secretiveauthor

[secretiveauthor]

got me in my leon x ex-assassin reader feels again (thanks, @zozo-01 and @vaaaaaiolet).

Kissing Leon for the first time in his old Wrangler you constantly give him shit for—‘why does it still have a tape player?’

‘It’s vintage.’

‘You’re vintage, old man.’

‘Bet this old man could still give you a run for your money.’

—and he reminds you of bonfires and drive-in movies and cotton candy at the carnival and slipping into your favorite old bomber jacket at the first crack of winter.

He’s all the things you didn’t get to experience growing up. Your life was fast-paced, and you knew how to bring a man to his knees—how to sever a carotid without so much as a sound by the time you were sixteen—before you knew what it was like to be human.

With him, you don’t have to be a weapon. You don’t have to analyze everything about him, pull him apart at the seams, and reconstruct him in a way that benefits you. You don’t have to put up this seductive front and look for every way possible out of a sticky situation in case things with him get dicey.

He’s disarming in a way that’s both refreshing and terrifying. He’s real and raw, and he throws all his cards on the table upfront, so you know what you’re working with. But it’s scary because you’re not used to someone liking you out loud. Someone who isn’t in it for what you can give versus what you already present.

He doesn’t push you further than where you’re ready to go. Infuriatingly patient, never intentionally rekindling the past you ran from. Never asking why your back’s all marked up, why your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, why your head’s always on a swivel, and why you always sit in the furthest booth with a good view of the restaurant whenever he takes you out.

He never badgers you on why you know so much about guns. Why you took down an armed robber on your own like it was easy as breathing. Why you’re so good at reading people, talking people down, or why your heart’s encased in stone.

No.

He doesn’t shield you. Doesn’t selfishly bottle you up like fireflies. He doesn’t kiss your booboo when you skid your knee, promising vengeance on the pavement for hurting you. Though he is there with a playful hand on your head, some antiseptic, and a smart mouth to admonish you for falling in the first place. Dummy.

He coddles the freedom you never knew you longed for. Offers you an outlet from the cacophony of your mind without adding to your turmoil. The definition of ‘be her peace’ encouraging you to try the soft-girl life out while also allowing that spitfire to shine when needed.

He disrupts your ruminations when he draws away from your lips with a sticky, languid click, and he looks as surprised as you feel over the center console of his dusty Jeep.

“I’m sorry,” Leon rasps, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks brushed peach. Still has those fingers buried in your hair, and his eyes fall to your lips like he doesn’t regret kissing you in the slightest. “I—did I take it too far?”

Your heart pulls. Warmth washes over your insides like the spread of the afternoon sun against your skin. He’s so considerate, it hurts. No one’s ever cared this much. Checked on you as much as he has—he doesn’t make you feel like you’re not worth fretting over because “you know how to handle yourself.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the way his brows furrow with a pout pulling his lips down like a confused puppy, makes you laugh even harder.

Instead of words, you let your mouth do the talking. Pan in for another sample of his lips, and he pours a confused, gruff sound into your mouth, trading it out for something more pleased. Needy.

He holds the back of your head firm enough to keep you in place, yet lax enough for you to pull back in case the pacing isn’t right. And you’re even more appreciative because this man thinks of everything, like he’s never kissed a woman before, and like he doesn’t want his first time to be a total fuck up.

He doesn’t protest when your fingers curl into the slack of his shirt, tugging him awkwardly over the center console so you can acquaint your tongue with every wet seam and divot of his mouth. Your lip-lock grows more ravenous by the second, mouths slanting possessively over one another’s, hands stroking, pulling, kneading whatever flesh they can get a hold of.

Kissing him is almost like being an adolescent, kissing their crush for the first time on the beach, swallowed up by the comforting breeze and the lazy drag of the tide and the stars aligning just right in the sky. You’re warm and prickly and breathless, and you’re throbbing in places that haven’t been touched in months, your nipples knotting beneath the frail drag of your t-shirt.

You burn for him in a way you haven’t burned in a while—like wet logs mercifully sparking a fire amid a cruel winter. But you don’t want to get too ahead of yourself. You don’t want to chase him away with your forwardness. Sure, he plays all cocky sometimes like he knows his way around a woman’s body, but you don’t think he’s ready for the level of expertise you’ve amassed throughout your years as a stone-cold manipulator.

So, you reluctantly pull away from him. And he’s chasing your lips, nipping at them, trying to get another taste. Never enough, and he’s so cute with his glacial eyes all hooded like that. With his hair all mussed—courtesy of your fingers—and panting.

It takes all of you not to laugh. Not to coo as you release his shirt, leaning back against the passenger seat to gather your purse and jacket.

He gives you a perturbed look. Something heartbroken when you clasp the door handle and pour yourself out of his Jeep with a sly smile on your face.

“Gotta get home before my parents start asking where I’m at,” you tease, winking, and slamming the door behind you.

He tracks your every move to your door, still breathless, but smiling like the cat that got the cream, one hand propped on the steering wheel, the other covering his lips that still tingle from the aftermath of your kiss.

And when he takes off the parking brake, he realizes you played him as he studies his disheveled features in the rearview mirror.

“She doesn’t have parents here,” he says to himself. Snorts, slowly pulling out of your driveway.

Of the many puzzles he’s been forced to navigate throughout his lifetime, you’re the one most worth the effort of solving.

[secretiveauthor]

fishtooth. gouache on paper, 2018

[secretiveauthor]

I made these as a way to compile all the geographical vocabulary that I thought was useful and interesting for writers. Some descriptors share categories, and some are simplified, but for the most part everything is in its proper place. Not all the words are as useable as others, and some might take tricky wording to pull off, but I hope these prove useful to all you writers out there!

(save the images to zoom in on the pics)

[secretiveauthor]

Monsignor Pruitt - Midnight Mass. Monk Inok - Konstantin Savitsky (1897)

[secretiveauthor]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[secretiveauthor]

the suffering never ends

[secretiveauthor]

Window wings, fragile panes Shield me from the dark Warm me with your spark

[secretiveauthor]

Plateau Village by Rhein Noc

[secretiveauthor]

[secretiveauthor]

here's a bunch of spongebob titlecards i hoarded

[secretiveauthor]

here's a bunch of spongebob titlecards i hoarded

[secretiveauthor]

Halloween doodle 📸

[secretiveauthor]

HIROMI HIGURUMA FIC RECS // mdni!

accidentally saying I love you - @/webism

fever - @/pseudowho

talk like that! - @/miyukisu

drunk confessions - @/wttcsms

club - @/thegoogoomuckkk

sanguis et vinum - @/pseudowho

face sitting - @/nanaslutt

only you - @/daisies-daydreams

in flagrante delicto - @/pseudowho

mean hiromi - @/screampied

heated waters - @/kbwrites

stuffed - @/tonycries (multi)

the stairwell - @/pseudowho

I can make that p☆ssy rain often! - @/screampied (multi)

study session - @/dejwrld

edging - @/webism

brat tamer - @/classyrbf

my pretty little wife - @/nanaslutt

divorce lawyer hiromi - @/starmapz

one shot - @/kamitv

bath tub sex - @/ultravioletrayz

favorite places to fuck - @/rezitio (multi)

summer bummer - @/jellicatty

cock warming - @/twinkletfout

I DONT OWN ANY OF THESE FICS!! // CREDS TO THE WRITERS!! <3

[secretiveauthor]

plenty of sea in the fish or some shit like that idfk

[secretiveauthor]

things people should know:

do not mess with your cat.

do not mess with your sukuna.

you thought this was common sense. apparently, it wasn’t.

it started when you left sukuna in the waiting area of the vet clinic, because you needed to pick up some medication for your cat—bless his furry little soul, the bravest warrior you know, who had just survived a vet visit with minimal casualties. sukuna, being the grumpy menace he is, had grumbled about waiting but ultimately sat down with your cat carrier beside him, arms crossed, looking like a bouncer for a very exclusive club. and that’s when they appeared.

the poodle posse.

a group of women with perfectly manicured nails, dressed like they were about to star in a reality tv show called luxury lives of lapdog owners. their poodles were equally pampered—fluffy, primped, wearing tiny designer jackets that probably cost more than your rent. you weren’t there to witness it, but based on sukuna’s expression when you came back, things had escalated.

“oh, wow, such a strong, brooding man,” one of them had probably purred, leaning into sukuna’s personal space. “is this your cat? he’s so cute!”

bad move.

your cat is not "cute"—your cat is a warrior. a veteran of the battlefield (otherwise known as your apartment). he has fought many enemies (the vacuum, a particularly aggressive curtain, and one unfortunate houseplant that did not survive). and most importantly, he is loyal to you. so, when a stranger’s hand reached out to pet him?

he hissed. and not just any hiss—this was a legendary hiss. a hiss that spoke of betrayal, of fury, of how dare you touch me, peasant. and sukuna? sukuna looked at them like they were the scum of the earth.

"ya deaf?" he had grunted, because subtlety has never been his strong suit. "he doesn’t like strangers."

but did that stop them? oh no. if anything, it made them more interested.

“aww, he’s just shy! maybe he just needs to warm up to us!”

and that’s when your cat, your beautiful, petty little creature, smacked their poodle in the face.

gasp. horror. scandal.

the poodle recoiled like it had just been personally insulted. its owner gasped, clutching her dog like a victorian maiden about to faint. "your cat just hit my precious baby!" she shrieked.

sukuna? sukuna had the audacity to laugh. “good. he had it coming.”

the poodle posse was outraged. they tried to guilt-trip sukuna, fluttering their lashes, attempting to appeal to his (nonexistent) softer side.

“you know, a guy like you shouldn’t be wasting time with a cat person. dog lovers are way more fun.”

mistake.

because that’s when sukuna turned to them, his usual mean grin stretching across his face, and said, “you think i like cats? nah. i like my girl. the cat’s just part of the package.”

devastation. utter defeat.

when you finally came back, you were greeted with the sight of the poodle posse storming out, their spoiled dogs in tow, throwing death glares at sukuna—who looked smug as hell. you raised a brow at him. "what did you do?"

"nothin'," he said, draping an arm over your shoulders. "your little monster defended his honor. i just enjoyed the show." meanwhile, your cat, still sitting in his carrier like a king on his throne, looked very pleased with himself.

moral of the story?

don’t mess with your cat. don’t mess with your sukuna. and definitely don’t mess with both at the same time.

[secretiveauthor]

By Rose Ann Prevec

[secretiveauthor]