.

"Look at this," he said, placing an invitation on the table.

You picked it up, reading the text on the card. "Best Young Coach Award? Rin, this is amazing!"

He simply nodded, as if it weren’t a big deal. But you knew this recognition meant a lot to him.

"You always underestimate yourself," you said with a smile.

He looked at you and replied calmly, "Because I know someone will always believe in me, even when I’m unsure."

• Ten Years After

Now, you lived in a modest house on the outskirts of the city. Rin had retired from football and focused on mentoring, while you ran a small art studio that also served as a gallery.

You had a five-year-old son who shared his father’s serious demeanor but had a wild imagination that often made you laugh.

One night, after your son had fallen asleep, Rin sat on the back porch with a cup of tea. You joined him, sitting in the chair next to his.

"We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?" he said suddenly, gazing at the stars above.

You turned to him, smiling softly. "Yes. Sometimes I still can’t believe we’ve made it this far."

He looked at you, and for the first time that evening, you saw a deeply genuine smile on his face. "You know, my life has been better since I met you."

You held his hand, feeling the familiar warmth. "I feel the same way, Rin."

In the quiet of the night, under a sky full of stars, you both knew your journey together was far from over. But whatever lay ahead, you were ready to face it as long as you were together.

2nd THE ENDDD!!

|| Thank you (again) for reading my works, i love u guys :'xxx

[nxzz-skz]

trapped in these walls

ᯓ★ non-idol!Jay falling for his roommates best friend (fem!reader)

ᯓ★warnings: fluff, angst, kissing, slight mention of drinking

ᯓ★note: i'm starting a tag list so leave a comment or ask to be added!

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Jay was always a big fan of order. He liked his life structured, his routines meticulous, and his relationships always carefully managed. That's why moving in with Jake had seemed perfect. Jake was easygoing, friendly, and-most importantly-absent enough to leave Jay to his music and studies.

He didn't plan on Jake's best friend throwing his world into disorder.

It started on a rainy Thursday evening. Jay had come home soaked from the downpour, guitar in hand and his hair and jacket dripping onto the floor.He kicked off his shoes and walked into the living room, fully expecting to find it empty. Instead, there she was.

She was curled up on the couch next to Jake, her legs tucked under her, a steaming mug in her hand as she laughed at something Jake said. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt that looked suspiciously like it belonged to Jake, her laugh deep and unrestrained, the kind that filled the space around her and made everything else feel insignificant.

“Oh, you’re back,” Jake said casually, glancing at Jay.

She turned, her eyes meeting his, and Jay froze. She was beautiful in the most distracting way—bright eyes, a wicked grin, and an air of confidence that left him momentarily speechless.

“You must be Jay,” she said, standing up with an easy grace that made him feel unreasonably self-conscious. Her smile was warm but mischievous, like she was sizing him up and daring him to keep up with her energy. She offered him a hand.

“Uh, yeah,” Jay mumbled. He glanced at Jake, silently asking who this whirlwind of a person was.

“Y/N,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “Jake’s best friend. I’m kind of a package deal around here.”

Jake smirked. “She’s here so much, I should probably start charging her rent.”

Y/N laughed in response but Jay stayed silent. He was too focused on the way her hand felt in his, warm and firm, and the way her eyes seemed to study him like she already knew all his secrets.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Y/N quickly became a constant presence in Jay’s life. She showed up at the apartment nearly every day, either with Jake or on her own, and somehow managed to make herself at home in every corner of their space.

She was everywhere—lounging on the couch with Jake, raiding the fridge for snacks, sprawled out on the floor working on some project for school. Jay tried to keep his distance, but it was impossible.

She had this way of drawing him out without even trying. When Jake wasn’t around, she’d strike up conversations with him, asking questions about his music or teasing him about how serious he always looked.

“You know, you’re allowed to smile,” she said one evening, leaning over the back of the couch as Jay sat on the floor, fiddling with his guitar.

“I smile,” he replied defensively.

“Not that I’ve seen.” She grinned, resting her chin in her hand. “What’s it going to take to get one out of you?”

Jay glanced up at her, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I’m not that easy to crack.”

“Challenge accepted.”

And just like that, she became an undeniable part of his life.

One night, she found him on the balcony, staring out at the city lights with his guitar resting on his knee.

“You always look so serious,” she said, stepping outside and leaning against the railing.

“Maybe I am,” he replied, not looking up.

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. “What’s so heavy on your mind?”

Jay hesitated. He wasn’t used to sharing his thoughts with anyone, let alone someone like her. But something about her felt safe, like she could see through all the walls he’d built.

“Music,” he said finally. “I’ve been stuck.”

She smiled. “Want to talk about it?”

That night, they talked for hours, long after Jake had gone to bed. Y/N had a way of making him feel lighter, like the world wasn’t quite so heavy when she was around.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

As the weeks passed, Jay found himself looking forward to her visits more than he cared to admit. She was funny, smart, and unapologetically herself, and he couldn’t help but be drawn to her.

The problem was Jake.

Jake was fiercely protective of Y/N, and while he never explicitly said he had feelings for her, it was clear he thought of her as more than just a friend. The way he lit up when she walked into the room, the way he always found excuses to touch her arm or brush her hair out of her face—it was obvious to anyone who was paying attention.

Jay told himself that his growing feelings for Y/N were inappropriate, that he needed to keep his distance. But the more time he spent with her, the harder that became.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

The first real crack in their dynamic came one evening when Jake was out of town for a soccer tournament. Y/N showed up at the apartment with a bottle of wine and her usual bright energy.

“Jake’s not here,” Jay said when he opened the door.

“I know,” she replied, holding up the wine with a playful smirk. “But you are. Come on, I’m not drinking this alone.”

They ended up on the balcony, the cool night air wrapping around them as they shared the wine and a couple snacks, and talked about everything from childhood memories to their biggest fears.

At some point, Y/N moved closer, a little tipsy, her shoulder brushing against his. Jay’s heart raced, and he tried to ignore the way her laughter sent shivers down his spine.

“You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met,” she said softly, looking at him with an intensity that was almost suffocating.

Jay swallowed hard. “You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t I?”

Before he could respond, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant, but when he didn’t pull away, it deepened, her hands tangling in his hair as his slid around her waist. The world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them and the electricity sparking between them.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his. “Tell me this isn’t just in my head.”

Jay shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not.”

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

For weeks, they tried to keep their relationship a secret, stealing moments whenever Jake wasn’t around. But secrets have a way of unraveling, and theirs came to light in the worst possible way.

Jake walked in on them one afternoon, Y/N straddling Jay’s lap on the couch, her hands buried in his hair as they kissed like the world was ending.

“What the hell?” Jake’s voice was sharp, filled with shock and anger.

Y/N scrambled off Jay, her face pale.

“Jake, I—”

“How long has this been going on?” he demanded, his gaze fixed on Jay.

Jay opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Jake’s jaw tightened. “Unbelievable.” He turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Y/N burst into tears, and Jay pulled her into his arms, his heart breaking at the pain on her face.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

In the days that followed, Jake avoided them both, and the tension in the apartment became unbearable. Jay considered ending things with Y/N, convinced that their relationship wasn’t worth losing Jake’s friendship over.

But when he told her this, she looked at him with tears in her eyes. “So you’re just going to throw this away? After everything?”

“I don’t know what else to do,” he admitted, his voice heavy with guilt.

She shook her head, stepping back. “If you can’t fight for this, maybe it’s better if we end it.”

She walked out, and for the first time in years, Jay felt truly alone.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Weeks passed, and Jay poured all his pain and longing into his music. One night, he recorded a song—a raw, emotional confession of love and regret.

Jake was the first to hear it.

“You wrote this for her,” he said, his voice unreadable.

Jay nodded. “I’m sorry, Jake. For everything.”

Jake sighed. “I was mad, yeah. But you love her, don’t you?”

“I do,” Jay admitted.

“Then don’t screw it up.”

⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Jay found Y/N at her favorite café, sitting by the window with a book in her hands.

“Hey,” he said softly, his heart pounding.

She looked up, her expression guarded. “What are you doing here?”

“I love you,” he blurted out. “And I was an idiot for letting you go. I’ll fight for this, for us, if you’ll let me.”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Then she smiled—a real, breathtaking smile—and stood, pulling him into a kiss that made everything else disappear.

ᯓ★ Send an ask or leave a comment if there's any fics or tropes you could recommend for me to write!

ᯓ★ Reblogs appreciated!

ᯓ★ taglist:

[brainddeadd]

The One Where Jack Meddles

Trevor has loved Yn Hughes since the day he met her.

Yn Hughes has loved Trevor Zegras since the day she met him.

Jack Hughes is sick of his sister and best friend pinning for each other and decides to do something about it.

Quinn Hughes thinks that if anyone is going to date his little sister, Trevor's the best option.

Luke Hughes just wants Yn to cook him some damn food.

The warm sun cast a golden hue over the Hughes family lake house as laughter and music spilled out from the large deck. Friends mingled, drinks flowed, and the scent of grilled burgers wafted through the air. Yn Hughes stood at the edge of the lake, her toes dipped in the cool water as she watched Trevor Zegras playfully toss a football with Jack. She couldn’t help but smile; he looked effortlessly charming, his hair tousled and eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Hey, Yn!” Jack called, glancing her way. “Are you going to join us or just stand there all day?”

“I might just watch you fail to catch that pass,” she shot back, her playful tone masking the butterflies in her stomach.

Trevor turned, flashing a grin that made her heart skip a beat. “I think I’ll catch it just fine. Want to make a bet?”

She bit her lip, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “What’s the wager?”

“If I catch it, you owe me dinner. If I drop it, I’ll owe you a night out,” he replied, confidence radiating off him.

Yn felt her pulse quicken at the thought of spending more time with Trevor. “Deal!”

As the sun set and the sky turned into a canvas of pinks and oranges, the party transitioned to the deck. Laughter echoed as everyone gathered around a fire pit, drinks in hand. Luke leaned against the railing, glancing between Yn and Trevor, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Hey, Yn, can you whip up something delicious for us later?” he called out, clearly fishing for her attention.

“Only if you help me clean up!” she shot back, playfully rolling her eyes.

Jack, watching the banter unfold, took a deep breath. He had watched Trevor and Yn dance around each other for far too long. Tonight, he would do something about it. He stood up, a spark of determination in his eyes, fueled by a few drinks.

“Alright, everyone!” Jack announced, his voice loud enough to draw attention. “I think it’s time we talk about something serious.”

“What’s up, Jack?” Quinn asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jack glanced at Trevor, who looked both curious and nervous. “Trevor here has been hiding a big secret!”

Trevor’s eyes widened. “What? No, I haven’t—”

“Yeah, you have!” Jack pressed on, ignoring Trevor’s protests. “Trevor loves Yn!”

The words hung in the air, a sudden silence enveloping the group. Yn’s heart raced, her breath caught in her throat as she turned to Trevor. His face was a mixture of shock and embarrassment, turning crimson under the dim light of the fire.

The silence broke into a chorus of teasing laughter and playful jeers. “Wow, Trevor! You really need to be more vocal about your feelings!” one friend shouted.

“Dude, you can’t just drop that bombshell!” another added, grinning at Trevor’s discomfort.

Yn felt a thrill of hope wash over her. Did Jack really just say that? Trevor’s gaze met hers, wide-eyed, as if he was trying to gauge her reaction.

“Um, I—” Trevor stammered, running a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “I mean… it’s not that simple.”

Yn couldn’t help but smile, her heart fluttering. “What if it is?” she challenged gently, stepping closer to him.

Trevor opened his mouth to respond, but Jack cut in again, waving his hands dramatically. “Look, can we just agree that you two should stop pretending? Everyone here sees it!”

Quinn nodded, smirking. “Yeah, I think Trevor’s a great option for Yn. Just look at them!”

Luke leaned over, a mischievous grin on his face. “As long as Yn promises to cook me dinner, I’m all for it.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible,” Yn laughed, but her gaze never left Trevor’s.

Trevor finally found his voice, his eyes softening as he looked at her. “I’ve liked you since the day I met you, Yn. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

A wave of relief and joy washed over her, and she took a step closer. “Then maybe you should try saying it now?”

Trevor’s nervousness faded as a smile broke out on his face. “I like you, Yn. Like, really like you.”

The cheers erupted around them again, but this time, Yn didn’t care about the audience. She took another step closer, feeling emboldened by Trevor’s confession. “I like you too, Trevor. More than I can say.”

The laughter and teasing faded into the background as Trevor took her hand, his grip warm and reassuring. “So… dinner? Just the two of us?”

“Definitely,” she replied, her heart soaring.

Jack leaned back with a satisfied smirk, raising his drink. “And to think I did all of this for some good food!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius, Jack,” Luke teased, rolling his eyes.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Yn and Trevor shared a lingering gaze, finally free from the tension that had held them apart for too long. The night was just beginning, and for the first time, everything felt perfectly right.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Unspoken Attraction CL16

Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist :)

Warning : suggestive

Chapter 19: Hold Back

The soft hum of the engine was the only sound in Charles’ car as he drove through the quiet streets of Monaco. The crazyness of the club had long since ended, but the electricity lingering between him and Y/N felt impossible to ignore. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward—it was charged, every glance they shared heavy with unsaid words.

Charles tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening slightly as he fought the pull to look at her again. Her gaze was focused outside, but her mind was somewhere else entirely—he could tell.

“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice breaking the stillness.

She turned to him, her lips curving into a soft smile. “So are you.”

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating in the confined space of the car. “I’m just trying to keep my thoughts... under control.”

She tilted her head slightly, curious. “What kind of thoughts?”

Charles hesitated, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “The kind I probably shouldn’t say out loud while driving.”

Her laugh was soft and teasing, but the tension between them thickened. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs, the movement drawing Charles’ eyes for just a second too long.

“Then maybe we should stop driving,” she said, her tone light but with a challenge hidden in it.

Charles glanced at her, his jaw tightening. “Careful what you ask for.”

She held his gaze for a moment before looking back out the window, but a faint blush colored her cheeks.

He pulled into a quiet overlook on the edge of a vineyard, the lights of the distant town glittering below them. Charles cut the engine, and the silence that followed was deafening.

She turned to him, her expression softer now. “Why did you come here?”

Charles met her gaze, his eyes flicking between hers. “Because I didn’t want to drop you off yet. I’m not ready to let you go.”

Her breath hitched, and she avoid looking at his eyes, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “Charles...”

He reached over, his hand covering hers gently. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her. “Y/N, I’ve been holding back so much. I can’t anymore.”

Her eyes lifted to his, wide and filled with something he couldn’t quite name—hope? Fear? Desire?

Her breath hitched as his thumb brushed against her cheek. “I want this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long, but I didn’t know how to say it.”

Charles’ lips curved into a soft, relieved smile. “You just did.”

Before she could overthink it, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was as soft as it was urgent. It wasn’t tentative this time—it was real, raw, and full of everything they’d been holding back.

She hands found their way into his hair, pulling him closer, and Charles tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his hand slipping to her waist to pull her toward him. The small space of the car felt too confining, too hot, but neither of them cared.

“Y/N,” he murmured against her lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this. How much I’ve wanted you.”

Her response was a soft sigh, her lips trailing along his jawline as her hands clung to his shoulders. “Charles...”

His name on her lips was almost his undoing. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her onto his lap as the kiss grew more heated. But then, reality came crashing back, and Charles forced himself to pull away, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“We... we need to stop,” he said, his voice strained.

She blinked at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from their kiss. “Why?”

“Because if we don’t, I won’t be able to, and I don't want our first time to be in a car like this, I want to make it special” he admitted, his forehead resting against hers.

"Well, doing it in a Ferrari car by the Monaco's countryside is pretty special to me" She teased him.

"I'm serious Y/N, don't tempt me" Charles respond.

She let out a breathless laugh, her hands still resting on his chest. “Okay. Stopping. Got it.”

They both laughed softly, the tension easing slightly, but the connection between them felt stronger than ever.

Charles brushed a strand of hair from her face, his eyes filled with affection. “I meant what I said, Y/N. I’m all in. For as long as it takes.”

She smiled, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “Me too. I don’t want to be scared anymore, Charles. I just want... us.”

He kissed her forehead softly, holding her close. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

As they sat there, wrapped up in each other, the stars above them shining brightly, it felt like everything had finally fallen into place. They still had a long way to go, but for the first time, it felt like they were exactly where they were meant to be—together.

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

The elevator doors chimed softly as Charles and Y/N stepped out onto her hotel floor. The night had been a whirlwind of emotions, confessions, and a connection that neither could deny. But as they reached Y/N's room, her face fell into a frown as she rummaged through her purse.

“Is something wrong?” Charles asked, tilting his head.

She groaned, pulling her purse inside out. “I can’t find my keycard. I must have left it at the club or Pierre's car.”

Charles blinked, then rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to grin. “Well, that’s a problem.”

“No kidding,” she muttered, stepping back to knock on the door. Of course, no one answered—it was her private room.

“Reception is probably closed for the night,” Charles said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It’s pretty late.”

Her shoulders slumped. “What do I do now?”

Charles hesitated for a moment, then said, “You can stay in my place. At least for tonight.”

She blinked at him, her expression uncertain. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

Charles chuckled softly, his voice low and warm. “You’re not imposing. It’s not like I’ll leave you stranded in the hallway. Plus you've been here before, it's not the first time”

She hesitated a moment longer, then sighed. “Okay. But just for tonight.”

 

Charles pushed open the door to his place, gesturing for her to step inside. She took in the luxurious space—dim lighting, the spacious living-room with crisp white linens, and a view of the city lights twinkling through the large windows.

“You have a nice place” she said, trying to ease the tension.

Charles shrugged, setting his bag down. “Perks of the job."

This time he invited her to his bedroom directly, the quietness and the familiarity of the place helping her calming her nerves.

She disappeared into the bathroom to change while Charles tried to distract himself with his phone. But when she emerged, his breath hitched.

She had taken off her makeup, her skin glowing naturally, and was wearing one of his oversized Ferrari shirts that hung down to her mid-thigh. Her legs were bare, and it was clear she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Do you always steal people’s clothes?” he asked, his voice huskier than he intended.

She shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It was the only thing comfortable enough in your closet. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Charles swallowed hard, his eyes following her as she climbed into the bed. “Right. Of course.”

She yawned, pulling the blanket over herself. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, his voice tight as he settled in on his side of the bed.

But sleep didn’t come easily for him. The scent of her—a mix of her perfume and something uniquely her own—was intoxicating. He couldn’t stop glancing at her, the way the oversized shirt slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone.

“Stop staring,” she murmured, her eyes still closed.

“I wasn’t staring,” he lied.

She hummed softly, a smile playing on her lips. “Sure.”

The tension in the room was palpable. Charles shifted, trying to focus on anything but the woman lying beside him. But then she turned in her sleep, instinctively moving closer to him.

Her head rested lightly against his shoulder, and her hand brushed against his chest. Charles froze, his heart pounding as he looked down at her peaceful face.

“Y/N,” he whispered, but she didn’t respond.

He sighed, his hand hovering over her back before he finally gave in, resting it lightly on her waist. It was innocent enough, but the feeling of her warmth against him was almost too much to bear.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he muttered under his breath.

But she simply snuggled closer in her sleep, and Charles smiled despite himself. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, letting himself enjoy the moment.

“I guess I’ll have to tell you how I feel again tomorrow,” he whispered, finally letting his eyes close.

And though the tension between them lingered, for the first time that night, he felt at peace.

Taglist : @linnygirl09, @prttylight, @itsblowssoms, @leila-030304

[wrydd]

one night jonathan mentions about his dream of new york. "you shouldn't hold off your dreams." says billy. his voice is harder than it meant to be. he hates himself the moment the words come out of his mouth. he doesn't take them back. he never does. instead he draws another breath from the cigarette between his fingers. he doesn't look at his side, doesn't know if he can handle the broken look on the other's face.

"i don't. i prioritise. i choose my family."

billy scoffs. not at jonathan, he admires his devotion, he finds the words funny because he can't say the same. it's not a choice for him. he is always forced to choose his family.

"did i say something funny?"

to billy's surprise, jonathan doesn't sound upset. there's that rare tune in his voice when he is ready to accept a challenge.

"yeah," billy takes a quick drag from the cigarette and flicks it to the abyss in front of them, "you're still in denial." there's a smile at his lips when he turns to jonathan, he can't help it, he loves it when he finds something to push the boy.

"you know they can survive without you, right? but no," he stretches out the last syllable to not sound so serious, gets close to jonathan. now that his hand is empty, he doesn't know what to do with it. it's hard not to hold the face in front of him, so he puts it between them, on to the camaro's hood where they are sitting, "admit it, it makes you feel important-"

"billy, i can't just leave them."

"you can't just leave them."

they say at the same time. the look on jonathan's face changes at that so quickly that billy forgets what he was going to say. it's not anger in his eyes, it's not desire either.

just when billy decides to push him more and starts with a "yeah, yeah, i know, but..." jonathan says something that makes him pause. no, makes him freeze. he feels his every sense opening. he is aware of and numb to everything all at the same time. he doesn't even know how he managed to say "what?" or how jonathan heard him with how clenched his jaw was.

"i can't leave you, either."

he doesn't know if he heard it right. he must be. he was focused only on jonathan's mouth. and from the look on his face, billy knows he's serious. he means it.

"are you out of your fucking mind!"

he should feel flattered, really. but he can't bear to be the thing that keeps him from his dreams. he doesn't care if his anger can be heard in his voice. "it's your fucking dream, man, how can you be this stupid!?"

"there are more important things than impossible dreams."

he can't believe what he is hearing. how can someone say it with so much sincerity and without a hint of sorrow?

"i'm not one of them and you know it. i'll leave this shithole the minute i've got the chance." his voice is even now. like every time he lies. he knows the only way for him to get out is death. either his or neil's. maybe when max goes to college, he wants to think, neil would make him go with her. but even that is a slim chance. he is not someone who lets go of the leash.

"i know." jonathan says. the way he doesn't take his eyes off of billy's makes him feel like he's suffocating. "i guess i'm stupid for loving you." and there's that hurtful little smile billy was trying to get from him. it means victory. it means everything that the shadowy voice inside his head says is true. it means he ruined it for good now. the only thing he wanted this much since childhood, and the only thing that he won't even get close to deserve. "is that what you want to hear?"

billy wants to jump off of the cliff. considers it seriously this time. but the hand that reaches to his cuts his thoughts. he wonders how this could happen every fucking time. he looks down at the fingers slowly wrapping around each other. it's almost a reflex at this point. he can keep himself from touching the other but whenever jonathan makes a move, whether it's a rough kiss or a gentle touch like this, he feels the floodgates open inside his chest.

"i've made the decision long before you. and i know you will leave one day, i want you to leave. you're not happy here."

billy wants to say something. scream at him. wants to ask him what kind of a sick love confession is this. he feels like crying. instead he grabs jonathan's neck with his other hand and lets his emotions pour through his lips. a surprised sound escapes from jonathan but he gives into the kiss. billy can feel the boy's eyes go wide before they close. he can feel how his muscles relax despite billy's demanding mouth.

it's not like any kiss they had before. it's neither soft nor slow. it's passionate, but there isn't the taste of blood like the most times. no bites, no want for pain, no fight over dominance, just warm tongues hugging each other.

when they pull apart, his hand at jonathan's neck, brushing his fingers to the little hair there, jonathan's hands are at the sides of his face, forehead on forehead. there's a dreamy smile on both of their lips. "it's not impossible," his voice is not as loud as it meant to be, "you can still do it." he puts a distance between them and looks at jonathan in the eyes. "i can help you if you want." he can't help the way his smile gets wider. "you know my scores are better than yours."

"quit it already!" is the last thing jonathan says before he attacks for another kiss.

[docholligay]

Foreign Films to Expand Into

I saw a post regarding the writer’s strike that suggested Americans maybe make the effort of watching a foreign film, and while I agree, I didn’t think its tone was super helpful. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the queen of “Pull yourself out of a rut!!” but I don’t think “Americans are so fucking stupid they don’t realize other countries make movies” is actually trying to help anyone, so much as add to the idea that I guess the rest of the world is being forced to watch Captain America at gunpoint. 

But I DO want Americans to watch foreign films, in the same way that I want them to watch indie films, and I want people of all nations and stripes to expand their understanding of what they’re used to, to push themselves into something else they might like. I think my family would say that it’s fair to call me a person who is open to experience. I love to try things! That’s why I have the book draw, that’s why I go see movies I’m not sure about, that’s why I actively seek out foods I’ve never tried. You deserve to make your life interesting, to be challenged, to provide enrichment in your enclosure. You are worth the effort of a richly textured life! And movies are often a pretty cheap way to go about stepping outside of your comfort zone. I can’t wait to hear what you thought of any of these! 

Obviously, if you are not American, one  of these may not be foreign to you. Yes, I know that. 

I don’t hold out that all of these are hidden gems--some of them are, or were, extremely popular movies. Many of them won awards. But I do hold out that these are some of my favorites, and I would love to share them with you. I did, however, try to avoid anything that I thought already got a lot of play on tumblr: I don’t need to tell anyone here to watch Parasite, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, or any given Ghibili movie (Though you should watch Grave of the Fireflies--it’s my favorite). 

Pan’s Labyrinth (Mexico and Spain): This is my favorite foreign film of all time and I am breaking my, “I’m not putting any movie on here I don’t need to tell you to watch” rule right away because it is in fact one of my favorite movies of all time, American or foreign. It is a lush story about fantasy, facism, courage, and the horror of childhood. Warning: This movie is very very intense. Do not be fooled by the fact that Del Toro also does like fucking…Hellboy. He also can make very serious, very good movies, and he does not shy away from the brutality of the Spanish Civil War. If you liked Labyrinth but you’re fully grown now and I want a story about fantasy bargains for the adult crowd, this is for you. 

The Orphanage (Spain): I love Spanish horror, and so it was really, really difficult to only pick one. But this has been one of my favorites for years, a classic Spanish slow burn that deals with the long shadow of childhood and the line between the supernatural and the natural. If you like pensive horror movies like The VVitch, I really think you should give this one a try. 

Hero (China): I know a lot of y’all are into wuxia now, but back when this came out it wasn’t a thing I had ever heard of*. Hero is, as the title might imply, a sweeping historical epic with fantastic fight scenes and gorgeous cinematography. If you enjoy stories told in multiple interpretations, high-flying wire work, and with some ideas about war, peace, and truth that tempt without asking too much of you, you’ll love this. 

Cold War (Poland): Listen, I love Cuarón, Mexican and Spanish movies absolutely dominate my list of foreign films I’ve watched, but I genuinely thought Cold War deserved the edge over Roma for the Oscar that year. It’s a fairly short movie for the times, coming in at less than 90 minutes, and it wastes not even one second of that film time. Cold War is a bittersweet love story not only with two people toward each other, but feels deeply critical of Poland while recognizing the impossibility of unbraiding yourself from it. If you love impossible, bittersweet, happily never after love stories with stark and striking cinematography, you’ll adore Cold War. 

Tigers Are Not Afraid (Mexico): I adore an unflinching take on childhood, and this movie is absolutely that. It essentially asks, “How do children survive in a world full of trauma?” and the answer is that sometimes, they don’t. This movie is a little frenetic, admittedly, but the ways fantasy and imagination is woven into a group of street children orphaned by the cartels is something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I first saw it, and I think the final shot is pitch perfect. If you liked Pan’s Labyrinth this is required viewing, as I think it shares a lot of themes. 

The African Doctor (France): “Holligay, if you put another fucking downer movie in this list I am going to BEAT YOUR ASS” Okay, okay, we’re going to ignore my general predilections and everything from here on down is fairly life-affirming or comedic or easy. This is about a little village in France in the 1970s that gets an African doctor. It’s sweet, and funny, and you come away from it feeling good. Also I still laugh every time Seyolo responds to the fact that most of the villagers had never seen a black person with: “So what? Now they will.” If you like sweet fish out of water stories with nice endings, this is for you. 

Om Shanti Om (India): I maintain that this is the best movie to watch if you’re brand new to Bollywood. It mostly avoid the worst of its excesses while delighting in all of its strengths. It is a genuinely fun film with fantastic songs, and a shockingly together storyline for a Bollywood movie (affectionate). I’ve actually done a full review of this one, but in the short version: If you loved Moulin Rouge and wanted more of that mix of tragedy and silliness on a operatic level, I think you’ll be in for a treat. 

The Warrior’s Way (South Korea and New Zealand): Okay, this movie is not good, and also it manages to be bad. But it’s in English, so if you’ve been sitting there like my dad going, ‘I am not gonna read a movie” well, here you go. If you’ve ever said to yourself, “I want to watch a Western, but I wish it were actually a HK style cheesy action movie” BOY HOWDY AM I HERE FOR YOU. I watched this one insanely drunk and still managed to be like, “wow! This is so bad! Maximum valid!” If you thought RRR** was good, but too deep, you will have the BEST time with The Warrior’s Way. 

Anyway, this is, of course, an incomplete list, and I’m sure I’ve forgotten something I love, since this was just made off the cuff. I would love to hear if you watch or like any of these, and also, if, looking at this list, you have a recommendation for me, let me know! There are so so many fucking movies out there, and so many fall through the cracks. 

I’m thinking about doing another one of these on “Indie movies you might have missed” and also “Movies that were made before you enfants were born” (30+ years) so let me know if anything like that is interesting! Or, if there’s a category you think I might know about you’re into, let me know also.

*I actually have a lot of emotional attachment to Hero, as I have a very distinct memory of standing in the Hastings, in front of the small foreign-film section, and it being the first foreign film I picked up. I was, I think, sixteen, and I had decided that I was going to be worldly, and interesting, and cultured, and so I took a deep dive into cooking from other cultures, and watching foreign films, and buying old art history textbooks, reading classics, and listening to opera, and formal manners. Basically becoming the person I wished I were, that poised Grace Kelly type, even if I was born to the drone of the grasshoppers on the wind. To quote Reba Macintire, “You know I mighta been born just plain white trash, but Fancy was my name” and all that. And this movie was a distinct part of that, in that it was the first, in a long line of me trying to be a more well-rounded and interesting person. 

**RRR (India): Actually on that note, watch RRR. It’s a fantastically fun Indian action film that I keep meaning to watch again because I got a little too drunk for drinking on an emopty stomach the first time I saw it, so it might actually also be good, but I do remember enjoying the shit out of it and there is a scene that has such Fareeha vibes to me.

[nonbinary-beast]

Michaelxalien!KARR under a cut, plus some Garthexalien!KARR, and maybe a bit of a triangle involving Garthe competing with Michael over alien!KARR.

-----

I've figured out how Michaelxalien!KARR could work, at least in the setting for the dragon/princess dynamic that Garthe and KARR have going.

Michael and alien!KITT are assigned to do something about the whole deal with alien!KARR having control over the USSR's nukes. It would be considered a matter of national security, and has all the makings of a catalyst for a world war- however! Since the soviets are hesitant to admit they lost control of their weapons, the only ones that know of it are the soviets themselves, and alien!KARR- until word gets out due to a deserter escaping to tell the tale of the insanity going on behind the iron curtain.

The minute KARR's name is mentioned, FLAG gets involved. While the machine may have divorced himself for Wilton's legacy, there is still a sense of responsibility due to his origins. FLAG knows this particular machine best, Michael and KITT have dealt with him before- albeit not in his current state. The way to get to alien!KARR and by extension the nuclear weapons is to go in undercover.

Going after alien!KARR head on is no longer an option like it had been in the past when he had just been a computer housed in a car. This requires nuance, stealth, and tact. Michael decides to go in alone, disguised as Garthe.

alien!KITT objects to this of course, going in alone to deal with a threat as serious as alien!KARR is suicidal insanity. Michael however rationalizes it as being a smaller, less threatening target. If he goes in, KARR probably would not kill him due to the lack of danger, and he would have an opportunity to figure out what is going on and maybe how to get the nuclear weapons out of alien!KARR's control.

As Michael explains, alien!KITT realizes that he intends to be captured. He does not want to let Michael do this, but at the same time the stakes are too high to keep him from going ahead.

Michael dons the disguise, infiltrates alien!KARR and Garthe's lair, and is immediately captured by the alien machine himself. alien!KARR could see through the fake mustache and acting like Michael's facade was made of crystalline glass.

He's here to figure out how he gained control of the soviet nukes, and of course to take his control over them away- why else would he come all the way out here?

But there is no prison cell filled with rats waiting for him- alien!KARR does not want to kill him or torment him. If anything he sees this as a multi-opportunity situation. Michael could be used to draw out alien!KITT so he can put his design intentions to be the superior machine to the test. He could be a bartering chip against FLAG to keep their nose out of his plans.

A valuable asset like this should be well looked after- and he's no stranger to the philosophy that the best way to keep a prisoner is to lead him to believe he is free. Michael is given his own room, clothing, good food and free reign over where he can wander within alien!KARR's lair. He watches TV, and gets newspaper delivery, but finds that it's impossible to tell what's going on so long as he does not understand slavic languages and cannot read cyrillic.

He is allowed outside of the lair to the surrounding towns on request- although alien!KARR is the one who takes him on these outings and, due to Michael knowing nothing about the area, acts as his guide and translator. He is all too aware of how this keeps alien!KARR in control of where he goes, what he does- even if he's not shackled up he is still in captivity and kept under alien!KARR's watchful eye. Trying to use these outings as an opportunity to communicate with alien!KITT is impossible.

Inevitably, alien!KARR challenges KITT- a duel in exchange for Michael Knight should alien!KITT be the victor. Despite his best efforts, alien!KITT fails to win the duel and his situation turns into yet another typical junkyard dog/Juggernaut/Goliath situation- left on the brink of death and bleeding out. The only thing is, alien!KITT's recovery cannot be ensured by Bonnie, April or anyone else on the Knight Industries technician staff. Torn up as he is, alien!KITT must recover on his own- FLAG can only provide support and a safe place to rest in the meantime.

Meanwhile, Michael is lead to believe alien!KITT is dead. Alien!KARR provides "proof", giving Michael a momento of the fight in the form of one of alien!KITT's auxiliary optics that had been brutally torn from him. But there is no gloating over his victory, instead he seems to sympathize with Michael and laments that alien!KITT did not simply forfeit.

"I want you to know, he fought valiantly for you. If it were not for his refusal to back down I would have given him a second chance to win your freedom. Alas, in fighting to the death, all he had accomplished was self destruction and losing you in the process. What a waste."

He does not invite Michael to lean on him for support after that. No, he figures it to be better to let him mourn on his own until he was ready to come to him. Michael does not, but alien!KARR can tell that the defeat of his partner is starting to break him.

During all of Michael's captivity, Garthe is there at alien!KARR's heel. The man is paranoid of Michael's presence since he found out that alien!KARR had taken him as a prisoner. Ever attentive to his pet, the machine soothes his fears, reassures him that his worries about a repeat of the situation with Adrianne would never come to pass; that Garthe would not be replaced by his doppleganger- and that Michael himself is harmless on his own. It is through alien!KARR's time spent reassuring Garthe that Michael learns what exactly Garthe is doing there.

He smells an opportunity to sow some chaos and perhaps give himself an opening to figure out how alien!KARR is controlling the soviet nukes. He decides to get closer to alien!KARR, and this is where finally the basis for Michaelxalien!KARR comes into play.

Michael decides the best way to interfere with the already shaky relationship between Garthe and alien!KARR, is to make Garthe think that his partner prefers him more. He starts finding opportunities to spend more time with alien!KARR, and more importantly to make sure Garthe sees him with the enormous machine.

However, while Garthe tends to let his insecurity get the better of him, alien!KARR sees what he's doing, and it does not line up with the behavior he's seen from him up until this point. He knows Michael is after the nukes he has under his control- he's watched him hunt and search for any clue he can get his hands on to try and wrestle control back.

But at the same time, alien!KARR plays along, just to see how far he will go to get what he's after. To his amusement, Michael is more than willing to get himself in over his head- one kiss is enough to make him tumble into the same addiction that has Garthe wrapped around alien!KARR's armored finger.

[girlierest]

The long debate of what is it really that makes everything I draw so fucking fundamentally hideous that it appeals to zero people. And whatfuckingever, draw for yourself as if my concepts and driving force was never for myself, I'm still mad someone who literally only draws half naked men facing left said that to me, who actively went out of my way to challenge myself by doing something new every time I pick up my tablet pen. Like are you fucking serious there isn't a ton of repetition or even a hard pattern between my body of work. Even the colour palettes I try to mix up to cover my bases. I don't want a weak spot/a colour I can't work with.

I know it's the style. It's too western, ofc it doesn't fit Gnshn standards. I could, and have, illustrated whole scenes. Never gets as much traction as someone's 15 minute doodle. The style is so ugly and western. The colouring style isn't painterly, isn't cel shading, isn't clean enough. I'm working on the colouring, idk if I even want to change my style or if I'm even capable. It took forever to even get to a point to step away from anime eyes and weak necks.

It's also not realistic enough. Not painterly/perfectly rendered enough. It's too cartoony, not a flawless portrait.

Idk where I'm even going with this rant. I would love to be an artist, and yeah whatever if you draw that technically makes you one in some capacity, but unfortunately I love art. And I'll never be good at it evidently. And it's fucking frustrating that I still care enough about it to try. It's not even remotely innate. Never had a talent for a damn thing in my life so it's just been conscious practice, drills, mistakes, experimentation, and repeat. For years. Nearing a decade. That's so fucking pathetic.

Idk what exactly to do. Putting it down and stepping away means I will need to relearn everything again inevitably because it has always been an acquired skill with years of daily practice in to improve, still going. If I step away from digital I will literally forget the already shit skills I have now, which means I have to relearn everything again. Hell, getting a Surface Pro and using it regularly for one semester in college resulted in having to relearn drawing on a normal tablet on my other computer all over again.

The dissatisfaction of accomplishing nothing also stems from broken childhood dreams. I've always wanted to be an artist. Since circa 2016-2017, I found a viable way to actually be one and aspired to it. Should I just fucking stop? I've had to talk myself down and out of my stupid fucking delusions of grandeur that I might one day succeed at these seemingly impossible goals for me specifically, but easily attainable for literally anyone else. It's so fucking frustrating.

[souplovingwerewolf]

I just forced my friends to watch this last night and we turned it into a try not to laugh challenge. We all failed multiple times. It's just.... everything about it is so... I'm sorry I NEED to talk about it. Because honestly, this movie deserves an analysis and I have much to say. Spoiler warning I guess

The thing about this movie is that the premise is actually... pretty good. Like, The idea of a movie about an artist who struggles to find her place in the world and with feeling like her passion/career isnt a "real career" and might become obsolete is really nice, since it's relatable to a lot of artists nowadays. And having part of the movie take place in a Harold and the Purple crayon type "drawing reality" world is a genuinely cool concept, and allows for there to be a lot of wacky and creative character and background design choices. And having Paige start out as a bit of a bad person, but learning through hardship and experiences to be a better person is awesome. Even the concept of the twist villain and his motivation is cool. Having the villain be a disillusioned art teacher who just wants people to respect his, and others, passion but is going about it the wrong way is cool! and while most of the dialogue is absolutely buttcheeks, there are rare moments where it's actually decent. There is real potential here!

But my god, I don't think I have ever seen a premise executed this badly. It's almost impressive. People like to call bad movies "fever dreams" but I've never seen a movie genuinely feel like a fever dream than this movie did. Literally everything is wrong with it.

First off, every single concept that could potentially be cool is mentioned for literally one minute and then dropped for the entirety of the movie. They bring up like 10 different major plot points and then immediately abandon them, never to be seen again. Like Paige's sister gets introduced and she's like a bad guy who's working for a big evil corporation that wants to feed drawings to AI and profit off them. Is she seen for more than 5 minutes? No. Do we ever hear about that corporation again? No. And then at one point they just randomly mention that anyone who stays in the drawing dimension for too long becomes a drawing. They mention this ONCE and it's never brought up again. Never. And this is a consistent theme throughout the movie! This movie feels like it's directed towards goldfish or mosquitos or something else that can't remember things for more than 3 seconds.

Also, the few plot points that DO stick around have the most poorly explained and inconsistent lore I have ever seen. Like the concept of the pencil of intelligence and the power of drawings is incredibly confusing. Was it the pencil that held the power? Or the drawing dimension? Or the drawings themselves? Absolutely nothing about how anything works makes any sense.

Also, the pacing. Oh God, the pacing. This movie seems to be allergic to building any kind of tension or a consistent plot. Every scene slowly fades out into a black screen (yes, I'm serious) after 5 minutes, and when it returns the characters are doing something completely different, or there are suddenly different characters shown. Coupled with them throwing random topics in like they'd been a major plot point the whole time, this makes feeling any kind of connection to the characters and the adventure impossible, because every scene feels like an out of context clip. Like, there's a scene of Paige and one of her friends having a bonding moment and opening up to each other that, in any other movie, would feel like a pivotal moment for their bond and characters, but we barely hear the friend talk, and they basically NEVER interact before this scene in any meaningful way, so it has no impact.

Oh and the Constant, CONSTANT flashbacks. Now, you can do a movie that switches between flashbacks and the present well, but the issue here is that it's very hard to tell what's a flashback and what isn't, since not only are the scenes completely random and unrelated anyway, some of the flashbacks are from things that happen FIVE SECONDS before the previous scene, which just makes it feel like the creator put the scenes in the wrong order.

This movie feels like it's trying to speed run the plot, and yet it's still an hour long, mostly because a lot of scenes just have character saying the most drawn out, repetitive dialogue ever, or straight up repeating THE SAME voice lines. Half the time I felt like I was being lectured by my mom and she was making sure I got the point for the 10th time.

The animation is also just lackluster, lacks any kind of life, and keeps repeating frames, the humor feels like if you asked a 12 year old to prompt chatGPT to write a "Gen Z joke", and even though the creator claims he was developing this for 6 years, one of the first jokes in the movie is an Ohio joke, which would have made no sense even 3 years ago.

Oh yeah I almost forgot. The most powerful and plot significant character (besides Paige) is a self insert of the creator that is literally his PROFILE PIC. And he just looks weird as hell throughout the whole movie because he's this blue child with an ice cream sandwich on his head and brightly colored clothes that for some reason has this deep man's voice. Like yes, I get it that he's a drawing in this dimension and he can look like whatever he wants and that's the point, but it doesn't change how bizarre it is to see someone's profile pic as the main character in this movie. Also I'm sorry but his design is ridiculous. It works as a PFP because that's just a still image and is kinda supposed to look weird and distinctive but I could not take this little ice cream boy seriously at all.

The whole movie is just an absolute mess. That being said, I really enjoyed watching it just for the sake of laughing my ass off, and I'd recommend you watch it too. It's funny as shit.

PLEASE watch the whole beatboxing puppy movie im BEGGING. its SO bad its called Our Drawings Princess Movie its free on youtube pleeeeease its so bad. me and my friend watched it we need a fandom for this movie

[dark-fics-4-you]

Drabble Idea: Rafe being a sorry little bitch after getting high and being abusive to reader. Something like he comes into the room and he asks something along the lines of “Are you mad at me? I said I was sorry, I didn’t mean to” and reader is just shook still. Then maybe dubious consent f oral receiving?

Heartless

Warnings: dubcon/noncon, abusive relationship, domestic violence, manipulation, toxic relationship, oral f!recieving

You slammed the door behind you, blinking hot tears out of your eyes. Taking a shaky breath, you walked over to your vanity, drawing your hand close to the cut on your forehead. You touched it delicately, replaying the scene in your head repeatedly like that would help it make sense.

Expectedly, the genuinely concerned conversation you had tried to have about your boyfriend’s drug problems had transformed into a heated argument.

“You can’t control every aspect of my life, Y/N,” Rafe spat at you, anger flashing in his eyes, no doubt further fueled by the coke in his system.

“I’m not trying to control your life Rafe! I’m just trying to make sure you have a life to live! That you don’t throw everything away for some nose candy!” You threw your hands up, exasperated and tired.

This conversation was long overdue, and you had tried putting it off as long as possible, giving him the benefit of the doubt until it was impossible to ignore. He had a problem.

“You don’t understand what it’s like, Y/N-!” Rafe snapped at you. His face was growing red, one of the veins in his neck starting to pop out.

“Oh I don’t understand? You think I don’t have issues I wish I could just block out with drugs? You think that just because you get into fights with your dad that you’re entitled to be a coked out zombie 24/7?” You knew it was a fucked up thing to say, but you really didn’t expect his reaction at all.

Large hands grabbed and pushed at you and before you could register what was happening, you felt your forehead smack against the corner of the dining table, body crumpling beneath you as you fell to the floor.

You looked up at your boyfriend in shock, and he probably looked even more shocked than you did. You pressed your hand to your head, surprised when you felt a wet warmth at your hairline. You pulled your hand away and you realized why the look on Rafe’s face was so scared.

Crimson stained your fingertips.

“Y/N, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to do that.” His voice was shaking, frantic, and when he reached down to you, you flinched away.

You looked up at your boyfriend through teary eyes, terrified, before you got up and ran into your shared room.

You pressed the warm washcloth to your head, sniffling as you dabbed the blood away.

A sound from behind you caught your attention, and you looked in the mirror to see Rafe, head hung and an apologetic look in his eyes.

“… Are you mad at me, Y/N?” He quietly asked, voice barely reaching your ears.

You felt a pang in your heart at his regretful tone.

“No,” you choked out meekly. It was true, you weren’t mad at him. You were terrified of him.

“I really didn’t mean to, it’s just- just sometimes i get so angry. And I feel like when you aren’t listening to me, it just pisses me off even more, you know?”

You didn’t know, but you nodded your head, a few tears falling past your lashes as you stared past him.

“Let me make it up to you, Y/N.” Rafe cooed, drawing closer to you, pressing against your back and wrapping one arm around your waist as the other hard found your neck, not squeezing, just resting there to put you on edge.

“Rafe, I really am not in the mood right now-” you gasped when his hand moved to roughly squeeze your breast, fingers teasing your nipples over your shirt and bra.

“Are you sure you’re not in the mood?” He challenged, walking you forward towards the mirror.

“Yes, I’m serious Rafe,” you begged, “Cut it out!” You turned to face him, but he caged you in against the bathroom counter, hands finding your hips and lifting you to sit on the counter before pulling at your shorts.

He kneeled before you as he pulled your shorts down, holding your legs when you tried to kick at him.

You gasped when he buried his face between your legs, licking and sucking at the tender flesh. Your fingers gripped the sides of the countertop, legs shaking when he pushed a finger in and began to curl it inside you. You couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips when he pressed a second finger into you.

“You know, it’s really hard for you to convince me that you’re that mad at me when I can turn you into such a pathetic mess so easily, princess.”

[noiranamnesis]

Marinette nods once, quiet and solemn, offering no further words. His sister. The way he said it. Not anymore. Some grief, she knows, is not meant for idle conversation. It has its own weight, its own language- a silence only the bereaved can understand. And she would never tread there without express permission.

Her gaze drifts, thoughts shifting inward. In childhood, there is an unspoken truth many are taught to carry: one day, we will lay our parents to rest. It is a sorrow threaded quietly beneath the rituals of growing up, no less devastating for its inevitability. Her own mother’s passing had been her first undoing. Yet the thought of one of her siblings...non. It would be too cruel a thing. If anything, she hoped, in the strange way an elder sibling might, that she might go first. A morbid hope, perhaps, but not an unfamiliar one since the morning she stood beside her second mother's grave. It’s a thought she doesn’t often say aloud. Only cradles now and then, when the world feels especially fragile.

And so, when he turns the tide with a joke, she lets it carry her. The flicker of a smile forming, and this time, she let it grow. “Oh?” she murmurs, arching a brow. “Trying to outrun my questions already?” She leans a little closer, her tone light yet teasing.

“Well, that’s just conversation, no?” The phrase is his own, something stolen and returned. “It would be strange if I were the only one to speak. This isn’t a confession.” Her smile warms, a crinkle at the bridge of her nose. “Though now you’ve challenged me.” A sigh. “I’ll need to think of something clever to ask in return…” She draws back a little, thoughtful now, one fingertip lifting to tap gently against her cheek.

“Alright,” she says at last, eyes narrowing as if weighing something impossibly serious. “This may seem like a strange question, but I think it’s very important- really.” Her chin lifts slightly, her voice shifting into something formal. “Have you ever had crêpes? And -more importantly- sweet, or savory?”

My sister is in London.

He nods at this, relieved that she's resigned to shifting the subject back to her own life. Truthfully, he had no idea what he would even say if she continued to press. Even just the smallest questions provoked discomfort, a silent fear of having to explain that part of himself...The beast beneath his skin.

A warm smile graces his features again, discomfort fading as she talks. He nods with understanding. "Good of you to visit, though," he muses with a shrug. There is, after all, some importance in space as well as some importance in support, comfort, closeness. Independence and connection could be a delicate balance in that way. Clearly, that balance is even more delicate for her, which he sees even better now that she explains further her internal debate. Moving back to France would bring her closer to family, and yet...her brother seems to be here. Leaving here would be leaving him behind. It makes sense now and he nods again.

"You aren't rambling," he points out softly. A smile quirks up the corners of his mouth as he looks at her again, leans over a little. "I asked. That's just conversation," he chuckles. A shrug. "Besides, I can understand the concern...it's good to be close to family, but it's harder when family is...spread out."

Do you have siblings?

Ah, back to him, then. Unfortunate he couldn't keep the conversation going without that inevitable switch it seemed. He can't help the light scoff that slips out, amused by the way they both seem to bounce the topic back and forth between one another.

"No, n- not..not anymore..." A tight-lipped smile is flashed her way, heaving a sigh. "Just me. My sister passed some years ago now..." He swallows hard, shrugging his shoulders. "I think she loved God in the end, so that's a comfort...even if she struggled quite a bit with it in life." He blinks, sort of turns his head away for a moment as he scrounges his thoughts for a way to turn this back to her.

"No parents either, if you're going to continue to ask about my family," he jokes lightly, looking up again with a grin.

[ev-pierce-writes]

Doll

Pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x F!Reader

Words: 7.7K

Rating: Very much 18+

Warnings: P in V, oral (fem receiving), light (consensual) choking, praise, James Buchanan Barnes is a sad boy and only you can make him happy, mutual therapy over past trauma, a couple light spanks, and some sexy sparring

Note: Reader had a run-in with Hydra that gave you invisibility powers. Bucky is tasked with training you. Totally not canon, I just kept the parts I liked. Got the idea from a tiktok but I can't find it anymore oops. I'm thinking of turning it into a series of all the places you can fuck Bucky Barnes at Avengers HQ. Enjoyyyyyy....

---

"Alright, so I'm thinking absolutely the first thing you need is a suit. Because we can't have you sneaking around in clothes that give you away."

Tony Stark and Peter Parker stand before you at Avengers HQ, furiously tossing ideas back and forth, trying to come up with ways to build you the best possible suit. Last night had been...interesting, to say the least.

"Who's that?" Stark had said when you appeared all of a sudden from your room. "Come on Agent Hill, don't tell me you're taking in lost kids nowadays."

Your mother had only laughed, slightly inebriated and feeling loose because of all the drinking that was going on in your penthouse apartment. She was hosting one of those parties where too many superpowers drank too much alcohol and got a little too rowdy. "That's my daughter."

Usually, you stay away from such events, go out with friends, and avoid the house until it's all over. For the past four years, you hadn't even been in the house to need to avoid it. But now you're 22 and a recent college graduate and something about the party was drawing you in so you had emerged from your hideaway to join in the fun.

"Alright, Maria, how'd you manage to keep that one a secret?" Romanov spoke up.

Until this point, you'd remained silent, in shock at the sudden attention a group of superheroes had focused onto you. But you couldn't help yourself from responding now. You'd managed to hide away long enough. It was time to come into the open.

"I'm a ghost," you said jokingly, approaching the couch and stealing the drink your mother had been drinking to take a sip. It was strong and burned on the way down. The group laughed at your words, unaware of how true they really were.

It was then that you'd performed your little trick, the one that only a few of your closest friends had ever seen. You became invisible.

The laughter had immediately stopped. The girl who suddenly appeared out of thin air had disappeared right back into it. They could still tell where you were of course. The glass in your hand remained visible, floating in mid-air, giving away your position. And your clothes were still perceptible, not being able to change with you. But your features were otherwise undetectable, not even a shimmer revealing your face. You took another sip of the drink, liquid disappearing into an invisible mouth.

"I want her. On the team," Stark had said.

And that was it. The start of your superhero career.

"Explain again exactly how this works?" Parker asks.

You sigh and start from the beginning, again. "I can distort the absorption wavelengths of my cells so that the reflected light is in the invisible range, usually infrared."

"And how long can you hold it for?"

"About seven minutes now," you explain. "It's sort of like holding your breath. You can go underwater for a while, and you can practice holding your breath longer and longer, but eventually, you need to come up for air. Eventually, I have to 'recharge.' But I've been working on extending it."

Stark turns to one of the many holograms of his supercomputer, working with Friday to design a brand new suit to accommodate your skills. You're so engrossed in watching his process you don't even notice the shadowy figure appear in the doorway that leads to the training facilities.

"How'd you get these powers? Agent Hill isn't lacking in skill but it certainly isn't supernatural."

You knew Stark's question would come up eventually. It always did. Over time, it became easier to tell the story, but now you really don't feel like explaining fully, so you tell the short version.

"Hydra. When I was seventeen. They used me as a bargaining chip against my mom in a mission gone wrong and decided to experiment on me in the process. Left me with a lot of scars and a lot of therapy. Almost dropped out of school."

You don't remember much from the experience. But enough for it to leave lasting damage.

"Hydra?" a familiar voice asks behind you. Only now do you notice that Barnes is behind you. How long has he been watching?

You remain silent, just like you did the night before when he'd arrived late to the party, unable to speak under his gaze.

You had planned to leave not long after you joined the festivities. But when the elevator doors opened, a pair of blue eyes halted you in your path. James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. You'd recognize those eyes anywhere. Crystal clear and icy, freezing you under their gaze. He wore a leather jacket and leather gloves, concealing his metal arm, but you knew it was there, hiding behind the layers.

Barnes had always been the one that caught your eye during your mother's briefings. His transition from the greatest warrior Hydra had to offer, and thus S.H.I.E.L.D.'s greatest enemy, to the trusted companion of Captain America and official Avengers member intrigued you. At first, he had been more of a schoolgirl crush, the little girl grappling with her new powers seeking guidance in someone who didn't even know she existed. But age had not reduced your admiration of him. Barnes' face was hard set in serious determination and his glance barely grazed over you before turning to the rest of the group. He paid you not a single ounce of attention, yet you felt dumbstruck in his presence.

But Bucky had noticed you that night. Noticed you in a way he wanted desperately to hide, so he disallowed his eyes from lingering on you. Who were you and why were you wearing pajamas at a party and how did you make them actually look good?

And not only did he notice you, but he recognized you. He wasn't sure how, but something at the back of his head buried beneath decades of blurred half-memories told him he knew you. It was a stupid thought, though. How could he know you?

From the doorway, his eyes narrow in concern, making you feel smaller than ever beneath him. How is that 5 o'clock shadow so enticing? You just want to run your fingers across--

Stark gestures at Barnes, completely ignoring his comment. "Good, you're here. Our young Agent Hill needs to get started with her training immediately. I want her in the field but she can't be going in inexperienced. Teach her the works."

It's rather bold of Stark to assume you have no combat skills. And to assume you even want to go into the field. But you follow behind Barnes in silence anyway toward the training facilities. It doesn't matter what you know and don't know. He's going to kick your ass anyway.

"Feet wider," he says, coaching you on your swing. His blue eyes have somehow darkened, and along with the faint beard, he looks positively dangerous. "Not too wide."

"I know how to punch, Barnes," you whisper under your breath. He's not meant to hear your words, but he does anyway.

"Oh yeah? Punch me then. Go for it." His voice is challenging in the way that reveals he knows he could block any swing that comes at him. But he wants to see what will happen. Your mention of Hydra loosened a memory in his brain somewhere, and though he can't quite place his finger on it, the memory told him you're anything but the kid he's treating you like. He wants to know what you really have inside you.

Your annoyance gets the best of you. You aim for his face, the way your mother taught you. And she taught you well, teaching you all the self-defense skills you might need moving through the world as a woman. But she did not teach you how to fight super soldiers. That's an entirely different world.

Unsurprisingly, Barnes predicts your move and his metal arm comes up to meet your human one, halting your punch mid-swing. His palm fully engulfs your fist, your knuckles slamming into the metal with a ringing sound.

"Fuck, that hurt," you seethe through your teeth, gripping your hand in pain. And yet, you still smile. You mean for your words to sound irritated, but they betray how much you enjoy getting a swing in. "Didn't have to do me like that, Barnes."

He ignores your pain, though secretly it pleases him to find how much force is truly behind your punch. Nothing, of course, his metal arm can't take, but strong enough. "Language, kid. Go again. And this time, try not to be so obvious."

Despite his advice, it's impossible. He predicts every one of your strikes and counters them with four times as much strength as you possess. You give him everything you have, and nothing lands.

"This would be a lot easier if you let me use my powers."

So far, Barnes has refused to let you fight invisible, not that it would have done you much good without a proper suit. But you're tired and sweaty, your hair falling from its ponytail and sticking to your face, your muscles aching and your heart beating fast. Barnes hasn't even broken a sweat.

"Unless you learn to fight without your powers, they'll do nothing more than level the playing field. You need to be at an advantage if you're going to survive."

Survive. You've done plenty of that already. You want better than survival. Barnes recognizes the look on your face, the one that expresses the desire plainly. He knows the feeling, drifting from one day to the next and wanting more than that.

His voice softens a bit. "We can call it quits for the day. Get some rest. We'll go again tomorrow."

He didn't intend to be so kind. It just sort of happened, drawn out of him by the not-so-innocent girl who still has a lot to learn but can hold her own better than most.

---

Tomorrow. Tomorrow's8 like the day before, 9 am at HQ, wait for Parker to get his ass up the elevator so Stark can begin, get sidetracked by coffee, and then finally return to the task at hand.

"Give this a shot," Stark says, handing you what looks like nothing more than a vaguely human-shaped paper suit. "Not exactly protective, but it's a new technology. Should conform to your abilities."

"You did this overnight?"

"Of course. Get changed."

The suit has little support and definitely no protection. You feel like a fingernail could rip a hole through it if you pull on it wrong, let alone a knife coming at you from an angry enemy. But it's a start. An impressive start. You stare at yourself in the mirror of the bathroom as you shift, the suit shifting along with you.

Back in the training facilities, where you know Stark and Parker will be waiting, you remain in your shifted form. They don't look up as you enter, somehow having not heard you, and instead are engaged in a heated discussion with Barnes about something you don't understand. So you creep up behind Parker, lean in, and whisper into his ear.

"I think it works."

You feel a little bad, but only for a moment. Parker jumps straight out of his skin, screaming a scream you didn't know was possible from the kid. Stark lets out a laugh as you rematerialize, and Barnes even cracks a smile at your prank.

"Yeah, yeah, I'd say so." Parker's voice quivers.

"Well, what do you think?" Stark asks.

"Very thin," you say, aware that much more is visible than you really want. "I feel like it's going to rip at any moment. And there's not a whole lot of support in this area."

You gesture vaguely at your chest, not knowing how best to explain to a group of men that a sports bra is a necessity for fighting, but knowing you have to make them aware all the same. You can feel Barnes' eyes on you, a little less polite than the others, and you find you like the way he eyes you up, a bit like a puzzle to be solved or a strategy to be devised.

"Right, right, I'll get on that. Only a prototype anyway," Stark responds nervously. "Back to work, Parker. Hill, Barnes, back to training."

Bucky tries his best not to picture what you might look like without that suit, but it leaves little to the imagination as you saunter away to change again.

And so the days move forward. You've never before been so busy or exhausted in your life. You just graduated college, which is a feat in itself, but all the training, all the work, keeps you on your toes so that by the end of the day, both your brain and your body are tired.

Still, you improve and get better at sparring Barnes, even taking him down a couple of times on your own, though you suspect he's going easy on you.

"Again." Barnes is already on his feet and helping you to yours. Today the sparring room is particularly warm, and you've long forgone your sweats for shorts and a sports bra. Barnes has lost the shirt as well, and his chest glistens with sweat beneath the fluorescent lights. Maybe it's the heat or maybe it's him, but the whole thing feels a bit dreamlike. Here you are, sparring with a man who could take you to the ground with one arm alone, and he's letting you kick his ass every once in a while.

But there's no way you can do it again. You feel destroyed by all the slamming onto the mat.

Barnes is doing his best not to be distracted as well, but those tight shorts and the top that reveals your midriff have to be on purpose. It's easy to admit to himself that he likes you, might even be attracted to you. You fight hard and relentlessly, rising to every one of his challenges and not backing down even when you're tired. You've already come a long way since that first encounter, and Barnes has come to look forward to the two hours a day you spend together in the gym. He had tried to tell himself it was the fun of having a new sparring partner, but in truth, he knows it's the determined glint in your eyes, the way you bounce on your feet in excited anticipation of the fight, the way you collapse on the mat after a hard session, chest heaving deep breaths in and out. But what he likes most is your heated gaze when he pins you to the ground, or even better, you pin him.

"Knock me down one more time and you can be done," he challenges. The familiar determination returns, though a flicker of doubt remains behind your eyes. He can tell you need encouragement. "Remember to use your size to your advantage. Don't let me get ahead of you. Keep me guessing."

You do your best. You really do. You hold your own for almost two minutes, but it's obvious you're only barely staying ahead of him. As soon as you falter, Barnes has you flat on your back on the mat without much resistance, immobilized by a knee on your thighs and his metal arm trapping your hands over your head. His free hand plants by your head and holds him up to prevent him from actually hurting you.

You gasp underneath him, trying to disguise the weird flicker of desire with breathlessness. He looks good from down here, all sweaty and dark and serious. But you're also a bit too tired to care. "I'm out, Barnes. Let me go."

Let me go. Please.

And that's when the memory returns. The full, real memory, the one that has been tickling the edges of his brain since he first saw you. You, a kid, his mission. Kidnap, don't kill. A small voice, your voice, begging. Please, let me go. What has he done?

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, standing up quickly.

"Language, Barnes," you say teasingly. But he doesn't laugh, simply exits the sparring room, abruptly leaving you, speechless and alone on the floor. What just happened?

After a moment of confused silence on the mat, you brush it off and stand, heading to your room for a shower. Stark offered you a place to stay at HQ, and you happily agreed. Though you loved being back with your mother after four years away at college, you cherish your independence. A room at HQ offered you just that.

A nice shower would certainly make you feel better after that confusing interaction. You pull on your robe and shower shoes, leaving your clothes behind so as to carry one less thing. But as you pass down the hall toward the showers, you can hear Barnes' voice drift through the slightly open door to his room.

"I remembered," he says. "It was her. I'm the reason she's--" He cuts off, appearing to be interrupted by whoever he's talking to on the phone. You pause by the open door.

"I know that's not me anymore but I'm still responsible," he continues. "I have to tell her."

Again a pause. By now it's apparent he's talking about you.

"No, Steve, we aren't a team. We aren't partners. I'm helping Tony out. I don't care if she doesn't want to work with me anymore, this is part of my redemption. I have to tell her."

The conversation seems over. You rush to the showers, not wanting Barnes to realize you were listening the whole time. Apologize, he said. Apologize for what? You've known him for a whole of four days and he's been nothing but polite to you. Cold, at first, but he warms upon acquaintance. And then he's downright sweet.

So sweet, you realize, for someone so damaged. He has every right to hate the world, and though he walks through it with a healthy dose of cynicism, he never lets that cynicism touch you. If anything, he's outright positive around you, an undeserving brat. A kid, really, though you don't like when he calls you that. You know you can be naive, positive on the verge of artificiality, and yet he never tries to burst your bubble. In fact, he seems to relish it.

The shower feels nice, but it does nothing to assuage your fears. Maybe it's you who has done something wrong? Now you're spiraling. You have to find out what's going on or it's going to drive you crazy.

You know what you have to do. You have just about seven minutes of invisibility before your shifting gives out. In those seven minutes, you can duck from the showers, sneak into Barnes' room, snoop around, and make it back to the showers unseen. Plenty of time. But you have to go nude. Now would be a great time for the suit, but no such luck. Naked it is.

Out in the hallway, all is quiet. Barnes' door is still ajar, but when you peek your head in, the room is empty.

Easy.

Where to start? His phone is a dead end, being one of those ancient flipping kinds rather than a new, high-tech smartphone. He has few personal belongings, the bed is made perfectly, and his closet contains only clothes.

The drawers of the nightstand are empty. Or nearly empty. At the back of the top drawer is unceremoniously shoved a small booklet with a pen stuck between the pages. It's worn and supple, as though held a thousand times and read a thousand more. You flip through, finding a list of names, some crossed out, others not. Your name does not appear, but something about the list tells you these are not ordinary names. These are the names of his victims, people Barnes hurt as the Winter Soldier. Your heart aches and your stomach clenches, the reminder of his past jarring against the kind demeanor you've come to know. But deep down, you know this isn't him, know he's a good man, despite it all.

You know better than most the first-hand horrors of Hydra's super-soldier experiments. Of anyone, you can relate best to the experience Barnes has been through. Your memories of that long week are blurry, but the pain remains, forever seared into your mind. You can only imagine a lifetime of that pain.

The sound of the door opening jolts you from your reverie and you close the drawer quickly. But you soon realize your mistake. Barnes would know he left the door open, would know exactly how he placed his book in the drawer, would recognize something was off. Unfortunately, you're right.

"Hello?" he calls into the darkening room. The evening is coming on fast and the sun dims to barely glimmer, casting the space in shadow despite the large windows on the south wall.

Bucky knows something is off the moment he finds your room unoccupied, having gone there with the express purpose of confronting you about his actions earlier in the afternoon. And though he has no way of truly knowing, he suspects you are now here, in this room with him, invisible to his gaze. Bucky shuts the door behind him and waits.

You're trapped. You don't have long before your powers give out; already the suffocating feeling that begs you to take a breath is coming on. And Barnes has closed the door, effectively sealing you in, as you can't open it without him knowing for sure that you're here. On top of that, you're clothingless. You've run out of options and Barnes seems to sense this. So, he waits, drawing out the moment of tension, building the suspense.

"I know you're here," he says finally, his voice soft and barely audible. "You can't hide that well. Next time, dry your feet off before you go leaving wet footprints all over the place."

Oops.

"I--" you begin, and immediately Barnes' eyes snap to where your voice originates from. "I'm sorry. I overheard your conversation with Rogers. I shouldn't have but I know it was about me."

Barnes sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, you're right. I have some things to explain. Though I'd much prefer talking to you if I could see you."

You hesitate. "Only a slight problem there. I'm not wearing any clothes."

If it had been any lighter in the room you would have seen Barnes blush. Instead, you watch him pull his shirt over his head. He hands it to you blindly, the shirt off his own back, soft with wear and long enough to cover the tops of your thighs. It smells of him, salty with sweat and sweet with the scent you've come to recognize only as him. You shrug it on and shift back.

"I'm sorry," you say again, having trouble concentrating with Barnes' bare chest at your eye level. Is that an old bullet wound on his shoulder? The reminder of a knife across his stomach? You can't look away, even at the seam where man meets metal.

Barnes shakes his head. "No, I should be the one apologizing."

He pauses for a moment and tries to begin several times before finally forming a complete sentence.

"It's my fault you're like this, that Hydra tested on you. It was me who kidnapped you, it was me who followed orders, it was me who completed the mission and got you hurt. And I'm so sorry."

You're so frozen in shock that the absurdity of the situation doesn't even register. There's nothing under this shirt, no underwear, no pants, no bra. And here you are standing in the bedroom of your greatest inspiration, listening to him apologize for being the one that facilitated your kidnapping, for being responsible for all the injury, the pain, the nightmares, the isolation, the...

It all comes flooding back, the things you had forgotten, or simply chose to not remember, and one of those things is his face.

You thought you'd dealt with impact. So many hours with a therapist, and you realize all you did was suppress the feelings, not confront them. And then you break, all the anger and sadness and frustration flowing from you at once.

"You piece of shit." Your voice begins as a whisper but soon amplifies nearly to a shout. "You monster, you bastard, how could you? How could you?"

All this time you forgave him for the damage he'd done, excused it as brainwashing and manipulation from Hydra. But now that it's you he's involved, you have somewhere to direct your anger, and you take it out as a shove straight to his chest.

He didn't expect that one. The words he understood. He accepted those, accepted that you would hate him forever. But then you're pushing and hitting him with all your force. Barnes could fight back, could hold his ground. But you need this, so he lets you shove him into the wall with a newfound strength. Finally against the wall, with nowhere left to go, you turn to pummelling his chest with your fists, repeating the words over and over, how could you, how could you, how could you.

For a moment, he lets it happen. But eventually, Barnes reacts, grabbing your wrists and holding them to his chest in an attempt to calm the fury that rages inside you. Surprisingly, at his touch, you still, slumping against him once the anger is replaced with nothing but sadness. That anger, one you never truly realized you'd harbored since your capture, bled from you all at once, leaving you exhausted.

You don't notice you're crying until a soft thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. Barnes releases your hands and wraps his arms around your sobbing body, pulling you close. "I'm so sorry," he repeats in your ear, his words a whisper against the rage inside your head.

Is it hours, or only minutes, standing like that, wrapped up in him, his skin so soft against your cheek? Time has ceased to exist, melting into the nighttime that encompasses the room in near pitch-black darkness. Your breath calms, your heart rate slows, the tears dry. He's only a man, a broken, misplaced, lost man. But he's also impossibly kind to you, caring enough to train you day after day, to pick you up when you fall down, to ensure you're happy here at all times. That's the man you know and rest your cheek against and seek out for comfort in this moment, despite him being the reason for your anger. But he's not truly the reason for your anger, only an easy outlet standing right before you.

This is not how Bucky had expected this to go. Perhaps to never see you again, yes. But to hold you in his arms, certainly not. And not just hold you, but comfort you. It surprises him how much he finds he likes it. And he can't ignore the fact that you're here in his room, wearing his shirt and only his shirt. He doesn't try anything improprietous, just wraps his arms around your waist, but it's not lost on him that your supple chest is pressed against him and the delicious scent from your still wet hair is filling his brain with a flowery cloud. His stomach clenches at the thought of burying his face in that smell for the rest of the night but he pushes it aside. That's not why you're here. That's not what you want.

But your next words surprise him. You pull slightly away, tilting your splotchy face upward towards his to look him in the eye. You take a ragged breath and speak.

"I forgive you."

Bucky is taken aback. That's not why he made this confession, not to seek your forgiveness. "You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I do. And I know you think I'm just a kid--"

Barnes lets out a short laugh, cutting you off immediately. "Jesus Christ, that's not true. You're not a kid. You're smart and strong and capable. And you've seen the ugly world for its true self and choose to remain good and happy all the same. I'm not like that and that makes you wiser than I'll ever be."

He takes a deep breath, unsure if he should admit to the feelings he desperately wants to express to you. The way you're looking at him, with a mixture of hesitation and admiration, makes the words tumble from his mouth without a second thought.

"But somehow being around you makes me want to be good again. Not for my sake, but for yours."

"James, I--" You've never used his first name before, but it falls deliciously from your lips, the sound of it nearly distracting him from the finger you run across the stubble on the cleft of his chin. Nearly. He captures that hand in his own, holding it there against his face.

"You don't have to forgive me. I don't deserve it," he repeats, eyes falling shut to the feeling of your thumb pressed to the corner of his lips. He still holds you close, the other arm wrapping tight around you, and though verbally he rejected the comfort your warmth offered, his body says otherwise, desperate for the acceptance his brain refuses to give into.

"Stop punishing yourself," you whisper. For a moment, he almost feels that he could.

And when your lips find his, soft and delicate, he forgets why you're even here in the first place, forgets his guilt and your anger, forgets even to react.

His lack of response has you pulling away, worried you've done something wrong, but then he's chasing your lips with his own, leaning forward to meet you halfway, gathering you impossibly tighter to his chest. He pauses, mouth mere centimeters from yours, eyes still shut, a deep breath heaving from his chest. He wants more, wants to kiss you again in all the places that count, but he can't quite yet.

"What was that for?" The question's not an accusatory one but simply curious. Have you always looked at him in this light since day one? Has he just not noticed?

"Are you blind, Barnes?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "None of that last name shit, doll, we've moved on to a first-name basis."

But your words are enough to surge him forward, this time capturing your lips in a dominating kiss that leaves you gasping for air. He takes advantage of your open mouth and presses his tongue to yours, seeking to fill his soul with your all-consuming warmth, to wrap it around him like a cocoon of your scent. His fingers slide down your back and slip under the shirt you wear, his shirt, grasping at the bare skin of your ass, filling his hands with your supple flesh.

You moan softly under his touch, relishing in the feeling of being encompassed by someone so large and so strong. The vibranium arm, which you expected to be harshly indelicate against your relative fragility, caresses you with the same gentility of the other. The intense contact sends your heart racing like it did all the times you were pinned below him on the sparring mat. Will he pin you like that in bed? Hold you down while he fucks you within an inch of your life?

The thought rouses a heat between your legs and stirs butterflies in your tummy. You don't even know if that's where this is going, but it invades your brain anyways. You're sure Barnes can feel your racing pulse beneath his lips when he kisses your neck, sending your nerves haywire as he creeps toward the neckline of your shirt. He inhales your scent, the hot air of his breath fanning your cool skin.

Everything about this is sloppy, the wet kisses dragged across your skin, his tongue tangled with yours, your fingers tugging at the hair that brushes the nape of his neck. Even his hips against yours are messy and rough, the heat of him leaving your core feeling slick, the wetness of it rubbing between your naked thighs. And then Barnes is sliding his hands back up your body, this time under your shirt, and tugging it over your head, his lips leaving your skin just long enough to toss the item to the ground.

You expect him to keep surging forward, to lift you in his arms and take you to bed like you want him to. But he pauses instead, hands cradling the back of your head, his eyes staring intensely into yours. Or you think he's staring into your eyes.

"Are you okay? Is this okay?" His voice is full of concern but raspy with arousal all the same.

"Yes, James, yes, I need more."

"Well, I would, it's just that you've disappeared on me again." One look at your hands and you know he was looking right through you, not at you. The swirl of emotions--pleasure, arousal, timidity even--sent you shifting without your knowledge. You can't help but laugh.

"Let me see you, doll," he groans, sounding exasperated that he can't rake his gaze across your naked flesh or find all the places he wants to touch you because they're invisible.

"You first."

A heated understanding lights up his eyes, still vibrant in the darkness of the room. Slowly, he releases his grip on you, relenting to not knowing where you are in space. You take an invisible step back to get a better view of the specimen before you. With one hand, he unbuckles his belt, sliding the leather from his pants and dropping it to the floor with a thunk. And then his pants are gone and he's left in his boxers, tight against the bulging muscles of his thighs.

And other bulging things. He doesn't hide his attraction to you. But still, you do not reappear.

Bucky begins to worry you're never going to, that maybe he's taken things too for. But then, a soft finger trails across his neck and he jerks in surprise. You're tracing the plain of his chest with a feather-light touch, dipping into the indent between his collarbones, feeling along the puckered scar of a bullet wound and the long slice of a knife. He feels healed beneath your touch, but it's not enough to satisfy the insatiable hunger building in the tightness of his groin. This entire evening has been a long, drawn-out, build-up of tension, and if he doesn't release it soon, it will snap like an overstretched rubber band.

He makes his move.

Apparently, Bucky's senses are just as perceptive here as they are on the sparring mat. His metal hand shoots up and wraps around the wrist of the hand on his chest, despite being unable to see it. The other reaches out and grapples at your invisible body in the dark, somehow finding your waist. He doesn't need to see you to manage to flip you around and press your back against his chest. In your surprise, your invisibility falters, and you flicker out of your shifted form with a flustered squeak, one hand suddenly pinned between your back and Bucky's rock-hard chest.

He holds on with an iron grip and walks you toward the bed, holding you up to prevent you from tripping in your ruffled state.

"You're taking too long, doll," he mumbles into your ear, and you feel his chest rumble with the vibrations. Your free hand flies to the one around your waist, which is slowly creeping upward toward your breast to twist at the sensitive nipple. "I know you like it when I pin you on the sparring floor. I can see it in your eyes. I'll take you like that right now if you give me the word."

Fuck, you want nothing more but you can't breathe enough to get the words out, opting for nodding vigorously instead. But Bucky wants words, gently prodding you forward to get a verbal commitment out of you. He will never take you against your will again. So you manage a long, drawn-out please and suddenly you're face-first in the sheets, bent halfway at the waist, your ass grinding against the delicious bulge pressed against your aching cunt. It pleases you that he has been thinking the same wicked thoughts as you when he slams you to the mat over and over again in training.

Bucky pulls your arm out from underneath you, joining it with the other and holding them together with his metal fist at your lower back, forcing your chest further into the mattress and your ass higher in the air. There's no way for you to move, no matter how hard you try. But you don't try, won't try. Bucky has you right where you want to be.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs in your ear and you breathe an affirmation. His teeth nibble suddenly at your ear lobe and you squirm, the sensation of his breath fanning your skin sending goosebumps along the trail of kisses he leaves down your spine. Somehow, you know this is only the calm before the storm, the gentle caresses of a man who's about to rearrange every organ in your body, all the way up to your heart if you aren't careful.

It doesn't matter to you that it's pitch black in the room; you wouldn't have been able to see anything with your face shoved into the comforter, even if the lights were on. But Bucky's starting to regret having left the lights off, wishing he could better see the curve of your hips, the swell of your thighs, or the bloom of his handprint on your ass when his hand comes down with a smack. He resigns to being satisfied by the mewling gasp that escapes your lips and your soft pleas to Do it again, harder.

So he does. Smack.

And then he's sinking to his knees and you can tell because he leaves a wet stripe of skin with his tongue over the globe of your ass and blows a shock of cool air across the rawness of your skin.  He replaces the sting of his hand with the bite of his teeth and then a kiss to soothe you again. The rollercoaster of sensations has you moaning against the mattress and rocking your hips toward his face and Barnes chuckles at your movement, your actions giving away the desperation you feel to have his tongue move to more sensitive places.

He is happy to oblige. You hadn't even noticed you'd been squeezing your thighs together until he slid a hand up between them, forcing them apart. It's a blessing your legs aren't doing any work to keep you up anymore because they feel like jelly under his touch. The hand between your thighs moves higher still until you feel his thumb pressed to your sensitive clit, warm and twitching with anticipation, desire coursing through your veins and dripping from your wet cunt. Your ears barely register that he's speaking, the blood is pumping so hard in your ears, but his words are exalting.

"Look at you, so wet for me." The hand around your wrists tightens just slightly. You are surprised by the extreme control he has over the cool metal fingers, and you almost wish he'd use those on you instead. And then he says, "you like it, don't you, doll, being at my mercy," and you forget all about the arm and decide it doesn't matter what hand presses down with a gentle strength on your clit as long as he doesn't stop. And he doesn't. Doesn't move, doesn't flinch or twitch or falter, just holds steady until your gasping mewls die down just enough for you to say, "yes, all for you, all for you, all..."

With those words, his thumb slips, between your slick folds into your pussy, finding the soft spongy flesh and pressing down again and you cry out with a careening moan that tapers off into a silent sob. He's taking his time, picking you apart, pulling at the laces that bind you together, and undoing them to release the tension he knows you harbor. But what about him? Is it not torture for him?

You breathe in a rough gasp, enough to squeak out a few more words. "I thought we were going too slow for you."

He laughs, he actually laughs, at your words, but relents.

"I hear you, doll."

I hear you. Oh wow. His tongue replaces his finger and you lose all coherence, able only to blubber some iteration of his name as the smooth muscle traces circles around your clit, finally allowing your orgasm to build with a steady contraction in your pelvis. Barnes moans between your legs like he's never tasted chocolate or buttercream or any of those other wondrous flavors and there's only you. And that moan sends you overboard, the vibrations diffusing down your legs and you tremble into your first orgasm. Your first orgasm.

He keeps going, riding out the waves of your high until you're crying that it's too much, James, too much and he pulls his tongue away from your oversensitized clit only to move down your legs. He's working you up again, teasing the smooth skin of your inner thigh with gentle nips and kisses until your body is craving release again, your cunt clenching around nothing but the memory of his mouth. He is deliberate in his ministrations, methodical in the way he must be with his missions. The flood of your first orgasm has dripped steadily down your thigh and he cleans you with his tongue, dragging upward along the sticky trail of your musky release until his tongue makes contact again and he pulls an orgasm from your desperate body once more.

He still hasn't released your arms.

"You know how long I've wanted to do this?" he groans, as you shudder again into the pleasure of his touch. He kisses back up the length of your spine while you twitch under him, his free hand dragging shock wave after shock wave from your cunt. It strikes you that this man is truly 106, not 26 like his body suggests, and you absentmindedly wonder if that's why he's so good at it, that he's had years to practice. And then his cock is pressing against your folds and you forget the notion halfway through thinking it. "You're so good to me doll, so good for opening up for me. Wanna feel your tight pussy around me."

You push backward, or do your best to without the employment of your arms, wanting desperately to feel him inside you. He is warm and all-encompassing and part of you thinks his cock spilling his seed inside of you would complete you like nothing else. But you know that's a bad idea and you can hear him already unwrapping a condom (where did he get that from?) and your body trembles with the anticipation. You haven't even seen him yet but you know he must be big, the way he grunts when the tip of his erection teases your entrance.

When he enters you it isn't gentle like the stroke of his tongue. It splits you open with a rough thrust, the laces of your heart fully undone and releasing you from their confinement. You choke on your own air.

And then he's releasing your arms, and before you can react, Barnes has you lifted, your back to his chest, your knees shoved roughly into the mattress so he can stand and fuck you from behind. The metal arm finds your neck and forces your head back, his lips dragging hot against your soft skin and muttering filthy praise into your ear, his hand gently on your throat to hold you there. Your hands fly to his, not to pull him away, but to convince him to squeeze, just a little bit harder. The pressure is grounding, and then the hand around your waist is trailing toward the bud of your clit and rubbing in urgent circles and you let out a silent gasp as he thrusts into you at a pace astounding for the position you're in.

You come hard, over his hand, around his cock, and for the first time Barnes falters, stunned by the intensity with which you clamp around him and if he hadn't made you come two times already he might have held out a bit longer to pull another one of those stunning orgasms from your slick cunt. But you're sagging, using him to hold you up against the exhaustion of repeated abuse so he releases, riding the wave of pleasure you started. Bucky groans out your name, surprising you with the gentleness of it on his tongue despite the rough hand around your neck.

When he releases you softly back onto the bed, you sink heavily into the mattress, feeling high on pleasure and drunk on his hands. He pulls away and shuffles around the room, and if you had had any energy left you might have complained at the loss of him but as it sits nothing will rouse you from the intense desire to simply fall asleep.

He continues to move about and then... the lights go on? You groan at the harsh treatment of your eyes as they adjust. But Barnes returns and pulls you against him and apologizes for the rude awakening.

"Sorry, doll," he mutters. "Wanted to get a better look at you." His fingers glide along your back and his face nuzzles into the top of your head, breathing into your hair as you press your forehead into his chest. Despite being exhausted himself he trails his hands all over your body, exploring the side of you that has been shoved into the sheets for the better part of the evening. You let him, although your nerves feel fried and oversensitive to touch.

"Watch what you do with those hands," you giggle as his fingertips brush over a nipple, "unless you're ready to go again."

"Already looking forward to next time?"

"You wish," you tease, but already you know for certain that there will be a next time.

[maxwell-grant]

Having asked your thoughts on designing Frankenstein's daemon, might I now ask your thoughts on bringing Count Dracula from the written word into illustration? (I'm definitely in favour of the 'Hairy Old Mountain Man of Horror pretending he's people' look from the original novel; one of the small tests too many Draculas fail to pass is an absolutely tragic lack of the Evil Beard and/or Wicked Moustache explicitly described by Mr Stoker).

Unlike with Frankenstein, where I think the design needs to be painstakingly thought out in order to achieve the best balance of the creature's traits for horror and tragedy alike, I think with Dracula you can actually just take an approach of "whatever works". Because as I mentioned before, I think much of the appeal and longevity of Dracula is how the character's both a layered villain as well as a shapeshifting narrative force that can be tailored to whatever you want to do with. Granted, there are bad or dissappointing Dracula designs, of course there are, but in regards to the leeway you get for reinterpretation, you get a lot more of it with Dracula than with other literary icons.

Like with Frankenstein, I'm gonna bring up how I'd tackle a less grim, more comedy-centric Dracula first, one that's less a force of horror and more of a charismatic villain, and I think to that end I definitely agree that people are sleeping a lot on the hairy old man barely-passing-off-as-humanoid of the original story. Despite very much loving these performers, I'm actually not a fan of takes that mold Dracula too closely to people who've portrayed him, like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee, partially because I think it's a waste of an opportunity to create your own Dracula design. Since I can't draw (yet), I'll do what I usually do and make a board of images to try and convey some of my thoughts on one way I'd design Dracula.

(Pictured: Kiwi's design for Dracula, Hotel Transylvania concept art, Nandor, Castlevania Dracula, Charles Dance in Dracula Untold, Vladislav, a Transylvanian rug)

I used the images in my other Dracula post and I’ll post it here again because I absolutely adore @kiwibyrd's designs for Dracula and it's main heroes, in particular I love the way it strikes a good balance at making sure Dracula looks distinctly separate from the humans, but not too much that he couldn't conceivably operate in society as just a harmless old man. I also adore the mustache and bushy eyebrows and pointy ears and I think these three are wonderful features to keep on any Dracula design. I'm also very partial to the Hotel Transylvania concept art, even if it makes me incredibly depressed to look at all the great designs they had for Dracula that they threw in the trash because they somehow decided making him look like Adam Sandler was the idea to go with.

I deeply adore What We Do In The Shadows, both the movie and the show, and Jemaine Clement's Vladislav is one of my favorite (maybe even my actual favorite) on-screen Draculas. But I also enjoy Nandor just as much, and I think it's really great that as a character he's completely different from Vlad while also being ostensibly a take on Dracula, and in particular I bring up his Jersey look because "Dracula in common clothing" is a criminally underrated concept for a joke.

As a character, I'm very partial to comedy takes on Dracula that play him up as a decadent aristocratic supervillain, the kind that can get away with talking in third person. I also have this idea for a version of Dracula who dresses ostentatiously in finely-broidered Romanian or Transylvanian patterns, maybe even wearing a rug as a cape, claiming that he's carrying the legacy of his people on his back. And of course he's lying, he's not Vlad Tepes and he's not even Romanian, he is just a parasite pretending to have a history to be proud of, but good luck getting him to admit that. And finally, I'd like this version to be played by Charles Dance, and I consider it a tremendous crime against humanity that he has yet to play Dracula proper even despite being in a film with the character's name on the title.

So that's kinda how I would design a take on Dracula for something more comedic or more based around him as this guest character and personality on-set. Now, if we're talking a more serious version, I think the possibilities increase, and I won't be getting into all of them because I may prefer to keep them to myself, but I'll elaborate a few ideas.

For example, the edition of Dracula I personally own comes with these really scratchy, really creepy B&W illustrations related to the story, that I can't find scanned online so I'm uploading them here so you can look at. They don't necessarily depict the scenes but rather some of the story's moments, like Van Helsing staking Lucy, Renfield in a straightjacket, Dracula as a coachman, and they are more focused on conveying the horror of the concepts at play.

Dracula never looks the same way in any of the illustrations, in fact you kinda have to piece him out of them by trying to find teeth or capes or eyes or bat-features to see where he's hiding this time. In the first, it's the half-man half-bat, in the 2nd, he's the shrieking bat silhouette next to Renfield, and in the latter, he's the gaping jaws and eerily humanoid eyes in the wolf. The effect to me almost feels like if you were to look at a bunch of tv static and then see a humanoid shape form for a split second before everything went back to normal, something like you'd get from Slender Man or other modern creepypastas, and I’ve argued before that Dracula’s form of horror is a very modern one. 

In terms of illustrations of Dracula that keep up the original traits while still pulling off horror, I definitely have to hand it to the one at the left of the image above, drawn by regourso on Deviantart (account deleted at present). Going back to Castlevania’s many takes on Dracula, two in particular that stick out to me would be Castlevania: Judgment’s armored dress Dracula, who’s got this great twisted heart/rose motif going on in his outfit, and Dracula’s final form in SOTN where he just sits in his throne and his cape twists into all these monsters, particularly how it’s depicted by witnesstheabsurd’s depiction. 

I’m not particularly a fan of how Dracula’s “final form” in these games is usually just some big demon, and part of what I like about his final form in SOTN instead is that, while it’s not a particularly challenging final boss, I do find it interesting the idea of us never actually getting to see what Dracula’s true final form looks like, only an ever-shifting pitch-black torrent of teeth and claws and bloody veins pouring out because that’s ultimately what Dracula is and brings to the world.

On the flip-side of the rotten old monster, we have the charming seductor Dracula, and while I’m really not a fan of how various adaptations have convinced people that “the point” of Dracula is that he’s a seductive force and an allegory for Victorian xenophobia and I’m reeeally even less of a fan of adaptations that make Dracula some misunderstood tragic hero (and I think I’ve made rather violently clear my feelings on interpretations that play up a romance between him and Mina), that the seductive force part exists is impossible to deny, so conversely, while on one hand we can have Dracula as the gargantuan whirlwind of predatory violence, we can also go for Dracula as the tantalizing lover.

I’ve seen a lot of opinions proclaiming Frank Langella as the best Dracula because he was the best at actually being seductive while still playing Dracula, although I haven’t yet seen his performances. If I had to point at one picture I look at and do buy for a second the idea of Dracula as a romantic character, it would be that particular still of Raul Julia in the left of the above image. And it’s strange for me to think of Raul Julia as attractive because I mainly associate him with his brilliant comedy performance of M.Bison (I know it’s far from the highlight of his career but, look, I grew up with Street Fighter, I can’t help it) but those eyes are definitely looking pretty convincing to me, if nothing else. 

And I’ve included this still of Sebastian Stan in the right because, during a conversation between me, @krinsbez and @jcogginsa about who could be a good fit for Dracula, jcog suggested Sebastian Stan, partially because he’s Romanian, and I’ve learned recently that Stan was actually interested in playing the character in Blumhouse’s upcoming remake. And you’d think I’d hate this idea  considering how much I don’t care for tragic anti-hero Draculas, but who says that’s what he’d have to play? 

Do you have any idea how much actors, who are traditionally known for heroic or supporting roles, usually LOVE it when you give them a chance to cut loose as the main villain?

I’d want Sebastian Stan to put all of his charm, all of his talent, all of his good looks and etc, into playing the absolute most vicious, bloodthirsty and irredeemable Dracula put on screen. Someone who is exceedingly, eerily good at being a lovable protagonist, who’s all smiles and charming eyes and politeness mannerisms and maybe even a funny accent, and then it isn't as funny when he's flying through your window intent on kidnapping babies to feed to his brides, except he may take a moment or two to do so because he's feeling pretty hungry himself right now.

Now, admittedly this is kind of a lot to juggle in regards to a single character, which is why my answer for questions like these inevitably has to be “depends on what I’m going for”. That being said, if I was going to try and cast someone who I think could both look the part of Dracula, as well as respectively, play “cartoon aristocrat” Dracula, “mercurial embodiment of evil” Dracula, as well as realistically be an attractive, even seductive performer who can charm viewers even as the character descends into horrible villainy, and juggle these performances even?

I think I’d have to go with Mads Mikkelsen. Not specifically because of Hannibal (I actually haven’t watched it yet), although it’s definitely a factor, the thing that actually made me pick him specifically is, other than his looks, his voice, his reputation for playing sinister characters, the fact that he loves the role and wants to play it, or how many people are deeply in love with this man, or that people already joke that he looks like a vampire, was watching him in Another Round, and specifically that glorious final scene where he’s just dancing to his heart’s content and just, moving with such spring in his step and such joyful vitality even though he’s past his mid-fifties, and that was the moment where, in regards to how much you all love this man, I went

And now I am going to add “casting Mads Mikkelsen as a dancing Dracula” to The List of Reasons Why I Became a Filmmaker.