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#heehee blending.....

mio-the-clown · 8 months

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Decided to touch back on an old style of mine

You can never have too many spirals

Clean line art

#welcome home #welcome home puppet show #welcome home fanart #wally darling #wally darling fanart #howdy pillar #sally starlet #welcome home doodles #if In doubt add spirals #no blending modes were used #heehee

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transbuck · 10 months

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inspiration saturday

tagged by @alyxmastershipper and @prince-buck-diaz

did i go a little insane with this week's inspiration? yes. do i regret it? no. i might put this in its own gifset later lol

this is for a later chapter in the buddie fighting fic hee hee <3

song is sleepwalk by forrest day

tagging @911onabc @wikiangela @paranoidbean @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @heartbeatdiaz @jamietarts @cowboy-buddie @cowboy-buck @brokenribsdiaz @panbuckley @oliverstaark @transboybuckley @eddiediaaz and @buck-coded

#buddie fighting fic #inspiration saturday #mywips #heehee #also looking at this.#its three separate gifs but the colors of my tumblr dash theme blend so well with it that it looks like one #and now i kinda wanna make it into a singular gif #but im pretty sure that would be too big for me to be able to post it #ah well

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serendippertyy · 3 months

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AZIRACROW PONIES REF TIME 🗣️🗣️

here's some little tidbits about these designs umm YEAH I am very serious about my ponifications lol 🦄🦄

👇👇👇

since this is the pony world they can have their wings out without looking too out of place, though crowley's physical form is of course altered bc he is a snake and that shows in not only his eyes but also his tail !!

also they are the only angels and demons with cutie marks and they use them as a way to blend in with the mortals. aziraphale chose his to make it look like his talent has something to do with bookselling (the halo is there to represent his loyalty to heaven but mortals just think it means he's nice or whatever lol) and crowley's is actually his tattoo but it moved to look like a cutie mark heehee

PS I also think crowley as an angel may have always had dark fur but the scaley marks used to be stars but that's a whole other thing I'm sure I'll be making more 🤫🤫

#I'll be making my favs next ofc 😼🪰#RAHH I LOVE PONIES #good omens #good omens 2 #good omens fanart #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #my little pony friendship is magic #my little pony #mlp fim #mlp #mlp fanart #ponification #my art

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intheorangebedroom · 4 months

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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 1

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

Guilt is a wild trip, but so is desire. How the hell did you end up in this divvy motel? And now, what's next?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings. Now I'm off to disappear for another month, heehee. To anyone who celebrates anything, happy whatever you celebrate. Ily 🧡

@frannyzooey And to you, Kelli… Thank you 🧡 Thank for your help on this chapter, without you it wouldn’t exist. Arguably, without you I wouldn’t exist (my gothic ass) and without you I would certainly not be writing at all. You’re the kindest, most generous, most beautiful person I’ve ever met, you shine so brightly and I love you more than all the Frankies from all the universes put together 🧡✨

Word count: 6.5k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 1: Dirt

Guilt, you’re about to find out, is an interesting feeling.

A viscous, gluey business that sticks to your skin and clings to your frame. It’s a prickling tickle under your armpits, a rigidity in your legs. It’s a tightness in your shoulders, and it pulls on your face. It has a density, and it’s tangible, not only do you feel it, you see it in every mirror, every reflective surface.

A pervasive, shape-shifting torment that unfurls gradually, and comes in many colorful shades, when you begin to take in the gravity and the ramifications of your actions.

The first wave is darkened by fear, black as petrol, trickling down your insides when he says his name.

Frankie.

Like an invitation, an opening. Gaping, abysmal, pulling you in and you remain silent, struggling on the edge of it, grasping for balance. Drawn in, but too stunned to let go and dive in yet.

It’s a violent crimson, next, shame creeping over you when you walk back inside the bar to retrieve your purse.

Facing Mark is difficult, but talking to him is beyond your strength. You gesture toward the handbag waiting for you on the other side of the counter. He hands it to you in appraising silence, judgmental, surely, and you smile, or you wince, you can’t even tell. With shaky hands, you fumble inside it for your wallet, his green gaze strained on your face.

You know that your entire appearance gives away the narrative of what just took place in the back lot of his establishment. Your face is flushed, your lips swollen, your hair undone. Your clothes are rumpled and in his eyes, you will from now on and forever be this woman.

After what feels like several minutes, he takes pity on you, and reiterates his offer. You’re good, he says. Sweetheart. The first pint’s on him.

You don’t stay long enough for a second drink, however.

Back outside into the muggy night, you crumble onto the passenger seat of your car. The polyester lining of your skirt clings to the bare skin at the back of your thighs, damp with sweat and what is left of your inconsequential desire, and you feel appallingly filthy, bone-deep disgusting.

Guilt washes over you in blue waves of regret, welling under your eyelids when you notice that the red truck is gone. And with it, the gaping, abysmal possibilities of another you, reinvented with him.

The shaking starts as you’re driving, trembling hands gripping the steering wheel. A brutal, chilling comedown, guilt experienced in bright and blinding yellow at the belated realization of your betrayal.

How easily, how rapidly you forgot, trapped under Frankie’s gaze, coming undone between Frankie’s hands, that your life isn’t truly yours. That it has never been. You’re not on your own, no matter how much you long to be. You have never been afforded the privilege of independence, nor do you possess the necessary strength to break free from your family.

And who has Frankie betrayed? What faceless, nameless woman has he gone back to? Remorse blends in with envy and resentment, painting green ring-shaped stains in your peripheral vision as you get out of your car and into the lobby of your building.

Eyes to the floor, you step into the elevator, this oversized coffin lined with mirrors reflecting your image with a silent scoff. There’s dust from the gravel on your leather pumps.

Inside your apartment, the clickety-click of your heels on the tiled floor bounces off the walls of your skull. You hate that sound, eminently cold and giving away your presence.

The living-room television is on, probably set to a news channel, most likely broadcasting a financial show in which white men over 50 listen to the sound of their own voice and debate about obscure economical regulations you’re supposed to care about.

Adrian’s already here. Uncharacteristically early. Friday evenings usually mean late night poker or whatever his own excuse is to get away from your cribless home.

Hoping to go unnoticed so as to avoid him, you take off your shoes, but it’s too late. He calls out your name from the kitchen, his intonation surprised but cheerful.

Head hanging low, heartbeat picking up, you make a silent dash for the upstairs bathroom, remorse so pungent you fear no shower can ever wash it off your skin.

Under the scolding high-pressure stream, you scrub your body raw with a soapless loofah, but there is no scrubbing away the feeling of those hands over your skin.

Eyes drifting closed, you lean your forehead against the anthracite marble of your Italian shower, and let your chest heave around a suppressed sob.

Guilt, shame, and remorse are powerless to outweigh your want, undeterred, unabated, unquenched.

Back in the parking lot, it had been a moment before you were able to push away from the side of the truck and stand upright. He stood there, silent and immobile in front of you. Waiting, as if to shield you from the street and the rest of the world. Silence hanging charged and heavy between you, as you wouldn’t offer your name in return.

When you started moving toward the bar’s entrance, he stepped aside, and that’s when your body moved of its own volition. You took his hand in yours, palm against palm, trembling fingers wrapped around his knuckles.

“Can I see you again?” you asked, pleaded, begged. You didn’t recognize your voice.

He swallowed hard, shook his head at you for the third time, and squeezed your hand in his bigger one.

“I don’t think so. You know that’s not a good idea,” he said.

—

Grief settles like dust over the first weeks of September.

You are surprised, almost shocked, to observe how little your life has changed. You get up in the morning, you shower and get dressed, drink coffee, go to work. You attend meetings about maritime trade regulation, sitting at your father’s side, go over endless spreadsheets detailing import-export profit and loss, you pretend to understand them, and you pretend to care, like a pretty human puppet.

You come home at night, skip dinner when you can. You lie in bed next to Adrian. You seek out warmth where there is none. You perform sex without satisfaction.

There has been no question asked. No suspicion, no doubt cast.

You wear the same clothes, drive along the same roads, walk around the same hallways.

And no one seems to notice that you are different. That you experienced imperious want and incandescent pleasure. That you carry a secret. Nestled, dormant and quiet, between your lungs, like a wild and unknown creature.

Whatever part of him you welcomed inside you transformed the hollowed spaces of your existence. It redefined the void, creating a place of your own where to curate your new desires.

His lips on your lips, your body molded into his, and pressed against your hips, an unfulfilled promise for more.

In the palm of your hand, the ghost sensation of Frankie’s hold, now forever gone and lost, and your highlighted loneliness feels like a barless prison. On your own, always, again, to divert the old familiar pain of being you.

Weeks go by. The guilt recedes, and sadness takes its place, like clockwork, like physics. Like a new sort of weight coating your limbs. A nostalgic longing without any object.

In the idle moments of your day, when you’re stuck in traffic, in a meeting, or in a conversation, your mind wanders back to him. The solid slope of his shoulders. The strong span of his back. Muscles bunching up under your grip. His scent, his curls, his taste. An organic trace seared into your being.

His rebuttal, after he’d given you so much, felt less like a rejection than like a refusal to heed a deeply rooted instinct.

His stare was no longer hard and cold. It carried only sorrow and loss.

Does he think of you like you think of him? Does he miss the contact of your skin, or the abandon of your kiss?

Did he walk away from your embrace with something to keep, like you did?

Day after day, summer fades into fall, the change hardly perceptible through the consistently sweltering weather.

Day after day, focusing becomes tricky, finding sleep more and more difficult and your train of thought turns downright maniacal.

Ava’s calls go straight to voicemail.

More often than not, you start drinking as soon as you come home to fence off the tears of exhaustion, hoping Adrian won’t notice. Another line you had promised yourself never to cross, and under the combined effects of the alcohol and the antidepressants, you feel drowsy and dizzy, increasingly disconnected from your reality. A nagging sting settles on the left side of your lower abdomen. But you don’t mind the pain as much as you mind turning into your mother.

Some days, you think you’d like nothing more than to give way, allow yourself to drown into the proven refuge of self-abuse. Whenever you indulge the thought, soothing images spring to mind, oil on canvas, deep green, tender brown. Ophelia, crowned with wild flowers and rings of violets, sleeping peacefully in a shallow stream.

When you finally return to the Hole in the Wall, it’s only with the hope of hindering your impending tailspin.

In the parking, after turning off the ignition, you sit in your car for the whole of five minutes, staring numbly at the dark lot where the red truck had been parked.

Mark’s hesitant greeting puzzles you; by now you have lost most of your ability to read people’s reactions.

You walk to the counter and choose to sit on one of the high stools. Somewhere deep down, you enjoy his distance; you relish the sadistic pleasure of reliving the humiliation you felt standing before him, freshly fucked dumb on a total stranger’s fingers.

Besides, you’ll take the attention, however uncomfortable it may be.

“Long time no see,” Mark says, and you produce a poorly executed smile.

“I don’t know… two weeks? I’ve been busy,” you add as a way of apologizing.

“It’s been a month,” he replies curtly.

You try a brown ale, this time, rich and bitter. He busies himself behind the counter, cleaning and wiping, while you drain your glass in silence. You haven’t eaten all day, and you’re drinking too fast. Nausea laps against your diaphragm. It’s the last missing scene from this scenario: you, throwing up in the toilet of his bar.

You’re considering leaving when he speaks again.

“Trucker hat dude came by.”

Your head shots up and you glare at him, eyes widening under your pinched brow, a new wave of sickness nudging further up. He gauges your face, twirling a towel inside a pint glass, waiting for your answer, but when you give him none, he goes on.

“Did he…” he starts, and his eyes slowly go back and forth between yours, “he didn’t hurt you or anything? Cause if he did, if you wanna press charges, I can—“

“No,” you cut him off, “god no, I’m fine. I’m perfectly ok,” you add unnecessarily when his gaze narrows.

He pauses for a moment, like he’s the only one who can judge if you are, indeed, perfectly ok, before he faces away from you to put back the clean glasses on the lower shelves behind him.

When he’s done, he turns back around, props his hands low on his hips, and for the first time since you’ve entered the place, he stands perfectly still.

“He’s been asking about you.”

Between your lungs, the creature begins to stir.

“He came back,” you say, surprisingly matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Asked if you come here every Friday.”

Piece by piece, your mind starts swiveling, sluggish and blunt after being successfully dulled out by the past couple of weeks of excessive drinking. You picture his tall figure standing in the small bar, perhaps he sat on the stool you’re sitting on now? Did he lift his cap to comb his hair with his fingers before he spoke?

Mark is talking again, and it’s a conscious effort to bring your attention back to his words.

“Asked if you always come on your own. If I know your name.”

“I never told you my name,” you panic, “what did you tell him?”

“I see your name every week on your AmEx Gold, sweetheart, but I kindly told him to go fuck himself,” he scoffs.

His sardonic tone snaps you out of your drifting daydreaming. Your face immediately hardens. You sit up straight, drawing further away from him and he seems to change his mind. He’s softer when he speaks next.

“Look, I don’t know what’s the lowdown between you two, you understand? And anyway, I’m not in the habit of discussing my regulars with just about anyone. That kinda goes against the job’s ethics, you know what I mean?”

You shrug away the rational, albeit patronizing explanation with a huff of annoyance. You feel more alert than you have in weeks.

“When was that?” you ask.

“Last week. Thursday, I think.”

“Shit.”

Mark lets out a heavy sigh, resembling that of an exhausted father, and he opens the cash register.

“He left a note for you.”

—

An address. Written in all caps, black ink on a white piece of paper torn from a lined notebook. No phone number, not date, no time… and no name. Just the address. Under the feeble cabin light of your car, the paper looks old, like it’s been carried around tucked inside a wallet for years, and time has turned it yellow.

The coordinates on the dashboard GPS are identical to the ones on the paper. They were identical back in the parking, at the bar, when you typed them in; they were identical at every single red light you stopped at and checked. And they’re still identical now, glowing in blue letters, cold and synthetic, above the message You have reached your destination.

You raise your head again and stare at the building in front of you.

It’s a motel. One floor, L shaped, slightly sloping roof. With wrought iron details, a porch hanging low and square wooden pillars demarcating each room, nine of them in total. On the right, underneath a bare bulb, a large ice machine gleams like a beacon for lost time-travelers, next to a pay phone with a cut-off cord and a missing receiver. On the rear end of the building, to the left, above what looks like the reception, a 4 feet tall sign spells MOTEL in red neon letters.

At its height, the place probably looked nice. But that was a rough 55, 60 years ago, you estimate. Now it’s nearly derelict, with visible cracks streaking the yellowing walls, several broken drainpipes, and a missing number on the door of room 7.

If you cared about these kinds of things, you’d figure that the diversion of the main road further south is responsible for the motel’s decaying state.

Your attention is elsewhere, as usual. The parking lot is deserted, save for three vehicles. The red truck is here, parked a couple of places away to your right. Engine off. Empty.

The drive here from the Hall in the Wall was nearly an hour long. The car cruised along poorly lit, narrow two-lane roads, lined with luxuriant vegetation, dense and confining in the pitch darkness of the suburban night. You’ve lived in Tampa your entire life and have never set a foot in this part of the Bay Area. Technically, you’re not even in Tampa anymore.

He’s inside one of these rooms, somewhere. Waiting for you, and that thought alone makes your breathing difficult and your hands clammy.

What now? What’s next? Are you supposed to walk up to the reception and ask about him? A tall man wearing a trucker hat? Frankie?

And what will happen, once you’ve found him?

This is ridiculous. Sordid. It’s gone too far, whatever that is. A motel outside of town. The worst possible cliché. The most degrading place.

Between your lungs, the creature is clawing at your chest.

You shift nervously on the creaking leather seat, exhaling long and shaky, no longer repressing the memory of his sturdy fingers curling inside your warmth, of his tongue swirling inside your mouth. The instant intimacy of your furtive encounter, that turning point, when he briefly relinquished his control.

A chorus of voices rumbles like tumbling boulders inside your head, a cacophony of rules and guidelines, tacit and unspoken, ingrained and internalized. But with every passing minute staring at the bright motel sign, your resolve grows surer.

The yellow curtains ripple behind the rectangular window of room number 2 and you quickly pull the key out of the ignition. Grabbing your phone from the dashboard, you stuff it inside your purse, which you slide under the driver's seat.

Eyes locked on the curtains, you make a fast-paced beeline to the door. Around you, the night is bustling with the sounds and noises of the invisible wildlife. Revealing nothing, containing so much.

With a quick rattle of your heels, you step under the porch, hand extended and ready to knock on the door when it opens for you.

Oh he’s broad, so much broader than you even remembered, blocking the entire doorway with his frame, blue jeans, black shirt, and this goddamn hat that’s already haunting your dreams and your nightmares.

Looking down on you, irate, defiant, daring you to push him aside and enter. Behind him, the room is plunged in darkness. Above you, the porch lights cast a warm hue on his face, that fails to soften his expression. The crease between his brow is deeper than your fears.

You take a step closer, on instinct, but he moves to the side as if to avoid any contact with you and you enter the dark bedroom, carried by your momentum.

Guilt will come back to you later, sporadically, in episodes, but for the most part, you forfeit it wholly when you cross the threshold of room number 2.

He closes the door behind you and flicks up the toggle switch near the door frame. Two quaint lampshades blink to life on the headboard, casting a warm, subdued light. There’s no AC, or he hasn’t turned it on, and the atmosphere inside the room is already stifling, charged with his scent.

“Took you long enough. Thought you wanted to see me,” he grunts, and the creature purrs inside your chest.

“I did. I do.”

Stopping in the middle of the room, you turn around to face him. He’s standing tall and firm and mighty, feet planted apart on the carpeted floor, arms crossed over his chest. Yet you note his hands are splayed across his biceps, as if he were attempting to hug himself.

Perhaps that’s when you convince yourself Frankie is not his real name. Somehow, it makes it easier to believe you’re not the object of his ire.

“Your friend didn’t tell you–”

“He’s not my friend,” you interrupt. “I only got your note earlier. Tonight.”

You let the implication sink in and your gaze travels down to the dip at the base of his neck and back up. The square, yellow bedroom provides you with the brightest environment you’ve ever had the leisure of observing him in.

He’s beautiful, stunning, really, with unique and complex features. Almost pretty, but in a reluctant way, as if it was irrelevant to the life he’s chosen and led. His face speaks so loud, washed over by so many emotions, frustration, doubt and anger, and that lingering sadness in his dark eyes that tugs at your heart and twitches your fingers.

“What’s your name?” he asks, tilting his chin in your direction.

Janet Leigh’s face pops up in black and white inside your mind, driving through a curtain of strident violins, skittish eyes flicking between the road ahead of her and the rearview mirror.

“Marion,” you answer, inexplicably.

“Marion,” he repeats, and you know he knows you’re lying.

Unable to hold his gaze, you look away to the side, and he gives you time to take in the surroundings. The medium size bed with a stained, synthetic bedspread, the practical, shipped furniture, an angular chair and a desk surmounted by a rectangular framed mirror, the antique cathodic TV set hanging from the wall in the corner. The brown carpet. The yellow curtains. The painting of the Appalachian.

And whatever your face says then makes him huff.

“Not what you expected? How did you think this was gonna be? How do you think these things go?”

You look at him again, stunned, lost, hurt maybe, that he should recognize you for what you don’t want to be.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before,” you tell him in a small voice.

He shakes his head, like you aimed to wound, and unconsciously, your fingers find your sternum, jittery, anxious to appease this wild creature scrabbling against your rib cage.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head again, or still, “and you shouldn’t be here either, this is bullshit.”

And he’s right, once more, he is right, neither of you should be here. All the lines you walked, all the rules you abided by, meeting expectations and doing as you were told, and you still end up here, on the outskirts of town, in this gloomy motel. Facing this stranger, begging to surrender to him, with your heart in your hand and your life on your lips.

Eyes strained on his, you move closer, cautious, with your palms upward, as if he were to jolt and scurry away if you were too sudden. If you tame him, perhaps you will tame the wild creature between your lungs as well.

Drawn to his skin, you brush the tips of your fingers along his bicep, and the taut muscle thrums under the freckled, tanned surface of him.

He’s holding his breath, hardened face, hardened stare, deepening crease, and your fingers skate up along the slope of his arm until they meet his hand.

He’s difficult to catch, you think, even when willing to be caught, but it’s now very clear what you want for yourself. You want him.

It matters not that he belongs to somebody else. If you’re here, it’s because he wants you too. Despair and desire have brought you together, combined, conjoined, converging.

Your hand travels round to the back of his arm, soft and feather-like, up under the hem of his t-shirt, lifting his sleeve. His eyes are boring into yours. You lick your lips, slowly, and lower them to his skin. A light kiss, testing, tender and wet, and underneath it, a tremor.

There’s a terrible density to his body. He’s tension and heat. Pressing your parted lips to his shoulder, you let your tongue peek out between them. You take in the tangy taste of him, it travels through your body like lava, like syrup, heavy and sticky and sweet and it pools down between your hips.

He’s completely still, eerily so. Emboldened, hopeful, you tug on his t-shirt, tentatively at first, and when he doesn’t stop you, when he unfolds his arms, you pull it off his frame, the hat coming off with it. You suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his naked head full of curls, lush and tousled. You want to run your fingers through them. You know that’s probably not a good idea.

His chest, broad and solid, fills your vision, and your hands fly to his sternum where you press them, chasing something invisible, roaming up the plane of his chest, as delicately as possible. Your fingertips drum lightly along his collarbone, as if you were seeing him with your hands, as if all your senses were necessary to take in the whole of him.

His frown turns imploring, his breathing shallow.

“Tell me your name,” he murmurs, his deep baritone a pleading husk.

“You can call me whatever you like,” you answer, lifting his hand and taking his two first fingers into your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You cradle them with the flat of your tongue, brushing against the callous tips of them, saliva flooding your mouth around the salty taste. A moan escapes you, imperceptible, and his jaw ticks around a curse, something you don’t make out, something in Spanish, you’re too dazed with want, too dumb with thirst.

Fire licks up your spine when he moves, fast and sure. His hand tangles in your hair and he sharply tugs your head back, his fingers popping out of your mouth with a hanging thread of saliva. His face has become a threat, a warning, a promise. He’ll give you what you want until you regret asking for it.

His mouth crushes yours, teeth colliding, and his tongue is inside you, swirling and licking.

Like a dam that gives, his strength breaks and sweeps over you, crushing you into his chest with his hold and his kiss, fingers gripping your hair, your ass, and you let him have it, let him bruise your flesh with his need, scraping your fingernails up his arms, on his back.

You’re smiling into the kiss, with relief and eagerness, squirming into him and he hardens his hold before releasing you, swift and sudden, grabbing your blouse and pulling it up in a feverish movement that you follow, lifting your arms like a docile little girl. A seam of the silky fabric rips around your shoulders. You don’t notice it.

His face dives into the crook of your neck, the scruff of his beard grating your skin, and he sinks in his teeth, sucking hard and feral, and at first, you melt into it, before you remember. You force his chest away with both palms, whining, urgent, plaintive, “I can’t– can’t have marks,” when what you really want is to be covered in him.

It makes him chuckle, and it sounds like a growl, so terribly dark, so profoundly disillusioned, that you shiver in the heat of his body. He squeezes your breasts through the thin cotton of your bra, it’s brutal and it hurts like retaliation.

“Get fucking naked, Marion.”

Drawing away from him, you start working the button and zip fly of your skirt with fumbling fingers, blood beating fast and booming in your eardrums, while he toes off his shoes and undoes his belt buckle. Hard metal, the same one that was scraping against your belly when he was crushing you into his red truck, into white-hot pleasure.

His skin looks amber and smooth under the mellow lighting, the harmonious muscles you guessed under his shirt on the very first night highlighted in shadows. A soft belly, and a long, sideways scar on his left side. Would he tell you the history of his wounds? Will you ever have the chance to ask?

Your skirt crumples at your feet, you’re lost in the sight of him, arms falling limp at your sides. Self-consciousness skirts the edges of your lust. This body that you neglect and ignore at best, despise and mistreat if given the chance, will it be worth anything to him? Will he want you like you want him? With determination. Without dignity.

When he pulls down his jeans and his boxer briefs in one deft motion, your eyes widen, but he’s grabbing your arm already, spinning you around like a doll and throwing you onto the bedspread. He climbs on the bed after you, the mattress dips with his weight.

His firm hands spread your legs; he’s manhandled other bodies before yours, the skill evident with his dexterity, the experience obvious in his assurance, and you want to be all of them at once, lovers and enemies.

His hand rubs over your damp panties and you buck into it, trying to raise yourself on your elbows to turn around. You want to see his face as he touches you, see his reaction at the evidence of your arousal, you want to watch his eyes when his cock breaches you, but he presses a large hand between your shoulder blades and pins you into the mattress with a grunt.

He’s unlike anyone you’ve known before, brisk and rough and domineering, and you blush at your inexperience, at his irreverence, when he yanks your panties to the side and spits on your folds. The sheer obscenity feels like a reward for coming this far.

Sprawling your arms forward, bunching the slippery fabric of the bedspread in your fists, you brace yourself, the round tip of his cock lining up at your entrance.

He shoves himself inside you to the base, and you cry out at the blinding intrusion, the strength of his thrust hauling your body forward on the bed. With a harsh grasp, he slides you back down on his length and you bite down another cry, flesh gushing through the splayed fingers clutching your hips.

Crouching over you, he presses his forehead heavy against the back of your head.

“Don’t move,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “don’t fucking move.”

His cock pulsates angry and swollen inside your throbbing pussy, his chest pressing down on your back with each uneven, shaky breath burning your nape.

Sitting back, he wraps his right hand around the strap of your bra and twists it around his fist, pulling on it for leverage as he begins to fuck into you. The thin elastic bands bite into your shoulders, raspy vibrations echoing from your throat straight into the bedding with each of his rhythmic pushes forward.

He’s too much, too fast, too sudden. And he picks up the pace, forcing your right leg up with his knee and angling up his strokes, reaching deeper inside your core. He’s going to puncture your body from the inside, and you contract tight and rigid around his length, writhing underneath him, until he leans into your neck, close to your ear with a command, voice low and gravelly.

“You want it, just fucking take it, then.”

That wild thing inside your chest is swelling, madly swirling, your slick floods around his drilling length. Closing your eyes, the side of your face smearing makeup on the bedspread, you nod with just enough strength to exhale a breathless yes.

Yes. Yes, you want it, just like so. You want to be used, shattered, obliterated by this man.

And so you relent. Curling your fists and sinking your fingernails into your palms, as the pain turns to pleasure and he rams into your taut heat, rams against your cervix, bending you backward, spine ready to snap with each forceful shove.

The room is filled with the explicit sounds and noises of your emerging dirty secret. The relentless smack of his hips against your ass, the lewd squelch of his cock slamming in and out of your cunt, the creaking bedding, his feral groans, your grateful moans.

He’s miles away from you, but that’s what you came here for, drain the sadness from his eyes, make it yours, understand. If you’re only going to have him once, then you want it all.

But his rhythm is faltering already, and it stops abruptly. He releases his grip on you and pulls out with a loud curse, leaving you empty, for all those things you never wanted in the first place to fill you up again.

You feel his knuckles brushing against the swell of your ass as he strokes himself into his release. He loses his balance, and braces his hand next to your face to catch himself as come spurts hot and rich into the curve of your arched back.

He slaps his cock into the cleft of your cheeks once, twice, pumping out the last drops of his spend, and he collapses next to you, with a grunt when his back hits the bed, his chest heaving with exertion.

Unshed tears weigh down your eyelids. Your heart rattles against your rib cage, frantic and irregular. Your blood is thick as molasses, of amber and gold, coursing dense and languid down your limbs, but your nerves are crackling like electrical wires of blue and purple.

The creature between your lungs has tripled in size and your sore cunt throbs with your suspended orgasm.

Sunk into the mattress, you’re unable to round your back or turn your head towards him. Everything hurts. Everything is alive.

Reaching back blindly, you dip the tip of your fingers into the pool of his spend, and bring them back to your lips. Tasting him with delight and a quiet, strengthless moan.

The mattress moves with him as he shifts on the bed, and you feel the warmth of his large hand covering the expanse of your lower back.

Before you can relax into it, he flips you on your back with an easy strength, and you wince with the sudden change of position. What a mess you must look like, flushed face, sweat-damp hair, clotted mascara.

He’s heavy, in his straddle of your thighs. He brings his hand to your mouth, and you open up for him, pulling out your tongue to lick his come-coated palm, wrapping your lips around his fingers as they glide over the hot wet muscle. You swallow his essence with fluttering eyelids, grateful, tears rolling down your temples.

The soft light catches at the sheen of sweat gleaming over his chest, like he’s made of gold, leaning over you like a magnificent and merciful god, like you’ll grant him everything, and you bask into his radiance, your lips pursed into a new smile around his digits.

The frown that hasn’t left his brow softens ever so slightly. His throat bobs, corded muscles, pebbled skin, the tension barely relieved. His fingers slip out of your mouth and come to cup your chin, so gentle your mind fails to comprehend. His touch lingers, warm and relenting and it becomes a caress, trailing down the line of your throat and coming to rest over your beating pulse at the base of your neck.

“Are you real?” he asks, sorrow blurring his dark eyes.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, beading sweat, beading tears. “Make me be.”

He breathes in deeply, and perhaps it’s the first time in years he breathes in so freely.

“Okay,” he nods.

Slowly, with the tip of his tongue darting between his parted lips, he tugs down your bra to the side. His calloused palm finds the soft swell of your breast, and his warmth radiates through your skin. His hold strengthens, he pinches your nipples with his two first fingers, the ones you took in your mouth earlier, harder, until your mouth goes slack with pleasure and with pain, and you keep smiling at him through it all.

Loose, trustful, pliant, you watch as he drags your panties down along your damp skin and spreads your thighs. He pauses, eyes on your core and you lie still, exposed and opened, feeling no shame.

His curls, matted with sweat, are stuck in locks to his forehead. Where was he, when you were still hopeful? Were you too young for him, then?

He dives between your hips, and his teeth bite into the soft skin of your inner thigh. You jerk, palm pushing feebly onto the crown of his head and he freezes, eyes shut, like he doesn’t have enough willpower to let go, like too much of his control has already waned and thawed.

“Please,” you coo, “please. I’ll get in so much trouble.”

And your heart sinks a little with apprehension because, surely, he’ll scoff at you again, but instead he just lets go, bringing his fingers to your swollen folds to part them.

A small whimpering sound escapes you when he latches his lips around your clit, but the sensation is nothing like what you anticipated. Of his previous roughness, only the bruising digging of his fingers into the plush of your hips remains.

His mouth is warm and soothing, a liquid caress, the touch from the tip of his tongue precise but gentle. He shifts with a soft groan, applying more pressure and you keen, head trashed back into the bed. Instantly, he adjusts his grasp, pulling you closer to his face, suckling on your clit with more insistence.

The smooth skin of your calves brushes over his shoulders, your heels digging into the muscles of his back and you’re reminded of that first night again, when he swiveled around to meet your gaze, soft sad eyes, hard cold stare. Your orgasm builds up fast, embarrassingly so, encouraged by his heavy breathing fanning the soft curls on your mound.

The wild creature melts into your blood and flows down to your core, branching out to every nerve from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. And when you come, you come sharp and bright, with your hand clasped over your mouth to muffle a loud mewl and your back arched from the bed.

He forsakes his restored restraint when you recoil from the overstimulation, hardening his hold and fastening his mouth over your cunt to lap up your release, tongue diving in, greedy, burning your walls.

You’re still shaking with the aftershock when he releases you and rises above your trembling body. Lying his forehead on your belly, heavy head, heavy breathing, sweat dripping on your skin, he stays there until his breathing slows down, falling in rhythm with yours. You reach down for his hair, threading your fingers through his curls, at last, and he gives in, leans into the tenderness of your touch.

A stray tear slides down into your hairline and it’s over, he’s gone, standing up, his broad back turned to you, gathering his clothes and dressing up.

The notion of the world around you resurfaces. Outside, tucked away in the heart of the night, countless other wild creatures dwell and carry on, moved by fear or desire, and you lie still in that crushing knowledge. Soon, you will have to leave this bed, confront your solitude to theirs.

You roll to your side and curl up on yourself, drifting with the soft droning from the sleeping creature between your lungs and the sweet soreness thrumming between your hips.

He’s at the door, putting his hat back on, when you call out his name.

“Frankie.”

It passes your lips for the very first time, a long kept secret, a forbidden vow, a usurped oath, and immediately you want to say it again. You want it to be real. You want it to be yours.

Frankie pauses and tilts his head towards the bed without facing you completely.

“Thank you,” you say.

He opens the door to a draft of air wafting in, charged with the salty, humid scent of the faraway bay. He’s about to cross the threshold, and disappear into the night, when he speaks.

“The room is paid for til morning. I’ll see you next Friday.”

****

Additional note: I woke up on day and decided to build a multiverse of orange bedroom Frankies 🧡 For those who've read PTMY, can you spot all the clues? This Frankie is really pissed off, though, but I kinda like it. I hope you'll like it too 🧡

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @your-voice-is-mellifluous @mylostloversbookmarks @readingiskeepingmegoing @lovesbiggerthanpride @youandmeand5bucks-blog @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @southernbe @blackvelveteen1339 @anoverwhelmingdin @casa-boiardi @nandan11 @jessthebaker @pedroshotwifey @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @noisynightmarepoetry

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huramuna · 15 days

Text

new valyria - one shot.

aemond x shera stark, modern. 18+, minors do not interact or you will be smited. a banshee's lament au.

new valyria, the hottest club in town, is owned by the Targaryen family. it is themed in the style of Valyria of old with towering pillars of ivory and gold. the dress code is strictly red and black and their signature drink, a fruity and spicy blended brandy, is called 'the Balerion'.

i might do more one shots in this au heehee.

word count: 5.5k

content: smut (specifics below cut), angst, shera being a mess, aemond = whore?, aegon has rabies, helaena x shera agenda

ain't it fun - paramore • hard times - paramore

warnings: thigh riding, oral (f receiving), shera has a praise kink, aemond targaryen has a tongue piercing, semi public sex (they're in an alley)

“Sher, please don’t be a buzzkill, it's one night— just one!” Cregan exasperated, hands held out in a pleading fashion. He was pacing back and forth in front of his sister, perplexed.

“It’s seriously not my scene, Cregan. I mean… loud music, flashing lights and intoxicated individuals everywhere? You really think that’s a good place for me to be?” Shera retorted, lazed back in her fluffy couch, glancing at her phone every once in a while.

“It’s really classy, trust me. There are tables to the side where you can sit away from the action.”

“Why am I even going if I’m going to be ‘away from the action’?” she punctuated air quotes in his face.

“When was the last time you left the house except to go to the post office? When was the last time you socialized with anyone who wasn’t me, Moongeist or Helaena?”

Shera went silent, brow knitting together. She folded her arms over her chest defensively. “Low blow, make fun of the girl with an anxiety disorder and agoraphobia.”

“I’m… I just want you to experience life! You’re young and spry— you should be out in the world trying everything while you still can! But instead, you insist on staying at home, wearing glasses that make you look like a librarian, and making soap. You already act the part of a grandma.”

“It’s… I just don’t want anyone to see me, I don’t want to be perceived, Cregan. I don’t want people to look at me, to… to,” she gestured fervently to her eye, hands shaking slightly. She had a scar that ran the length of half of her face, bisecting her one eye into a milky-blue blindness. It was from a childhood accident, which was more or less a hazy nightmare to her now. “Y’know.”

“No one will see you, Shera. It’s… dark and low lit, that’s part of the experience.”

“Thirty minutes. I will stay approximately thirty minutes before I call an uber and go home. And… you have to do my laundry for… a month. No, two months!” Shera exclaimed, pointing out two fingers at him. Moongeist whined on the couch, giving a low warbling noise.

–

Two hours later, she was dressed. She opted for a lacy baby-blue lolita style dress at first, but Cregan had protested immediately.

“You look like a scary Victorian doll. Pick something from this era, please. Plus, there is a dress code of black and red.”

Shoving a rude gesture in his face, she begrudgingly changed. She opted for a red satin dress. It had a scoop halter neckline which was certainly not her usual style. Glancing in the mirror, she wholly considered bailing out of the situation entirely. The snug fabric hugged her curves, her thighs rubbing together as she walked. She felt… exposed, all of the little dips and divots of her body on display— she wasn’t sure if it was even flattering.

A small frown tugged at her lips as she fiddled with the plunging front of the dress, trying to get it to stay at a point where her breasts didn’t look like they were about to burst out and start kicking ass and taking names. Isn’t there tape made for this sort of thing? As self conscious as she was about the whole situation, there was something… liberating about getting dressed up with (almost) the sole purpose of being ogled at. While her face was something of a sore point, she would hope that at least one person in the club could find her body desirable. She was a ‘short-stack’ as Helaena called her, who worshiped her curves and soft spots like they were the second coming of a messiah. Shera squeezed her thighs together at the thought– if she didn’t get a hookup tonight, she would need to call Helaena. Some itches could only be scratched on your own for so long.

Pressing double-sided adhesive tape, that she used for her soap orders, to her chest, she somewhat successfully kept the satin in place. Giving another look and not quite on board with what she saw, she hid herself in an oversized puffy faux furred jacket.

Just thirty minutes. It’s just thirty minutes, Shera. You can do this… just… chill out.

Despite her lackluster words of affirmation and the subsequent panic bubbling in her stomach, she grabbed her purse. Her breathing was uneven and she took a hit from her emergency inhaler, hoping to the Gods at play that she wouldn’t have an asthma attack in the middle of the club.

Shera imagined, somehow, dancing with some attractive number and getting hot and heavy (as if!) and then having to pull out her inhaler. Lung health is not cute. Oh, yeah, my airways get blocked sometimes by mucus and I can’t breathe. What do you mean you don’t want to stick your tongue down my throat?

Myriad of issues aside, she pushed out of her room, head held not quite high, but just enough so she could see.

Cregan nodded in approval (as if he was some sort of fashion expert) and they were off. The drive was quiet and Shera realized he never told her the club name. He always referred to it as ‘the club’. She somewhat understood the need for a dress code at an establishment like a lounge, but color coded? How pretentious. Shera and Cregan didn’t even really look good in red— they were more akin to monochromatic and cool toned blues rather than red.

Red and black reminded her of… something. She couldn’t quite place it.

They pulled up to the building, which didn’t have a sign or anything. It was wedged in between two other buildings, but its architecture was vastly different. While the adjoining facilities were modern, the club looked like it was from ancient Greece. It had towering ivory pillars, etched in the simplistic but still somewhat complex design of corinthian filigree, the individual chips of the sculptor’s chisel still apparent— they were handmade, hand carved. The inside of the building emanated a foreboding and very deep red.

Shera suddenly wondered if she was about to enter Mount Olympus— or maybe the underworld, as the sickly maroon color reminded her of the River Styx.

The bouncer, a burly man who could easily bench press Cregan (an impressive feat, considering her brother was a hockey player built like a brick shit house) stood at the door.

“Name.” the makeshift Charon grunted. Shera half expected him to start brandishing a wooden paddle.

“Stark.” Cregan replied, hands in his pockets.

Not-Charon looked at his list, then at the pair of Stark siblings, back and forth for at least thirty seconds.

“S-T-A…” Cregan began to spell out their last name in irritation before the ferryman held up his hand in pause.

“You’re on, go in.”

Entering the club, to which Shera still didn’t know the name of, was certainly like entering the gates of Hell. She felt like Dante, entering the first circle, guided by Virgil. It was dark, the low boom of bass ringing in her ears. They were guided by a path of red floor lights. What is this? An amusement park? It was a weird mix of trepidation of entering the unknown— which to Shera, could either be the actual entrance to Hell, or the entrance to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney world. All she was sure of is that she wanted a turkey leg and to go home.

And yet, some part of her brain, as small and withered as it may be, pressed on for adventure and excitement. They approached the end of the path and it gave way to a large room, still painted in that deep saccharine hue. The roof was high-vaulted and curved inward– it was like stepping into the Pantheon, the coffered, domed ceiling seeming to go on forever. The club was set up in a circular manner, as the room curved around. The bar itself was in the middle, hugging a large stage platform. On the stage was a singular grand piano and a DJ station. All surfaces were decorated in ivory, accented by red velvet.

The music playing was a mix of the piano and the DJ, working together to create a surprisingly exuberant melody that made Shera’s skin rise in goosebumps.

“Let’s get drinks, Sher,” Cregan steered her to the wrapping bar quickly, his sights set on something or someone in particular.

Shera didn’t feel much like drinking– she had no taste for alcohol, only trying it a few times in her life and never enough to even get a buzz. She didn’t find the point in choking down liquid that tasted like poison only to feel like living death the next morning. She slipped into one of the velvet bar stools, her feet dangling under her.

“Just cranberry juice, please,” she murmured to the barkeep, who returned her request with an eyebrow raise.

Cregan began whooping and hollering behind her and she turned to see someone she hadn’t seen in a long time: Jacaerys Velaryon.

Once upon a time, Shera and Cregan had been extremely close to the Velaryon and Targaryen kids, growing up in the same social circles, they were all an unstoppable and very tight knit little group of hellions.

But that was years ago– she didn’t talk to any of them anymore, except for Helaena, who she had stayed best friends with throughout the years, and may or may not be in a casual on and off situationship with.

She tried not to remember the fact that, at some point, she had been attached at the hip to Helaena’s brother, Aemond. They were like peanut butter and jelly, like cookies and cream, like macaroni and cheese, and any other iconic food (or maybe not, she was just hungry) related duo. Thick as thieves, they were. Until… the ever creeping monster of puberty and hormones and all the things related to growing up split them apart. Shera developed her terrible anxiety disorder, while Aemond flourished in academics and moved through the social ranks at school. They hadn’t spoken since they were sixteen, when Shera inevitably withdrew from physical school in favor of at-home, online school.

Shera approached him warily, seeing him laughing and joking with his friends that were just… so out of her atmosphere, she couldn’t even imagine having a conversation with.

They hadn’t been close in a few years but… it wouldn’t feel right just up and disappearing from school without telling him, right?

Some stupid, childish part of her thought he might ask her to stay, ask her what’s wrong, ask her anything, really.

But as she got closer, she felt all of their eyes on her, their lips pulled into sneers. It's irrational, it's irrational, it's irrational, she tried to reason with herself and her bubbling anxiety in her stomach. They aren’t laughing at you, they aren’t, they aren’t.

But it… it feels like they were. Aemond’s blue eyes zeroed in on her, one slightly off-color than the other. They had both been involved in a childhood accident, leaving them both blinded. But, looking at the two of them, one would only be able to notice Shera’s glaring scar.

Aemond’s eye and subsequent scar had been mostly covered up with extensive cosmetic surgery and other procedures, at his mother’s behest, and on his father’s dime, which was seemingly an endless well. His eye, which he lost, was replaced by a near perfect replica. No one who didn’t know him closely would ever notice.

At the time of the incident, Shera’s family was going through a transitional period– namely, her and Cregan’s father passing away while they were both underage, the following legal battle over inheritance with their uncle and just things that no kids should go through. It was the catalyst of Shera’s subsequent anxiety and myriad of following issues.

She didn’t even approach him further that day in the hall. She said nothing to him, merely turning on a heel and leaving.

That was eight years ago.

“Jace, my god,” Shera gaped, eyes wide. He certainly wasn’t a kid anymore and had put on some muscle mass– she assumed from playing hockey with Cregan (even if he was still dwarfed by the absolute unit of her brother). He had those unruly chocolate colored curls, oh-so reminiscent of his rumored father, Harwin Strong. But that was a touchy issue within itself and best left unsaid.

“Shera!” Jace went in for the hug right away, squeezing the poor girl tight. “You look fantastic.” It felt like an obligated lie.

“Thank you… um, what are you doing here?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Oh, I’m always around this place most times or another. I DJ on the side when I’m not on the ice. Mom made a spot for me.”

Mom? What did Rhaenyra have to do with this?

She must have looked visibly confused. “You know this… is my family’s place, right? New Valyria?”

It hit her like a train– a freight train that smacked into her and kept on going until there was nothing left of her but Shera-shaped dust. “Oh.”

“Cregan didn’t tell you?”

Her brother scratched a hand behind his head, looking somewhat sheepish. It was a weird look on him. “I… may have not. I wasn’t lying per say–”

Shera opened her mouth to say something more, but was interrupted by a cup being slid her way by the bartender. Without looking, she lifted it to her lips and took a deep gulp. It was, in fact, her cranberry juice– but it had been mixed with vodka. Heavily. She suppressed the urge to spit it out and looked back up. “I asked for just juice.”

“It was sent from the gentleman over there,” the bartender pointed to a small alcove adjacent to them where none other than Aegon fucking Targaryen was sitting, legs splayed out like he owned the place (well, he did in some capacity, she supposed) and a lady on each arm. He had the biggest shit-eating grin she’d ever seen, staring right at her.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she put a hand on her forehead. “I’m leaving, Cregan. I don’t give a shit about the deal anymore.”

“Shera, we’ve been here for five minutes–”

“Five minutes. It took five minutes for someone to somehow recognize me in this stupid red lighting– and not just someone, no, one of my childhood friends who hasn’t spoken to me in eons and is looking at me like I’m his next meal. Not to mention, my shithead brother didn’t mention that the club he is forcing me to go to is owned by said childhood friend’s family. I should’ve fucking guessed it with the red and black dress code, fucking pretentious. No offense, Jace,” she murmured, taking a breath. “I’m done.” she gathered her purse, slipping off of the seat. That vodka must’ve gone straight to her head, as she’d never been so adamant about something. Fuck it. She threw back the remainder of the glass of vodka cranberry (regretting it immediately) and flipped her brother another rude gesture.

She was so blinded by red– not just the color scheme, but the rage she felt bubbling as she rushed to the exit. The rage and anxiety was a more powerful cocktail than anything they served at the bar as she pulled out her phone with trembling hands, trying to call an uber. She didn’t look up the whole time, somehow managing to almost reach the gate to salvation– before she ran head first into a very hard body. A very hard body with a pointy fucking necklace on that stabbed her in the forehead. The force of her stumble was catastrophic, for her, as she fell to the ground on her ass. The hard body stayed upright, only shaken a little.

A heavily tattooed and, ahem, large calloused hand reached in front of her. She took it, half expecting to pull her own weight up, but was easily lifted to her feet. The hand was warm. Unnaturally warm. The smell of cigarette smoke and… sandalwood blew out her senses. She could feel his breath on her face as she swayed slightly into him– he was looking down at her directly, pupils boring holes into her. The heat of the situation rose into a fever pitch as they were practically pressed together, his hand straying to the small of her back so she wouldn’t fall over again. It felt terribly intimate.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry— I… the… I’m sorry,” she stammered, trying to get out some sort of explanation to why she’d accidentally used this person as a springboard, but it just came out in a string of unintelligible ramblings. Her heels clicked on the floor, stumbling back and forth.

“It’s fine,” he replied. The voice sounded familiar, but still somewhat faraway in her mind. “Are you alright? You seem… unsteady.”

She wouldn’t be surprised if she had given herself a concussion from face planting into… she glanced up, eyes trailing the body before her. He was tall with expensive Italian leather shoes and impeccably pressed slacks. His shirt was red and only half buttoned, leaving a small patch of sheer white-blondish chest hair. His hands, which dwarfed hers, were inked in tattoos that seemingly stretched his body, peeking out on his exposed torso.

The offending pointy necklace revealed itself; a golden pendant of a Seven-Pointed star. Her stomach dropped into her feet as she realized exactly who it was.

Fuckfuckfuck. Meeting his gaze, it was none other than Aemond Targaryen. Her former best friend, companion, partner in crime. She expected his face to twist into a sneer like it had before at school and she wanted to vomit. I have to get out of here.

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed to her forehead where she had consecrated herself with his pendant. A bit of blood was trickling from her skin.

That is what he has to say? You’re bleeding? No hello Shera, hi Shera, I recognize you Shera? A frown made home on her face as she realized he might not even remember her.

“Um, it’s… it’s fine,” she wiped the blood away with the back of her hand, feeling it being replaced with new droplets. “Sorry for running into you, sir.” Sir? What the fuck is wrong with you, Shera?

“At least let me help you get cleaned up, yeah?” Aemond pressed, tilting up her head to most likely observe her wound– but it also felt like he was sizing her up, checking her out. “Only if you call me sir again.”

She made a garbled noise of surprise at his last comment, her mouth opening to try and spew out some half-assed cheeky reply. “I… I guess,” she murmured. She really just wanted to go home and cry and never leave the house again— but that stupid and childish part of her brain that hadn’t resurfaced itself since leaving school was nagging her. It felt sickly euphoric to her to see him again. She hated to be objectifying, but he had grown up to be, quite frankly, gorgeous. “S-... sir,” she squeaked out lastly, finally thankful for the gaudy lighting– without it, Aemond would’ve seen her face lit up like a tomato.

He nodded with a ‘hm’ noise, leading her down a hallway to the far side of the Pantheon. It was lit up normally with sconces on the wall giving clear white light. It was obviously a staff-only path.

Okay, Shera. Breathe. You can get through this. Let him put a bandaid on your head and hopefully not recognize or remember you and you can be on your way. You always wondered what he grew up to look like and now you know! Here is your little Aemond fix to mend the Aemond sized hole in your heart. Then you can move on and totally not wallow over this for weeks.

The office was nice– it was his, she knew instantly. It had tall bookshelves filled with different philosophers and big named authors, no doubt some of them first or second editions worth thousands. Shera felt like she was intruding, like she didn’t belong. She didn’t, really. Swaying side to side, she awaited further instruction.

“Come,” he said, not so much asking. He seemed to lack some manners these days– Alicent must be aghast.

She shuffled and took a seat in one of the chaise velvet seats in front of the desk. She fluffed into her coat, wanting to just hide, her muddled mind replaying the way he spoke. Come, come, come. Christ, I need to get laid– maybe I should call Helaena. The lights, still a bit low, weren’t a scathing fluorescent color like on the club floor. He could most certainly see the scar running down her face– and the fear she held in her eyes.

Even though it was plain as day, he didn’t say anything. He opened a first aid kit, dabbing her forehead with peroxide soaked gauze, his expression watching her every movement. His gaze was almost snake-like, unblinking as he observed.

She hissed at the sting of it, gritting her teeth slightly. He only gave an answer of a slightly knit brow.

It was silent— save for Shera’s quiet and slightly wheezy, squeaky breathing. Her hands were clenched on her knees, her dress riding up her skin, which she was constantly tugging downward. As he shuffled closer, one knee knocked between her two shaking ones. Was that an accident? The creeping heat only seemed to grow.

The soft beat of the music from the club coupled with the blood rushing in Shera’s ears made her want to scream. Everything seemed in slow motion as Aemond, still apparently a painstakingly asinine perfectionist, took his sweet time to patch her up. This gave her time to watch him in turn, focusing mostly on the way his lips were upturned, cupid’s bow taut. Flicking back up to his eyes, they were looking back and forth from her lips to her own gaze. The air around them seemed to go stagnant. Holy fuck, does he want to kiss me or do I have something on my face?

Her eyes must’ve read confusion, panic, elation and all the things in between that go with wanting to kiss an almost stranger in a club– but he wasn’t exactly a stranger to her. But, she supposed she was to him. His fingers tilted her chin upward and his lips curled into a smug grin, auto completing her thoughts.

He pressed a bandage to her forehead, mouth open to say something, like he was going to do something, but he was caught off guard by the door to his office slamming open. Shera didn’t even look to see who it was— she was more focused on the fact that Aemond goddamn Targaryen had a tongue piercing. She felt like she was going to melt.

“Hey Aem, that fuckin’ slag bit me— do you think I should go get a rabies shot or something?” a slightly slurred voice drawed. “Ohhh, shit.” Aegon stumbled into the room, leaning on the doorframe. He was, in fact, bleeding from his neck, some very prominent bite marks marring his skin, coupled with vicious looking hickies.

“Busy,” Aemond grunted, focusing his gaze back on tending to Shera.

“Like busy or… busy? I don’t see your hand up her skirt or anything, so you can’t be that busy.”

“Fuck off, Aeg,” he continued, gritting his teeth in annoyance. “Seriously.”

“Well, Criston wants to talk to you ‘bout throwing that girl out— since it is your management night, eh?”

The smallest breath of annoyance slipped from the younger brother’s lips. “I’ll be right back.”

Aegon still loomed in the doorway after he left, staring at Shera. “You didn’t like my drink?”

“I don’t really drink.”

“And yet… you’re at a bar where they serve alcohol.”

“I’m trying to leave,” she sniffed.

“Not hard enough apparently,” Aegon flicked open a lighter, taking a drag from a suddenly lit cigarette. “You look like a lost pup, Shera.”

“You remembered me.”

“I may have the IQ of a golden retriever but I’m not that stupid. I couldn’t exactly forget your bird’s nest of red hair or himbo of a brother. Seriously, all those body slams from hockey must’ve damaged his brain.”

Shera snorted a little laugh. “Aemond doesn’t even seem to recognize me— or, he hasn’t said anything.”

“He’s got his head too far up his own ass to recognize anything other than cunt. He’s more of a whore than I am these days,” he took a deep drag, puffing smoke out into the hall. “Don’t be surprised if he fingers you before he even asks for your name.”

An unfamiliar feeling churned in Shera’s stomach. “I… I gotta go.” she huffed, grabbing her purse and walking past Aegon. She was biting down so hard on her lip that it started to bleed, the metallic taste savoring like lead on her tongue.

She makes her way through the throngs of people, everything around her a blur. It seemed that Aemond didn’t remember or recognize her– fine, that was fine. She didn’t expect him to– who would, really? Her eye unwillingly caught a glance of his figure again on the outskirts of the club. He was talking to a woman dressed in a sparkling red dress, looking like Jessica fucking Rabbit. His hands eclipsed the woman’s hips as they were leaned close together, clearly in some sort of heated conversation.

Her throat felt slightly constricted as she pushed out of the exit door into the alley. Has she misread his signals? They were totally about to kiss before Aegon came in, right?

He’s a bigger whore than me these days.

Fat tears rolled down her face unwillingly as she leaned on the brick wall of the alley, fumbling for her phone again. Why did it hurt? It was stupid, she was stupid– they hadn’t seen each other in eight years and he didn’t even recognize her– so why did it sting to see… that?

She texts for an uber rather than calling as her emotions are in no place to talk to someone. She drops her phone on the concrete several times by how much she’s shaking– she doesn’t even hear the door of the club close with a creak behind her.

“You left. I wasn’t done patching you up,” Aemond slunk around into her line of sight, head bowed low to try to look at her face.

She swiveled to the side to hide her expression and distress in her phone. “... had to go, sorry,” she whispers, trying her best to sound like she wasn’t crying.

“I didn’t mean for him to interrupt us– my brother’s an idiot,” he was chasing her face. “Let me see.” he put his hand on her cheek and turned her face to him again. She let him, forever putty in his hands. If only he knew. If only he really cared.

His thumb wiped away some of the tears. “It doesn’t hurt that bad, does it?” he whispered, getting close to her once more like they were in the office. “I can always kiss it better, hm?”

It felt like an invitation, the opening of a letter of acceptance to some grandiose college she could never afford, never fit into– but for one moment, she decided to bask in it. Let the hurt come later; it always comes later. He had been interested in some capacity. Not in her, not really her, but for some anonymous club fling.

Fine.

“Why don’t you, then?” she returned, eyes half lidded under his heavy gaze.

It was all the consent he needed– their lips melded together, all tongues and teeth. It was borderline obscene, like they were attacking each other. His hand threaded through her hair, tongue tracing the outline of her cupid’s bow before tangling into her mouth. She felt the ball of his tongue piercing meld against her. He tasted like coffee and cigarettes– on anyone else, Shera would find it unpleasant, but she was so intoxicated on the idea that Aemond’s tongue was in her mouth, she didn’t care. She even would say she liked it.

Heat kindled between the two of them, coming to a roaring flame as he slotted his leg between her legs again– before must have just been a prelude, as he didn’t give any indication that his knee pressed against her clothed core was an accident. No, it was pure intention. He lofted some of her weight onto his leg, encouraging her to chase her pleasure, hand riding up her dress to grip her bottom firmly.

She gave an experimental roll of her hips, finding her arousal and ever growing wetness to only increase, whimpering a small moan into his mouth. He, apparently liking that, pulled her back from his face by her hair, staring down at her like he wanted to commit her expression to memory.

“Come on,” he growled, voice husky against the shell of her ear. “Ride my fucking leg.” Aemond’s lips connected with her skin again on her neck.

It felt like a lightning bolt struck her right in her core, making her toes curl and tingle. Her mouth was open as she pleasured herself on him, using him– she was approaching her end almost embarrassingly fast as he angled his leg a bit more upward, pinpointing all the pressure onto her clit, which at this point, was barely even guarded behind her panties. Aemond’s hand on her bottom slinked the elastic of her underwear until he reached the front, two fingers swiping down her soaked folds.

“Soaked for me, are you?” he asked, parting her underwear to the side to rest against her thigh, her bare cunt now in direct contact with his clothed leg. She was surely making a mess on his expensive slacks, she didn’t even have to look. He quirked a brow and laved his tongue over one of the fingers that had just slid through her wetness, testing the taste.

Her brow furrowed and the building heat, the harp’s string right in her core, came undone with that. She wanted to moan his name– she almost said it. “A–,” she cried, burying her face in his shoulder as she rode out her orgasm on his leg.

“That’s a good girl,” Aemond praised, his words of affirmation going straight to her core. She did, unfortunately, have a praise kink. “Can you stand?”

“Mmh– y-... yes,” she replied as he took away his leg– but not before sending her into slight overstimulation with a cheeky bump to her clit.

“Good, stay there, love,” he pressed a kiss to her forehead (which felt strangely familiar out of this supposed random club hookup). “Wanna taste you now. You can give me one more, can’t you?”

Her legs wobbled as he got down on his knees in the back alley on his no doubt designer pants (now painted with a souvenir from her) to eat her out. She could barely speak, just nodding.

“That’s right,” he hummed, squeezing into her thigh as he spread her legs. She was dripping right into his mouth as his warm lips made contact with her– he teased her slightly by blowing on her bare skin, chuckling as she squirmed and whimpered. “You’re too cute.” his tongue flattened and laved over her cunt, not letting a drop of her arousal go to waste as he went to town. He continued his teasing by edging just around her clit, making her chase his mouth slightly as he moved to suckle just outside of that spot.

It was torture. Sweet, sweet torture as he edged her for a good two minutes while she was already on the edge again. The coolness of his tongue piercing sent chills up her spine as he finally, finally began to zero in on her pearl, the ball of the piercing dancing around it, stimulating her to a delicious peak.

“P-Please, please, please,” she whined, fisting his hair.

He had the audacity to look up at her, face first in her thighs, and wink at her. All remnants of teasing were gone as he began to feast, focusing solely on pulling out her second orgasm. It didn’t even register to her, as she was clenching around nothing, tears welling in her eyes from the sheer intensity of her peak, that he hadn’t gotten off yet– she had hardly touched him. He was focusing all on her.

She went boneless for a moment as she came down from her high, almost moaning his name again. He held her until she came back down to earth.

Her hands fiddled to his belt, she desperately wanted to return the favor–

“Your uber’s here, love,” he murmured, helping her out of the alley to the car awaiting. She looked down, realizing her phone had been unlocked on the uber ETA screen.

She was spinning still, reeling from the entire interaction. Next thing she knew, she was sitting in the back of her uber as Aemond stood, door in hand.

“Bye, Shera.” he grinned, closing the door.

He knew the whole time.

#aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond #hotd fic #aemond fanfic #aemond smut #modern aemond smut #modern aemond #aemond targaryen smut #hotd smut #aemond angst #my writing #aemond targaryen x oc #banshees lament #banshees lament au #shera #shera and aemond

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kitashousewife · 1 year

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my love

an: first piece for my lovesick event! i can't wait heehee it's so cute also yeah maybe a little heids coded but !! idc

pairings: timeskip!sakusa x fem!reader

warnings: fluff!! lots of fluff, sakusa is shy but very sweet, uni friends to lovers, food and eating mentions, drink mentions & consumption, confession of feelings

every week has been about the same since the new year. working at your internship, working your regular job, coming home, just to do it all again the next day. everything was beginning to blend together into a confusing haze, one where every day feels the same. january had come and gone and before you knew it, february was knocking on your door.

the past two weeks, though, things have been a bit sweeter.

it started with a small gift bag on your doormat when you arrived home after work. there was no note, no message, not even a text about it. but, after a long first day back from the weekend you brought it inside without a second thought.

you plop down on the couch and pluck out the baby-pink tissue paper to reveal a few of your favorite candies resting at the bottom of the bag. you can't help but smile, deciding to snack on one before you started dinner.

the next day you came home to a card stuck in the door, signed with only your name. while you set your things down, you opened the card to hopefully get a clue of who it's from, which causes some money flutter out.

i hope yesterday and today feel a bit sweeter. get your favorite drink tomorrow, on me.

you hum, a little confused as to who this could be. it had to be someone you knew, considering they knew where you live. your first thought was a co-worker, but that theory proved wrong when you asked them about it the next day. you considered family, but they quickly denied.

the next week is filled with other small gifts and notes. dinner from your favorite restaurant delivered shortly after you got home, a small box of chocolates, and many other little treats. it's now only a couple days before valentines, and you're itching to find out who these could be from.

"i can't figure it out 'omi," you sigh, placing your newest gift in a vase on your kitchen counter. a dozen roses, with a printed note.

because you deserve them.

"i can't recognize the handwriting, and everything arrives before i get home, so i never see them!" you huff, grabbing a couple plates out of your cupboards for the pizza sakusa brought over.

"weird," he sighs, scrolling through his phone. you shake your head.

"yeah, weird. i just don't have any clue as to who it could be. i'm not even seeing anyone,"

"trust me, i know," sakusa teases, smirking when you throw a napkin his direction. "but seriously, i'm sure you'll find out soon. it's almost valentines day."

"so?" you raise an eyebrow, reaching in the fridge for a couple drinks. "what if they continue after that, and i'm stuck in this cycle for weeks?"

he snorts. "oh man, receiving presents every day for weeks on end? how awful,"

you roll your eyes, setting his drink down in front of him. scooting next to him at the table, you sigh. he grabs you a piece of pizza, your favorite one, and nods toward the flowers.

"i bet you'll find out soon. they look beautiful, by the way."

"yeah, i hope so. and thanks, i hope i can keep them alive for more than a couple of days."

"doubt it,"

"enough about me," you wave at him dismissively, which he grins at. "what are your valentines plans this year?"

he chews for a second before deciding what to say. really, he could give this entire act up right now.

"nothing. practice and going home. we have a few away games next week,"

"lame," you tease, grabbing his used plate for him. "the famous, star athlete, sakusa kiyoomi doesn't have a da-"

"shut up," he groans. he shuffles behind you and towards the couch, before throwing himself on it. "i'm fine," he turns on your tv and gets comfortable. "by the way, i brought dessert. it's in the fridge."

"what would i do without you, 'omi? you spoil me."

that sentence echoes throughout his mind over the next day. like he said to you, the day is almost here. his last two gifts are sitting on his kitchen counter, mocking him from where they are placed. for the last two weeks, he has tried to back out. tried to stop it all, return everything to their respective stores and forget anything even happened. but this year, he didn't want to chicken out. he wanted things to be different.

thankfully, he has some teammates who feel the same way. at the beginning of the month, they helped him create this plan. two weeks of gifts, leading up to the big reveal.

"excited for tomorrow?" hinata wiggles his eyebrows as they walk out of the gym.

"excited isn't the word i would use," sakusa rasps, kicking the rocks in the parking lot.

"it's gonna be fine! nobody can resist ya, 'omi." atusmu winks, jogging ahead of the two men. "what's the gift today?"

sakusa pulls on his car door, not even looking at his teammates.

"a dress."

"the one we showed you?" hinata's head tilts to the side. sakusa nods, firing up the ignition.

"she'll love it. i'm positive."

"i sure hope so. i'll tell you guys if i hear anything," sakusa waves and shuts the door. he drives to your apartment slowly, trying to calm any nerves that he has swimming around in his stomach.

as he pulls into the parking lot of your complex, he can tell something is a little different. he grabs the box, shallow but wide, and heads up towards your door. this is for sure the most lavish of the gifts you've received thus far, as well as the largest. he adjusts the shiny red bow on the top and steps out of the elevator.

"no, nothing today. at least not yet anyway,"

sakusa stops. his heart races immediately. that's your voice, he's sure of it. she must be home early today. he turns on his heels to go back down the elevator, deciding he will wait a few minutes to deliver it.

"oh, just going downstairs to check the mail," your keys jingle in your hand as you shut your door. "mom, don't be ridiculous, i'm sure whoever it is isn't a creep," your phone is pressed to your ear. he begins to panic. he slips into the stairwell, hoping to avoid you. thankfully you head into the elevator.

he walks quickly to your door, placing the gift up against it as he has done many times before. he heads down the stairwell, slipping through one of the side entrances before reaching his car and leaving as quickly as possible.

he groans, palms sliding down his face while he waits at the red light. he thinks to the first time he met you. you sat next to him four years ago in some business class he can't remember. you seemed shy, not speaking much for the first few weeks other than to ask for a pen. after working on a group project, you finally blossomed. the two of you became quick friends. sakusa was grateful to find someone who cared about him, not his career. someone who understood what his silence meant and what his humor was. someone who appreciated him, for him.

that's what makes this so scary, he thinks. possibly losing the only person who understands.

you hang up the phone and walk to your door, almost laughing out loud when you see the box.

"of course," you mumble to yourself. possibly your last chance to catch whoever it was and you just so happened to be out. even after getting off early.

as your front door clicks shut, you walk towards your couch. this box is much nicer than anything else you've gotten. it's light, you note, and you shake it a bit. muffled sounds of paper fill your ears, quickly making you too curious. your fingers pull the red bow, putting it off to the side. when you lift up the top, you're met with a note.

be ready by tomorrow at 7. i hope you like it.

your eyebrows thread together, moving the carefully folded tissue paper back to reveal rather expensive-looking fabric. you can't help the gasp that leaves your lips when you pull it out of its confines.

a floor-length, silky, black dress with thin straps and a slit on the thigh, and just your size. it's outstanding, both in quality and appearance. you're shocked. something you've only seen in photos and on numerous pinterest boards now rests between your fingertips. your lips part as you feel the dress once more.

excitement sets in quickly after as you realize you will be soon meeting this mystery person. you scurry to your room and hang the dress in your closet like a secret, one you can finally share tomorrow evening.

sakusa is a wreck.

it's 6:40 pm, he needs to leave in five minutes, and he still isn't sure what to wear. none of his friends will answer, not even his sister. he moves things around in his closet, pulling out the suit he wore to the last event the team was forced to go to. a plain black suit with a black tie. simple, but he's out of time. you teased him about it before, and he hopes you feel different in a few minutes.

you aren't feeling much better. your hair and makeup are finished, your shoes and purse picked out, and you're just pulling the zipper up on your dress when you check the time. you have only two minutes until your mystery admirer is revealed.

your pacing is cut short when there's a knock at your door. your heart is racing, you've never felt so nervous in your entire life.

"s-sorry! i was-kiyoomi?"

you're met with your best friend, standing in front of your door in a rather expensive suit, holding a small box in his hands.

"oh my god," he breathes, taking everything in. he thought the dress may be too much, but god was he wrong. "you look...incredible."

"thanks," you mumble. you too dies on your tongue as he walks by you and into your apartment. realization hits you like a train. "wait,"

"yeah, it's me."

"kiyoomi, i don't-"

"just listen for a sec," he looks up from the box and meets your eyes, and you nod. he clears his throat.

"i just, i didn't know how else to do this. i knew that if i tried to tell you, i would just give up like every other time," he runs a hand through his hair, pouting immediately when he remembers the time it took to style it. "i thought this would be something special,"

"it is," you step closer to him, but he only fidgets with the box.

"here," he hands it to you. "this is the final one,"

you let out a small gasp. a set of earrings and a matching necklace sparkle almost instantly in the light. two simple studs and a lone diamond rest on a dainty chain. you immediately put the earrings on and pull the necklace out of the box.

"'omi, wow. these are," your voice trails off as he grabs the necklace and stands behind you. he fastens it from behind, hands shaking slightly. the diamond falls right below your collarbone.

"they match your eyes," he looks at his shoe, before looking at you. "i saw them and couldn't stop thinking about you."

"omi, i-"

"i like you. i really, really do and i just wanted to-"

"i like you, too."

he stops, mouth open. you repeat yourself and take a step towards him. you continue.

"but, i'm me and-"

"that's kind of the whole point," he grabs your hands and chuckles. "you have always cared for me, you understand me, and you don't treat me differently like others do. you get me, and i can't explain it, but i don't want anyone else."

you smile, the prettiest smile he's ever seen.

"are you asking me out?" you tease, poking the knot of his tie. he rolls his eyes.

"yes," he laughs dryly. "what do you say?"

you begin walking toward the door.

"i would love to, kiyoomi. nothing would make me happier, to be honest,"

sakusa can breathe again. he meets you at the door and takes you by the hand, finally lacing his fingers with yours.

"any other surprises?" you ask, pressing the elevator button to the lobby.

"i can't tell you."

"why not?"

he smiles, something rare and usually only seen by you.

"gotta keep you on your toes."

#heidslovesickevent #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa fluff #sakusa x reader fluff #sakusa x reader imagine #kiyoomi sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #hq fluff #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff

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miutonium · 9 months

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Im so obsessed with @gamma-gal-24 's selfship I just have to draw them 🤧🤧💕💕

Also plugging myself here heehee Im open for commission :3

timelapse undercut!

Im attaching a timelapse of me adding the effects because @wisp-herr wants to see how I did the shadows heehee

Its basically just me figuring out where tf the shadow suppose to hit and a lot of trial and error lol I use tons of blending mode here. Mostly its multiply and screen. Also for the color adjustment I used correction layers (color balance, gradient map).

For the blur I used gaussian blur on the shadows and motion blur for both Johnny and Emma after I finished painting the shadows on them and merging the layers together. I also made a new layer that i filled with orange, set it to multiply, gaussian blur it and then put it at the back of Johnny Emma layer to soften the lineart edges.

As for the leaves shadows you see me put at the end, I used a bushes template from csp asset that I bought. I lowered the opacity and gaussian blur it before readjusting it to my drawing heehee.

I don't think it really helps but this is basically what I usually do when I draw. I hope you're able to understand my process 🤧💕

#i will not shut up about how obsessed i am with this ship like theyre so perfect for each other #he deserves someone that would not treat him like a joke and loves him equally like this man puts his heart on his sleeves #he needs someone that would do the same for him uwaaa 😭😭😭😭💕#i hope you like it! i never draw johnny before tbh this is my first time ahaha _(:3」∠)_#asukart #selfship #selfshipping community #selfship art #selfship community #oc x canon #other's selfship #self insert oc

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poplinn · 2 years

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Mario movie observations pt 2:

They gave mario an open collar. I wonder why they opted for this instead making his shirt his usual jumper/sweater. Looks a bit off throwing to me, but it does fit more with the idea of mario being a plumber/laborer.

I LOVE the colours and how they animated/stylized the world/surroundings. Although I felt like the opening scene, with the ice castle felt a bit... Empty, desolate.

Toad blends in with other mushrooms heehee

I love toad's design, it's so adorable. But.. they gave toad teeth??!! Why?!!

Toads voice is okay! It has that raspy smokers vibe to it, but it's not as annoying as some other toad voices have been. It's OK I guess lol

Mario finally has shoelaces

When mario says "Mushroom Kingdom here we come" its the first line we don't see him say it and its just?? Its not him. I don't hear that voice and immediately think oh that's mario. I heard the voice and thought "which character was that??"

NOSE JIGGLE PHYSICS

Not luigi entering browsers castle 👀

#Mario #Mario movie #Toad #Luigi #Bowser #Fucking bowuigi is gonna be a thing watch me

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sweethoneyrose83 · 2 months

Note

could you make a team jasper recipe? heehee

Team Jasper Frappuccino Ingredients: - 1 cup of brewed espresso (chilled) - 1/2 cup of milk (any type you prefer, such as whole milk, almond milk, or oat milk) - 2 tablespoons of chocolate syrup - 2 tablespoons of caramel syrup - 2 cups of ice - Whipped cream (optional, for topping) - Chocolate shavings or caramel drizzle (optional, for garnish)

Instructions: 1. Start by brewing your espresso. Allow it to cool down, or you can refrigerate it to chill it quickly. 2. In a blender, add the chilled espresso, milk, chocolate syrup, caramel syrup, and ice. 3. Blend the mixture until smooth and creamy. If the consistency is too thick, you can add a little more milk. If it's too thin, add more ice and blend again. 4. Once you've achieved your desired consistency, pour the Frappuccino into glasses. 5. Top each glass with whipped cream if desired. 6. Garnish with chocolate shavings or a drizzle of strawberry syrup for an extra touch of sweetness. 7. Serve immediately and enjoy your homemade Jasper Frappuccino!

Feel free to adjust the quantities of chocolate and caramel syrup according to your taste preferences. You can also customize it further by adding a splash of vanilla extract or a sprinkle of cinnamon for added flavor depth.

#spooky vibes #vampire #twilight saga #twilight #the twilight saga #jasper hale #jasper twilight

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leggerefiore · 11 months

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cw: fluff, going clothing shopping, short, 852 words,

pairing: Ingo/Reader

summary: Ingo's dressing sense does not blend well with the hotter months of the year. You decide to help him amend that by taking him out shopping. He's picky, however.

since this option won the poll lmao

---

“Ingo,” you stepped in front of the older twin as he reached for his wallet off the table. It was his day off from work, and you both had decided to actually go out for a date. An issue arose after Ingo had left the bathroom from getting dressed. A knitted, black sweater sat heavily on his torso, and white slacks covered his legs. While, you normally would not mind his preferred dressing manners, even find them handsome and fitting…

It was currently June and extremely hot outside.

Not only would his sweater take in a lot of heat, it would hold it in. While Ingo's stamina and endurance were quite stunning, he was a still a human. You sighed. Ingo felt as if he had to dress properly and formally as both a professional and a person. There was little that could be done to sway his opinion there. If Emmet failed, you surely were not going to come out victorious.

“Is something wrong, dearest?” he asked, eyes filled with light worry. You lightly reached out for the knitted top. His head tilted like a curious Purrloin's would.

“You will be boiled alive in your clothing,” you told him, “I prefer my train man alive and well, not as stew.” A light chuckle came from him at your words.

“... I'll be fine,” the back of his hand stroked your cheek, “I'm quite used to dealing with heat.” An idea struck you.

“Ingo, we're going shopping.”

You would find him more seasonally appropriate clothing, whether he liked it or not.

Ingo's face was stiff as he stood near the clothing rack you were currently scavenging through. He had already declined your many, many offers of shorts, as he found them simply unbecoming of clothing for going out in public. The favouritism towards quite short ones was obvious from you, too. He had no ass to hang out, but he still would prefer something that at least touched his knees.

“Oh, what about this Ingo?” you pulled out a short sleeve button up, “This would suit you, right?” He studied the fabric intensely. It was a similar one to his work uniform. It was a shade of light lavender, much like a Litwick's flame. He nodded and hung it over his arm. “Heehee, they have a Litwick t-shirt tucked in here, too, Ingo,” you pulled it out for him next. A trap, he knew, as the sweet yellow eyes of the candle pokemon peered into him. The twin could never say no to a Litwick.

After managing to find him a few shirts that better suited the hot weather, you both headed back to the bottoms section in a desperate hope that something would catch his eyes. Ingo decided to humour you more and wandered around himself to look at the clothing. Jeans were always around, but he always found them better looking with Emmet's style of dress than his own.

His hand found itself pulling out a certain pair of trousers that had, for some reason, caught his attention. He took it off and observed the light grey fabric with careful eyes. They were cut off before the ankle but under the knee. He compared the colour to the lavender shirt and found a match. “Dear?” he called out to you, to which you almost instantly headed over from your digging at another rack.

“Oh! Those are cute Ingo,” you told him, “I suppose that's as much skin as you're willing to show?” You joked. It felt almost like you were shopping within a “non-uniformed” workplace's standards. He shot a light glare at you, inciting a laugh from you.

“... If you want skin, Emmet sleeps in his boxers,” Ingo said while adding the bottoms to his collection. You scrunched up your face at his words. It was not Emmet you wanted to see like that.

His and your search continued on into the late afternoon. In which you finally broke his fierce resolve with a loud beg and holding out long shorts. They looked decently covering and like another form of the slacks he had already been wearing. He had relented and added them to his items.

Soon, you both were at the checkout queue and waited to escape the store. A new issue arose at the checker, however.

“Ingo, let me cover this,” you insisted to the older twin, “I was the one who dragged you out shopping.”

“Dearest, I must buy these as they are for me,” he told you sternly, like he would an employee who had broken a rule, “I quite enjoyed this with you, so please step aside.”

He won in the end, alas.

“Brother?” Emmet stared at his brother with a look of confusion. His usual layers had been shed away and left him in a Litwick tee and black shorts. “Ah, Ingo!” he giggled excitedly as his revelation, “We can match! Let me get my Joltik tee shirt and white shorts!”

Ingo stood there mortified.

In the end, he had ended up with an outfit that was in Emmet's fashion tastes.

#ingo x reader #ingo/reader #pokemon ingo x reader

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doodles-of-a-nerd-kid · 7 months

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*Warning, this is gonna be a ridiculously long post...

So, some of you reeeeally wanted to know just a teeny weenie bit more about my weird boy huh? Well, here ya go:

Yeah, where do I freakin' start with this--? It was not only hard to put together despite the very simple (and more obvious) inspirations... but I had to mega ponder whatever the heck I was on when creating this character, LOL

Lets break it down all over again:

It is extremely obvious (I think) of which characters Tilde's appearance mostly stems from... our funny scout robots from Cave Story: Mr. Traveler and Curly Brace themselves. (Which heehee geddit he has a punctuation naem TILDE ~~ xdd)

I'm pretty sure some of you have probably assumed (Especially with how much I pair them together...^^") Tilde is... well... their kid somehow--

Not... quite? It's... much more complicated than that, don't worry about it! Anyways, I basically chucked them both into a blender to combine their appearances together as much as possible; an example of this is Tilde's hair! It's a blonde color like Curly's and straight; but has a waviness, spiking up at the ends like Quote's hair.

Tilde's antenna earphone things are green, and his eye color is also that bluescreen blue that Curly has as well, lol.

So Tilde's outfit inspirations! Tilde is actually wearing Sue Sakamoto's sweater, along with someone's long green scarf. Its a bit old and worn out... but it's very shnazzy, dontcha think? ^^ In earlier drawing drafts of Tilde back in 2021, his sleeves were actually much more sprite accurate to Sue's-- But then I played OneShot and drew them droopy like Niko's once and it... stuck. idc its staying too. I think I wanted to give him a cuteness bonus, so I gave him hairpins thanks to Chase from Harvest Moon lol

Underneath Tilde's sweater he is wearing a simple black tank with magenta shorts, like Quote's tank and sprite Curly's pants. His shoes I unfortunately don't have a direct correlation for their colors, but they're inspired by Cave Story 3D JP Curly's shoes.

A much more rare appearance, but this is what Tilde looks like as an adolescent-- Don't question why, just roll with it-- I have my reasons and I won't tell you :^) When I was drawing him, my brain just handed me Basil from Omori. Literally, just Basil's energy and a bit of the Mother series protagonists for outfit design... I tried to swishing it around a bit and ended up with a very puntable looking guy, which was the exact vibe I was going for~ >:3c

I gave Tilde a sweater turtleneck and called it a day, then Lucas came to mind again when I was coloring-- Which overall made this particular bit of the outfit more interesting ^^ Tilde here is also wearing Toroko's pendant. Not really much else to cover here, since the many traits from Tilde's youth carries into here. Continuing...

Oh boy, how the times have changed and he's all grown up now T_T

Tilde when he's older takes almost all the liberties from especially Quote, wearing his infamous deadpan expression naturally... but he still remains extremely expressive like Curly ^^

Tilde's outfit is very obviously influenced by them, from their cargo pants to their color schemes (which are also admittedly being carried from his youth as well.) Quote's Blade Strangers design (If you ever heard of it.) was definitely an influence for him as well--

BUT to keep him looking a bit more fresh, I devised to use even more of that special jrpg sauce i love to throw on my characters lmAO

Y'all should already know from my previous post that I'm a weeb a Japanese culture enthusiast, not gonna explain that again

Specially for his outfit Tetsuya Nomura's character designs immediately come to mind, i cannot tell you which one specifically.

While imagining the "cool rpg boy outfit" all these characters blend together in my head, probs because they seem to have similar vibes LOL (very cool Nomura-san)

100% CERTAIN Felix from Golden Sun had an influence on Tilde's outward appearance. I actually drew older Tilde before teen Tilde, and I gave him long hair partly bc of him-- lmao

(While Soren from Fire Emblem is not a main influence for Tilde, he is simply here because I hate him for making me realize long haired dudes are just,,, peak character design idk what to tell you.)

So that's Tilde's sheet

goes very crazy I know

If imma do a Tilde sheet, i gotta do it properly-- He's the best(est)

I'm very tired I worked on this for almost a whole week lol imma sleep or something

#so that's it #if you are curious about the inspirations for a different character #just ask me!#original content #tilde

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gerrydelano · 17 days

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i need to catch up on your fics but i am chin hands about trans fem gerry. i remember you talking about it before but id love to hear any new or updated thoughts :0

some of it would be spoilers for the PBR epilogue so i'm going to keep that to myself until then, but! ultimately i just was thinking about the fact that he uses she/her pronouns and enters Girl Mode in his happiest moments, his most intimate and vulnerable moments with people he trusts to love him, and what that says about his actual state of being outside of those moments. it means he's not fully happy or comfortable, there's something holding him back, which i've gathered is a fairly common feeling.

he's still got an attachment to being A Son specifically it's just rooted in his being but look me in the eyes and tell me that ever made him feel safe in his own body or head or surroundings. y'know? there's spoiler territory there with that part of the discussion though so heehee.

(not that long i just don't want everything stretching the dash where i might not be able to edit it later)

i do think she's always going to identify himself as a fag though which is also pretty common because things are more complicated than they are binary and he's always a color wheel understander. his gender is faglady but realistically her gender is also just nothing you could comprehend if you're not open to contradiction. you can't expect him to fit into neat little boxes, she just won't do it, it's not anybody else's business but his.

so. transfem gay man is probably still where he's at in general at this point in time in my writing but as time has gone on his egg has increasingly cracked lol it's just a matter of like... what's going on in his life, who she's with, how safe he feels being herself. as of right now, she saves herself for tim and tim is nothing but reverent about it and i could go ON about how her sex life goes hand in hand with her gender but i don't want to flood the dash with BDSM discussion LOL even though i have thoughts for MILES about it. i talked a bit about it in the link above iirc. it's incredibly soft and meaningful and also, crucially, sexy. but mostly it just makes her feel so incredibly safe and desired and respected and these are all things that were previously missing from her life in such a huge way, like.

look at his life. look at the life he's lived and tell me he's ever been fully happy playing the role he was put in. the expectations his mother had of him, that gertrude had of him, the way he was expected to obey and sacrifice and even hurt people at times because that's just how the world works, right.

well, he's never wanted to participate in that way of living! and he only did it as a survival mechanism because where else could he go but always come back home to mary and her dreams for him which were always just an extension of herself, he was nothing to her but an extension of herself and her wants and her beliefs and he was anything but that, even when he tried to blend in. half the time he measures his life from injury to injury. his whole life felt like nothing but punishment and for a long time he wouldn't even know what for.

it can be such a transgender narrative if you look at it. the repression that he'd have had to deal with is insane even if you look at how loud and proud he is about his sense of style (which is extremely queer in and of itself.)

and i also just do not buy transmasc gerry i'm so sorry you can absolutely have that HC if you want and i will not attack you for it but look at him. listen to him. and also remember that eric, who died when gerry was 2 years old, referred to him as his son. sorry but that to me says he's amab because He Was Un Bebe. also in what WORLD would mary be a supportive parent to a trans kid. she literally insists on calling him by his full birth name that he DOESN'T LIKE BEING CALLED; classic trans thing! he canonly has a PREFERRED name. a preferred androgynous name!

it just makes more sense to me that he's transfem. i don't believe he has a desire to be all that traditionally masculine. he literally is so gnc in canon and his whole life just reads to me as "person who did not get the chance to fully embrace themselves because everything was just too damn hard." i also enjoy depicting people transitioning later in life, because it's never too late! it's NEVER too late to embrace who you are and work out who you've wanted to be for a long time.

i think he still lives in ambiguity and grey areas and blindspots. it may not have even occurred to him that she wanted to transition until later in life anyway because life never slowed the fuck down for him enough to let himself ask the questions! but he knew he wanted his hair long. he paints his nails. he wears eyeliner and dangly jewelry and alt clothes and yeah, cis people can do that, but it's also a way to flag! a very strong way of flagging! these are all the things that felt right to him in canon and no one stays that alt into their thirties without a little bit of gender going on somewhere in the mix, be serious, y'know? g-d. i'm so invested forever in gerry's gender jfhbnkjn.

he doesn't like labels, he really doesn't. and she might not ever call herself a woman as much as a lady in particular but she likes the phrases "good girl" and "princess" in bed, she likes being seen as feminine in comparison to a partner, she has feminine preferences. she would probably use more reclaimed slurs to refer to herself than i'm comfortable just tossing around but like, a lot of people prefer those as identifiers than "man" or "woman" like i refer to myself as a fag dyke all the time and it's more affirming to me than trying to decide if i'm a trans guy or if i'm a butch dyke At All Times. gender can be complicated! i think it IS complicated for gerry at the moment with his baggage but i imagine if he were ever able to really let go of that baggage, she'd be a very different, happier person. i think she would like it to be simpler sometimes. she treats it simply even if other people might not be able to. she's really calm about all of it, and even as it changes, it just makes her confidence grow. really comes down to the people she's surrounded by and the opportunities that she manages to grab a hold of in terms of finally letting herself just be. and i just think the results of it are really gorgeous.

anyway transfem gerry truther forever

#asks #wytchcore #f slur #ronologues #more like just an infodump but yeah

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teslathelame · 8 months

Text

🎀commission info🎀

heehee hoohoo it's comm time y'all

i will draw:

fanart

ocs

frilly clothes👀

light gore/body horror

*tasteful* or *implied* nudity, like maybe a boob or a butt (i decide what's tasteful in this case)

i will not draw:

mechs/furries/animals - nothing personnel, it's simply a skill issue on my part ;u;

heavy gore - again, skill issue

ship art, especially if i don't know the characters lol

anything remotely sexual - skill issue, plus i don't wanna✌️

pricing in USD (per character):

bust sketch: $10

half-body sketch: $15

full body sketch: $20

colored bust: $20

colored half-body: $30

colored full body: $40

colored full body w/ detailed background: $50+ (dm me w/ the specifics)

commissions are open until i decide to close them. for full-color pieces, please specify whether you'd prefer cel shading or blended, or some mix thereof. payments are to be made in usd through paypal or kofi - 50% deposit due before i begin (non-refundable). dm me with questions or to secure a spot. see my art tags for examples :)

thanks for reading!🎀

#art commisions #commission info #uhhhhhh idk what else lol

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mushroom-madness · 1 year

Text

🍄 Round 1: Match 31 🍄

🍄 Vote for your Favorite Fungi! 🍄

Descriptions Below ⬇️

Ramblin’ Evil Mushroom

“In Earthbound, it is the most annoying creature in the entire goddamn universe. Oh, you want to go to the next town? You want to progress in the game? TOO BAD! Get RAMBLED, IDIOT! GO STRAIGHT TO THE HOSPITAL, DO NOT PASS TWOSON, DO COLLECT $50.

In Smash, it is the funny reverse controls item. Heehee, get flipped, idiot. Goodbye. It’s fun when I’m the one doing the flipping :)” - Submission 94

“When you fight this mushroom character it makes a little mushroom appear on your head and all the controls get switched. I love this mushroom.” - Submission 167

Earthbound Wiki

Kinoko

“if you give her facial accessories to wear (like glasses) the just sit on top of her head” - Submission 91

“Weird mushroom girl. Has no face because her entire head is a mushroom head. Some find her slightly annoying because she kicks up dust when she walks (as a reference to mushroom spores). Because of this, she usually stays still out of courtesy. Apparently is studying shamanism. Likes to blend in with regular mushrooms. Really hard to find a good picture of.” - Submission 92

Katamari Wiki

#mushroom madness #polls #earthbound #Katamari #round 1 #ramblin’ evil mushroom #Katamari Kinoko #Kinoko Katamari #poll #bracket #competition #tournament #ramblin evil mushroom #rambling evil mushroom #mother series #katamari reroll #Kinoko

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