#i’m definitely very sure of her hair/skin/eye color

[daily-tma]

Daily TMA 183 (TMAGP) - My interpretation of Celia!

[were-changing-cake-vaults]

Gem would like to pretend that things are normal around Magic Mountain.

Or, well, that everyone else is normal, and she’s keeping all the weirdness to herself. She’s the one who decided to go a little creepy this season, after all, and as far as she can tell, she’s the only one smelling the rot coming from the river. All her neighbors should be fine, and have only commented that her boat burns a lot of coal fumes that sort of reek. It’s definitely not rot, and things are normal for them, and they are decidedly abnormal for her.

Which is fine! Gem wants her friends safe! Sure, she’s been hearing weird gurgling noises from the flooded caves that line the beaches, but she’s probably just hallucinating. Or maybe Scar is smacking salmon heads on note blocks again, despite living on the other side of the mountain. And sure, Impulse died and came back completely washed of color, but that’s just a demise thing. It’s just the creepy she dragged along with her- Joel’s totally fine, and that’s enough evidence for her.

Well, it would be if not for the fact that the salmon she’s been getting from fishing are starting to look…strange, all sharp-finned and much slimier than normal. And the cod, too, have far too many gills, like gashes down their sides. Grian pulls up a fish one afternoon and Gem swears it’s got six eyes, but Grian only remarks them as “weird patterning” and shoves it right into the furnace for cooking.

He’s been eating a lot of fish, recently, straight from this very river, the one that smells of rot. Caught them all himself. He’s also been fishing a lot- Gem doesn’t know the last time he worked on his base. He keeps trying to dredge up a book. She asks him one day why he keeps going if he’s already got a ton of books from the water, and he sounds haggard when he replies:

“The book, Gem. I’m not looking for a book. I’m looking for the book. It’ll give me all the answers I need. I haven’t found it yet, but the ocean will provide for me. I know it’s the next one.”

Something in the way he looks at her makes her gut twist. His eyes are empty, glossed over, and she knows the joke is that he looks like a cod, but it’s- he’s different, now, washed out and shiny skin, little to no meat on his bones, bags like pits under his soulless eyes. Something about the way he phrased that—the ocean will provide for me—makes her spine recoil back, feet dragged backwards towards her boat. A fear-stricken laugh bubbles up Gem throat as she tries to remember the last time he wasn’t fishing. When was the last time he slept?

Come to think of it, when was the last time she slept? Isn’t there a warning for those who stay up too late?

And when she tells him it’s an addiction, Grian just laughs it off, throws his rod into the sea, and pats the seat next to him. And then there she is, fishing alongside him, like she was always doing. She was planning to do this, yes. More and more of Magic Mountain arrives, plus Etho, who brings along a disc to put them in the mood. It’s a swan song.

The ocean sings back. It gives her an image of a great tall lighthouse, cherished by watery angels, who dance around it. It gives her the size, the colors, the materials to recreate it in verse. She smiles. It tells them all to knock another hermit off the list of survivors. She grins.

Before turning to join the group on their quest, Gem looks into the water one last time. Staring back is a well-kept woman with long, shiny red hair.

There is a book in her hand.

[melrodrigo]

Pain Relief - Mabel

Mabel Black Label x Reader

Summary: Mabel gets back from an intense day at work, and seeks comfort from her girlfriend.

Word Count: 800+

A/N: I’m back babies

Look, dating someone in the Boston crime gang was never on your bucket list. Sure, you’ve read your fair share of enemies to lovers mafia fan fiction, but you’d never expect it to actually happen.

You were always a good kid, steered away from drugs and sketchy stoners. But Mabel, Mabel.

She was the most beautiful girl you’d ever laid eyes on. Tan skin and messy hair, it was never an option not to fall in love with her.

But in your defense, Mabel was nothing like the rest of them. She was kind, the most thoughtful soul you know, and inspiring in all aspects of her life.

She was put in a tricky situation since childhood, but she always made the most out of it and always strived to get out.

You knew she could be cold. Some of her friends referred to her as “Mabel Black Label”, but her cut-throat personality disappeared whenever she was with you. It was like she turned into this nicer, more exciting, wondrous person. Or at least, that’s how she felt.

So, when she didn’t come to see you as she’d promised, you knew something was wrong.

She had mentioned earlier that she was doing a big deal that night, and that she was going to come get you for your date right after.

By the time she called you, a little after midnight that exact night, you’d practically jumped up at the sight of her name across your phone.

Anxiety stirred deep within you.

You bit your nail as you answered the phone.

“Hey babe…” Her voice exhaled, shaky like she’d just run a mile and immediately called you.

“Baby? Where have you been? Are you alright?” You breathed, question after question tumbling out before she even had the chance to answer.

“Don’t be mad…I’m at your house now.” She says, slurring her words slightly.

You’re up and striding toward your door before she can even finish her sentence, heart racing a hundred miles a minute.

“Why would I be mad? God, Mabel, I swear you had me-“ You stop abruptly, taking in the sight before you.

She’s standing somewhat bashfully, rocking on her heels, the right side of her face facing away from you. You furrow your eyebrows, sensing immediately that something’s terribly wrong.

You reach out to tilt her face so you can see all of it, and your mouth falls open at the sight. Her face is beaten. Spilt lip and everything, the bruises that look like they’ve just been formed are already turning a different color. You grab her by the wrist and immediately drag her into your home. Your annoyance disappears instantaneously as you take her in again.

It’s so purple, you can’t help but reach out to graze your fingertips against it as she winces quietly.

“Oh, baby.” You sigh, hooking a finger under her chin so she looks into your eyes. She can’t meet your gaze, eyes flitting between your couch and the lamp, things she suddenly finds very interesting.

You get up and feel her hold on your wrist tighten, signaling to not go. You reassure her you’re only going to get the first aid kit, and you’ll be back in a minute.

Mabel begrudgingly lets you go, looking so small and fragile sitting there.

“Look at me.” You tell her, sternly, when you get back. You take the cotton bud and apply some alcohol, gently dabbing it against a cut on her lip.

She hisses, unable to keep the pain at bay. You tut, telling her you’re almost done. You know she needs some tough love in moments like these- she was never the best at receiving affirmations.

“Whatever happened…” You start, biting your lip, trying to grasp the right words. Mabel looks at you intently.

“I’m sure you did your best. And it definitely wasn’t your fault.” You know the way she works, better than you know yourself, and she blames herself for this. If anything didn’t go her way, she’d always get like this. You’s always loved the perfectionist type, after all.

Mabel opens her mouth to speak for the first time in what feels like eternities.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I couldn’t- couldn’t get here on time for the date.” She blubbers, tears spilling out of her eyes.

You hold her for a while before you chuckle lightly, and watch as she looks up in surprise, eyebrows raised.

“I could care less about our date. What I care about is that you’re alive.” You tell her, cupping the side of her face that isn’t bruised. Your other hand pressed against her chest, right where her heart is.

Her eyes soften, turning into those big brown puppy-like eyes you love so much. And you can feel it before she says it.

“I love you.” She says as she takes your lips in a fierce kiss, surprising but not at all unwelcome. You happily lean in, kissing her like she might disappear tomorrow.

You lose yourself in the moment, push against her a little too hard, and she winces.

“Shit, sorry.” You mumble sheepishly. She pecks you on the lips again before whispering huskily.

“You know…I heard kisses help with pain. I think you should help me out over here.” She points to her split lip, eyes suddenly twinkling.

The twinkle in your eye doesn’t fail to match hers.

“I suppose I could help out someone unwell…it’s the right thing to do anyway.” You say with a little nod, though neither of you is listening to what you’re saying at this point.

“Right.” She grins, grabbing you by the nape of your neck and into her arms.

Even like this, bruised and bloody, you’re proud to say, that Mabel Black Label, your girlfriend, never fails to charm the pants off of you.

[lale-txt]

🌙 waking up at night without you by their side ↳ w/ Kid, Rayleigh, Denjiro & Yamato

a/n: another draft that's been sitting here since forever. in the light you go!! love me some lighthearted fluff. slightly suggestive + poly mention for Rayleigh (i feel like i'm putting this ALWAYS when writing Rayleigh omg) also sending kisses to all my anons swooning over Yamato. i know i don't write him that much but wanted to include him here for you ♡ i always love reading about your undying love for him, it's the purest thing.

Kid 

how dare you leave his side while he’s sleeping

don’t you know about your big spoon duties which involve holding him tenderly from behind, rubbing his back and making sure your arms are constantly wrapped around him all the time? 

Kid huffs when he wakes up with his back cold and your side of the bed empty

were you going for a midnight snack without him? didn’t you know that he was also craving shredded cheese at 3am? was your relationship a lie the whole time? 

no he’s not being dramatic why do you ask

or did you miss a step of your skin care routine and went back to the bathroom to do it again? he told you countless times that it didn’t work that way…

he throws back the covers and gets up, his red hair a mess and barely held together by the cat ear hairband you once gifted him 

Kid’s first instinct when he’s in trouble is to consult Killer so they can be in trouble together, so naturally he stomps down the hall to Killer’s cabin and doesn’t bother knocking, just bursts in like the Kool Aid man 

he lets out a surprised gasp when Killer isn’t sleeping peacefully in his bed but playing cards with you, Heat and Wire – very wide awake 

before Kid’s face can turn the color of his hair, you already kick out a chair for the tulip and gesture him to sit his ass down so you can explain

“see… on the last island when we stocked up on supplies Killer didn’t buy decaf coffee like ne normally does but regular… and since everyone but you drinks coffee–” “because it’s BAD for your skin, but no one ever listens to me” “–all of us have just been unable to fall asleep.”

Kid rolls his eyes and continues huffing, but also pulls you in his lap and wrap his arm around you, falling asleep with his head resting against yours as you continue your game

but no more coffee for you after 2pm, decaf or not. the big spoon rule book got updated, you gotta keep up duh

Rayleigh

even in his sleep Rayleigh reaches for you, wanting to hug you close to him, only content when he can nuzzle his face in the back of your neck

so when his hand pats into empty space, he’s suddenly awake, mumbling out your name into the dark 

first thing he does is turn on the light on the nightstand and reach for his glasses because he can’t see shit without them

still fighting off sleep, he takes a moment to reconstruct last night, smiling over it. no, you definitely fell asleep in his arms after you both finished… several times

actually he could go another round now that he was awake, but someone was missing…

it’s when he hears muffled voices coming from downstairs that he calls out your name again, louder this time

“we’re in the kitchen!”

we? … oh

with his observation haki never failing him, Rayleigh realizes within a heartbeat now what is going on

following your laughter he finds you in the kitchen… accompanied by a very familiar face

“Ray, I must say your taste is exquisite as always…”

Shakky cups your face, a cigarette dangling from her lips, as she beams at her husband leaning in the doorframe

“i think I’m in love with your wife”, you sigh dreamily, melting under her touch and gazing up to her with puppy eyes, completely encharmed by her 

Rayleigh ruffles his white hair and just smirks. he was about to introduce you anyway, so this makes things much easier now

he comes closer and places kisses on both of your cheeks. this night just got so much more interesting… 

Denjiro

Denjiro is always a little sleepy and would pass out within a heartbeat wherever and whenever, but preferably with you by his side, pulling you close even in his sleep

so why were his arms empty right now?

long blue hair is spilled all over the futons and usually by now you would complain because you’re getting tangled up in it 

rubbing his eyes he sits up, he murmurs out your name into the dim light of your shared room 

Denjiro isn’t too worried, he knows what you’re capable off, otherwise the yakuza boss wouldn’t have married you. he twists the golden band on his ring finger absentmindedly as he’s slowly forcing himself to wake up properly

it’s when he notices the gentle breeze coming through the open sliding door leading to the veranda and he immediately knows where to look for you

throwing the blanket over his shoulders he gets up, already making out your silhouette in the milky moonlight as you sit there huddled up, looking over your shoulder when you hear his footsteps approaching

“Den… you gotta see this…” 

your excited whisper and gestures to keep quiet had him curious, but more than that he was just happy to see you smiling

Denjiro sits down behind you and pulls you in his lap, wrapping his big arms and the blanket around you and kissing the side of your neck. you’re cold but feel warmth tingling in your limbs immediately under his touch

“what is it, little moonshine?”, he whispers and rests his chin on top of your head. you almost disappear in his embrace due the size difference and wiggle yourself in a comfortable position, the tip of your nose and your curious eyes peeking out from the blanket 

“snow bunnies”, you say softly and point to the garden where a pair of white bunnies frolic around in the falling snow, almost invisible for the eyes

Denjiro smiles and leans down to kiss you again. love is stored in the little things, you taught him that. and soon he falls asleep again, holding you tightly as he drifts into dreams of you, but none sweeter than the reality he gets to live with you

Yamato

personal space? not in this house 

Yamato usually sleeps sprawled out like a starfish and rotates in his sleep like a beyblade

but it’s fine because you adjusted to that! nothing can stop you from cuddling your big golden retriever boyfriend in his sleep

so when he wakes up at night and doesn’t feel your familiar weight on top of him it just sends him into straight up panic

in an attempt to turn the lights on he gets tangled up in the sheets and stumbles, taking down the lamp and everything else on the nightstand with him 

he’s calling out your name and trying not to cry on the spot

did you have a bad dream and he didn’t notice? were you somewhere crying on your own? his heart couldn’t take the thought of it. 

this was even worse than the one time he lost you at the supermarket in the candy aisle and he had to make an announcement over speaker which was mostly him sobbing into the microphone

his brain still lagging from the sleepiness and shock, Yamato doesn’t notice how you squat down next to him, picking off various nightstand items (tissues, crystals, harness…) off him 

“Yams, just what are you doing down there? were you sleepwalking? i knew this would become an issue one day…”

cut to Yamato sobbing in your arms because for three hot minutes he thought he had lost you forever 

which is when you kindly explain him that nature called and you only went to the bathroom but would have returned into his arms straight away

however you can never hold back tears as well when you see Yamato crying and now you’re both on the floor sobbing as you hold each other tenderly 

only when he kisses away the salty streaks you both calm down a little and can laugh about the situation

ever since you leave a little note out when you have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and make sure to snuggle extra close to him once you return, making Yamato smile even in his sleep

[reidingandwriting]

Speak Now (Hotch’s Version)

Chapter Two: i can see you

“I could see you being my addiction, you can see me as a secret mission”

Word Count: 2,200 words

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Warnings: Criminal Minds level of violence described, definitely Not how solving cases goes but!!, some cursing and some suggestive themes

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

A/N: SOOO sorry for the delay in posting! I was at a convention this weekend and my queued post didn’t post for whatever reason :’) Chapter 3 is still scheduled for tomorrow so I hope you enjoy the back to back update!

“We’ve got a case,” JJ said and you stood up from your desk to walk to the conference room. You had only been a part of the BAU for two months or so now, but the novelty had yet to wear off yet. Every time JJ announced a new case, you got a rush. A wave of a familiar cologne enveloped you, and you felt an arm brush against your own.

“Sorry,” Hotch’s voice filled your ears, the single word causing a chill to go down your spine.

“No problem,” Your voice came out quieter than you expected and you internally cursed. Where did you begin with Aaron Hotchner? Ever since you met at the FBI Banquet, he had occupied your mind. Your first day, you were pleased that he remembered you and since then, he’s seemed… not quite distant but not quite friendly with you either. Not like he was at the banquet. He was professional as his reputation said he would be, but you were wishing there was more to your relationship. You wanted to lean into the brushed shoulders, you wanted to initiate contact with him, but you didn’t want to jeopardize anything with him, especially being so new to the team. But you let yourself wonder, what would happen if you acted on your impulses? If you let yourself think about it long enough, you could see him waiting down the hall for you. Ideally pressed against the wall, but you digress. You shook your head slightly to clear your thoughts as you walked into the conference room, and you took your seat between Spencer and Emily.

“Alright, my pretties,” Penelope greeted once everyone was seated and you looked up at the screen behind her. “Houston has reached out for our help and this one is a bit of a doozy.” Pictures flashed behind Penelope and you felt your stomach turn a little at the pictures.

“Hello, overkill,” Emily muttered and you hummed in agreement.

“We’ve clearly got a very angry person on our hands. There’s been five victims over the last two weeks, and their kill rate is starting to pick up.” Penelope said.

“They’ve killed men and women, no obvious preference for gender,” JJ said and you nodded.

“Can’t say for certain if they’re victims of opportunity, though,” you said. “I don’t know the exact area they’re acting in, but the victims all seem eerily similar. Hair color, skin color, similar builds… Someone is the object of their aggression but our unsub hasn’t gotten to their target yet.”

“And the kills are getting rushed, more violent,” Derek said.

“Wheels up in twenty,” Hotch said as he started to stand.

“You know,” Spencer started and you glanced over at him, “they look similar to you, Y/N.” The room froze and you felt everyone’s eyes turn to you.

“Don’t even say that about my lovely,” Penelope gasped dramatically and you rolled your eyes playfully at her antics.

“There are some similarities,” Rossi said and you looked up at the pictures.

“Similar features, sure, but I don’t think I’ve done anything to piss off anyone to the point of murder in Houston,” you drawled and the room started to disperse. Hotch stayed in the room, his gaze locked onto you.

“If you feel uncomfortable on this case at any time,” Hotch trailed off and you shook your head.

“I’ll be fine, Hotch. I’m not worried. But I promise, I’ll let you know if I get uncomfortable.”

“Thank you,” Hotch nodded in dismissal and you slipped out of the conference room.

-

A week later, you held an ice pack to your head where you sat in the back of an ambulance as you waited to be cleared. Turns out, they don’t call Spencer a genius for nothing. You were a perfect victim for your unsub- Officer Josh Hann- and you found yourself ambushed by him a few hours ago. You were lucky to only get away with a concussion and a few bumps and bruises. Derek stood beside you, his phone held to your ear.

“Yes, Pen, I promise I’m fine.”

“And how is our Boss Man doing?” Penelope asked and you barely repressed a cough.

“Fine, Pen.” Said Boss Man was currently a few yards away, his gaze glued to you as Rossi talked to him.

“Sounds like the perfect excuse for him to watch over you,” Penelope teased and you felt your cheeks start to burn.

“Bye, Penelope.” Penelope cackled as she hung up and you rolled your eyes then winced. “Ow.”

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear any of that conversation,” Derek teased and you kicked out at him, and Derek laughed as he narrowly missed your leg.

“You're lucky my vision is still a little off or I would’ve got you,” you huffed. The paramedic chose that moment to clear you and you slowly stood, grabbing onto Derek to steady yourself.

“Easy, pretty thing. Hotch is already glaring at me,” Derek lowered his voice and this time, you made contact when you stomped your foot. “You know Penelope can’t keep her mouth closed after a little wine. You’re lucky it was just me she spilled to.”

“I would resign immediately if he knew. Just throw my badge and gun as far as I could and run,” you said and Derek laughed.

“You know there’s a wager going on when he’ll find out.” Another stomp to Derek’s foot silenced him as Hotch walked over. Derek dismissed himself when Hotch was a few feet away

“Are you ready to go?” Hotch asked and you nodded, only wincing slightly after.

“So ready. I want to sleep so bad,” you admitted and Hotch hummed in response. You both started to walk to the cars, where the rest of the team had started to load up. “Not ready to be woken up every few hours to make sure I’m still coherent. I think a little risk of brain damage is worth the uninterrupted sleep.” You huffed and the corner of Hotch’s lip turned up into a small smile.

“I’m sure you’re not much worse than Jack is waking up,” Hotch said and you turned to look at him. Sensing your questioning look, Hotch spoke again a second later. “If you’re fine with me checking on you. I just… I’d feel better if I was the one to check on you. You already got hurt on my watch.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Hotch. But thank you.”

The rest of the night was relatively calm, what bits you remember clearly. You would sleep for a little, be woken up and asked a few questions by Hotch, and he would return to his bed a few feet from your own to repeat the process throughout the night. God, his morning voice would live in your memories forever. You weren’t sure what happened that night, but something changed between the two of you. And you had to admit, you liked the changes.

You found yourself paired with Hotch more often when the team split up. Hotch’s shoulders would brush against yours more often, and when Hotch laid his hand on your shoulder one day, you swear your brain short circuited. Not that you would know because you genuinely think you blacked out briefly from the contact, but Emily and Derek would never let you forget it. As time passed, you noticed you were watched by the team more often, especially when you were near Hotch. The day Hotch sat beside you on the plane, you swore you heard a squeal come from Emily before she was shushed by JJ. And this extra time spent with Hotch was great for you, but so bad for your imagination. You found yourself lost in thought more often, like a lovesick teenager. Imagining things with Hotch you know you’d never get to do, knowing he would never reciprocate your feelings. You’d stick with daydreaming for now; pretending he was waiting at the end of the hall for you when you left work. Pretending it was his suit jacket thrown on the floor instead of your own, his want for you high enough to discard his jacket like it was nothing. You could only dream… or so you thought.

You had been working on paperwork from your last case, when Hotch dropped a folder onto your desk as he walked by. You furrowed your brows as you opened the folder, and you could barely keep your expression under control as you read the sticky note inside- Meet me in my office tonight.You had to read over the note a few times for it to really set in and you glanced up, watching as Hotch went upstairs to his office as if nothing happened.

The rest of work passed by agonizingly slow, and you busied yourself with paperwork you had put off from the week. Slowly, the rest of the BAU agents had trickled out; even if it took all your self control to not push Spencer out of the building when he finally left ten minutes ago. You took a deep breath as you stood, and you made your way upstairs towards Hotch’s office. His blinds were already closed and you knocked on his door.

“Come in.” Hotch’s voice was muffled by the shut door and you slowly opened the door. Sweet Jesus, he wanted you dead. Hotch’s jacket was off, tie slightly loosened, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and you swear your brain once again malfunctioned at the sight.

“I, uh, got your note,” You said dumbly and you fought the urge to run out of the building. “Obviously,” you added and Hotch graced you with a smile, a huff of laughter leaving his lips. The sound helped you relax a little and you smiled softly at Hotch.

“You’re nervous. You’re usually not nervous around me.” The observation was surface level, but it felt like you were being studied. “If you’d rather go-”

“No!” You blurted before you cleared your throat, and you took a seat across from Hotch’s desk. “No. I guess I’m just, I’m wondering why I’m here.”

“Do you have any idea why?” Hotch asked and you leaned forward.

“I have an idea. You could even say I have a desire for why you called me here, but,” you propped your elbows on his desk, “why don’t you clear the air, Agent Hotchner?” A few moments passed in a deafening silence, your eyes locked with Hotch’s.

“I’ve tried to ignore it,” Hotch started. “I felt something different when I met you at the banquet, and I didn’t know what that feeling was. Intrigue, for sure. Then you showed up one day, and Strauss introduced you as my new agent.”

“What can I say? I like being a mysterious entity,” you said.

“And you continued to be one, and it’s gotten stronger since that case you were injured. You’re constantly preoccupying my mind,” Hotch said and you slowly stood up. You rounded his desk and sat on top of it, and you slowly reached out. Your hand found its way to his tie, and you gave it a firm tug, pulling him closer to you.

“Wanna know a secret?” You asked, leaning down closer to him. You were so close, you noticed some gold flecks in his eyes you hadn’t noticed before. “You’ve been on my mind since we first met.” You weren’t sure who closed the gap, but suddenly lips were on yours, and Hotch’s hands were on your hips and you gasped as you were yanked into his lap. You grabbed at his shirt with one hand, your other finding its home in his hair, and you felt a surge of pride when a groan slipped from Hotch’s lips. “Fuck, Aaron.”

Hotch backed away slightly and you almost whined at the loss. “What was that?”

“Aaron..?” You hesitantly repeated and Hotch pulled you closer.

“Fucking hell.” Hotch’s lips were back on yours and you lost yourself, preoccupied with him. You didn’t know how long had passed before you pulled apart, breathing heavy, and Hotch’s forehead rested against your own.

“Penelope will have a field day if she finds out about this.” You breathed out a laugh and Hotch shifted so you were looking at him.

“And what exactly do you want this to be?” Hotch seemed… nervous? Vulnerable? Something different from the confident man you had become infatuated with.

“As much as I loved making out with you, ideally?” You ran your fingers gently through Hotch’s hair. “I’d like to try getting dinner with you. Maybe spend some time together, not hidden in your office.” You smiled at Hotch. “I believe that’s what they call dating these days.”

“I haven’t dated in a while,” Hotch said and you shrugged.

“We’ll figure it out, yeah?” You asked and Hotch nodded. You pressed a gentle kiss to Hotch’s cheek and you let your head rest against his shoulder.

“I think I can work with that.”

[pablitosgf]

beach day ! — op81

pairings ! — oscar piastri!girl dad x fem!mom!filipina!reader

warnings ! — none, pure fluff

info ! — in which oscar, y/n, and their daughter ilia have a fun beach day.

authors note ! — SEND REQUESTS PLEASEE IM BEGGING 🙏🏼 (yes im this desperate!) this is based on the y/n and ilia from my 3 part mini series, which are what?!, shock!, and again?! so make sure to check those out if you'd like <3, however this can be read as a standalone

format ! — writing

“Are you ready for the beach, my love?” you said with a warm smile rolling onto your lips, looking at your daughter with full adoration. She had your dark eyes, she had brown hair (though they weren't as dark as yours, hers was lighter), but she had her father's fair skin tone, no touch of your morena skin tone. Not even a sprinkle. She was as light as day. A smile rolled onto her lips too as your daughter, Ilia, happily nodded.

“I’m so excited! Will I be able to make sand castles with you and Papa?” Ilia exclaimed, jumping in place as your hands clasped with her small ones like a puzzle piece. Her excitement only made your smile wider, she and Oscar were your life, your happiness, and your will to keep on going. Your daughter had her swimsuit on already, it was blue (her favorite color) with frills, and had a woven hat on.

You nodded looking down at her, “Of course, we’ll make it very big. Won't we Mahal?” you said, looking at your husband who just came down after he finished getting ready. Oscar wore his cap (no, not his McLaren one if that's what you were thinking) a creme off-white button-up shirt, and some blue shorts.

His eyes met yours and soon Ilia’s he too nodded with a smile, “Yes, it’ll be very big and taller. Taller than you, Ilia.” Ilia gasped, she raised her right hand up high to show how tall it would be, then looked up at her hand. You and Oscar chuckled.

“This tall?” Ilia asked, tilting her head to the right as she furrowed her eyebrows.

“Yes, that tall anak.”

“So tall it’ll reach the sky?” she said as her eyes went big, making you and your husband chuckle again.

“Yes, darling.” Oscar stepped into the conversation again.

“Okay then, let's go!” Ilia said, her hand still clasped with yours As you held onto the bag filled with toys and other beach day necessities. Your eyes widened as she ran to the door, dragging you along with her.

“Woah, woah! Okay, Missy!” you chortled, unlocking the door and pushing it open. You followed Ilia as she went to the car, urging you to open it. “Wow, I guess you’re super duper excited!”

“Of course I am, Mama!” Ilia climbed into the car once you opened it, waiting for you to buckle her into her carseat. Closing the door, you open the passenger and climb inside, waiting for Oscar to come. In the meantime, you set the beach bag down in a safe place. Once Oscar arrived he began driving his way to the beach, passing scenic roads.

You and Oscar were conversing with Ilia about what she did during preschool, she was pretty extroverted and talkative, but you and Oscar definitely were not. I guess it’s true, two introverts make one extrovert.

You looked outside your side of the window, “Ilia, look we’re at the beach!” you pointed at the sand-filled grounds and the people in the water splashing and playing. Glancing into the mirror you saw Ilia shake in her car seat, you laughed to yourself and nudged Oscar to look into the mirror as well. Oscar locked eyes with yours and burst out laughing.

Eventually, the three of you got settled, and you were lying down reading a book with flip-flops and the bag beside you as Oscar and Ilia tried to make a really big sand castle. Occasionally you looked up from your book to see what progress they had, and to say the least Oscar did 99% of the work while Ilia was just patting it carefully here and there and praising Oscar. You smiled to yourself.

You could tell Ilia was getting bored by watching Oscar shape the sand castle. “Papa, can we just go play in the water now?” she whined.

“One minute, honey,” he said, finishing his last touches. When he was finally finished he stood up after a long time of not and smiled happily. “Isn’t it nice, Ilia?”

“Yeah, Papa it’s super nice. Can we go now?” Ilia said in a hurry, she looked over at you, “Mama, want to come?” she asked, having a hand out for you.

“Of course, my love!” you grasped her hand and Oscars as you three ran to the water.

You splashed Ilia and Oscar in the water, and you got payback from the two of them. You smiled happily as you watched Ilia get on Oscar’s back. This was the life, you were happy this was your life. You wouldn't change it for anything.

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yourusername family beach day 🌊

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oscarpiastri that sand castle looks amazing i wonder who made that!!

⤷ yeah, i wonder! i think it was ilia.

oscarpiastri yeah uh no, she did nothing.

⤷ OSCAR

oscarpiastri what? 🧍🏼‍♂️

lilymhe tell lia i miss her🥹💔

⤷ she misses her auntie lily 🩷

kellypiquet maybe we could have her and penny have a playdate?

⤷ omg, yes!! message me rn <3

[kallie-den]

Your Type

Paige, a trans woman, goes on a date with a reality-warping lesbian who is determined to mold her into ‘her type’

If you like my writing, please consider supporting me on Patreon!  For less than the price of a cup of coffee each month, you can get immediate, early access to everything I write - 4 pieces of hypno-smut a  month, including the latest chapters of all the multi-chapter stories I write. Your support helps me keep writing and is greatly appreciated <3

---

“So,” Paige said, watching her date carefully over her wine glass as she took a sip. The bar’s house white - good, but a touch dry for her palate. “What’s your type?”

Sophia, the woman sitting opposite her, laughed, amused. “Quite a question, for a first date. It really puts me on the spot.”

“Does it?” Paige challenged playfully.

She was having a good time. Paige had been skeptical - when you were a trans lesbian, dates with strangers could be risky. But she’d decided to take a chance and, fortunately, Sophia was making a good first impression. The woman her friend had set her up with was dressed smart, in a white, satin dress that matched nicely with her fair skin and platinum hair. She was pretty, too, and seemed professional - a good match for a career woman like Paige. Yes, it was strange that she was wearing darkened sunglasses inside a bar, but Paige was happy to overlook a small affectation.

“Well,” Sophia mused, stroking the rim of her glass, “if I tell you that you’re my type, it sounds like nothing more than boorish flattery. But if I describe anything else, then I’m offending you. I’m in a bind.”

Paige laughed too. She was pleased her date could enjoy a little verbal sparring. The atmosphere was perfect for it. The bar was classy - quiet but not dead - and the two of them were tucked away in a private corner so they could talk. Paige had come straight from work but she’d still been able to steal some time to freshen up, and she knew she looked good in her tailored suit, with her long, brunette hair up in a nice ponytail and her nails newly-manicured.

“It’s actually something I ask on all my first dates,” Paige explained. “The answer tells you a lot about someone.”

“And what are you looking to hear?” Sophia shot back, smiling.

“The truth.” Paige shrugged. “Look, I’m not expecting to be exactly your type. That would be one in a million. I just want to see if we have a real shot. I turned thirty a few years ago, I don’t feel like playing games anymore. I’m in your strike range? Wonderful, and we can make sure the mismatches aren’t deal-breakers. If I’m not? We make this just a drink, maybe a night of fun, and go our separate ways.”

Paige knew exactly how that sounded. In fact, it was part of the test. If Sophia got spooked by Paige’s no-bullshit way of doing things, it wasn’t going to work out. Better to find out now than in two months’ time. Fortunately, Sophia was still smiling. The other woman raised an eyebrow as she sat back to sip her wine.

“You’re a woman who knows what she wants,” Sophia noted. “I like that.”

Paige nodded appreciatively. “Oh, and I’m not afraid to put my cards on the table first. You are definitely my type.”

Sophia giggled. “Well, thank you. I’m happy to share, really - I love games, and this is a delightful one. So, let’s get very clear on something first, shall we?”

“What’s that?”

Suddenly, Sophia leaned forward and reached up to lower her sunglasses. She fixed Paige with a devastatingly sharp gaze.

“You are going to be my type. In fact, you need to be. You’re desperate to be.”

For a moment, as Sophia spoke, Paige stopped breathing. It wasn’t Sophia’s words. It was her eyes. Her irises. Paige had never seen anything like them. It was impossible. They were moving, shifting, a hundred times a second, endlessly; an infinite fractal-pattern of shapes, sharp and round and spiraling all at once. And the colors! Every color was in those eyes. In those patterns. A rainbow, kaleidoscopic, but more than that, too. Colors Paige had never seen before. Impossible colors. Maddening colors.

Staring into Sophia’s eyes was like looking into a glitch in reality. And the longer she looked, the more she felt like that unstable glitching was spilling out. Enveloping her. Engulfing her. Paige felt the very fiber of her being as it was unwritten and rewritten - and all just because she’d seen those eyes. It made the skin of her own existence feel so perilously thin, and her very reality feel dizzyingly malleable.

But then Sophia pushed her sunglasses back up over her eyes, and it was all gone. And then the words caught back up with Paige.

“I’m going to…” Paige repeated dumbly. “I need… desperate…?”

She looked at Sophia, in urgent need of clarity. Sophia just nodded.

“That’s right, Paige. You’re going to be my type. You need to be my type. It’s probably why you’re so keen to ask me about it.”

Paige’s mind was racing with a million questions. The big ones - what was wrong with Sophia’s eyes? What was that feeling that had washed over her? - were far too great to fit into words. Perhaps that was why, instead, she found herself latching onto the small incongruities.

“N-no,” Paige said slowly. “No, that’s not right. That’s not why I ask. Like I just told you, it’s because I think-“

Paige stopped talking. She froze because she was realizing that somehow, impossibly, she was wrong, and Sophia was right.

She needed to be Sophia’s type. She was desperate to be. And she was going to be.

Paige barely understood what that meant, but all the same, she was filled with a breathless eagerness. She felt like a butterfly about to burst from its cocoon, ready to taste the world in newly metamorphosed lungs - but to experience that plunge, that freedom, she needed an answer. She needed the answer that only Sophia could speak. Suddenly, Paige’s need for it was agonizing. She was trembling. Craving it, like an addict for a fix. She needed to know what Sophia’s type was.

But clearly, there was something more important than that going on. Paige suppressed the new urge and gripped the edge of her seat, knuckles white, to steady her nerves.

“What did you do?” she demanded, shocked.

“Hm?” Sophia seemed faintly surprised. “Oh, yeah, you’re probably a little distracted, aren’t you? Let me explain, although I won’t get technical on you.” She reached up and tapped the corner of her sunglasses with a fingertip. “With these eyes, I’ve got reality wrapped around my little finger. Past, present, future. Body, mind, soul. All of it.”

“You… you can just… change reality?” Paige was dumbfounded. It sounded impossible, but the urge welling up inside her was all the evidence she needed. Was the woman sitting across from her a superhero? A goddess? “How is that even possible?”

“Tsk.” Sophia shook her head. “This always happens. Sorry babe, but we’re supposed to be on a date. I’m gonna need you to focus on me here. So…”

Once again, she reached up and lowered her sunglasses. As soon as Paige realized what was happening, she tried to look away - but it was too late. The very first glimpse of those impossible, reality-glitch eyes had her captivated. And there it was again: the gnawing, discomforting awareness of her own malleability. As she stared, entranced and powerless, Paige felt like nothing more than an origami doll. Her existence was as thin as paper - and here was a woman who could bend and fold her into new shapes.

“Just don’t worry about it,” Sophia told her.

Paige blinked back to life as those eyes once again disappeared behind the sunglasses. As the existential unease faded, Paige expected her intense concern about the nature of Sophia’s abilities to return - but it didn’t. It just didn’t. Somehow, Paige couldn’t seem to muster up any particular feelings about what Sophia could do, or what she was doing to her. It simply didn’t seem important.

She wasn’t worried about it.

“Oh…” Paige said faintly, as that dawned on her. “OK.”

Perhaps not worrying should have itself worried her, but she proved to be equally cut off from that. Instead, as momentous as Sophia’s power seemed, it quickly became unremarkable to Paige. She wasn’t worried about it. Her date with Sophia was far, far more important.

And Paige’s new need came roaring to the forefront of her mind.

“So, um,” Paige said restlessly. She took a sip of wine to try and calm herself. It didn’t help. “What’s your type? I really need to know.”

“You do, do you?” Sophia's thin smile widened. She sat back again, clearly pondering. “Let’s see… what’s my type today?”

Paige was hanging on her next words. She could sense they would mean everything to her.

“You know,” Sophia said eventually, with an air of frivolity that was entirely at odds with how Paige felt about the pronouncement, “I think my type is girls with short hair.”

A pang of disappointment made Paige inhale sharply as, for the first time ever, she regretted her commitment to growing her hair out. But it faded just as suddenly as it had appeared, when Paige realized there was no problem whatsoever.

She had short hair.

Paige had to reach up and check, which was funny, because having short hair was perfectly normal for her. That was just the kind of girl she was. Sure enough, instead of a ponytail - why had she expected a ponytail? - her fingertips touched the ends of her short bob. That seemed wrong - but only for the briefest of moments.

“I… I have short hair?” Paige said dumbly. She wasn’t sure why it came out like a question.

She had short hair. Of course she did.

But why? That fact seemed oddly incongruous. After all, long hair had always been so important to Paige. It was a symbol of her transition. Of her femininity. She’d always hated the thought of getting it cut. So, why would she have short hair? The more she dwelt on the incongruity, the more it became an insisting, throbbing ache at her temples. She needed to make it make sense.

And then it did.

Paige felt herself plunged into an unfamiliar memory. Herself, rushing to a salon the morning after a sobbing breakdown, voice trembling as she asked the stylist to cut her hair off. It had felt so freeing. Her long hair had become a prison of expectations. Cutting it off had been a ritual. An affirmation.

She didn’t need long hair to be a woman. To be feminine. She simply was. Paige could look the way she’d always wanted. Peering further back, to those miserable college days before her egg had cracked, her memories of her transition goals were shifting. Sigourney Weaver in Alien. Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted. Of course. Of course Paige had ended up with short hair. It made perfect sense.

Soon enough, her memories lost that unfamiliar flavor. They had always been like that. She had always been like this. Paige had short hair.

“Wow,” she giggled, “I’m off to a lucky start. Looks like I’m your type.”

Right away, the fact of her short hair became euphoric. She had short hair. She was Sophia’s type. That was wonderful. Amazing. It was the best news she’d heard in months. It was what she needed.

“Indeed.” Something twinkled in Sophia’s eyes. “You’re rocking the look.”

“Thank you.” Paige reached up and touched her hair. She did that a lot. It made her happy. Short hair didn’t take a lot of effort to keep neat and sleek, but still, it was nice to be complimented for it. “I’m glad you like it.”

She was. She was unbearably glad. Paige just had to hope her grin wasn’t too off-puttingly eager. Knowing she was Sophia’s type made her so happy.

Only, surely Sophia’s type went beyond just hair. The gnawing craving in Paige’s chest itched at her anew. It wasn’t even close to sated.

“And…” Paige pressed. “What else? Tell me more. What’s your type?”

She had to strain to keep her voice measured. Paige didn’t want to make this creepy. But she couldn’t help sounding a little urgent. This was so important.

“Hmm…” Sophia mused. It was plain that she was enjoying the way Paige was sitting forward, shoulders tense, desperate for an answer. “Now that you mention it, I’ve always felt like girls who are all about pink are my type. Know what I mean?”

“P… pink?” Paige said plaintively.

She tried to reason with herself over it. Paige liked pink. She liked it as much as the next girl, anyway. Didn’t that count? In her heart, she knew it didn’t. Sophia’s type was girls who were all about pink, and Paige had always felt faintly at odds with the color. Pink clothes, pink lipstick, pink accessories - they all made her feel like she was stereotyping herself a little. Girls didn’t need to wear pink all the time.

But Paige did.

It hit her like a roaring wind. The infatuation. The obsession. Paige loved pink. It was a touch stereotypical, yes, but that was exactly why Paige adored it so much. There was something indulgent about surrounding herself with it. It was something she could rest her identity on. Blue was for boys, but pink? Pink was for girls. Girls liked pink.

“Pink,” Paige sighed happily, reverently, as the story of her life flailed and twisted out behind her like a serpent’s tail.

When she’d started her transition, pink had felt like coming home. Everything pink she’d bought had become a source of joy. It was funny, though, because Paige remembered feeling a little tokenized whenever someone - a family member, a friend - had given her something pink to clumsily signal their acceptance. Then, a moment later, she remembered more. She remembered overcoming that little hang-up. All of a sudden, her unwillingness to embrace pink was recast as early-transition blues; as holding back, as instinctive repression.

She’d overcome it, of course. And now Paige was all about pink.

Paige looked down. Her suit was pink. Of course it was. She owned a black suit, sure, for somber occasions, but mostly it was consigned to the black of her closet to gather dust. Paige always wore pink suits to work. It turned heads, naturally, but she didn’t mind - not as long as when people looked at her, they saw ‘pink’. Plus, she rationalized - and as she rationalized, it became her truth - it was a nice way to make sure her short hair didn’t mislead people into thinking she was aiming to be androgynous.

“I’m all about pink!” The words burst out of Paige; a cry of joy, a plea for attention. She was Sophia’s type, and she needed Sophia to know.

“So you are,” Sophia giggled. “You’re quite the Barbie.”

The comment made Paige shockingly euphoric. But why wouldn’t it? She was all about pink, and what was pinker than Barbie? Paige remembered seeing the movie posters, and the ads, and- no, no, suddenly she remembered seeing the movie itself. Making time on opening night, despite the pressures of work.

It had been so worth it. So much pink.

“Thanks,” Paige replied, still glowing with the pleasure of being Sophia’s type. “I know it’s getting a little much, at my age, but I just can’t help-“

“At your age?” Sophia seized on that gleefully. “That’s another thing. My type is younger girls, actually.”

“Younger girls?” Paige was immediately crestfallen, but she could already feel the explosive energy of change welling inside her. Already, lines were disappearing from her face. She was caught between despair and hope. “Younger than… you?” She wasn’t sure how old Sophia was, exactly. Suddenly she was hoping for late thirties. Perhaps even pushing forty. “H-how young?”

“Oh, you know.” Sophia seemed to be deciding. She made a little show of counting down on her fingers. “Early twenties, say.”

“Fuck,” Paige breathed - both out of regret, and out of awe at the reality shift that was starting to take her.

This one was different. It made her head throb like nothing else. It felt like her skull was going to implode. Paige could feel her past not just changing, but contracting. Memories gone. Birthdays snuffed out. Suddenly, the nineties she’d grown up in was nothing more than a set of images on TV; a set of anecdotes recounted by older coworkers.

Growing up without the internet? It was a crazy thought, suddenly. Paige found that, even in her last moments of remembering it, she couldn’t seem to comprehend it.

The process was terrifying - or it should have been. But Paige wasn’t worried about it. Couldn’t worry about it. Instead, her eagerness to please, to be Sophia’s type, forced its way through her confusion.

“T-that’s good,” Paige struggled to say. “I’m y-younger.” And she was so pleased about it, too. “I’m… I’m…”

It was a little alarming to realize that she didn’t know quite how old she was. Paige’s age was still in flux. It was like Schroedinger’s cat. She’d yet to settle on it. Paige found herself torn. How young was ‘younger’? Part of her wanted to push her luck. To save what could still be saved of her past. Twenty-four? That could still be ‘early twenties’, right? It was younger than twenty-five, at least.

But what if it wasn’t good enough? That was the other thought, and it soon carried the day. Above all, Paige needed to be Sophia’s type. It was so important.

“I-I’m twenty-one!” Paige sang out, in a voice that was suddenly just that bit fresher and higher.

Twenty-one. Of course she was twenty-one. It had only been last month - her birthday, that little ritual, going to a bar, buying a drink with her real ID as her friends cheered and the bartender winked. As moments passed, that memory became more and more solid and concrete in Paige’s head. It was real, undoubtedly. Far more real than the ten or so years she’d just lost, all of that life and time metaphysically shredded into nothing more than hypothetical abstraction.

“Twenty-one?” Sophia cocked an eyebrow playfully. “That’s kind of hot.”

Paige tittered and blushed. That was so naughty. There was something thrilling about going on a date with an older woman - why did that thought taste so new? It wasn’t. Paige was sure of that. At least, she thought she was. She’d been giddy with anticipation ever since her friend had, with a knowing wink, proposed setting her up with Sophia.

Paige had a thing for older women. She must. Why else would she be on a date with Sophia? Her attraction to Sophia took on a new flavor.

“Twenty-one,” Paige repeated. The thought was settling. “Yeah. Um. Yeah.”

Twenty-one. She was twenty-one. Fuck. She was younger than Sophia.

She was still dizzy from the change. So much of her life had been put into flux. Only slowly was it falling into place. Paige struggled to make sense of it all, grasping at possible solutions that turned to stone - to reality - as soon as she latched onto them. Her transition moved backward, to her teenage years. The miserable, closeted portion of her life was high school now, not college. College - that felt like just yesterday. Paige had only just graduated. She was so young!

But of course she was. She was twenty-one.

It changed everything. Only the bare outline remained fixed. Suddenly, instead of Sigourney Weaver and Winona Ryder, Paige had been showing her hair stylist pictures of Miley Cyrus. Kristen Stewart. Those were her idols now - at least, in some ways. Neither of them was quite pink enough for Paige’s liking.

2010s pop culture was pouring into her head, replacing what she’d lost. It was a wild experience. And somehow, it felt like it had always been there.

And then there was her job. Paige was a successful career professional. She worked in management. A twenty-one-year-old manager? Wasn’t that absurd? Paige tried her hardest to cling to that one thing. She was so proud of it, after all. Mercifully, the thread of reality she was pulling on didn’t quite snap.

Right. Yes. She remembered now. She was a twenty-one-year-old manager. Paige had started interning in college, and she’d made a big impression at the company she’d worked for. They’d been willing to take a chance on her and hire her into a senior role right out of college. She was a rising star. It was rough sometimes, of course, having so many subordinates who were younger. It was a fight to get them to take her seriously. Especially given all the pink she wore. But Paige couldn’t be stopped. The pink became a statement. Young women - young trans women - of her generation could do anything. She was a girlboss. The world was her oyster.

And a thousand other things about her reality shifted. Big changes and small ones, spreading out along implications and possibilities like cracks in ice. With the strange power Sophia had infused into her, Paige was rewriting her entire being - and all of it, just to be Sophia’s type.

“How old are you?” Paige asked. She just wanted to hear it.

“Old enough,” Sophia replied rakishly. “The waitress probably thinks we’re mother and daughter.”

Paige shivered rapturously. It wasn’t the age gap, not really - although, yes, she found that hot, now. Frankly, working in management was a little distracting in that department. So many hot, older women were Paige’s coworkers. It was the kind of thing a young lesbian could get worked up over. But what mattered far, far more than that was that she was Sophia’s type.

“So… I’m perfect, right?” Paige was desperate to be. It was written into the fiber of her being now. “Perfect for you?”

“You’re getting there,” Sophia offered. Just hearing that was intoxicating. “But… oh, I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t say it.”

“What?” Paige’s heart skipped a beat. The mere possibility of a mismatch between herself and Sophia’s ideal was panic-inducing. “No. No, tell me.”

She needed to know. She needed to know, so that she could become.

“It might be a big ask,” Sophia warned. The smile on her face was more than a little cruel. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes!” Paige answered at once. Her apprehension was swept away effortlessly by gnawing desperation. “Please.”

“If you insist,” Sophia replied. Her manner was painfully unhurried. “The thing is, my type happens to be girls who are… well… dumb.”

“W-what?” Paige whimpered. “That… that’s…”

It was awful. Sophia’s type was dumb girls, and Paige had always prided herself on her intelligence. But as much as she feared losing her brains, the inexorable pull towards becoming Sophia’s ideal was stronger. Paige could already feel it, taking her into its flow, draining hard-won knowledge out of her head.

“I’m dumb,” Paige pleaded, half-sincerely, searching desperately for an angle to shoot for. “At least… um… m-maybe a little forgetful? My friends are always saying-“

She froze. Saying what? Paige could feel reality shifting beneath her feet as the memories came back to her.

Ditzy. Airheaded. That’s what her friends always called her, wasn’t it? After all, she’d always been the slow one in the friend group. Even in college, someone had to be the dumbest. Of course, in Paige’s case, they even joked it was a miracle she’d been able to graduate. Paige could feel it, even now. Her head getting a little foggier. Her thoughts, a little simpler and cruder. As soon as she felt it, it became familiar.

“Oh, no,” Sophia said, dashing her hopes. “I’m afraid it goes a little beyond that. I’m talking about really dumb girls. That’s my type.”

Paige’s head throbbed painfully as she absorbed that, and reconfigured herself again. College? No way. She’d tried, sure - middle-class family expectations - but Paige had ended up dropping out in her first year. She simply couldn’t follow along in lectures.

“I’m… I’m really dumb,” Paige confessed bashfully. It was kind of embarrassing, coming right out with it on a first date - but hey, it was better than a new lover dumping her after three months once she realized Paige couldn’t hold an intellectual conversation.

Not that she had to worry about that with Sophia, of course. Dumb girls were Sophia’s type, and that alone made it something to be proud of. For the first time ever, Paige was truly, wholeheartedly glad of what a total ditz she was.

"That’s really cute, honestly,” Sophia told her, any predatory glint in her eyes concealed behind those dark sunglasses. “Adorable.”

Her approval was like a red rag to a bull. “When I first got my job, everyone was, like, so surprised!” Paige gushed. “I mean, me? Working in management? That was… was… um… I-I mean, that wouldn’t even make…”

A fresh wave of dizziness hit Paige as the total incongruity of her career dawned on her. It didn’t make sense. A twenty-one-year-old working in senior management was already pushing it. Only exceptional aptitude could possibly justify that. Now that she was dumb - which, of course, she’d always been - that particular thread of reality was finally snapping. It gave way, plunging Paige into another pit of uncertainty.

What was her job again?

There was only one real answer, as embarrassing as it seemed. Paige was a secretary. Not a manager. A secretary. Why had it ever seemed like she’d been anything else? Secretary work was the only kind of office job Paige could handle.

“When I first got my job,” Paige said slowly, trying to pick up the anecdote, “people joked that I might not be cut out for all that, like, reading and typing. Sometimes I kinda need help with some of the more, um, technical documents.”

It was true, she realized a moment after. Paige could now remember hearing workplace rumors about how she’d only been hired because her pink outfits really brightened up the office. She looked down. Her legs felt a little chilly all of a sudden - only, it wasn’t sudden. Paige had been wearing a cute little pink pencil skirt all day. Not pants. A pantsuit was a little much, for a secretary.

“I guess I’m kind of a bimbo,” Paige giggled self-consciously, as she joined the dots between her ditziness and her obsession with all things pink.

And she was. She really was. Maybe that was why she was so confused. Maybe that was why she kept half-remembering another Paige - a Paige that was older, and smart, and successful, and serious. But that wasn’t her. Not anymore. No, not ever. That Paige wasn’t real.

She was becoming less real by the moment, as the waves of this latest change rippled back into her past. Her high-school grades retroactively plummeted. When she’d first started transitioning, there had been more than a few sexist little jokes about being girly and pink suited her better than trying to be smart and serious and masculine. The dizziness started to recede as, more and more, Paige’s life started to make sense again. Once again, the implications went deep. Everything about Paige was malleable. The only fixed points were the things Sophia liked.

Paige wasn’t worried by that, of course.

“A real girly girl,” Paige added, as her reality settled. “You… you like that. Right?”

“You know?” Sophia mused. “Now that I’m seeing it, I’m not so sure. It’s a little, well, cliché.”

“Cliché?” Paige echoed, in a wounded voice. “Is that, like, bad?”

It certainly sounded like a reprimand, but Paige had to be sure. Already, she felt her existence becoming fluid again. The sensation was like nothing else; a dizziness, a fuzziness around her thoughts, around her memories, especially, as they blurred, ready to change.

“I suppose what I had in mind was something a little… rougher?” Sophia continued. “Punk? Is that the word I’m looking for? You know what I mean. A little bit of that blue-collar charm. Dumb, strong, rough.”

“B-blue… collar?” Paige panted. “Punk?”

The headache was like thunder inside her skull. Gale winds, too, blowing away the Paige she’d been steadily coming to terms with. There was no fighting it. At once, Paige’s head was flooded with stereotypes. Punk girls. Working-class girls. She dredged up every impression she’d ever had of them to fuel her transformation. A transformation that tore her life story to shreds.

College? Fuck no. Her family had never had a lot of money. They couldn’t afford to waste it paying tuition for a girl with rocks for brains. Paige had struggled to graduate high school, let alone get a degree. What would have been the point? You didn’t need book smarts to haul ass on a construction crew.

Right. Construction. That was where Paige worked. Suddenly, the idea of herself as a secretary seemed preposterous. Lame. Paige would take fitting joints and carrying pipes over some stuffy office any way of the week. Hers was a good, respectable, union job. Those ran in the family, didn’t they?

Yes. Yes, of course.

Paige was good at it, too. Strong. Sophia had mentioned strong, hadn’t she? Paige was sure of it. Her self-confidence was bolstered back a little. Everyone wanted a strong girl like Paige on a construction site. Even a trans girl. Oh, sure, she’d heard plenty of shitty comments about that. But Paige didn’t take them lying down. She wasn’t that kind of girl. She could stand up for herself. She was rough.

Paige smirked at Sophia. She let her legs fall apart as she slipped into her natural, girlspreading stance. For some reason, wearing a pencil skirt crossed her mind. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. That sounded so needlessly restrictive compared to her loose-fitting pink jeans. The glass in her hand wasn’t wine anymore. Beer.

“Good news, miss,” Paige said, and her accent sounded classless and coarse to her until it didn’t, because she’d always talked that way. “Looks like I’m your type, right down to a fucking T.”

Sophia giggled. Paige lapped up her approval. It felt wonderful. Being Sophia’s type was all-important. Now, though, she was used to girls giggling at her that way. What kind of lesbian didn’t love a tough, strong, working-class dyke?

“You sure are,” Sophia cooed. “You look really punk.”

Paige really did, she realized. In fact, she was a little out of place at a classy bar like this, with her studded choker, heavy boots, and her battle jacket - blue, but covered in pink patches and pins, of course. She’d always dressed that way. Ever since… when? Paige soon supplied the answer. Ever since she’d come out as trans. Her transition goals shifted again. Siouxie Sioux. Joan Jett. The goddesses of punk rock.

For a moment, the fact that Paige liked pink so much bothered her, but her warping mind soon resolved the contradiction. Pink was punk. That was now - always - Paige’s defiant battle cry every time someone questioned her punk cred. In a world that hated women and denied trans women at every turn, pink was punk.

Paige’s music taste, having lurched violently away from pop, started coarse-correcting back. She was punk, for sure, and she loved the classics, but she had to admit that pop punk was a guilty pleasure. Avril Lavigne was so hot. She really got it. Pink was punk.

"So. Anything else?” Paige asked. In this new reality, she was cockier and more confident than ever - but she couldn’t help being insecure about exactly one thing. “Or am I completely your type?”

“You know,” Sophia said slowly, looking Paige up and down as she weighed her up. “I think you’re exactly what I was feeling today. Yeah. You’re my dream girl.”

Paige grinned. Her whole body was thrumming with the delicious pleasure of affirmation. It was like a gnawing emptiness inside her had just been filled. And now she felt so good, there was only one thing on her mind.

“In that case,” Paige said, sitting forward, “how about we get out of here and I show you exactly how good I am at laying pipe?”

She laughed at her crude double entendre - by her standards, an impressively witty joke. A classy, older woman like Sophia was out of her league in at least three different ways, and Paige would hate to blow her shot by moving too fast, but this kind of bar really wasn’t her scene, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up in conversation. Besides, she knew Sophia liked her rough edges. She was Sophia’s type, and she couldn’t wait to have her moaning all over Paige’s bed.

Paige had undergone a head-splitting number of metaphysical changes throughout her date. But one thing that had remained constant throughout was that Paige was a top - and a damn good one.

But Sophia didn’t seem to agree. “Actually, maybe you’re not my type after all,” she said, with an air of particular malice.

Paige was immediately heartbroken. “W-what?” she gasped, shocked. There were tears in her eyes.

“Sorry.” Sophia didn’t sound sorry at all. “It’s just, I’m not that interested in the kind of girls who lay pipe. Bottoms are really my type.”

Paige head started throbbing dangerously again. “I…” she pleaded. “I could… I can bottom.”

And she could, Paige realized as it became true. She called herself a top, sure, but that was just part of the game. Paige could feel her orientations and preferences shifting beneath her feet.

“Really?” Sophia replied idly.

“Yeah!” Paige panted, eager to convince. “I-I love to bottom!” A secret thrill entered her voice. Oh god, she really did. It went against her vibe, her style, her demeanor - but that was part of why it felt so fucking good. “ I’m, y’know, v-… um… I’m… vers?”

It just didn’t taste right in her mouth. Paige wanted to say it - wanted to keep that part of herself within her grasp - but she soon realized why she couldn’t. Sophia had said she wasn’t interested in girls who top. Even being vers was out of the question. Paige felt a sorrowful pang as that part of herself vanished into abstraction - but then the sorrow vanished too, because this was just who she was.

A complete and total bottom.

“Are you now?” Sophia queried.

“No,” Paige admitted. She blushed and leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I just… god, if word got around, I’d never hear the end of it, OK? Big, tough Paige? But I’m… um… yeah. A bottom. Totally.”

Still the rough kind, of course. Paige wasn’t the type to go down without a fight. She needed to be overpowered. To be dominated. To be shown who was boss. A punk brat. That was her, she decided. It was a little frustrating people always mistook her for a top. What did they think all the pink was about? Couldn’t they take a hint?

Sophia giggled, and said in a teasing voice, “A punk bottom. Now that’s fun.”

Paige stiffened briefly at being mocked, before that, too, was folded into her sexuality, and she squirmed in her seat. Sophia liked bottoms, so she had to be a top, right? Paige loved getting teased by tops. It was so hot.

“It’s kinda embarrassing,” Paige offered, eager to please. “I get these subby girls coming on to me all the time, but… god, I just wouldn’t even know what to do with them in the bedroom.” Her blush deepened, but she made sure to flash Sophia a defiant look that she hoped would stoke her interest. “But… I don’t know if I believe you’re the kind of woman who knows what to do with me.”

Prove me wrong, she was begging with her eyes.

Sophia didn’t rise to the taunt. At least, not directly. “You wouldn’t know what to do with them?” she repeated curiously. “That’s pretty cute. So would you say you’re a pillow princess?”

Paige bit her lip. She could feel it inside her again. The empty, gnawing need that was the furnace of her transformations. “Would… you like it if I was a pillow princess?”

“Oh yes.” Sophia laughed at her. “Definitely. That’s my type, for sure.”

“Fuck!” Paige whimpered, as she was rewritten once more.

She was so pleased. An older woman who liked pillow princesses? Paige had hit the jackpot. She couldn’t let herself fumble this. She just needed to stop pretending to be something she wasn’t.

Bratting? Giving a top some attitude? She’d tried it once, sure. It had seemed a little more dignified, somehow. A little more like what people expected from a punk girl like her. But it hadn’t felt right. Paige was the kind of girl who blew over in a stiff breeze.

She loved the way Sophia was toying with her. Playing with her expectations. Making her change to match them. Paige could feel herself getting hard under her jeans. She’d never been so turned on. And the best part was, she could sense that she could count on Sophia to understand that just because she had a cock, it didn’t mean she was interested in using it.

“That’s better,” Sophia purred approvingly, as she watched Paige whimper and squirm. “Yes, that was just the finishing touch you needed. Now you’re perfect.”

“T-thank you,” Paige whined instinctively. God. She knew how absurd it was for a rough-and-tumble punk like her to sound so meek and submissive. She hoped Sophia was going to bully her about it. “So, um. Maybe, if you wanted, w-we could… get out of here now? Please?”

It was pitiful to beg, but Paige couldn’t help it. She was burning with need. Being around Sophia made her feel even stupider and more tongue-tied than she always was.

Sophia just stared straight at her. Paige could sense those ineffable, eldritch eyes burning behind her sunglasses. “Please what?”

Paige let out a low moan. “P-please, mistress.”

“Good girl,” Sophia told her. Paige moaned again. She could feel herself making a mess of her panties. “Very well.”

Paige shot to her feet with embarrassing eagerness. “Thank you! Um. God. Thank you. I-I’m just really excited, you know? I really got lucky here.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sophia replied kindly, as she rose to her feet. “Besides, I’m the lucky one.”

“You really think so?” Paige asked timidly.

It was hard to believe. A young, dumb punk with a construction job? Paige knew she wasn’t much of a catch for a lady like Sophia. Compared to her classy outfit, Paige’s pink, punk style and short hair were more than a little garish. And she couldn’t even top.

“Of course,” Sophia giggled, leading Paige towards the door of the bar. “How often do I get to meet a girl who’s exactly my type?”

---

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[serenelia]

ᴍᴀꜱQᴜᴇʀᴀᴅᴇ

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ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴀᴍᴏᴜᴄʜᴇ/ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Content includes: SFW, mentioned vampire Harbinger Childe, ball room dancing that's probably all over the place, the reader experiences stress (to say the least) and vomits.

Scroll away if you don't entertain any au's regarding vampires, witches, and hunters. Also this is quite long (yes again), almost two-thousand and five hundred words, grab a drink!

If you haven't read the first part: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʟʟ

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Before she could even begin to theorize who the person was, she’s promptly shut up once he ceases spinning her around and intertwines their hands. One of his hands takes hers from the same side and places it on his shoulder, resting his on her waist soon after. The gentleman looks.. soft; compared to his intimidating gaze and aura, his features are similar to those of a porcelain doll. A pretty one at that. If one were to differentiate between Childe and him, she could definitely say with confidence that the stranger is more pleasing to the eyes, one would be easy to be distracted by such a man.

The two stared at each other as they swayed gently from side to side, and [Name] felt her breath be taken away upon examining his face even further. Illuminated by the bright light of the chandelier above, his soft indigo-colored hair framing his soft cheeks, his pale skin, and sharp eyes perfectly compliment his very being; even [Name] could feel herself slowly starting to get insecure in his presence. And upon shifting her gaze to his lips, she could see the corner of his lips quirk up and the shine of a sharp and long fang.

[Name] gulps. “Is it too late to back out now?” the stranger muses, evidently entertained by her previous comment that was very obviously for the man she danced with before.

“..My apologies, dear sir; I had intended that for my previous dance partner, Childe, who.. had suddenly left.” She forces herself to look away, her gaze locking with the audience as she turns away, and sees Childe scurrying away in the crowd, not even bothering to look back at her.

Well, it's not like she wanted him to, but she was hoping he'd be attached somehow. Those make the killings easier.

The latter snorts, “Do you…” His laughter dies down as quickly as it came, and [Name] didn’t have enough time to react as he abruptly raised their intertwined hands and spun her around, eliciting a surprised gasp from the lady.

He slows her down after a few spins, intentionally making her land right on his chest. He places a careful hand on her back, pulling her closer, and he whispers, “When dancing with someone, it's rather rude to focus on other people, don't you think?”

“…” Her eyes widened, her mind turning to mush at their nonexistent distance, and her heart started beating loudly in her chest. Yet before she could even respond, he swiftly maneuvered her back to her previous place and started swaying them once again, wearing a small but polite smile.

“..My apologies; I was simply confused for a mere moment.” [Name] says through gritted teeth, mentally cursing at the rate of her heart at that one cheesy action. How many more times is he going to spin her around?!

“Forgiven,” he replies, a smirk growing on his lips. “I am Scaramouche, the 6th of the Eleven Harbingers. I must apologize for my fellow Harbinger’s actions. I’ll make sure to ask him to give you a proper apology later.”

[Name] smiles back politely and shakes her head. “Good evening, Sir Scaramouche, I am Lady [Name]. You ought not to, I’m sure the matter is something of outmost importance for him to handle.”

“Even if that is so, it’s still rather rude to leave your dance partner in the middle of it.”

“You need not to fret; I take no offense to it.”

Scaramouche squints his eyes. “Lying is not a very friendly mannerism to a stranger, is it?" he says, tilting his head to the side and peering down at her.

forcing a smile, [Name] made an effort to avoid glaring at him, “Quite so, though, may I ask why you took it upon yourself to replace my previous partner?” her charm was working marvelously on Childe, a little more would have him end up in her lab. Why did he have to intervene?

The Harbinger replies in a sly tone, “Upon realizing his gaze would inevitably stray away from you, I had to clean up after him to make sure he doesn’t do more harm than good.”

[Name] raises a brow, “Then one should not bother himself with a fleeting matter such as this, I assure you, there is no need to occupy your time with a dance.” She removes her hand from his shoulder and takes a step backward with her body following suit, accompanied by an outreached hand; the latter does the same and assists her once she spins herself and lands carefully near his chest. His hands outlining her waist, she wraps her arms around his neck and threw her head back as Scaramouche leans her downward.

She tries her utmost best to avoid ogling his face, “Why, there is no need to belittle this wonderful dance; I am finding it rather enjoyable, so consider my time well occupied.” Scaramouche praises, though [Name] could clearly see the empty words behind it.

He guides her back to her feet by the waist, “I am incredibly honored to hear such.” [Name] lies, moving her hands from his neck back to his shoulders as they started swaying side to side, frowning at his natural beauty and nonchalant behavior.

a flicker of doubt crosses his face, “..I find myself honored as well to be able to speak to you, Lady [Name].”

[Name] forces out a smile.

silence overruns the space between them, both plastering polite smiles on their faces, one more visible than the molecule of a smile the other has. After a few more seconds of their bodies swaying, they switched their perspective positions and once again intertwined their hands together. [Name] takes a step back before raising their hands to hang above her head to be able to place herself by his side, facing the opposite direction with their arms resting on top of each other.

To her surprise, it was he who broke the silence between them: “How does one find the event so far? I hope it suits to your adequate tastes.”

[Name] glances at him from behind. Is he one of the people who arranged the whole event? Or maybe well acquainted with the person who did?

Perhaps she should watch her mouth from now on.

“This event has been wonderful so far; I can tell a lot of effort has been put into it to make it satisfactory for both races,” she replies, which, in a way, is true.

Scaramouche suppresses what sounds like a scoff: “Yes, this whole event wishes to bring both the human race and the vampire race together.” The two break off the physical connection between their arms and held hands, with Scaramouche raising them as [Name] spins herself before doing the same for the latter. After he spins, they repeat their outstretched arms by their sides. “I must say, this whole idea is rather.. idealistic. Don’t you think so?” he continues, gaze glued to her figure during the whole step.

[Name] remains silent for a second longer. “Why does one think so?" she asks, her eyes finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. They each took a step to meet at the center and held hands, withdrawing for a mere moment before letting go of one pair as she started to slowly walk in a circle around him, with Scaramouche having to adjust his hand over his head once she made her way behind him.

“Anyone who had proper education would be able to process that.. ideas like that are just utterly impossible. It defies the natural law in the food chain, no? With who has the most favor in the eyes of the “gods,” it’s pretty obvious whose more deserving to rule.” Scaramouche states.

[Name] could almost trip at the absurdity of his belief. “…Is that so?”

He tilts his head once they come to face each other. “Do you not agree, Miss [Name]?”

“I.. don’t have a particular view on that subject,” [Name] mutters, lowering her head slightly to avoid his unwavering stare. Aside from the predicament she finds herself in, at least she can confirm that this gentleman is a vampire. A psychopathic human who would be willing to be a blood bag for vampires doesn’t seem to be a plausible explanation. It is also worth adding the glimpse of a fang she saw earlier, further supporting her theory. The only remaining challenge here is figuring out where he prefers his blood to come from.

They repeat their outstretched hands from their side, and [Name] could feel her anxiety (or could it be giddiness?) spike up once she felt his hands embrace the sides of her waist firmly after she spun herself to land with her back to his chest, “To be able to grasp the true reality of this hierarchy-focused world, one must adapt their beliefs and get rid of this foolish agenda,” he speaks up while lifting her carefully into the air, her feet kicking purely out of instinct at the loss of ground beneath her. [Name]’s heart rate only increases as he spins himself around, taking her along with it, her beautiful dress a dazzling display for the awed audience.

He swiftly gently places her back on the ground, their hands instinctively finding their way to each other, “Only in that way can you accomplish your desired goals,” Scaramouche adds, his eyes boring onto her whole being with silent but much perceived expectations. [Name] feels the overwhelming urge to run away to her bones; she feels naked around him. With the way he worded his sentences and the tone along with them, it was as if he knew everything about her already.

Cold sweat drips down her back.

What does he mean by that?

Does he mean something more?

Does he know I’m a witch hunter already?

Is he going to expose me?

Oblivious to her panic, Scaramouche continues dancing to the music, seemingly thinking she’s merely thinking about it in her head. He decides to take the lead. His hand always with hers as they became the sole partners left dancing under the light. Their movements were graceful and calculated, appearing to be peaceful for both parties, with the exception of [Name], whose expression slowly turned to one of morbid horror the longer they danced. Scaramouche, for some reason, doesn’t react whatsoever, only keeping a small smile on his face. Only giving rise to her unparalleled feeling of distraught.

The cheerful atmosphere inside the manor suddenly becomes claustrophobic, and the space around her seems to be choking all the air remaining inside her lungs. She needed to get out of there fast. She had underestimated the gravity of her whole situation; she had overestimated herself.

When will this dance end?

The music provided by the musicians was constantly fighting with the dominating ringing in her ears, the muffled voices of the audience increasing and decreasing in volume; it pierced her ears, yet it was almost as quiet as the soft whisper of the wind. Her feet stumbling even at the perfectly made marble floor, her heels screeching upon contact, they trip among themselves, every spin and turn made, but never did she make an attempt to run away. She can’t.

It’s all too much. She could feel the merciful brush of the wind upon her hair, the warm touch of the light above, the tight hug of the corset in her chest, yet the most primary of all, his penetrating gaze set on her, the strong scent of his cologne hazing her mind, his cold touch on her clothed skin, leaving a burning sensation behind. Every trail of his finger from her hand to her shoulder, down to her waist, creates a shockwave of shivers that resonates with her very core.

Please, please, have pity on me, gods!

Let this night end!

Suddenly, everything stops.

The crowd applauds as the music slows down, and they’re both standing in the middle of the circle, facing one another. [Name] had to take a moment to process it. She scans the room around her, and with her raggedy breathing, she can’t find it in herself to say anything, let alone breathe in his presence.

It’s… over?

Something heavy and tight presses itself against her neck, and she involuntarily flinches. Her hand immediately shoots up to her collar; it grasps on nothing. The imaginary force’s hold on her tightens as she locks gazes with Scaramouche. “I thank you again for having this dance with me, Miss [Name]. I hope the rest of the night treats you well.” He purrs and takes her hand up to his lips, pressing a light kiss on the glove.

She clutches her free hand tightly, “..To you too… Sir.” [Name] manages to croak out, barely hearing him over the sound of her heart in her ears and the audience’s amazement.

And with that, he lets go of her hand and leaves his station, blending in with the crowd only a few seconds later, and [Name] is left on her spot, frozen. Looking in his direction with a chill up her spine, this mission was too precious to give up, but was it really worth it just for her experiment?

Her stomach twists and turns in her throat, and [Name] makes quick work with her feet in finding the restroom.

She hastily washes her mouth and hands after exiting the cubicle, banging her hands onto the sink counter repeatedly.

Curse him, curse him, curse him!

her voice strains itself in her throat, tempting her to let it out, but imagining the possibility a fellow guest walking in on her and having to explain brings a blush to her cheeks and a headache in her already dazed head. So she settles by whispering it loudly to herself instead, resulting to her coughing into the sink as flashbacks of the previous dance floods her mind. She takes a deep breath with her eyes closed, but it proved to be useless meditation for his smell clouded her sense of smell everywhere she turns. Oh, how she wishes she could wash it off her right this moment.

It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating.

the sensation of dread and excitement only continued to plague her mind. It never occurred to her—the real danger of being undercover and having a dance with your victim. It was as if the gods were punishing her and keeping her humble.

She scoffs and takes out a small container she kept hidden in her, opening it before applying the ingredients imbedded in it to her lips, wrists, and neck.

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..this was originally supposed to be like 5k words but I held back (my schedule partook in it too). Truly, I was supposed to make this plus two more scenes all in one post, but I was editing and decided to check the word count and... almost 2,500k words... And I know that'll be a mouthful 😪 and I thought that if I delay it further I was afraid ya'll would lose interest and would probably forget about it, haha.

Apart from my self-pity, I really enjoyed making this! Took me like 5 days for this and the rest of the outline.. It was still enjoyable nonetheless. So I hope it's a joyful read too!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!

[passivenovember]

Sharing again!

--

mirrorball

--

“You’re irate,” Robin says. 

And Steve can’t pretend that he knows the definition or that somewhere, past the churning noise of the party, and the wafting heat from the dancefloor, Steve has the slightest clue what to say other than, “Probably.”

Because in all the months he’s known her, if Robin says he’s irate then he probably is.

Steve wants to go home. He’s been over this scene for a while now, holding an empty red cup so no one asks him if he’s up for seconds and thirds. His eyes sting from the smoke. He’s never liked that about parties that don’t rage under his jurisdiction. 

If they were home right now, cutting the night away at Steve’s house, he’d tell them to take it outside. Not everyone’s a smoker. Not everyone wants to die early from nicotine poison, at least not from something as insignificant as second-hand smoke. 

But these are Tommy’s digs. And apparently, anything goes, here. People smoke and drink and fuck right out in the open, probably depositing colonies of lost children on the shag carpet underfoot, and Steve’s had enough. 

“This is really bothering you, huh?” Robin asks. 

“What are you talking about?”

On the other side of the room, past a string of holographic flowers cut from cellophane that dangles in Steve’s line of sight, Billy’s got a kaleidoscope of color dancing on his eyelashes and he’s standing really close to a guy with pretty hair.

That’s all Steve can clock about him.

His hair is nice. Long and brown and curly. 

And Steve’s been told a million times by his grandma that he’s got more to offer than a head of thick, Italian locks but with only a red cup and Robin’s fifty-cent words tethering him to this basement, Steve isn’t so sure. 

Robin knocks their shoulders together. “Billy,” She says. 

Steve can’t tear his eyes away from Billy’s eyelashes. “Where?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” Steve snaps. “I just don’t see him.”

As if on cue, Billy steps closer to the guy. Gets right in the crook of his neck 'cause either. He knows Steve is watching or he’s trapped in his own little world.

Steve can’t figure out which is worse. Serving as the gasoline that fuels Billy’s night and earning a front-row seat to whatever happens next or being locked out. Forgotten. 

A sliver of perfect, golden skin peek-a-boos between the hem of Billy’s slashed Metallica tank top and a pair of leather pants Steve’s never seen before. Not in this basement. Not in his entire life.

He knows instantly he wants to see them trapped around Billy’s thighs. And on his bedroom floor. And melting, coughing up smoke until they’re memory when brownie-locks tugs Billy closer by his belt loop.

Steve crumples his red cup. “Let’s go,” He says. 

Again, Steve’s legs don’t move. 

“You should talk to him,” Robin says. “You should do something before–”

“Billy’s not going to fuck him,” Steve tells the shag carpet. He looks at Robin, and peers into her red-rimmed, pitying green eyes, because. “Right?”

She’s probably worried.

She’s probably tearing her hair down from its edgy updo in fear that their very own ray of Californian sunshine is going home with a stranger tonight. 

Robin’s lips disappear between her teeth, “I don’t know,” She says honestly. 

Robin cherry-picks her words. It’s such a contrast to the way Steve bulldozes his way through grand statements and sweeping apologies. It’s comforting. He hangs on her every expression to know he’s not crazy. He tracks the way she stares past those goddamn cellophane flowers until her eyes get big.

Robin glances over, cheeks red as speeding firetrucks even in the shitty light of this shitty fucking basement.

“What?” Steve demands, and he stares at the horizon to find, that. 

Billy and his Motley Crue knockoff have disappeared.

Steve sucks in a sharp, desperate breath. 

“Steve,” Robin says. 

He can’t feel his toes. He knew this would happen. He should’ve told Billy he loved him when he had the chance, and now.

Robin rubs his knee. 

“Maybe they just. Got swallowed by the wallpaper, or something.” And Steve sounds almost believable. He almost believes it himself, you know? Because how could his entire sex life have gone up in smoke in the last thirty-six hours? It doesn’t make a lick of sense. He was inside Billy Hargrove thirty-eight hours ago, and now--

The room might as well be empty.

“This is such bullshit,” Steve shakes his head. “He better wear a condom.”

Robin snorts, “You really think Billy’s gonna top?�� Her fingers snake around Steve’s shoulder blades, rubbing at the knot of muscles in the side of his neck. “You can’t let it get to you, Harrington.”

Steve has to swallow the immediate desire to protect his shoddy, half-assed fortress of Cool Guy that has been falling apart, brick by brick, since the first time Billy sported hickeys on his neck in the shape of Steve’s mouth and told him that this meant nothing.

Steve wants to bury his face in his hands. 

He wants to pull his hair out by the root and scream and scream and never stop screaming until finally Billy admits that this is love.

That they’re in love with each other.

Whatever that looks like. Forgetting the condom, maybe.

Robin rocks their shoulders together. “Do you want another drink?”

Steve wants that, too. 

He hands his cup over, instead, “I’m going out for a smoke,” Steve mumbles, because even though Tommy’s parents have money and could replace it no-problem, he still pretends to respect the wallpaper he knows Mrs. Hagan chose special.

--

Billy only lets Eddie get his hands under his shirt because Steve’s watching. 

Only. Steve misses it, because he doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. He’s too busy talking to Robin, and it’s fucked up that the cocktail of vodka and cheap dope has Billy jealous about that, too. 

Like it’s not enough that he's consumed by jealous hatred of Steve’s sweater for draping itself over him all day, but Billy’s gotta drag his favorite lesbian into this. 

Nothing is holy, anymore.

The angry, love-drunk, pissed-off part of himself whispers that Steve and Robin are going home with each other tonight, even though Billy knows that means hideous fleece pajamas and no grabby hands.

It doesn’t matter.

Eddie scrapes a nail over Billy’s nipple and Billy thinks he’s gotta get even. 

If Steve is going to sit on that fucking couch and uphold their agreement that this means nothing, Billy’s going to fuck this stranger.

Done deal.

So Steve looks away and Billy tugs Eddie’s hand to his waist to get his mind off the mole on Steve’s cheek. 

“Got a condom?” He slurs. He’s fucked up. Can’t even stand straight without the wall or this guy propping him up. 

Eddie detaches himself from Billy’s neck, and. “A condom?” He asks, not understanding.

Even in Tommy’s shitty basement, he’s got nice eyes. 

Big and brown and kind, like Steve’s, but. He’s not Steve. 

That could be good, right? Billy could work with that. “You don’t wanna fuck me?” He bitches. Hurt, maybe.

Eddie shakes his head, “No, I do it’s just,” He catches Billy when he stumbles and puts him back on the wall like Billy’s mom used to do with loose paintings when Neil pushed her into them. “Shit, darlin’, you’re drunk.”

It’s kind of hilarious. 

Billy snorts. Knows if Steve heard him he’d say Billy’s cute, and Billy wants to go home. Not to Cherry Lane, but to Steve. He wants to live there forever, and Max could come, too.

“I am drunk,” Billy admits. He leans forward, wetting his mouth and grinning when this poor country idiot can’t help but zero in on the shine. “I’m real easy when I’m sloshed.”

“I don’t know–”

“C’mon, Harrington says I open up nice when I’m blackout.”

Eddie blinks at him. Straightens his spine, all noble, so he can stare down his button-snout at Billy to demand, “He fucks you when you can’t stop him?”

Like he knows Steve.

Like he knows them like Billy’s his mom and he needs to be rescued.

It pisses him off. Gets his dick to lay flat, for once, and Billy’s fucking tired. “Oh, like you were about to?” Eddies cheeks flare. Billy waddles forward. Says, “I don’t even know you. Stop acting like you know shit about shit because you don’t.” Because. “I love him,” Billy adds, “I’m in love with him because he deserves it.”

Eddie sucks his teeth, “Oh yeah?”

“Maybe.”

“That him over there?” And Eddie jerks a thumb over his left shoulder. Steve’s watching them, cool as a fucking cucumber, and that does something to Billy. 

Makes him look at the situation from outside of it. 

Like, he just offered to fuck this guy, this random dude, and Steve doesn’t even care. And he’s not stupid. Likes to pretend he is, though, and that’s worse. He may be having a grand old time over there with Robs, lounging like a king on the same couch Tommy fucked Billy on last summer, but he knows.

He’s gotta know. 

Billy shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” He gasps. 

It’s not Eddie’s fault. 

He’s a nice guy. He’s been sweet all night, asking about music and movies and books and only touching when Billy begs him for it. 

Eddie’s baby browns get big. He says, “There’s nothing wrong with you, sugar, people act crazy when they’re in love.” He pushes the hair off Billy’s forehead, looking sweet and concerned, “Do you wanna go outside, maybe? Get some fresh air?”

Across the room, Steve isn’t even watching them, anymore. 

He’s lost interest.

Maybe he never had it in the first place. And it stings. 

Strangely, Billy doesn’t feel like drawing blood when Eddie leaks kindness. He offers his hand and Billy is too drunk to do anything other than take it.

--

Billy’s edges are sharp enough to cut. 

The truth, though, is that Steve likes it. Every drop of venom tastes like gin burning down his throat, hungry for more because it leads to Billy.

Truth is, Steve sees through it. He’s been close enough to that incendiary spirit on dark midnights to notice the fireflies that gather for warmth around the hearth of it all. And the reality that Billy would even let him get close enough for danger to  flash red against Steve’s skin in the first place--

Maybe that’s one of the things Steve likes most. Even if it hurts, sometimes, there will always be proof that Billy was there. And that for a moment, their edges had fit together like pieces of a puzzle. 

Maybe it’s just the beer talking, but Steve can’t let him go.

So Steve busts out of Tommy’s shitty basement, ready to tear springy brown curls from the scalp of that handsome, flirting stranger, when he steps into a puddle of rainwater, instead.

His skin is on fire. The shock of cold puts things into perspective, Steve’s chest opening like a summer tulip to the enormity of the universe.

There’s a calm spring mist, settling like diamonds across his skin. The Earth smells forgotten. Like for years and years, someone took the fabric of the city and rolled it up and stored it away, and now it’s free again. Resting, moth eaten and threadbare, against the backdrop of Steve’s shitty fucking night. Steve’s awful realization, that. 

He loves Billy. Earth-shattering.

And Billy’s going to fuck someone else. Apocalyptic. 

And even if Billy doesn’t make brownie-locks wear a condom, Steve will sit by his bedroom window all night just in case Billy decides that it means nothing, too. Just like them.

“Goddammit,” Steve hops out of the puddle a minute too late.

There’s water in his sock, squishing like fresh mud between his toes. He imagines being home. Warm and showered with a full belly, dozing in front of the fireplace. In Steve’s daydream, he’s naked from the waist down while Billy pushes and pulls his leg hair and calls him colonizer shit spawn for having a marble hearth in his living room. 

It doesn’t sting. Nothing hurts because in Steve’s fantasy, they belong to each other. Every impossible summit has been scaled and they’ve sidestepped waterlogged potholes to get to the truth. Their relationship means something. Everything.

Steve’s heart shudders, reality eclipsing the moon until everything's so bright he catches on fire. 

He stalks to the side-fence, peering into the watery darkness for a shock of American-made blue.

Billy’s car is nowhere to be found. 

And historic, champagne-pink revelations aside, Steve fishes around for his pack of smokes and refuses to admit that he’s out here to kill the guy who wants to get Billy’s mouth on him.

Steve would lose, probably. He’s fucked up. This probably isn’t healthy.

He wonders if Billy would plan his funeral. If he’d cry for him and swear off guys forever and visit Steve’s grave every morning with a hard on. 

Steve hopes so.

He’s embarrassed, to the very root of him. He needs a light.

So Steve bites the butt of his cigarette and pads around the yard, trying to find someone with a matchbox. The Earth is beautiful. Mrs. Hagan is an excellent gardener. All around, bushels of lilacs and marigolds are set to bloom. He studies the fullness of each blossom, eyes tracking the deep green of their clinging branches. 

It’s not even April yet and they’re thriving. That’s just the expert of Mrs. Hagan. She’s a smart girl, she knows how to nurture difficult saplings through hardships and winter months with careful hands, and--

Relationships are kind of like that, people have said.

Someone said that, once. Right?

Steve almost drops his cigarette. He yanks a handful of marigolds from the soil. They come up with their roots still attached.

That's gotta mean something. Bad poetry that feels like the ‘acknowledgements,’ page in one of those books his mom is always reading. Chicken Soup for the Soul. He imagines what Billy would say about this revelation after he’s chewed on it for a while.

Steve pets over the bleeding roots of his bouquet. He's never had gentle fingers. He tries to, with Billy and with everything else, but it always lands a little crooked. 

If Billy knew how hard Steve was trying, he’d probably call him an asshole. Chew on his thumbnail and ask how it is that Steve can read minds, all of a sudden, if Billy didn’t teach him. Because Billy taught him everything he knows, apparently. How to skateboard, how to bake pies from scratch, and how to fuck. 

Which flowers are his favorite.

--

Billy’s nails are sharp enough to pierce the skin. 

He’s never tried to do it on purpose, but he always manages, somehow. 

It’s raining. And Eddie’s hand is soft and warm and his fingertips are calloused just enough that when Billy nearly falls on his ass trying to side-step the tasteful rocks in Tommy’s side-yard, Eddie’s got traction to steady him.

“Nails are fucking sharp,” Eddie says. But he’s smiling.

There’s no shit, in that grin. He’s not aiming to eat Billy’s heart and soul or anything else. Nothing at all like Steve. Billy doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Not like I need to worry about keeping ‘em short,” Billy grins back, sighing in relief when Tommy’s parents had the good sense to invest in picnic furniture, “I’m not a top. I was, until Harrington--”

“I think if you say his name one more time he’ll appear,” Eddie teases, “Like Beetlejuice.”

Billy flops onto a sun lounger. “Think I’m gonna be sick,”

Overhead the stars vibrate, undulating until it feels like God is trying to hack and slash his way through the dark night sky to get at Hawkins. 

“Do you want me to run and grab--” Eddie pauses, staring around the yard with exaggerated care, “Harring--”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Told ya,” Eddie grins, “Beetlejuice.” 

And maybe it’s just the vodka talking, but Billy’s stomach is stuffed with butterfly hearts when this dumb, sweet, beautiful boy smiles at him.

Eddie perches at the base of the lounger. His boots plant themselves on the ground, nice and respectful, so if someone were to see them they might think Eddie was aiming to rescue Billy from alcohol poisoning right before he calls him a slur and takes off, cackling into the night.

He won’t, though. Eddie’s a nice person and even if he wasn’t, Billy knows when a guy’s caught.

Kid’s been watching him all night. Even now, Eddie peers through a curtain of springy curls, baby browns flitting all over Billy’s face and catching on the things Steve likes best about him, probably. His cum-gutter lashes and dick sucking lips--

“You eyes are really blue,” Eddie squints and slides closer, all, “Like, creepy blue.”

It’s written all over his face. Hook and line, blind with hope for things Billy could only ever give to Steve. "Creepy?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, full of wonder.

“Well fuck off, then,” Billy snaps. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“You’re not a baby, and I’m just sitting, alright?” Eddie's silver-lined fingers rise to pat around his vest. Billy squares his jaw when he pulls away with an unsheathed cigarette. “I’m smoking,” Eddie tells him, “Just sittin’ down until I can get the cherry sparked.”

“You’re a dumbass.”

“Probably.”

“It’s annoying,” Billy shakes his head, staring out at the trees that line the Hagan’s side-yard, a hop and a skip to the neighbor's place. “You’re a good guy. Why are you so good?”

“’M not good,” Eddie admits softly. “You’re just. You’re fucking gorgeous, alright? And if you don’t wanna go home with me, I gotta keep you safe until the Prince can get to you.”

Billy’s eyes snap, heated, to Eddie’s grinning face. “This isn’t a fairytale,” He says. Because it isn’t.

But Eddie looks so hopeful. 

His eyes melt like chocolate kisses. 

“No, but it could be,” Eddie scoots a little bit closer, hand falling to rest on Billy’s knee, fingers slipping along leather. “Can I ask you something, gorgeous?”

“I’m not gorgeous,” Billy snaps. When Eddie grins again, Billy’s face warms. Hot as the sun. “Spit it out, Munson.”

“Why are you in love with him?”

“I’m not in love--”

“Billy.”

He’s uncomfortable, like this. A bug under a microscope so he’s gotta show his stinger and scare kindness away.

But Eddie’s too dumb to notice.

A thousand words bubble and rise like champagne at the back of Billy’s throat, each one fizzing out before it can shuffle past his teeth. All of them will land like fists. Split skin and draw blood, so.

Billy shakes his head. Settles on, “He’s not what I expected.”

“Yeah, but why him? I could be different than what you expected. I mean--”  Eddie’s fingers dance along Billy’s thigh. Touching but not quite, at the same time. Making his skin dance. “I already am, right?”

Billy shivers. 

“Yeah,” He admits. It burns like alcohol on open wounds to say out loud.

But the thing is-- 

“Steve’s different than you. Than everyone. He’s sweeter and brighter than anyone I’ve ever met. Event though it took forever to get there. He’s got layers. He’s not what you’d expect, because. He’s got this big fucking house, right? And it’s full of shit. Name-brand poptarts and every vinyl you could imagine and all his blankets are soft enough that they’re probably lost clouds, or something. And even when I’m with him, like. Even after we fuck and Steve gets what he wants from me, he always asks if I’m hungry. And he doesn’t believe it when I say that I’m full. That I’ve gotta jet. He cooks really good pasta. He sings. He’s got a good voice, and he puts my name in the song, sometimes. He lets me eat in bed and he plays with my hair while I fall asleep, and. That’s the biggest thing for me, you know?”

Eddie’s fingers wrap, like warm summer vines, around his own.

“I don’t sleep good anywhere. I get cagey, ‘cause of my old man. I’m always on alert. There was a while, last summer, where I slept with my shoes on. ‘S why I’m such a bitch all the time, I’m fucking exhausted, but with Steve,” Billy’s shaking. He’s gonna vibrate out of his skin. “Steve is my home town. He’s home, on a Saturday morning. I’ve never felt safe with anyone else.”

Billy’s going to cry.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Eddie doesn’t notice. And if he does notice, Eddie refuses to care. His eyes are intent on Billy’s face when Billy admits--

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Eddie tells him, “It’s alright.”

“Vodka turns me into a chatty bitch. I’ve never told anybody that, before,”

Eddie’s thumb strokes soft over Billy’s palm. “The stuff about Steve, or--”

“Any of it,” Billy looks up, caught in waves of warm, sweet brown. He sniffs, suddenly more nervous than he’s ever been in his entire life. “If you fuckin' yap to anybody about this, Munson--”

Eddie’s smile is like the setting sun. “Put your teeth away, baby, I’ll take it to my grave.”

Billy opens his mouth to say thank you. To admit that this night, for all the good and bad and embarrassing, has made everything feel easier. 

Eddie seems to hear it. To feel it in his bones.

He kisses the back of Billy’s hand, lips sliding warm and soft along Billy’s thumb, to the pad of each finger. 

Billy’s heart hammers, unsteadily in his chest, when those lips press lewd, against his palm.

“Eddie,” Billy mumbles, sounding frail even to his own ears. “Eddie, I--”

--

A bomb goes off. 

Steve thinks the sky might as well be full of mushroom clouds because war’s waged when brownie-locks takes all of Steve’s knuckles across the bridge of his nose.

Steve’s not left handed.

The punch, it’s. It’s awkward and more force than anything else, and it hurts like hell. Something’s probably broken.

“Fuck,” Steve hisses, same time Billy’s new boyfriend says, “Shit,” and Billy puts both of his calloused, strong, stocky, perfect fists on Steve’s chest to shove him back.

Steve goes easy, because he deserves it. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. 

But. He’s seeing red, and he’s gotta know. “Billy--”

Billy looks like he wants to kill him, and he could. Steve would let it happen. He thinks about sinking to his knees right here, dropping the marigolds, begging to get his speech out before the light goes out in the sky forever.

Steve’s still got the unlit cigarette in his mouth. A bouquet in his hands. He takes it out. Drops the flowers. Steps closer and says, “Billy, did he kiss you?”

Because he has to know.

Billy stares at the marigold petals in fear. They're coiled snakes. They're the end of the world. “You’re drunk,” Billy says, same time his new boyfriend bolts upright and fucking cackles. 

“Harrington, huh?” Brownie-locks spits on the ground. It’s red. Steve tries not to feel proud. “Really are Beetlejuice, man.”

Steve ignores the boyfriend. He stares at Billy and tells the truth, “I am drunk. So are you.”

Billy doesn’t look at all like Steve imagined, now that his anger’s planted itself on brownie-lock’s face. 

Billy’s shaking. 

He’s got tears clinging to his lashes, and Steve knows everything’s his fault and he wants to die for that, but all the guilt in the world doesn’t stop him from turning on Billy’s new boyfriend and taking a step forward when brownie-locks says, “I wanted to fuck him until you came along.”

At least someone answers Steve’s question.

He feels a little bit like throwing up and a lot like going for round two. Turning this guy’s face to hamburger meat, but. 

Billy gets between them.

And he’s vibrating.

And no matter what they’re dealing with or how much they’re refusing to talk about, Steve never wants to be the reason Billy can’t hold still.

Regardless, Steve scoffs. “You’re seriously protecting this guy? From me?” 

He’s furious.

He’s so hurt and bleeding inside and angry--

“Go home, Steve,” Billy mutters. He’s not shaking anymore. He stands his ground, looking every bit like an avenging angel, and.

Steve loves him. He’s proud of him, but. “You don’t want me.” The words sound wrong. Garbled and stretched out.

The boyfriend stand ramrod straight all of a sudden, like, “Wait, that’s it?” And he looks so confused.

Hurt, even.

And that pisses Steve off, you know. Gets him feeling brave.

“What do you mean ‘that’s it,’” Steve paces forward, stopping only because Billy tacks a soft, warm hand to the center of his chest. “Are you really asking to get your dick knocked off, freak?”

Billy’s boyfriend laughs, “God, you’re so pretty and so, so fucking stupid.”

Steve knows. About the second part. So he rolls his neck and says, “Why are you still here?” Because--

Billy gets in front of him. He looks so beautiful, with moonlight painting his curls more bronze than gold. And his lashes are clumped together. “Why?” Steve asks again, because he has to know.

And suddenly it’s like everyone runs out of words.

They stare at him. Billy’s boyfriend rocks a little on each foot, eventually peering at the ground like there’s no place he’d rather be than nestled under it. "What's the with the flowers?" He asks.

The longer they ignore him, the more Steve’s set on digging the guy a hole in the ground. Burying him and leaving the marigolds there as a memory.

Steve’s losing his mind.

He’s going crazy, he--

“Why is this guy here with you, Billy?” Steve demands.

Billy stares at him, pretty pink mouth open. His palm is so warm on Steve’s chest, it’s like a sun spot. 

“Why do you want him here and not me?” Steve grabs that hand. Holds onto it, says, “Do you love him?” 

Billy bares his teeth. “Does it matter?”

“Billy,” Steve whispers. “Are you--of course. Of course it matters, you. You have to know, that--”

And he’s grateful to Billy’s boyfriend for not laughing at the way his voice, fucking. 

Cracks.

Bleeds.

Steve takes a deep breath. Tries again. “You’ve gotta know, right?”

And.

Apparently not.

Billy blinks at the stars, blue like the ocean set to spill. He takes his time. Gets his feet under him. Eventually, Billy bares his fangs and stares right through Steve’s skull. 

“Thought I meant nothing to you, Harrington,” Billy says.

And Steve dies.

He might as well not even exist. He might as well be a window. 

“Thought you just wanted me because I’m a warm place to slide into a night,” Billy rumbles, and. 

Steve. He’s never had teeth pulled when he could feel it. He’s never snapped a bone in half. He’s never seen God, either, but. 

He imagines it would all feel the same when he finally has the courage to say--

“I was just following your lead,” Steve’s so embarrassed. And ashamed. He can’t believe he made Billy feel like that, like a figment. 

It hurts worse than any pain he could conjure for himself, so.

"I. I mean, I picked marigolds for you, baby." Steve toes the edge of the cliff. “I love you," He tries, and. 

Falling feels a lot like flying, apparently.

Billy’s boyfriend disappears. Steve considers it a sign that even though Billy won’t look at him, he hasn’t pulled his hand away, yet.

[stardust-sunset]

okay so fantasy au 😭 i needed to ramble

Mrs Curtis was a nymph. Shes kinda like the nymphs in percy jackson, her skin is leaf green (maybe changes colors in the autumn?) and her hair is this sunstricken golden color and she ofc has leaves in it almost always. I also like lowkey wanna say that she has a tail with leaves at the end too-she loved to make flower crowns and maybe she even photosynthesizes? Who knows! I need to draw this concept out

Mr Curtis was a gargoyle. He’s REALLY terrifying looking but once you actually get to know him he’s a huge goofball. He used to pull faces and stuff to make his sons laugh. He had huge bat like wings and a long spiked tail-he had talons too and his eyes would glow bright yellow when he was mad-like ONLY yellow. The pupils and irises were GONE. He taught Darry how to fly!

Onto Darry-he’s a gryphon/human mix? Kinda? Like a centaur but the lower half is a fire gryphon. He was born normal size but VERY quickly grew and ended up being gryphon sized (Like…50+ft in size, gryphons are BIG) and dude couldn’t fit in the house anymore by the time he was like thirteen :( But he’s a fire gryphon so cold doesn’t bother him much. But his wings are kinda flame colored? He has a mane of harness fire around his neck too and the tip of his lion tail is a flame ofc-when he’s mad though the fire flares up and can become harmful. He still roofs houses but he has to be awful careful with his size, though he also gets paid to clear out areas because he’s so big so he can easily sweep stuff. He’s harmless tho, just a big birb/lion boi

Soda is a centaur-his lower half is a palomino colt and his upper half is human obviously. He REALLY likes having his mane and tail played with and sometimes will just flick his brothers with his tail until they give him attention lmao-he is NOT quiet either like you can hear this boy galloping from a mile away. He’s also a big fan of having his tail braided and sometimes will braid it before. work to make sure oil doesn’t get on it. He’s very prideful of his coat though and likes when people give him attention for how shiny his coat is-He hates cleaning his hooves though because it’s hard to do :( Sometimes he’ll nestle into Darry’s wings after a hard day too :(

Pony is a cervitaur ofc-his lower half is a fallow deer (maybe an axis deer…) but this boy is SO prideful of his antler nubs and styles his hair purposefully to make sure there showing at all times. When his antlers actually start growing though he’s really happy except for when leaves and flowers get stuck in ‘em-but this boy is FAST-like 50mph fast. He could outrun Soda any day (I know horses are faster shhh) but he’s so fun. His coat is also super fluffy…his hair is too thanks to being half deer. He definitely sneaks into orchards to steal their food tho and Darry gives him an earful. Something I’m considering is having one of each curtis brother be in control of some element considering their mom was a nymph…Darry’s fire but I have to decide on the others…maybe Soda’s water and Pony’s earth? Idk)

I’m still deciding what I wanna do for Johnny…I’m thinking kraken or something of that nature? But like he can live on land? Idk what I wanna do for him, I wanna have him be opposite to Dally but I dunno how a kraken would fit into Tulsa…Just a big ol water creature…I’ll probably create my own creature thing for him LMAO

Dally’s a dragon. No doubt. He has a dragon form and a semi human “disguise” of sorts…like he has dragon ears, dragon wings and a dragon tail and he has some splotches of scales along his body but his full dragon form is a sight to behold. He’s about Darry’s size in full dragon form and him and Darry have definitely gotten into some •Godzilla vs Kong” esque fights because Dally kept trying to burn down the jail and Darry had to stop him…Johnny was watching (he’s about the same size as Darry too) and he’s just frantically trying to put all the fires out while yelling at adam LMAO-but this boy is so unruly sometimes…also horns. His horns are sharp as a blade (play it cool little brother…sorry-) and he’s not afraid to use them

Two Bit is definitely an imp to me. He likes to try and pull pranks on the Socs a lot-he’s kinda like an evil looking satyr…like he has little goat hooves and he even has a pitchfork but he’s really not and. He’s just a funny guy who wants to scare people sometimes. He’s a bit smaller than average (like…5’6’’) but he’s still trying to be scary. He has bat wings too and flares then when he’s all angry and tries to make himself look bigger but he just cannot-

Steve’s a werewolf. I don’t have much on him whether :(

I’m debating on keeping the Socs human or making them mythical beings too…I have ideas for Marcia and Cherry and even some of the musical Socs so we’ll see

(also if someone wants to listen to me yap about gryphon darry i mean…👀

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

After hours

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Librarian!reader

Summary: Geralt has finally handed in the paper you helped him research for weeks... Now what to do about all that tension between you two?

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI, p-in-v sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, standing missionary, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), I think that's it?

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: Alright! Roughly 4 months ago, I promised my dearest @deandoesthingstome a round with her Crescent Street fave (at the time, sorta). It has finally arrived! I hope you enjoy it 🥰

For those interested in the timeline: This takes place before he ever goes on his semester abroad, meaning that at this current time, he hasn't met Sol yet.

@deandoesthingstome @geralts-yenn @summersong69 @peaches1958 @fvckinghenrycavill @keanureevesisbae @ellethespaceunicorn @ylva-syverson @sillyrabbit81 @summersong69 @livisss @brattymum96 @kingliam2019

“Thanks for all your help the past few weeks.” You’d been hoping he’d show up all day, and now that the library was about five minutes away from closing, here he was. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’d be able to hear your heart furiously beating in your chest. It’s a good thing that wasn’t possible. Right? 

“You’re more than welcome, Geralt,” you answered. For some reason you were avoiding his eyes. “Got that term paper done?”

“Handed it in a few minutes ago,” he said as he put a stack of books on the counter with a deep sigh. His voice drove you nuts, it had been doing so for weeks, haunting you until long after you had gone home - oftentimes deeper into the night than you cared to admit. 

“You don’t sound too confident?” No, but you did? Where was that coming from? You had expected yourself to crumble in the presence of this… long-haired hunk? Fine specimen? God? All of the above? 

“I’m sure it will be fine.” His smile surprised you the most. “If I’m being honest I’m mostly sad I… don’t get to work on it any more.” Your eyes moved to his as if by magic, because your brain still screamed at you to avoid them at all costs. And it was right to warn you, because as soon as you saw their beautiful color, you were lost. Every shred of the tension you’d spent weeks convincing yourself was a figment of your imagination, rushed back, and now there was so much of it you could almost see it in the air.

“Can I help you put these back?” Geralt said after you had signed his books back in, and you nodded in reply to his question, knowing full well the shelf they came from was all the way in the back of the library. You knew you’d been the only one in here for well over an hour now, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. 

“Let me get the door,” you said, before almost rushing to it and locking it quickly. You could swear you heard him chuckle under his breath at the way you moved, but you didn’t care.

You both scanned the aisles for people you’d missed, but per your expectations, the whole library was empty. It was just the two of you now. The walk to the mythology section of the building felt way too long, and you were definitely walking faster than you were used to, but you weren’t complaining - and neither was Geralt. You somehow found the time to start second guessing your interpretation of the situation, and had to very consciously remind yourself that putting four books back on a shelf was hardly a two-man job. And you were right about that; returning those books took maybe a minute, and when you were done putting the last one back, Geralt pulled you off the step you were standing on and looked at you. 

Once again, all the tension that had built up over the past few weeks came flooding back to you as you stared into his eyes. Your gaze only strayed from his long enough to notice the way the muscles of his jaw moved beneath his stubbled skin as he clenched his teeth. His hands felt warm and heavy as they rested on your hips, and your arms seemed to auto-pilot their way up until your lower arms were against his. Touching his biceps was a mistake - alright, not a mistake, but you were definitely shocked by the amount of muscle beneath the thin fabric of the dark sweater he was wearing. Geralt licked his lips as you let your hands travel up his arms to his shoulders, and when you reached them, he pulled you in. There was no going back now. 

He kissed you hard and in a way you’d almost describe as merciless, but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Every move he made revealed a tiny bit more of the immense strength you had already suspected he possessed. Something told you that you’d be getting more proof of that - maybe even more than you bargained for, but you couldn’t care less. When you felt the warmth of his tongue against your lips, you didn’t hesitate to open your mouth and let him in. He tasted of God knows what, but it was good, and the way he kissed you made your head spin and your knees weaken to the point where you weren’t exactly sure how you were still on your feet. Probably, you realized when you analyzed the situation a bit more carefully, because he was holding you up. Now that you were pulled against his body, his hands had moved away from your hips, and one of his arms now wrapped around your waist while the other pushed between your shoulder blades, crushing you into his chest. One thing you were very sure about was that you were not going to complain about any of this. 

You were glad to see that this had an effect on him, too. His heavy breathing matched your own and you felt his pulse drum against your fingers erratically when you laid a hand against his neck. Most of all, you were surprised that he was hard already, which made you feel a little bit less embarrassed about the slick mess you were absolutely sure you’d find between your legs. 

For weeks, you’d thought about asking him to join you for coffee after spending hours on the research for his paper together, or straight up asking him to take you home, even, but what was happening now bested even your dirtiest fantasies. Geralt still wasn’t rushing, but he wasn’t exactly patient, either, and it wasn’t long before the hand he kept between your shoulders moved to your side, where it carefully began to creep up  over your clothes. Its destination was clear. You weren’t born yesterday, and he was a man; he obviously wasn’t interested in the feel of the fabric of your sweater. It was almost odd how he didn’t just immediately slip his hand underneath it…

To your disappointment, he broke the kiss, but luckily it was only to regain his ability to speak. 

“This is a lovely sweater, but it’s in my way.” You had been wrong: he did actually go on to comment on the softness of your sweater. That didn’t take away the fact that the way he cocked his eyebrow at you was a silent way of asking for your permission to take the thing off - which you gladly gave him. After a few short seconds, it was on the floor. Much to your own surprise, you told Geralt to just send your bra the same way immediately, while you frantically pulled at the hem of his sweater. After all, you needed to level the playing field a bit. The clasp of your bra was no match for his nimble fingers, which made you feel a little sad. Of course that wasn’t a new move to a guy like this - even though his being twenty-one made him a fair bit younger than the guys in your past. You were about to decide to not linger on the feeling, when Geralt made you forget about it altogether by kissing along your jaw to your ear. He moaned in it softly - a deep, gravelly sound that made you lose whatever little sanity you still possessed - and murmured a soft ‘fuck’ before moving away from you to take off some of his own clothes. 

It took everything you had to keep your mouth from falling open - and you were only about forty percent convinced you were actually successful. You’d always thought you had been more than generous in your wildly inappropriate dreams, but absolutely nothing on the planet gave this guy the right to be this fucking ripped. Despite probably managing to keep your mouth closed, you couldn’t stop yourself from staring, and you battled the strange urge to lick every inch of his body; your hands would have to do. Your fingers trailed softly over his shoulders and chest, and you bit your lip as you let them slowly travel down over his abs to the waistband of his trousers. On a whim, you hooked your fingers behind it and pulled him closer to you again. There was a devious smile on his lips when you did, which gave you more courage than you ever thought you had. He let out the most delicious grunt when you softly palmed his erection through his jeans, which was partially lost against your lips when you pulled his face down to yours for another kiss. You resisted the urge to pull your hand back when you realized what this guy was packing. 

Geralt squeezed your ass through your skirt and grunted again - a sound you gladly answered with a moan. He bowed his head and put his lips to your neck, seeking out the spots that made you squirm and whine. After a short while, he pushed you back a few steps until you felt the cold concrete of the wall against your back. You shrieked at the sudden coolness against your skin, involuntarily arching your back and pressing your chest into his. Geralt laughed softly before resolutely pushing you back against the wall, lowering his head again to continue his quest further down your chest. You gasped when the warmth of his breath brushed past your sensitive nipples. The touch of his tongue made you lean into him again as he drew circles around the pebbled skin. His hands made their way to the hem of your skirt, pulling it up until he could comfortably reach between your legs. His fingers ran over the fabric of your underwear, and you shivered when Geralt deliberately circled your clit with slow, lazy movements. 

He raised his head again, leaving your nipples exposed to the merciless cold air of the room, and looked straight in your eyes when he pulled your panties to the side and dragged a finger through your slick folds. He wet his lips, and you heard a soft growl rumble in his chest every time he exhaled. It was torture, the way he kept teasing you until you were begging him to give you what you wanted, but somehow, the glacial pace with which he pushed a finger into you was so much worse. 

"Fuck, you're killing me," you growled. 

"Tell me what you want, then." God, his smile was amazing. You almost forgave him for teasing you beyond any reasonable boundaries. 

"I want you to stop teasing me," you replied. 

"You've been teasing me for weeks," he said to your surprise, "don't I get even a little in return?" You quirked an eyebrow at him. He had been the one teasing you for weeks, for crying out loud! He laughed when you suggested that.

"I don't think I care who started it," he growled into your ear as he finally pushed two fingers inside you and curled them in search of the perfect spot. Of course he found it in no time, and you were a squirming, shaking, whimpering mess in his arms within seconds. 

He kissed you again. It was rough, like before - and an excellent way to keep you quiet as his fingers continued to pump into you unrelentingly. Your nails dug into the muscle of his shoulder so fiercely you were sure it hurt him, but he didn’t look bothered by it at all. Every moan that escaped you seemed to inspire him to keep going until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“That’s it.” You clearly heard the excruciating smugness in his voice as he pulled you over the edge. Leaning against the wall wasn’t enough to keep your knees from buckling, but Geralt seemed to have no problem holding you up while he rested his forehead against yours. After a while, your legs were once again able to carry your weight, and you stood a little straighter as you once again ran your hands over the ridiculously muscular torso in front of you, not stopping until you reached the waistband of his jeans, which you swiftly unbuttoned and unzipped. As soon as you wrapped your fingers around his cock, Geralt moaned loudly, your mouth swallowing the sound up as you pressed your lips to his again. The kiss could hardly distract you from the thoughts that raced through your mind as your hand greedily explored what mother nature had blessed him with, and you couldn’t stifle a moan. 

Your fingertips didn’t touch. That sentence ran tireless circles through your mind as you gently, experimentally, moved your hand, attempting to draw a reaction from the man in front of you. Your fingertips didn’t touch, but instead of contemplating the probability that this was never in a million years going to fit, you let out a continuous stream of moans as you touched him. If the past few weeks had taught you anything, it was that you didn’t care whether this would be easy or not. You needed him. 

The sounds that spilled from Geralt’s throat were like music to your ears, ranging from dark, guttural growling to equally dark and guttural moans. He took the liberty of pushing his pants down to give you easier access, which finally inspired you to set aside your doubts and get on your knees. 

Geralt inhaled sharply when your tongue darted out to meet the tip of his cock, and you found yourself almost giddy with excitement. There was just something about making a man this size crumble beneath your touch, and from your current perspective, everything about him seemed even more massive than when you’d been standing up. You smiled as you listened to the noises Geralt made as you circled your tongue around his head. That smile widened when those sounds grew more impatient with every passing second, until he placed a hesitant hand on the back of your head, gently urging you to stop teasing him. 

There was no way you could take all of him into your mouth, but he didn’t seem to mind. Men this generously endowed were probably used to that particular misfortune. Curiosity ultimately got the better of you, and you steadily moved further down his shaft until you reached your limit. At first, the hand Geralt kept on your head didn’t move at all, until there came a point at which he seemed to have confidently learned the extent of your capabilities. He was still gentle, applying only the slightest amount of pressure, never forcing you further down than you could handle. The occasional moan escaped you, the vibrations of which caused Geralt to groan, and his cock to twitch slightly in your mouth. 

It had been a while since you had been able to lose yourself so completely in a blowjob, and although you had no way of knowing how much time you spent on your knees, it must have been a rather long time. When Geralt pulled on your hair slightly - and more firmly after gaining some confirmation that you weren’t opposed to that kind of thing - and your almost trance-like state was broken and you were faced with reality again, the first thing you noticed was the excruciating sensation in your knees. You chuckled when the memory of one of your friends fought itself to the forefront of your mind. In your own days at the university, she had publicly - loudly, too - declared the library ‘carpet burn central’, and your knees were now living proof of her assessment. 

A large hand wrapped around your arm as Geralt pulled you off the ground rather unceremoniously, and pushed you back against the wall, kissing you fiercely. 

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath as he fumbled with something. The options regarding the source of the crinkling sound you heard - especially considering the context of the situation - were limited. Truth be told: anything other than a condom at this stage would have sorely disappointed you. Luckily, your educated guess was dead-on. 

“Need some help with that?” you taunted, not considering whether potentially antagonizing Geralt was a smart thing to do - it probably wasn’t. He huffed impatiently, breaking your kiss and looking at you with a lifted brow. There was something resembling amusement in those gorgeous amber eyes, and nothing of the annoyance that you had heard in his voice. 

“Got it,” he said, the smallest grin appearing on his lips. 

Without warning, he captured your body between his and the wall, pulling one of your legs up to his hip. It was not yet enough for him to comfortably move. While shaking his head slightly, a smirk on his lips, he lifted your other leg as well. The suddenness of your feet leaving solid ground made you shriek, and you wrapped your arms around Geralt’s neck. One thing was certain: there was absolutely no reason to doubt his strength. In fact, you wished furiously that you had chosen a less limiting and maybe more conventional position and location than the ones you currently found yourself in. Positions and locations with more possibilities for Geralt to show you what he was really capable of. At the very least, that location would contain something to tone down the sound of the screams you were sure he would pull from you.

As your thoughts raced through your mind about what could, would, should or might be, Geralt entered you slowly, giving you plenty of time to adjust to the size of his cock. Much to your surprise, things went smoother than you had expected. The first thrusts came slowly, and were too gentle to really match the raunchiness of the position - or place - you were in. 

That didn’t last long. 

Whether it was his idea, inspired by your sloppily muttered ‘I can take it’, or a combination of both, you didn’t know - and quite frankly: you didn’t give a damn. Right now, it was just you and Geralt, and the way your arms were wrapped around his neck, and your legs around his waist, as you held on for dear life while each thrust came harder, faster and deeper than the one before. It was fantastic. Something about the way he moved had you hiding your face in his neck in a hopeless attempt to hide your screams. You squirmed in his arms as your hands closed into tight fists around locks of his white hair - which he didn’t even seem to notice. 

Geralt was an unholy combination of strength and stamina: rough, untamed, and seemingly always on the brink of losing control. For a moment, you were consumed by a single drop of sweat that traveled down his forehead, headed for the furrowed brow that sat over a pained expression. That tortured look gave you an idea of the sheer amount of restraint he needed right now to not topple over into the abyss of his own feelings, and chase nothing but his own pleasure. He’d hurt you. You were as sure of that, as you were of your suspicion that you wouldn’t mind so much as one microscopic little bit if he did hurt you. Never before had you surrendered so completely to a man, and if you had to be honest: never before had any of them earned your submission like Geralt did. 

He lasted way past the point where you should probably have asked him to slow down, then past the point where you wondered if you genuinely wanted him to slow down, and finally another while past the very moment any discomfort warped itself into pleasure again. That familiar, throbbing ache begged for attention - yours or otherwise - as Geralt slowed his brutal rhythm. A sigh of relief escaped you, not because it wasn’t good before, but because this was a pace at which your mind could keep up with the continuous, overwhelming flood of sensations. Geralt urged you to loosen your arms, which were still wrapped tightly around his neck. He held your hips tightly as he stepped back a tiny bit, giving you space to reach between your bodies and focus some attention where you needed it most. 

Geralt thrust into you with a steady rhythm while your fingers drew tight circles around your clit. Your breath caught in your throat as you came closer and closer to your orgasm with each thrust, each touch. When you finally exploded around him, a hint of a smile cut through the grim expression on Geralt’s face. His harsh features softened as his previously unrelenting rhythm finally faltered and made way for the uncontrolled and passionate thrusts that announced his nearing release. His fingers dug into your hips, and the growls that fell from his lips bordered on the feral. When he came, those growls largely died against your lips as he swept you into yet another breathtaking kiss. A hiss escaped you when his sharp teeth grazed your bottom lip and bit down painfully. 

When he finally - maybe after slightly more time than he should have allowed - slipped out of you and put you down again, you had to brace yourself against the wall in order to stay on your feet. This guy was genuinely every bit as amazing as you’d imagined he’d be - and then some. Or rather: he had been. As you gathered your discarded clothes off the floor and put them back on, scrambling to make yourself at least somewhat presentable again, you realized that this was it. It was over. The one thing you had spent weeks looking forward to, was now something of the past. Suddenly, a wave of something you couldn’t quite place washed over you. Not regret, no, you’d recognize regret. Even the where and how of this encounter couldn’t hold a candle to your worst drunken mistakes - the ones you actually did regret. There was absolutely nothing to regret about something this amazing, except maybe the fact that it was over. 

As you questioned why part of you was questioning your unquestionable life choices, you vaguely took note of Geralt sneaking off to the bathroom. Of course, your initial fear was that he would sneak off altogether, but you remembered the only entrance to the library was locked, and you were the only person present with a key. Your suspicion was confirmed when Geralt returned to you a bit later. 

The two of you found yourselves in a very interesting situation. If the morning after a one night stand was awkward, the moment after a wicked semi-public quickie in the library was at least twice as uncomfortable, and then some. You didn’t speak as you locked up and left the floor you were on, and while you walked, at least a hundred scenarios crossed your mind that did nothing to settle your nerves about saying your goodbyes. Whatever you conjured up in your brain was also useless in preparing you for the one thing that actually did happen. 

“Come back to my place,” Geralt said as you stepped outside. No matter how hard you tried, you were ultimately unsuccessful in keeping your eyes from going wide as you heard his words. Something about it wasn’t a question, which turned out to be enough to bring back the thrumming between your legs and weaken your knees. “I’m not done with you yet.”

[paris-in-space]

Hey, I was wondering how you chose colors for the Dracula cast! (I love Arthur's red jacket.)

Hi! I am so sorry I only just saw this ask today, but I’ll answer it now, hopefully it was worth the wait (at least with the drawing asks I have the excuse of not having had time to draw things).

Okay so, a lot of the decisions I made when it comes to the colours was on instinct, but I can still try and explain.

Jonathan wears brown, with a hint of red in his tie, and has brown hair and eyes, I wanted his colours to be relatively unassuming, the little bit of red is for visual interest but also maybe hints that he’s not just an average guy, but his design is intentionally quite plain.

When I first designed Mina it was actually for an English Lit A Level class where I had to make a character sheet about her, so I actually googled her for inspiration and took some from her look in the 1992 film (I now hate that film although it does have gorgeous visuals) and I think the green from her outfits in that film stuck in my head. Initially in my mind I didn’t imagine her as a redhead however when it came to actually putting colour on her it felt like a good decision to make, and offers some nice contrast to the green. Her earrings are meant to be like drops of blood because symbolism.

Lucy wears pink because I think of her as being pretty and feminine, the choice to have multiple shades of pink in her outfit was just to make it more interesting although the ribbon she wears in her hair matches with Arthur’s tie. Her hair is a warm blonde because of the sunny ripples line in the book, and her eyes are brown to keep things warm.

Arthur is the character whose design has changed the most since the first time I ever drew him, and I’m glad of it. (My original design of him was incredibly boring) although since first adding colour it has changed very little. The choice of red both looks nice next to Lucy and fits in with the other suitors whilst still being distinctly different. Choosing Arthur’s colours was very much a case of seeing what felt right rather than thinking too much about it in depth. (Also thank you for the compliment on his jacket.)

Jack spends a lot of time being sad so a cold colour palette made sense for him, I think the green has some medical connotations, and still allows for him to have some colour in his design without being too bright. Aside from brown shoes which sort of balance out his hair, any other clothing than his waistcoat and tie are grey because I don’t think he’s the sort to wear much colour. He also has the palest skin of the lot because he spends a lot of time inside.

Quincey on the other hand has such a warm presence as a character that his colour palette is full of warm tones. His mustard yellow waistcoat is the most memorable thing to me but it isn’t his only defining colour, I mostly just wanted him to have a very warm presence without venturing too close to Arthur’s red. I am also fully on board with the idea of Quincey being a person of colour.

Renfield is very grey all around with almost purple undertones. His clothes are very much inspired by the 1931 film which was of course black and white, and are also simple enough that many other colour choices wouldn’t make much sense for him. His hair reflects his age, and his complexion is somewhat unnatural (definitely unhealthy) to sort of separate him as a link between Dracula and the human world whilst also not really being a part of either.

I have barely drawn Van Helsing in colour so I don’t think I can really do a colour analysis on him yet, I need to get into the habit of drawing him and actually design him an everyday outfit, I’m pretty sure the only time I’ve done him in colour he was wearing black because of Lucy’s death.

Dracula himself is a mysterious black shadow with red eyes, mostly because I like the idea of depicting his menacing presence and dangerous vibe without specific details, I also really like the idea of a Dracula adaptation where you don’t actually see Dracula, and just have the mystery that the characters face and whilst drawing him this way isn’t exactly doing that, I think knowing this might make the design make more sense.

I hope this makes sense and was worth waiting so long.

(I had to re type a bunch of this a few times because I accidentally clicked off without saving more than once, having typed out multiple paragraphs)

[imasinnerimsorry]

Substitute Pleaser

A story where Harry Styles is the substitute professor, and one of his students (Natasha, black, she/her) wants her grade fixed. Harry tries to find ways to help, and soon offers her a “request”.

SMUT; Kinks include: TeacherxStudent trope (college setting btw), shoe riding, deepthroating, facefucking, hair pulling, creampie, spitting, choking, degradation, some praise if you squint

It’s almost the end of the semester and Natasha was tired. Very, very tired. She was in one of the best universities in the country studying to be a physical therapist. Now in her third year, the work had gotten so much more strenuous, often leaving Natasha to study for hours with no end. All she needed was a break, but she’s never had the time to.

All of her professors this semester were pains in the ass. Their grading systems were fucked, and it seemed like they were always out for her- like they wanted her to fail. Maybe that wasn’t true, she’ll admit, but that’s just how she felt.

It was time for her English class, and Natasha was furious. She hated that old bastard of a teacher, Mr. Carson, so much. He gave her a 63% on her last English paper, which was worth 35% of her grade, resulting in her average dropping tremendously. She was definitely not a bad student; she’s always had straight A’s and a couple of B’s, so this poorly-graded assignment was definitely unexpected. She planned on seeing him for office hours right after class to question him about her poor grade.

Natasha walked into that horrible classroom, expecting to see that gross man with the crusty-looking beard sat at the front desk by the whiteboard. Instead, she noticed a sexy man with healthy chocolate brown hair, a jawline as sharp as a knife, and beautiful fingers which were adorned with the finest rings, a unique one dedicated to each finger (except his left ring finger, which was a great sign for Natasha).

Yes, he was cute, but who was he? Natasha questioned herself. Because he sure wasn’t Mr. Carson’s ugly, old ass. He couldn’t be a professor, could he?

She sat down at her seat, making sure her posture was proper and that her appearance was up to par with the sexy man at the teacher’s desk. Using her hands, she brushed her hair to the front, making sure they cascaded down past her shoulders reaching her breasts, but also making sure they didn’t cover her cleavage (She thanked God she wore a push-up bra).

The young man finally stood up from the professor’s seat and walked to the front of it, leaning himself against it. He quickly scanned the classroom before his eyes landed on her.

A beautiful young woman, appearing not much younger than him, was sitting in the second row of the lecture room. He noticed her hair, an ashy blonde color, contrasting her beautifully moisturized brown skin. She had a cute button nose, round brown eyes, and her lips shined with lip gloss of a pink tint and glitter. His eyes glanced down at her obvious cleavage, but he quickly looked away, as not to seem invasive or crude. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.

He didn’t know, however, that Natasha did indeed notice. She couldn’t help but to look down and blush.

"Good evening, class,” the man started. “I am your substitute professor, Harry Styles, but you’ll call me Mr. Styles for the rest of our lectures together. As you all might know from your emails, your usual professor Mr. Carson has recently lost his wife and has followed his family to his native country Germany, which is where he will be spending the rest of the semester to grieve and mourn with the rest of the family. Make sure you send all the love and prayers to Mr. Carson in any way you can at some point.”

Natasha didn’t check her email recently. Oops.

Mr. Styles continued, “So, we will pick up from where he left off. My office hours will remain the same as Mr. Carson’s and in the same room. If you have any questions or concerns, or if you just want to have a chat, come down to Carson’s office, now mine. I’m all ears!” He gave the class a kind grin, one that Natasha was smitten with. His dimples were perfectly carved into his already sexy face.

As the lesson began, Natasha’s best friend Andrew turned to her from the table to her right and said, “Hopefully he’s not as boring as Mr. Carson,” to which the two students laughed amongst themselves.

Until Harry noticed and caught their attention by clearing his throat.

“You know,” he began, “Just because I’m a substitute, it doesn’t mean that the rules have changed. Pay attention and don’t speak, unless you have something to share with the entire class.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and fixed himself to face Mr. Styles. Natasha closed her legs and faced Mr. Styles with her head looking down to her lap. Yes, that got her a bit... aroused.

And Mr. Styles noticed. He turned back to the smartboard to hide the cheeky smirk that formed on his lips.

The class continued with its lesson for about an hour an a half, which meant an hour and a half of Natasha fixing her appearance, making her cleavage more noticeable, taking off her blazer and putting it back on, fidgeting and changing her seating positions, all to make Mr. Styles notice her.

And Mr. Styles noticed. Every time he would hear the creak of a chair or the shuffle of someone’s body, he would know it was that beautiful girl he had his eyes on from the beginning.

***

It was the end of the lecture, and the impatient half of the class who literally couldn’t care less about the topics discussed had ran out of the classroom. The few students who cared about their grades and about learning or understanding the class material had stayed back to ask Mr. Styles questions. And Natasha was one of that few.

Natasha waited until she was the last person in the room to ask Mr. Styles about her grade. She usually did this with every class so that she didn’t have to rush herself to make room for other waiting students. She wanted all the time for herself and her teacher so that she could truly understand the subject. And she definitely wanted some time to herself with this sexy professor.

“You can come over here now, sweetheart,” Mr. Styles said from his desk.

That “sweetheart” almost made Natasha fall to her knees, but she maintained her composure. Of course, he would call me something so endearing, Natasha deciphered to herself to keep the dirty thoughts from overwhelming her mind.

Harry looked down at his class seating chart. “Hm, Natasha, right?”

She nodded.

He looked up at her. “Hello, sweetheart, how are you?” he inquired. The look on his face seemed sincere, but Natasha could feel an aura lurking underneath that sincerity. Frustration? Desire? Lust?

She finally answered, “I’m doing alright, sir. And you?” She gulped.

Harry smirked. “I’m doing alright as well. So, what seems to be the case?” He looked down and searched through student profile sheets until he found hers. His eyebrows narrowed as he looked at her grade, and then he looked back at her a bit puzzled. “It says here on your profile that you’re quite the smart cookie. An A-... that’s high compared to many of the other students! What could be the issue, love?”

Natasha blushed at his compliment toward her grade. “Thank you so much, sir. But, yes, I do have an issue regarding my last essay.” She placed the papers she brought with her onto the desk and set them neatly in front of him. She then pointed at the circled 63% sitting at the top of the page. “I’m confused about the grade I received. I don’t know what could have made it so poor.”

Harry screwed his eyebrows as he scanned through the pages of her essay. Even without reading in depth, he could tell it was a well-written paper (at least better than a majority of the class). “I understand your concern. All of your research papers so far have been nothing less than a B, so I know you expected so much from this one. Unfortunately, I was not the person who marked your paper, so I technically cannot change your grade for it.”

Harry could see Natasha’s face change from a bright glow to a duller undertone. He felt really sorry for the girl. He really wished he could help her out. But, as he said, there was nothing he technically could do.

“A-Are you sure, Mr. Styles?” She asked with struggle. “I mean, I understand that Mr. Carson was the one who graded it, but surely you could reread it and give your own input?” Harry’s face remained the same. “Maybe you could send your review to the board and have them override Mr. Carson’s since he won’t be attending for the rest of the semester?”

Again, Harry’s face showed no signs of a change in his decision. “I’m really sorry, love.”

Natasha’s eyes started to well up with tears, and Harry noticed. He really did not want to see this beautiful girl cry in front of her. It was devastating. He leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms into a pensive position to think about how he could help her. Then, he smirked as a thought, a rather promiscuous one, popped up in his mind.

“Well, Natasha, you’re a smart girl, right?”

She didn’t know where this random question came from, so she just nodded her head to hear him continue his thoughts.

“I told you that I technically can’t do anything about your grade,” he turned his body around to face Natasha, his knees accidentally brushing against hers as he looked into her eyes, “But, let’s forget about all of the technicalities for a minute, yeah?”

Natasha looked down into her lap as she noticed his eyes trying to meet hers. This man really made her nervous. Was she intimidated by him? Afraid? Aroused? All of the above, maybe? Her thoughts were cut off abruptly as Harry lifted her chin up with his index finger so her eyes could meet his gaze.

“I’m sure we could be a bit more informal now. I mean, after all, that’s what you have been doing this entire lecture,” he gave her a sly grin.

The woman’s face warmed as her head flashed back to her behavior during the lecture. It was truly out of order, but she couldn’t let him know that she was aware of this. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Styles?”

Harry chuckled and leaned his arm against the desk, putting his face in his hand as he observed her body language. “Oh, you mean to tell me that all of that fidgeting and movement you were doing back there in your seat was just that? It was just “fidgeting and movement” ? Or were you trying to gather my attention, Ms. Natasha?”

She could not believe what he was saying. Not only because it was totally out of his code of conduct as a professor, but also because he figured her out completely. Natasha couldn’t help but to close her legs and cross her arms around her chest, covering herself with her cardigan. She wasn’t uncomfortable, just a bit too aroused and did not want Mr. Styles to delve into her body language even deeper.

But Harry noticed this, and placed his hands on her shoulders, giving them a light massage. “Oh dear. Are you feeling uncomfortable now?” He ultimately didn’t want her to feel unsafe with him, despite the arousing conversation they were having at the moment. To his surprise yet relief, she shook her head no.

“Well, that’s just great, dear,” he sighed in relief. “Listen, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, so if you decline my following request, I would respect it. Would you like to hear this request, sweet girl?”

She nodded.

“I’ve mentioned the technicalities of the situation. However, if you were to do me some favors, then I will present your paper to the board to have them change your grade.” Harry brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “I want you to make me feel good.”

Natasha’s heart skipped a beat. As Harry moved himself from her ear, he stared into her widened eyes with a little grin. She felt as if she was dreaming.

Harry chuckled and laid back onto his chair, his head landing onto his hands with his arms now raised behind his head in a relaxed position. It was almost as if he was showing that he was open to whatever she wanted to do to him. Like a dog laying its belly up to show its trust to its owner. “Would you like to make me feel good, Natasha?”

Natasha hesitated, of course. Her professor was insinuating for her to have sex with him so that her grade could rise. It was the typical teacher/student trope she would read about in her erotica. It was just too…favorable for her.

And yet, she nodded in response.

Harry stood up from his seat, Natasha’s eyes trailing up his body as he did so. He looked down at her with a smirk on his face and slid his hand through her hair. He simply uttered a “Good girl” from his mouth, but Natasha could have died there and then from those two words.

Harry took his time to undo his pants’ zipper and stared at Natasha while doing so. He pulled his pants down just a bit to reveal a sight Natasha was not prepared for. His briefs sat tightly fitted against his bulge, which looked hard through the thin material. Natasha’s mouth began to salivate out of her control. She absolutely wasn’t prepared for this.

The substitute finally drew his underwear down to meet his pants, and that was the pièce de résistance. His cock shone brightly under the lights of the classroom. The tip had a slight tinge of pink, mimicking the hue of his lips, and was leaking with precum. His shaft was riddled with vessels that were surely pumping with lots of blood by the look of how hard and heavy his cock was. Natasha had never seen anything like it. Not even her previous boyfriends have had dicks as gorgeous and delicious-looking as her substitute professor’s. Harry couldn’t hold back the teeth-baring, obviously egoistic grin that he was trying to hide as he noticed the girl admiring his prick. It boosted his ego whenever his penis, or any part of his body as a matter of fact, was looked at like a prize that his partners had won; their own little trophy that they deserved if they had won Harry’s affection. He put his cock up near her cheek and held it there, imagining what would happen if he put himself far into her mouth. His tip reached the back of her jaw. Perfect.

Harry finally spoke up after a beat of silence. “Now, listen to me carefully. When I put myself in your mouth, I want you to ride my shoe like a good girl. Do you get what I mean?” It could be viewed as a strange request to others, but Harry loved to see his partners look desperate on their knees for him. Riding themselves on his shoe, looking up at him with wide doe-eyes that were stained with tears, their cheeks hinted with blush as they held his cock down their throats. What a sight, indeed.

Meanwhile, Natasha stared up at the man in shock. She had only heard about people doing such things like “riding a shoe” in the erotica she’d read and the movies she watched. To hear someone say it to her out loud in person- no, to hear someone command her to do something like this in person- was something shocking, yet appealing. And she was more than willing to do that at this moment. She nodded her head as Harry stroked her jaw with his thumb.

Harry smiled. “What a good girl.” The tip of his cock, now a darker shade of pink due to its desperation for release, was shoved between the young woman’s lips. Harry winced at the beautiful feeling he had longed for this whole time. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, “What a good girl, indeed.”

Natasha moaned into his mouth at the feeling of his cock being placed into her mouth. The stretch it gave to her mouth was something indescribable. She wanted to feel it even deeper into her throat. The salty taste of the man’s precum was purely divine to her. She couldn’t wait to experience the flavor of his semen. Her tongue moved to the underside of his cock, and she could feel every vein and vessel, every tissue of his skin, every inch of his manhood. It was something she had experienced before in previous relationships, but it was never this good. Mr. Styles was just something else.

Remembering his orders, the young woman managed to spread her legs and place her cunt onto his shoe. Although still covered with her panties, the sensation still sent shockwaves through her spine. Natasha started to make small, slow rotary motions on the top of Harry’s shoe, which caused her to let out little, muffled moans from her cock-filled mouth.

The feeling of Natasha’s moans around his tip caused Harry to buck his hips forward in pleasure. Natasha gagged a bit as his cock touched her uvula, but the feeling didn’t last long as Harry pulled back as soon as he heard her cough. “Your lips feel so plush around me, love. Sorry for that,” he apologized while giving her lips some taps with his cock. Even that felt good for Harry. But then he continued, “But I’m sure you liked that, huh? You liked feeling my cock go so far back your throat, yeah?” Natasha nodded and her mouth seemed to salivate even more at the mere thought of his cock going deeper. He put himself right back into her mouth and angled his abdomen in a way where he could go as far back as he could, but right before her uvula so she wouldn’t gag prematurely. He wanted her to feel every thrust so that she could gag around him at the perfect moments.

Harry started to thrust in a bit slower than he preferred, but he wanted to get the girl used to his movements before he went wild. He could feel his tip glide against her uvula as he hit the back of the throat near her epiglottis, which spasmed at the touch and made her gag. He noticed Natasha’s eyes and mouth start to water as she held her mouth open for him. Her pussy was still riding against his shoe, and he decided to fuck with her a bit to make the situation more… thrilling.

Natasha could feel as Harry’s shoe started to rub up and down against her pussy. He was tapping his foot as if he was listening to one of his favorite songs. And he pretty much was- the song of cunnilingus sung by a pretty girl submitting beneath him is what motivated him. Natasha started to moan a bit more heavily as he continued the motions of both his foot and his cock. She stared at him as the man thrusted into her mouth with more vigor, the tip of his cock constantly hitting against her epiglottis, causing her to gag each time. She was in pure bliss.

Harry’s moans started to get louder as well, turning almost animalistic. He huffed as he felt the back of her throat spasm around his cock. “Yes, princess,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. Suddenly, he grabbed the back of Natasha’s head and pressed himself down so far back into her esophagus. He was curious how she would feel if she took all of him. Natasha’s nose managed to touch his pubic hair with how far he had gone. Her mouth started to drool with more saliva as she tried to maintain herself around his cock. Harry could feel her choke around him, but he didn’t care. He started to thrust himself into her mouth at this angle, and it felt absolutely heavenly. Her mouth was like a vice to him, and the squelching sounds emitting from her gagging throat were literal music to his ears.

He continued his thrusts for about a minute or so before Natasha started to slap her hand on his thigh for him to stop. Harry obliged, not wanting to suffocate her, and released her from his grasp.

Once he pulled her off of him, Harry noticed her hips atop his shoe- they weren’t moving. He gave her a light slap across her face and grabbed her jaw to look up at him. “Did I tell you to fuckin’ stop riding me?” Natasha managed to look at him through teary eyes. “N-no,” was all she could answer.

Harry lifted his eyebrows in a mocking way, almost as if to say, “Well, what do you think you should do?”, and Natasha immediately picked up on it. She started to move her pussy on his foot again, this time with more intensity. She moaned and kept her eyes on him, which he loved.

“Yeah, there you go, bunny. Ride my shoe like a fuckin’ slut.” He stared down into her doe-eyes which were tinged with tears from her previous gagging session.  “Feels good, yeah?’ Natasha could only moan in response as she continued dragging her cunt against his shoe.

“Well, you look fuckin’ pathetic,” he spat. In normal situations, this would have made Natasha try to run away from him. Being called “pathetic” and a “fuckin’ slut” was humiliating, but she liked it. She liked hearing those degrading words come from her substitute professor’s mouth. Oh, the woman was so far gone.

After a few more rotations of her hips on top of his shoe, Harry patted her head. “Alright, bunny, off. I’m sure that got you wet enough, right?” She nodded. “Good girl.” Harry helped her up with a bit of a tight grip to her forearm. It was unintentional; he would never want to hurt her, but he was growing more aroused by every second that passed. He could only hold off an orgasm for a little longer, and he didn’t want to cum without feeling the beautiful girl in front of him wrapped around his cock first. ‘ Harry leaned Natasha against his desk rather abruptly, causing the content sitting atop of the surface to shuffle and even fall with the impact. Natasha’s breasts and the side of her face were placed onto the cold surface of the wooden desk, and her ass was held up by her two feet planted onto the ground to make herself more comfortable in this position. She loved doggystyle, but never did it on top of a table.

Harry stood behind her, his hands gripping her hips with a force tight enough to make indented marks in her skin. “Make sure you stay quiet f’me, alright bunny?” Natasha nodded with a quickness, her anticipation for feeling his cock inside of her clouding her mind.

Harry finally brought his cock into her cunt, making the two of them wince at the feeling. The stretch that his girth gave her walls was delicious. It felt as if he was ripping her in two, but she absolutely loved it. “Thank you, professor,” she moaned as he went further into her vagina. Harry grinned. “Well, you’re a polite thing, aren’t you?,” He asked as he began his thrusts slowly. “Saying thank you without me telling you to. What a good girl.” Natasha moaned at the praise and it was music to Harry’s ears. And he wanted that song to continue playing. So, he continued his thrusts, speeding up a bit as he felt her walls get used to his length.

At one moment, Harry hit a particularly deep spot that made Natasha let out the loudest moan (or loudest sound generally) that she ever let out in her life. It was so pornographic, so disgusting, but something Harry didn’t want to risk his career for.

Harry quickly covered her mouth with his palm and brought his other hand to pull at her hair, making her body lift from the table and hit his own. Her head hit his shoulder, which allowed his lips to travel to her ear, and he questioned, “You want your grade to go up, don’t you?”  Natasha strained her neck as she tried to look into his eyes and nodded, a soft whimper escaping her lips. “Well, keep it fuckin’ quiet so no one walks in here and catches us, whore,” he spat at her, still thrusting into her pussy while pulling her hair back with more force.

After a couple more thrusts, Harry then brought the hand pulling her hair right down to her pussy, trying to find its way to her pretty little clit. Once he recognized the feeling, his index and middle finger began to rub themselves on her clitoris at a good-enough pace to prolong the process of orgasm, but not to make it come quickly. The hand that covered her mouth to hush her made its way down to her throat and gave her a tight squeeze that constricted her blood vessels, giving her the sensation of him choking her. Harry tilted her head up against his chest and he took a look down at Natasha’s face. “Oh, you’re enjoying this,” he teased Natasha, and she responded with a strained and quiet, “yes”. He straightened her head to allow himself to put his lips against the helix of her ear, nipping and licking against the skin as his thrusts got deeper with faster strokes.

His lips, still against her ear nipping and licking, stopped to utter a statement. “Look at you, a little braindead slut. This dick’s too fucking good for you, huh? It’s all you’ve ever wanted, right?” He paused to bring his hand that was choking her neck down to her left breast, and his fingers entwined with her nipple to play with it, bringing a whole new sensation for the girl against him. “You’re such a whore that you were willing to fuck your substitute teacher for a better grade.” He took a quick pause with his words to lick against her earlobe for a quick second, his tongue missing the flavor of her warm skin. Then Harry continued, “You’re a smart girl- a very, very smart girl, bunny. Your grades speak for themselves.” His fingers continued to play with her nipple and her clit, his thrusts only increasing in pace. “But what you’re doing right now- your body melting away at your professor's touch on his desk- now, that’s a bit stupid, isn’t it, love?” His fingers continued to tug at her nipple, and all Natasha could do was let out a needy whimper. “Risking your academic life- your career- just for some cock?” Another whimper.

As Harry continued his rough thrusts into her increasingly sopping pussy, Natasha drooled. It was like her entire body lost itself and gave Harry all of the control. He could touch her, move her anywhere, and play with her any way he wished, and she would have obliged. Her brain seemed to be void of any thought, only awaiting for more commands and words of defamation given by her substitute professor. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

The man halted his hips for a moment and grabbed onto Natasha’s thighs, managing to lift her up with her legs spread and pussy still wrapped around his cock. Natasha let out a gasp and a moan, but covered her own mouth as she realized how loud she was. Harry started to lift her up and down on his cock, which gave Natasha a new sensation she had never felt before. She could feel this man’s cock so deep inside of her, like it was constantly poking the lower portion of her belly and she couldn’t help but moan into her hand.

Harry kissed her neck and continued to bless Natasha with deep, yet long strokes of himself. This was one of his favorite positions, and hearing this beautiful woman, his literal student, struggle to moan while receiving him made him feel like the best man on Earth. He hummed into her shoulder as he continued to slowly lift her up and down for a few more strokes.

Wanting to see her face after realizing they’ve only been in positions where he could only view the back of her neck, he lifted her up as high as he could and turned her around to face him. Bringing her down to face level, he noticed her eyes welled with tears, both dry (from her deepthroating him) and wet (from their actual intercourse), and saw drool dripping from her mouth, sliding down her chin and dropping onto her gorgeous chest. Her makeup was messy and runny, and her hair was disheveled. Harry wished he could snap a photo of her. “Oh, pretty girl, you’re stunning. Have to make you cum now. Wanna see your pretty face when you cum.” He was insistent on making her orgasm, not only to see her face, but also because he was in a rush and did not want anyone to notice their little session.

Harry lowered Natasha back onto his dick with ease; it was wet enough with all of the cream that her cunt was pouring onto him previously. Natasha immediately clenched around him as she felt him enter her. He lifted her up again, removing himself from her and watched as her face contorted and her pussy clenched around nothing. “Professor, please,” she whimpered. She knew he was getting a kick out of watching her beg. He repeated the motion a couple more times though, only putting himself inside halfway then lifting her back up off of him, just to tease her and watch her struggle. “Professor, please, please, please!” She whined out.

Harry let out a laugh and finally brought the girl back down, really, really deep this time. He started to fuck into her wet cunt, and the noises in the room reminded him of a porno. Her cunt clamped around his cock so hard as his pelvis banged against her entire vulva. He knew her clit was enjoying the impact of his pubic bone as he saw her face contort in ways that only made him fuck her harder.

As Natasha neared her orgasm, she tightened her entire body around her professor even more. Her arms and hands dug into his back and shoulders, but Harry didn’t mind. Harry nudged at her nose with his own with the intention of her looking into his eyes. She obliged and her pupils met his own.”You’re doing so well for me, honey,” he stated, his thrusts still going at a fast pace. Natasha whined and gave him a quick, yet sloppy kiss. Her cunt tightened. “My belly..,” she whined into his ear as her chin rested against his shoulder. Harry cooed into her ear, “Your belly? You feel me in your belly?” He could feel the girl nod against his shoulder. “Yeah, you feel warm? Gonna cum for me, love? You’re creaming all over my cock.” She nodded again and gave him a cute “Mhm,” before Harry went even harder, not even caring about how loud their skin was slapping anymore; he wanted this girl to spill all around him, more than the cream she was already creating on his shaft, and he wanted to watch how her body reacted to an orgasm.

And that is exactly what happened.

Her orgasm finally came, and he slowed his thrusts to help her through it and to watch her unravel around him. Her body became limp in his hold as her cunt spasmed around him, and her face was screwed in such a pleasurable way that showed how relieving her release was. Her toes were curled and her clit was visibly throbbing from the impact it was receiving. Harry was lucky to see this happen in front of his own eyes.

The spasms of her walls milked Harry of his own orgasm. He stopped his thrusts and spurted all of his semen into her, and Natasha could see the veins of his cock throb as he spilled into her. The feeling of his cum painting her from the inside was amazing, and she wished he could just stay inside her for the rest of the afternoon. But, Harry finally pulled out of her, and his cream-covered length went limp. He placed her onto the desk carefully, making her sit down and spread her legs wide in front of him.

Both Harry and Natasha watched as the mixture of their orgasms dripped out of Natasha’s hole, which was as wide as Harry’s girth. He managed to gape her because of how strong the impact his cock had on her pussy, and it was such a gorgeous sight to him whenever he could achieve it with his partners. Natasha pushed some cum out as well, and her tightening cunt made a little squelching noise that one could only hear in the most disgusting of porn films. Harry slid his finger against her gaping hole and picked up some of their mixture onto the tip. He sucked his finger into his mouth and swirled the cum inside, mixing it with his saliva.

Harry brought his mouth above Natasha’s and opened up her own with his thumb. He spilled his saliva and cum mixture into hers. “One final request,” he murmured into her lips. Natasha stared into her professor’s eyes as she swallowed what Harry gave her, and as she finished she opened her mouth. Harry smiled and stated, “Say aah. Wanna know if you swallowed it all.” Natasha fulfilled his request and gave him an “aah” as if she had just drank the best drink of her life.

As Natasha got off of the table, she looked up at the corner of the room and let out a gasp. “Um, Professor?” She pointed at the camera facing directly at the teacher’s desk where they had been fucking. “Well, I hope they had a jolly good show. I know I have.” Harry let out a belly-laugh, to which Natasha followed with a laugh of her own after a bit of hesitation.

“So… what about my grade?” Harry looked at her and gave her a smirk. But it was not like the cheeky ones before, it was much more sinister. “Your grade?” He laughed again. “Oh, sweetheart, you really aren’t the brightest light, huh?” Natasha tilted her head to the side quizzically. “Wh-what do you mean?,” she asked him with a scared undertone. Harry picked up Natasha’s bag for her and held it out to her. “Did you genuinely expect me to change anything, love?” Natasha stood there in shock and silence.

“Jeez, I’m only kidding, gorgeous! Looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” Harry said with a bright smile as he helped Natasha put her bag on her back. When he finished, he slapped her ass. “Your grade will be just fine. You did me a favor, now I can help you. Now, get on out of here. Don’t want anyone to see you look this fucked out.”

Natasha giggled and made her way out of Mr. Styles’s room with a pep to her step. As she turned down the hallway to the point he couldn’t see her, Harry locked his door and sat back at the desk, putting the contents of the desk he just bent his student over right back into their proper places. He chuckled to himself, “That girl is not getting her grade fixed.”

[munsonsmixtapes]

Teach Me

Steve x fem!bi!reader

word count: 3k

part one part two part three part four part five part six part eight

Part Seven: Lesson Six

The alarm clock going off stirred you from your sleep. You turned onto your other side and felt your heart warm at the sight of the man next to you. He was already awake and his eyes were on you, the warm honey color you had grown so fond of.

Your gaze moved down to his hand that was resting on the mattress and you admired the silver ring that adorned his finger then looked at your own, the diamond sitting prettily on your finger. You remembered your wedding like it had happened the day before and thought of it very fondly.

You had been married to Steve for two years and you were the happiest you had ever been. After the night you had slept over at his house, you both had admitted your feelings for each other and had been together ever since.

“How’s my baby girl doing?” He asked, moving some of your hair out of your face.

“Great since you’re here,” you smiled then realized that he wasn’t referring to you. You moved the blanket off of you to reveal your stomach. You were seven months pregnant with your first child and Steve was very protective. “Oh, you mean this baby.”

His hands moved to your stomach and he moved lower so he could press his lips to it. He had a habit of talking to the baby every single morning, letting her know just how loved she was. He had done maybe a bit too much research on how to help the baby grow healthily even though most of the things he tried definitely did not work, but you appreciated the help.

“Good morning,” he greeted, giving your stomach another kiss before moving back up to you. He pressed his lips to yours then pulled away, an infectious smile on his face. “And good morning to you too.” He gave you another kiss, this one lingering.

“Good morning,” you replied, your hand reaching for his. You brought it up to your lips and pressed a kiss to it and he smiled in response.

“C’mon, honey,” he sat up, pulling you with him. “We’ve gotta get up.”

“No,” you whined. “Why don’t we just stay in bed today?”

“Because you’ve got an appointment this morning and I’m going to take you.” You let out a sigh and Steve took your hands and helped your from the bed to get dressed. “Now c’mon sweet girl, let me help you get dressed.”

You stirred in your sleep and quickly removed the covers to reveal your very not pregnant stomach. So it was all a dream. You weren’t really married to Steve and you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. You turned over and Steve was nowhere to be found. Maybe you dreamed the whole thing and you hadn’t actually slept together the day before. That seemed very possible since your dreams about him had been very vivid.

But you swore that you had actually touched him, his soft skin underneath your hands. The shower with him seemed too real to be a dream. You could still feel the water raining down on you while you took him into your mouth. You could still remember what his fingers felt like inside you as he pumped in and out of you. You could-

Your thoughts were interrupted by the door swinging open and you pulled the blanket up to cover yourself even though you were very much clothed and let out a sigh of relief when Steve entered the room. He had on a bright smile and was carrying a tray that contained various breakfast foods and two glasses of orange juice.

“Good morning,” his smile got wider once he took sight of you and you were sure that you probably looked crazy. You never looked good in the morning, at least, by your standards.

“Good morning,” you replied, your smile mimicking his. He set the tray in front of you, giving you a full view of the meal he had prepared and your eyes widened at all of the options. There was a giant bowl of Lucky Charms in the center surrounded by a few smaller bowls of fruit and a container of yogurt.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I got everything.” Steve sat opposite you on the other side of the tray and grabbed a grape from it before popping it into his mouth.

“Well, thank you, Steve. It all looks really good.” You reached for the bowl of Lucky Charms and took a big bite and it tasted just as good as you remembered. You didn’t have it very often, and even when you did, you had the off brand since it was significantly cheaper.

You and Steve ate your breakfast in silence, occasionally exchanging glances and warm smiles as you did so. If that was what being with Steve was like, him serving you breakfast in bed every morning, that was something you could get used to. The gesture was so simple but it warmed your heart, knowing that he liked doing that kind of thing for you.

Steve couldn’t stop staring at you. He knew that it was weird, but he couldn’t help it. He was just so happy and felt like the luckiest man alive because you chose to spend your time with him rather than hanging out with one of the many people you for sure had on speed dial. He didn’t know what he had done to have been able to spend the day before with you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to question it.

He was pretty sure that he was falling in love with you. No, he was very sure, and falling asleep in your arms really solidified that for him. It made him realize that he didn’t want to do that with anyone else. He wanted to fall asleep to you every night and wake up next to you every morning, peppering your face with kisses in between multiple “I love yous” that fell from his lips. He loved you. He loved you. And for once, he wasn’t going to run from it. He was going to dive in head first even though he was scared.

And you loved Steve right back. You had finally accepted the fact and felt a huge weight lift from your shoulders once you admitted it to yourself. You tried so hard to deny it, but after that first “date” with him, you were really fucked. You were terrified of being rejected, but you still felt like he deserved to know the truth. You couldn’t take another second of being around him without him knowing the truth. It was agony keeping something like that from him and it was only right that you told him how you felt.

“Can I tell you something?” You asked, setting your bowl back down on the tray. Steve’s heart beat rapidly in his chest at your question as all of the things you could possibly say were circling in his head. You had found out that he was in love with you. You had found out that he was in love with you and were going to let him down gently. That had to be it.

Maybe he should have listened to what you had to say first before he jumped to conclusions and drove himself crazy. The only way to know what you were going to say was to listen. He wasn’t going to get anywhere by staying in his head, letting his thoughts take over.

“Of course you can.” Steve’s hand reached for you and he gave you a reassuring smile with a nod. You took a deep breath and put your other hand on top of his, looking directly into his eyes. You could see the door out of the corner of your eye and for once, it didn’t look very inviting. You didn’t feel the need to run; you wanted to stay right there, that feeling in your gut completely gone.

“I love you.” The silence following the words was deafening. Steve’s mouth fell open, but no words came. Oh god, you managed to render the man who never shut up speechless. You had shocked him so much that he actually had nothing to say in response. The one time it would have been good for him to speak, there wasn’t a single peep.

Steve couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t fucking believe it. You loved him. He reached up to pinch himself to be sure that he wasn’t dreaming and when the pain coursed through his wrist, he let out a gasp at the fact that it was true. You really were there and you were holding his hand and you fucking loved him.

You took his silence as rejection and slowly stood up from the bed, your hunger being replaced by that pit again. You knew it was too good to be true, because why would Steve Harrington ever be in love with you? You weren’t cool or popular and you knew better than anyone that just because you slept with someone didn’t mean that they had any romantic attraction to you.

You felt like a fucking idiot, hanging your head low as you made your way to the door. You were so in your head that you didn’t even see that Steve was following you even though his footsteps were pounding against the floor because of how quickly he was moving. He couldn’t let you leave.

“Y/n,” he called after you, but his words were muffled, like you were underwater and he was calling out to you above it. You didn’t want to hear what he said anyway. It didn’t matter. Nothing could fix your slowly breaking heart.

“Y/n, wait, please don’t go.” You turned around to face him, but turned your head to the side, not wanting him to see your tear stained cheeks. Being rejected was embarrassing enough, he didn’t need to know that you were crying too. “Hey,” his voice softened as he noticed the tears and you closed your eyes tighter, wishing you had never accepted his invitation to come over.

“Hey, look at me.” He took your face in his hands gently, turning it to face him. Steve didn’t know why you were crying, but he couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault somehow and he was going to fix it. “Honey, why are you crying?”

“Because I’m embarrassed. I put myself out there like you told me to and clearly my feelings aren’t reciprocated so I'm just going to go home, okay? We can forget that this whole thing ever happened and go back to being friends. It’s okay that you don’t love me and it’s okay that-”

“Who said that I didn’t love you?” He cut you off, his words coming out a little more harsh than he had intended.

“Well-”

“Because I sure didn’t. Please don’t take my silence as rejection. Honey, I love you, I was just caught off guard, okay?” His words hit you like a ton of bricks and more tears streamed down your face, snot dripping from your nose as well. No one had ever loved you like that. The majority of your life was spent alone with your parents neglecting you and no one at school wanting to hang out with you because of where you lived. You had become the butt of everyone’s joke and were always people’s last choice when it came to being paired up for a project or for whatever sport was being played in gym.

For once, you had become someone’s first choice and you couldn’t have been more overjoyed. Steve could have had any woman he wanted, but he had picked you. He had picked you without a second thought and didn’t give a single fuck about what people thought about him. He had wanted you and no one was going to make him feel bad about it. You were too important to him for him to let you slip through his fingers because of a few stupid comments.

“Oh, honey,” he cooed, his thumbs wiping away the tears that continued to fall. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“Nothing,” you sniffed. “I’m just happy.”

“I’m happy too,” he responded, his hands moving down to your shoulders. He then pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around your neck while yours went to his middle. He gave you a lingering tight squeeze, his head burying itself into your neck.

He pressed featherlight kisses there, not being able to keep the smile off of his face as he heard giggles escape your lips. He kept going until you erupted into laughter, trying to push him away, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Stevie,” you managed to get out in between giggles. “What are you doing?”

“I’m loving on you, what does it look like?” His lips moved from your neck to your face as he peppered it with kisses, each one ending with a loud, obnoxious smack. He wanted to make sure that every single inch got the attention it deserved.

“It tickles and my stomach hurts, stop.” You continued to try to push him away, but his arms moved your waist, locking you in.

“Gonna need to hear the magic word, honey.” His lips ghosted over yours and you leaned up so they could meet yours, but he pulled away right before they did.

“Please,” you begged and he pressed one more kiss to your cheek before pulling away. “Can I have a real kiss, now?”

“Well, I suppose since you did earn it and it would be the best way to seal the deal,” he winked. He pulled you to him, pressing his mouth to yours, his lips capturing yours in a loving kiss. This one was much different than the many others you had shared. It was filled with so much care and love, as if you were pouring your feelings to each other out into the way your lips moved together.

Steve’s tongue swipe along your bottom lip as his hands slid down to your ass and you let him in, your tongues tangling together as he grabbed onto the backs of your thighs. You took his hint and jumped, wrapping your legs around his waist, his hands giving your ass a squeeze before resting there. He backed the both of you up to the bed and he collapsed onto it, taking you with him.

——-

You spent the entire day in bed with Steve, the two of you slowly picking at your breakfast when you weren’t between the sheets. You had every intention of going home at some point, but you just couldn’t stand to leave, especially when you were so happy. You and Steve were in love and even though you knew you could come back whenever you wanted, you just wanted to stay there permanently.

It would have been perfect. You could have taken Callie and she could have lived in the guest room while you shared with Steve. It was a win-win; you could stay in your happy place and you and Callie would have finally been out of the hell hole you were supposed to call home.

But it wasn’t going to work out. Even though you knew Steve would have let you in a heartbeat, it didn’t seem right. That was his home, the only space he had to himself and you couldn’t just move in like that. You knew how important his alone time was to him and you knew that you couldn’t take that away from.

You turned over to Steve only to find him already looking at you, that dopey smile on his face. The sun reflected off his eyes, making them that pretty brown that you loved so much. He reached over and pulled you by the waist and rolled over so that you were on top of him, your naked bodies pressed together.

“I don’t have another round in me, Stevie,” you sighed and he just laughed.

“Me neither, honey. I just want to hold you, can you let your boyfriend do that?”

“Who said anything about you being my boyfriend?” You asked, quirking an eyebrow and Steve was quickly trying to backtrack.

“Well, I just-”

“Relax, pretty boy,” you gave his cheek a pat. “I was just joking. I’d love for you to be my boyfriend.”

“Good, because I was going to have a t-shirt made to let people know that I belong to you.” You actually thought the idea was kind of cute, that he was so proud to show people that you were together.

“If you actually do that, I’m divorcing you.” You grimaced, but the more you thought about it, the more you wanted it. You wanted to be that kind of couple to get matching shirts and wear them on vacation. Or even on your honeymoon. They would have your shared last name on the back with the words “just married” underneath it and everyone would think you were insufferable, but you didn’t care. As long as you were with Steve, nothing else mattered.

“Can’t divorce me if we’re not married,” he winked.

“Then marry me.” The words sounded like a joke, but you had been completely serious. You didn’t care if you were moving fast, you would have loved nothing more than to let Steve put a ring on it. You just knew that he’d come up with an elaborate proposal, making sure that your friends had a part so that everyone felt involved. Eddie and Robin where the whole reason why the two of you ended up together, so you supposed that you could let them in on the whole wedding process.

“We just became a couple a few hours ago and you’re already talking about marriage?” He asked. “Slow down, hon.”

“Fine,” you scoffed. “I take back my proposal.”

“Good,” he nodded. “Save it for later. I want to be your boyfriend for a little bit.” He stroked his fingers down your back as you rested your head on his chest. His hands continued to draw lazy patterns on your back and your eyes drifted closed as you felt nothing but peace.

“So you’re saying I can be the one to propose?” Steve honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if that had been the case. You always seemed to be the one to make the first move and honestly, he would have preferred if you did because he was sweating just thinking about getting down on one knee.

“Honey, you can do anything you want.” That dopey smile was back on his face and you put on a devilish grin as an idea came to your mind.

“Well in that case,” you smirked before pressing your mouth to his.

“Thought you were too tired,” he mumbled against your lips. You were too tired, but that didn’t mean you didn’t have enough energy to make out with him. That took little to no effort for you and you just needed to feel his pretty pink lips against yours.

“I just want some kisses,pretty boy,” You leaned up, his body already missing your warmth. “Don’t make it dirty.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be, now kiss me, Stevie,” you commanded, lowering yourself back onto him.

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded, capturing your top lip between his two.

You ended up staying another night at Steve’s, taking a break from one of your many rounds between the sheets to call Eddie and ask him if he or Wayne could watch Callie again, purposely leaving out the fact that you and Steve were now together. You thought that detail should be saved for an in-person conversation, wanting to see the shocked look on his face when you gave him the news and the hug that was going to follow.

“Honey,” you heard Steve whine from the bedroom. “The bed’s getting cold.” You just rolled your eyes and put the phone back to your ear.

“I’ve gotta go, Eds,” you told him.

“Gonna go for another fuck?” He asked with a chuckle.

“Maybe, now I’ve really gotta go.” You didn’t want to make Steve wait any longer, eager to snuggle up in his arms again, your skin missing his touch even though you had only been on the phone for five minutes.

“Is his dick that good that you have to sleep over again-oh my god,” Eddie gasped. “You guys are dating now, aren’t you? Oh my god, Robin owes me twenty bucks.”

“Goodbye, Eddie.” You slammed the phone back into the receiver and practically raced down the hall to Steve’s room. Once you were inside, you made a beeline for the bed and flopped onto it, crawling into Steve’s waiting arms. You snuggled into his chest, your arms wrapping around you and your legs tangling together.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled. “Thought I was going to die alone here.”

“I was only gone for five minutes.”

“Five minutes too long,” he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, pretty boy.” And you wouldn’t leave him. As far as you were concerned, he was going to be with you for the rest of your lives. You’d grow old together, holding hands in your rocking chairs in the nursing home, wondering how you each got so lucky to end up with each other. You’d look at each other with just as much love as you did when you first said the words to each other, sharing yet another kiss that held just as much passion as the first one you ever shared.

[ptn-imagines]

as hcs, what are suspect r’s reactions to f!chief’s fashion? if possible, could you also include the upcoming cny event’s attire (f!chief looks so handsome, 10/10 cutie pie <3)?? no worries if not, i’m technically at ch11, and chief already has like five skins (tho rip me i’m at medium bfl + f2p only :/)

follow up on r’s reactions to chief (not sure if i could ask both together so i split it just in case <3): as hcs, what would f!chief’s thoughts be about her Wife’s- i mean suspect r’s attires? i know she technically already saw her in the prologue (and later in the iconic wet dream- i mean her surprise appearance in ch6) but lmao she just woke up, groggy and totally clueless and first thing she sees is a half revealed chest? and what about the dress and cute hat r wears in the trailer and the crimebrand? also do NOT ask me how long i stared at creation i’m gobbling up every suspect r crumb (oh ho ho hooo i spy expensive gloves and an even more expensive purse looks like a certain suspect is super rich but what peek? what experiment?? (ok that one is probably connected to paradeisos) whAT SECRET??? WHAT PROMISE???????) ALSO i’m sorry for rambling a bit more but before r woke her wife- i mean f!chief did r seriously change her dress to a shirt and unbuttoned the top five buttons and rolled up her sleeves and made sure her skirt shows her fine booty perfectly even if chief can’t even see or feel it fhsadhakjdhakj truly no one does it like suspect r pls never change ma’am

Hi anon! The deluge of Suspect R asks startled the shit out of me but it's okay because I love her. I decided to combine these two requests because otherwise the one about Chief reacting to Suspect R's fashion would've been reaaaaally short. I hope that we see more of Suspect R in act two of the story, I'm begging for crumbs... It's been over an in-game year since we saw her! And I'm pretty sure it's also been around that much time irl too. Aisno is edging us. I need to know what she knows about us! She acts way too much like our ex-wife! Clearly she knows us and she speaks of us fondly, who were we to her?!

Suspect R and F!Chief reacting to each other's fashion

The Bureau uniform is what Suspect R is used to, of course. She doesn't think much of it, beyond what she thinks of Chief herself: that she's absolutely stunning no matter what she wears. R longs to run her fingers through Chief's hair… and of course, she would've gotten Chief some clothes more to her taste if she'd managed to scoop her up and whisk her away. She also finds the jacket cute – and she has no room to talk about wearing your jacket properly. She thinks it's a way in which they match, which she likes.

The Stalker attire just adds a hood and cloak, but R thinks Chief wears it extremely well. If she could, she'd love to tease about how she looks like a “true Syndican” now.

R is more enamored by the story behind the Passage of Time attire than the outfit itself. She thinks the colors and patterns look nice on the Chief, but what truly makes it shine to her is Chief's interactions with OwO. She also thinks the braid looks very nice. Overall, it's a bit of a different look to what she's used to from the Chief, but she likes it anyway.

She thinks the Traveler attire is adorable. She honestly can't pick a favorite part about it because her eyes are too busy roaming everywhere, though she definitely appreciates the good view of Chief's legs. This is a strong competitor for her favorite outfit, because she thinks it brings out Chief's heroic spirit and kind heart by the vibes of it, which is by far her favorite aspect of the Chief.

Her reaction to Nightfall Soiree can be summarized as “lol cute.” She prefers seeing Chief in blue – not that she's biased or anything – but she admits the red is a good look on Chief. It's bolder than what is standard for the Chief, and she thinks her fluffy curls look adorable. It's an easy contender for her top three.

Her thoughts on the upcoming attire is that she wants to pull on Chief's ponyta– ahem. She's a big fan of the subtle touches of red against the black and white. While her bias is definitely Chief in dresses, she's a big fan of looks like these as well – she prefers it to Passage of Time, as far as celebrating the Chinese New Year goes. Once again, she feels like this outfit brings out her beloved Chief's heroic spirit.

As for Chief…

When you awaken with amnesia, you don't expect your first sight to be… anything at all, really. But if Chief did have expectations, Suspect R and her appearance would've been low on the list.

It actually took a moment for Chief to take note of R's fashion, held spellbound by the striking glow of her eyes – but when she did tear her gaze away, her heart did a flip in her chest and she had to swallow as her mouth suddenly felt drier than a desert.

R was stunning, simply stunning. Her blonde hair cascading over perfect shoulders, slender fingers tracing over Chief's cheek, breath hot on her face…

Oh, and it didn't help that her top, uh… left little to the imagination. A physical one was not the only awakening Chief went through in that moment; if Nightingale hadn't showed up, Suspect R would've probably succeeded in whisking her away.

When Chief finally gets to see R's alternate outfit, she'll be stunned as always. It's not something she'd ever imagine R wearing, but she can't deny that R looks amazing – and white has always been a good color on her.

Still, Chief prefers Rebecca's more casual outfit – if you can call it that. Her fancier outfit feels like it loses some of R's spirit, the spark that draws Chief to her in the first place – making her look like any other rich Eastside (or Paradeisos…?) lady.

[rainroses45]

A Lover & Fighter

☾description: Neteyam realizes something important about your relationship (Neteyam x fem. reader)

☾a/n: i wrote this at night because i need a sad word dump…anywho i tried (not edited :))

☾song inspiration: try-pink (sped up) & teen suicide - haunt me (x3)

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Her hair was laced in beaded braids. Her necklaces hung from her neck like medals. The twinkle of hope and despair infused with one another in scent of glistening power. With each moment of silence the clan knew she was conspiring a better idea. Every war call, meant there was a forest filled with blood shed. The simple glance of her marmalade eyes, could defuse any fear inside a companion’s heart, but could cause any enemy a loss of color.

No one knew of her parents, nor how she came to be conceived. She was a wild horse in the pasture filled with snow ball sheep. Not a threat at first, but never mistake the power of a liberated spirt.

Neteyam was the fool in this game of hearts. He tried to soothe her into his arms with sweet praises of temptation. He tried to connivance her that they were meant to be. How he had known her his entire life. He read her in poems, pictured her in many songs, watched the flowers blossom and thought she might like them too. He was a fool, such a fool to fall for a girl without a future.

A sudden smack stung Neteyam’s cheek. His thoughts suddenly faded away with the wind, leaving his mind blank. A hand print darken his face as bubbling rage spread through him like a wildfire.

His cocky laugh irritated Neteyam with passion. Only an idiot would hit the son of Toruk Makto on the face, an idiot indeed. Auayew stood there proud and tall as he saw the masterpiece form on his opponent’s cheek. In no way was Neteyam considered a fighter, but at this very moment a new sense of thinking sported with in him. Maybe it was time to change that?

Before Neteyam could defend another blow, she came. Her soft hands pulled Auayew away from his body and soon they did ruins. Each punch caused another flood of tears to pursue down his bruised face. Drops of liquid metal began to pour out of his mouth. She didn’t care though - she never did.

He stood there and watched in awe. Even as her face stayed still like the sand, her eyes showed waves of fury crashing upon one another. Her hair flowed in the wind as the beads rattled in a warning.

Emerald stones embodied her skin with grace. Sparkling stars twinkled across her skin in series of aggravated kisses. Harsh strokes of red scattered across her body, blemishing and staining her like a tarnished painting. She was the definition art, she wasn’t the most beautiful women in the world, but she made you feel something real. And that - that is what truly mattered when loving her.

“I suggest you get out of here before I stop pulling my punches.” Her words caused him to shiver in awe. Her stance was so powerful, so surreal and inspiring. He watched as Auayew scurried away, holding his nose in pain. It brought a smile on Neteyam’s face to see him suffer a little.

“Are you okay?” His heart felt like it was about to erupt from his chest. The pain from his cheek was long forgotten, unlike thoughts of her.

“Oh yeah, it didn’t hurt me that much,” he tried shrugging off her intimidating gaze. It was enchanting to stare into her eyes from a far, but up close it made him feel nervous and insecure. Was he good enough for her?

“Are you sure?” She asked again with a softer gaze. A smile bloomed on her face as she heard him let out a nervous laugh.

“Yeah..I- I’m not much of a fighter.” He stumbled upon his words trying to find the right phase in describing his pervious actions. “I just don’t want to cause a scene.”

“I like that.” Her words had caused him to finally look up. She was even prettier in person. Her golden leaf diadem floated around her head like a halo of life. Strands of her hair wired around the air as they tried to escape with the leaves worryingly in the breeze.

“You do?” His wide eyes, maybe he didn’t need to change. Why would he need to change when she already liked him like that.

“Yeah, not everyone needs to be a fighter. We need more lovers to converse with.” True words fled her mouth, but he thought differently.

“I think fighters are lovers. They are just more passionate about their love.” His words clearly sparked something inside her because you could clearly see it radiate on her face.

Neteyam truly believed his heart couldn’t suppress the yearning to break free any longer, that was until she fell to the ground in laughter. Like an angel falling down from her throne of faith, she laid there open and free, allowing herself to enjoy the humor of it all. Her laugh was contagious causing him to go down laughing as well.

“Oh oh that’s absolutely brilliant, but unfortunately I’m not a lover..” She looked over at him in curiosity, his name was never given to her as a keepsake. He caught on this rather quickly and awkwardly.

“Neteyam, my name is Neteyam,” her eyes lit up in realization, and soon they filled with sadness. Quickly, she turned away to look back up at the trees. A soothing shade crept over their bodies and left them to enjoy the cool moss.

“My name’s Y/n.” He already new her sweet name backwards and forwards, but for that moment he pretended he didn’t.

“That’s a lovely name.” She didn’t respond back to his complement, instead she chose to bathe her self in the natural music of Pandora.

It wasn’t until the sun ripened that the she got up from her spot. She didn’t look back at him, but stayed staring at the new painted sky.

“Tomorrow, I am joining the warriors on a mission.” Neteyam’s heart sank with those words. Truly, she was not serious.

“What?” He felt like crying in despair. How? How could it be? Just when he got to enjoy the moonlight sinatra with her, she was going to leave to battle. Of course, this was not her first time battling in a war against the sky people, but this upcoming one was different. He had eavesdropped last night on the plans for tomorrow. It was going to be a gruesome fight, and the clan knew some would not make it.

“When I come back, maybe we could go enjoy the sunset and sunrise together.” There were no tears pricking from her eyes. She chose this title, and now she must live up to it. Unlike Neteyam, she had no parents to carefully guide her through right choices. Y/n was pushed into the world with no responsibility, so when the opportunity of fighting for her clan showed up. She took it.

He didn’t have time to respond, for she gathered her weapons and left. Neteyam didn’t sleep well that night, he was too busy wondering if she was dreaming about today.

The next day when the fellow participants gathered to leave, Neteyam stayed behind the crowd and watched. He saw her standing there. Her head held high and her posture tall. Not an ounce of fear reeked from her soul, yet a dreary cloud floated over her. He wanted to ask her why so blue? Hoping maybe it would make her laugh, but they already began to depart. He prayed Eywa would talk care of her.

When news of their return spread amongst the na’vi, he dropped his bow and arrow, quickly running towards the base to greet her. Frantic voices surrounded Neteyam’s ears as he watched swarms of medics wrap our them. It wasn’t until a set of marmalade eyes hit him that he figured out what happened.

And as the blood fell from her hands in exhausting amounts, Neteyam realized something. He realized there would never be a chance to capture her heart, for her heart would turn to stone from the amount of life lost. She would be buried the same year she shall prosper, not because of her ego, but it was in her nature. People like her weren’t meant to last long. They were too great to be tarnishing the lands with prosperity. Y/n would die young, and Neteyam would grow old carrying on the memory of his first romantic love. It was written it stars, it was being written right now.