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moontrinemars · 5 months

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TENTH LORD IN MARS NAKSHATRAS

Thanks for your patience in waiting for the next part of the series - I’m glad you guys are interested. As always, recorded for my own benefit, published for yours. General disclaimer is in my bio. Credit to KRSchannel for inspiring this post.

Find your 10th lord here, and find your 10th lord’s nakshatra here.

The 10th house rules our life’s honor. It represents the services we perform for society as well as the reputation we earn as a result. It is associated with the father and the career because traditionally, this is where both our standing in society and the role we performed in society would come from - inherited through the father’s family line. However, in our contemporary world, this isn’t always the case, which is why it’s important to know the grander themes at play.

The three Mars-ruled nakshatras are Mrigashira, Chitra, and Dhanistha.

Mars is a planetary object that represents motivation, force of will, and personal drive. It is the pursuit of pleasure and the incurring of wrath. While Venus rules earthly and rational matters, such as the aesthetic of beauty and the value of wealth, Mars rules our desires which are primal and sublime. He is impulse, passion, giving us strength and making us vulnerable simultaneously. He is also fear and terror. More than any traditional planet, Mars is tied to the cycle and the transformation of life and death, as the ruler of the 1st and 8th house. His impact is severe, earnest, and compelling, and is escaped by no one.

DO YOU HAVE YOUR 10TH LORD IN A MARS-RULED NAKSHATRA? THAT MEANS YOU…

Mick Jagger, Ryan Reynolds, and Bob Marley all have their tenth lords in Mars ruled nakshatras. Mick's is in Mrigashira, Ryan's is in Chitra, and Marley's is in Dhanistha.

… HAVE A PUBLIC PERSONA MOST SHAPED AND DEFINED BY YOUR IMPULSES, INDIVIDUALITY, AND INDEPENDENCE.

Those born with this placement usually find themselves at odds with the rest of society. Though they don't necessarily fail to fit in with the culture of their time, they tend to let their gut instincts dictate the way they engage with it and this results in distinct and memorable individuals who stand out from the crowd, and cause waves with just their personalities and the effect they have on others. Thus, they may be capable of contributing to massive culture shifts. However, they're also liable to let their impulses lead them to scandal and enmity.

Mars is a chthonic planet, and so it's no surprise we see it ruling the lord of the house of status and legacy in many of the most famous and widely mourned celebrities but that doesn't make this a death sentence for the influential. More than anything, fame in tangent with this placement signifies someone who inspires controversy, not with their choices or behaviors, but in their possessing fame at all. Other people will argue over the legitimacy of whatever talent, beauty, act, or positive attribute to which their fame is attributed. Their fame may be cyclical, as may be the public's support or enmity towards them.

MORE ON THE SPECIFICS OF MRIGASHIRA, CHITRA, AND DHANISTHA BELOW!

IF MRIGASHIRA RULES THE TENTH LORD, YOU…

Bette Davis, Lord Byron, and Milo Ventimiglia all have their tenth lords in Mrigashira. Others with this placement are Louis Lumiere, Prince Philip, Claudia Schiffer, Babe Ruth, Christopher Lee, and George Lucas.

Find yourself constantly searching within your professional and public spaces for something more fulfilling than what you have.

Throw yourself into your work, and are eager to learn whatever you can to develop and improve your craft, or your social standing.

Communicate articulately about responsibilities and projects, as well as political beliefs and social causes that are important to you.

Network and establish your personality easily, as your work and your society inspire you to engage in debate consistently.

Have an eye for major trends and business opportunities, and can capitalize on them just as they take off, leading the charge.

AND YOU MAY FIND…

Pursuit, stalking, or cheating might be a pattern at your workplace.

Quickness is the key trait that defines your reputation: in casting judgement, responding to a crisis, and haste to get desired results.

Your work has you spending time in recreation-friendly spaces: parks, street markets, town squares, playgrounds, your home, etc.

Sensitivity to your surroundings makes you adept at resolving immediate problems involving authorities or a formal setting.

Over-sensitivity, whether to sensory experiences, to tone, or to social graces, can lead to overreactions that confuse people.

MRIGASHIRA is the Searching Star. Industries and career types favored are those involving art, expression, navigation, earth, textiles, animals, trends, sales, advertising, agriculture, telecommunications, occult studies, crafts, research, drama, and travel.

IF CHITRA RULES THE TENTH LORD, YOU…

Mary Tyler Moore, Kim Kardashian, and Cher all have their tenth lords in Chitra. Others with this placement are Leonard Cohen, Mika, Diego Rivera, Bette Midler, Cesare Borgia, John Mayer, Leonardo Dicaprio, Paul Williams, Emily Dickinson, and Queen Elizabeth I.

Find it easy to engage with coworkers and members of the public as equals, both to yourself and to one another.

Experience the most professional and political epiphanies when everyone else is asleep, especially at three to four in the morning.

Strategize and organize your workspace as well as career and public events with ease and poise, to the satisfaction of all.

Can be stingy and thrifty with professional funding, and turn a critical eye upon those who insist on lax public spending, even if as an individual you practice generosity and charity.

May experience jealousy, or just suspicion, toward coworkers, public figures, or others in your field who remind you of yourself.

AND YOU MAY FIND…

Legacies play a role in the way that your workplace or public persona operates, such as becoming or gaining an apprentice, but you may find it hard to get on with those who inherit your position.

Bright colors, flowers, and natural beauty dominate your place of work, or settings with these attributes empower you publicly.

Others treat you with dignity and respect your aesthetic potential, even following your lead with the way you dress for events.

A quick temper and sensitivity to presentation inspires you to challenge the views or choices of others preemptively.

Intense procrastination hinders you in moments of specific importance.

CHITRA is the Star of Opportunity. Industries and career types favored are those involving aesthetics, communication, specialized expertise, design, dynamics, narrative, creative production, quality inspection, force of personality, precision, and reconstruction.

IF DHANISTHA RULES THE TENTH LORD…

Billie Joe Armstrong, Paris Hilton, and Lauren Bacall all have their tenth lords in Dhanistha. Others with this placement are Carl Sagan, Greta Garbo, Walt Whitman, Antony Armstrong-Jones, King Louis XV, Anna May Wong, Sarah Hyland, Charles Manson, and Liza Goddard.

Are capable of making highly insightful observations about society due to your keen perception and intimate understanding of power.

Had aspirations and politics shaped by a pragmatic altruism from a young age, perhaps in response to a parent or authority figure.

Feel uncomfortable in and experience adversity from business partnerships, and any relationships which are too public-facing.

Attract status and fame, seek positions of dignity, and approach tasks with a sincere desire to produce something of high quality.

Have no qualms about lying to or manipulating others in order to get what you want - and there is a great deal that you want.

AND YOU MAY FIND…

Even accomplishments celebrated in the public sector or by your industry feel hollow to you; the answer may lie in volunteer work.

Gender discrimination affects your workplace, status, or politics.

Popularity among certain demographics and subcultures: namely, the wealthy, the young, the politically liberal, and the creative field.

Any siblings can be of aid to your career and public image, but associating with extended relations may be detrimental to either.

Your experiences with honor or power - that of your own or that of others - affect you on a deep, even spiritual, level.

DHANISTHA is the Star of Symphony. Industries and career types favored are those involving music, timing, rhythm, quality inspection, physical performance, group coordination, property, strategy, math and science, poetry, spirituality, creativity, engineering, and charity.

HOPE THIS WAS HELPFUL. AMOUNT OF REQUESTS MEANS WE’RE GOING OUT OF ORDER, BUT WE WILL ABSOLUTELY RETURN TO THE OTHERS LATER. FEEL FREE TO MESSAGE WITH QUESTIONS, THOUGHTS, OR IDEAS. PART 5 WILL FOCUS ON JUPITER-RULED 10TH LORD NAKSHATRAS NEXT! ♡

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kscheibles · 8 months

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e la vita ch. 2

~ ch. 1 here ~

content warnings: f! reader, fluff, smut, semi-public sex, oral sex (m receiving), smoking, religious trauma, bisexuality

word count: 7.1 k

When I meet Matty the following Thursday, it’s in the city center. Feeling nervous and awfully out of place, I cover my eyes with my hand as a kind of mock-visor and search briefly for his familiar face in the square that’s packed with older gentlemen gossiping and families blowing bubbles each bigger than the last. I take a seat on a bench near the middle of the piazza when I don’t see him, hoping I’ll be somewhere he can spot but not as awkward-looking as I might be if I stood still watching the scene like some sick, American voyeur.

Matty walks up with the gait of a bad Mick Jagger impersonator. I can see now that he’s all limbs though not in a bad way; in a way that exaggerates his movements and announces his presence to the world around him. He seems comfortable with the reality that people will look at him. I suppose it makes sense, given his choice of career, but it still mesmerizes me.

I watch him as he walks towards me. He’s wearing a fitted t-shirt that exposes his arms to me for the first time. They’re golden and covered with a variety of tattoos in different styles; from his biceps all the way down to his wrists. Eventually, he notices me looking and his face breaks out into a smile. He nods up to the cathedral to my left as he approaches me, giving me a quick, fraternal hug.

“How do you like it, then?” he asks, eyes trained on the holy building.

“Matty, that’s a church,” I state plainly, “I spent my childhood in places like that, and I’m pretty sure I’ve learned that God doesn’t like girls like me.”

“If God exists, I promise you’re one of his favourites,” he laughs as he says it, as if it’s not one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me in my life.

“What do you know about God?” I ask.

“Oh nothing, really,” he concedes, “Just that he’s the most vicious, generous bastard in the world.”

I eye him as he says the words. I suppose that must be true for him. I resent the idea that our accomplishments and qualms are all consequences of our virtuous or sinful behaviors. It’s asinine. But if God is real, he’s certainly blessed Matty – with beauty, intelligence, love, money.

If God is real, he’s cursed me to be something immutably unlovable. Damned to rot from the inside out for the rest of my life. I don’t believe what Matty says, even for a second. There’s no way I’m one of God’s favorites.

Matty waves his hand in front of my face, snapping me from my thoughts.

“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. I didn’t consider that you might have…religious trauma or something,” he assures me.

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” I say, though truthfully I’m less sure than I say. I wonder if entering the cold, marble palace will transport me back to my youth; to standing primly in church as a child, scared to make a wrong move. Scared to think a sinful thought. Considering each older woman around me, their beautiful hair covered by cotton squares in a performance of modesty. I envied them, how easy they made it look to live by the rules. How little they seemed to struggle with keeping their mouths shut and their shoulders covered and denying themselves the indulgence of imagining another woman’s warm, sweet lips on their own.

Matty seems to clock my hesitance. He takes my hand and leads me in and I was so wrong.

It’s not cold inside, it’s breathtaking in a way that makes me feel welcome. On the outside of the central atrium are alcoves, each decorated more elaborately than the last. My senses are overwhelmed by the smell of incense, the sounds of hypnotic Latin chanting, the sight of refracting, colorful light. It feels Heavenly. I suppose it’s meant to.

Matty draws me towards one of the scenes that’s painted on the perimeter of the nave. It depicts a woman washing Jesus’ feet. Her head is bowed in submission, focused completely on the task at hand. In her hands is her long, black hair, which she uses to wipe at the top of Jesus’ feet. The chiaroscuro of the scene illuminates the action; everything else is noise. All that exists is her devotion.

“She was a sinful woman,” I say, “A prostitute, I think.” Matty raises his eyebrows in consideration.

“Was it like a punishment or something? Making her wash his feet?”

“No,” I breathe, “She did it to show him that she knew who he was. Knew he was worthy of being revered.”

“So her taking care of him was a sign that she understood him? Or what? Loved him?”

I shrug. “Isn’t that what we all do for the people we love? If we’re loving them right?”

“I suppose so,” Matty turns his head to look at me. He must see something on my face – a flicker of an emotion or a thought – that he recognizes because he adds, “But it’s no one’s fault if they haven’t been loved right. It doesn’t make you unloveable. It makes the other person a bad lover.”

“Well I suppose we can’t all be as easy to love as Jesus, can we?” I sigh, moving away from him, towards the center of the church.

I sit in one of the pews towards the back. In front of me are tourists and locals; people of all backgrounds, colors, and ages approaching the altar. Some of them have brought candles, hold rosaries. They appeal to God, beseeching his benevolent will. I empathize with them, even though I have serious reservations about the efficacy of their methodology. It’s beautiful how much they care about their fellow man.

When you see a woman wearing sheer tights, gray hairs combed perfectly into an updo, and kneeling on the cold tile floor with her hands pressed together, twins conjoined in supplication, you know that her motive cannot possibly be her own wellbeing. As selfish as we humans can be, it would be blasphemous to come to God’s house and light a prayer candle for yourself.

Matty sits down next to me, close enough that our legs are touching: his corduroy pants to my bare legs, pebbled by the cold air. I remember sitting in church with my crush as a girl, feeling wretched for wanting to inch closer to her. When I finally let our legs touch through layers of wool fabric, the excitement of touching faded instantly, giving way to the all-encompassing shame of the sin I’d committed. I reject the shame now, gently pushing my thigh further into Matty’s to prove to myself that it’s something I’m allowed to do, even in church. I’m allowed to touch him. I’m allowed to look at him and be distracted by his handsomeness. I’m allowed to think about his lips, plump, rosy, and left open wantingly. I’m allowed to think about his hips, how easily they swayed to the music the night I saw him in the club, and how deeply the rhythm seemed to be embedded in him. I’m allowed to think about his sculptural arms and nimble, calloused fingers. I’m even allowed to lust after him, to daydream about how good he could make me feel, if he wanted to. If I wanted him to.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, breaking my train of thought.

“I don’t know,” I shrug, trying desperately not to feel caught, “You?”

“Thinkin’ about the people who made this place. All of the gold light fixtures they had to weld. I mean fuckin’ hell look at this,” he points to a sconce on the wall. It’s carved in the shape of winding vines and inlaid on the front are mother of pearl accents positioned in the shape of a cross. “They did it with much more primitive technologies than we have as well.” I nod along.

“The devotion,” I muse.

“What’s that?”

“Think about the devotion they must have had to God in order to create such a beautiful thing for Him. It would show if the constructors didn’t believe. They would have phoned it in; cut corners on the carvings in the pews and the intricate architecture of the dome,” I tilt my head to get a better view of the dome in question. Inside of it, windows filter perfect yellow light into the building and angelic sculptures stand guard over the heavens.

Matty throws his head back completely, looking up towards the sky like there’s something up there that will save him or give him a more profound understanding of the place where his feet dwell. It’s misguided; I’ve spent enough time looking up to know that. There’s nothing good God can teach us that we can’t learn on our own. It’s nice to imagine sometimes, though: that if you look a little harder or listen to the silence on your knees for a minute longer, all of a sudden the answer to your problems will be revealed.

With his head towards the sky, Matty’s neck is open and vulnerable to me. A strong vein is prominent on the right side of it and his Adam’s apple protrudes, a silhouette that’s so thrillingly masculine. It feels intimate that he would let me see him like this: all awed and curious and unguarded, like a dog that’s rolled over to offer me his belly. I’m flattered that Matty feels safe getting lost in front of me.

I admire how open he is to the beauty of it all. It’s because churches aren’t places that make him instinctively put his guard up. On the other hand, churches for me are places where I was fed lies, Sunday after Sunday. Where old men seized upon my innocence and insecurity and forced poison down my throat until I swallowed every last drop. I’d had to go through withdrawal when I finally got the antidote. It was arduous, sweaty, painful. I learned to question everything a little too well. I don’t believe in any kind of magic anymore; I can no longer believe anything that’s not right in front of my eyes. God took that from me. Matty is lucky God didn’t take it from him, too.

I look up, following his eyes. It’s all so beautiful it almost loses its meaning. Everything is marble or silk or stained glass. It’s too much all at once. I can tell it’s all spectacular but in the flurry of everything, each individual marvel loses its luster. As I tip my head further and further back, I get a little dizzy and the colors that float above me begin to bleed into each other in a kind of kaleidoscopic haze. I snap my head back up; back to reality. I reach out to hold on to Matty’s arm.

“Can we go now?” I whisper to him, still wanting to preserve the sanctity of the place for the other patrons.

He nods in wordless understanding and leads me out.

–

The scorching heat of midday eventually breaks and yields a brisk night. When the sun sets, my skin remains sensitive, showing temporary, pale markings when I press my fingers into it. It hurts a little; a reminder of the fun I had that made me forget to reapply my sunscreen.

I sit at a table with Christina, Nina, and her friends. Some of us indulging in an aged wine from the region and others vying for an Aperol even though the sun is long past set and the orange bittersweet liquid now looks opaque.

“You know the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new,” says Nina, grabbing another glass of the chianti.

“Like I’ve never tried that before,” I answer. It comes out meaner than I’d expected; though how could it not? I’m not a teenager dealing with a first kiss who pied me off for a blonder, more popular girl, I’m an adult who built a life with someone and rearranged my guts to fit her into every place that was important to me. Who introduced her to my parents and friends and was now having to wait for the dust to settle in an explosion that blew the whole thing to pieces.

There are so many life-or-death questions that remain unanswered: Which friends will take my side, and which will take hers? If I have a fling with a toned Italian Adonis this summer, which of our so-called friends will stop inviting me to Dyke Night at Ginger's? Which of them will forget I exist just because I’ve left the city?

No, getting under someone new won’t help any of that, I decide.

“Sometimes we all need a distraction,” remarks Nina. “Look, the truth is that a breakup uproots your whole life. You don’t know which way is up, you don’t know which places are safe from them, especially in New York. I remember when Mason and I broke up, I didn’t go below 16th Street for a whole month, just because I knew I’d be safe from him if I stayed uptown. My point is more that you don’t have to worry about any of that. You’re in fucking Italy and she’s gone back to Michigan while she figures out her next move. So do exactly what you want for once, it’s not as though you can do that when you’re in a relationship.”

Exactly what I want. The words echo in my mind as the savory wine causes my neurons to sing. What exactly do I want?

–

It’s just past ten when I meet Matty at a cafe near our homes. A late night up with the girls means I’m cursing myself for not arriving early enough to order a cappuccino. Matty is leaning up against a chair with his sunglasses on, looking down. He holds his phone in both hands, a cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his right. He exhales some smoke from his lungs and looks up to see me walking towards him.

“Y/n!” he smiles, immediately putting his arm around my shoulders and kissing me on the cheek, “How are you, darlin’?” I can feel my cheeks getting warm due to our proximity and his openness.

He has a European self-assuredness to his movements. I’m not stupid enough to think that all of Europe is the same, but there’s a facility with which he takes my hand. Whereas, if I were to touch somebody, I would pause and hedge and overanalyze before reaching out. Even more so if it was someone I liked—which I’m slowly realizing I do.

“I’m good,” I smile at the dark lenses of his sunglasses. I hate those little pieces of plastic for keeping me from seeing his brown irises in the sun. I bet they would sparkle. I want to steal them from him and hide them so he can never wear them again and I’ll always be able to see the magic that happens in his eyes. Maybe it would hurt him, maybe his crow's feet would become more pronounced but I don’t care even a little bit. I want to know what it feels like to look into his soul again.

“So what’s the plan for today?” I ask.

Matty nods toward a light pole a few meters away. Propped up beside it is a shiny black Vespa.

“Thought we’d take a little day trip to the lake,” he says.

“Oh no, I can’t,” I say out of instinct.

“Oh,” he deflates a little, “why not? Have you got somewhere to be?” I look at him embarrassed.

“My mom would kill me if I got on a motorcycle,” I say. Truthfully, I’m scared more by the feelings that bloom in my stomach at the thought of holding onto his waist than the thought of riding the vehicle itself. He breaks into a toothy smile and crinkles sprout at the edges of his eyes.

“Your mum’s not here. How old are you, again?” he asks. I decide that doesn’t deserve an answer, instead opting to roll my eyes pointedly at him. “Besides,” he continues, “it’s a Vespa, not a motorcycle.”

“Do you have a helmet?” I question, timidly. He reaches out to my tote bag – embroidered with the familiar emblem of Shakespeare and Company – and tugs my silk scarf from it. His hands move tentatively towards my head, face questioning softly if he can touch me. I give an imperceptible ‘yes’, and soon his warm hands are cradling me. He places the scarf lightly on my head and then moves his attention down to my chin, tying it in place delicately. He reaches out to caress my jaw.

“There you go, princess,” he coos. The nickname doesn’t have the sting of taunting it once did. It feels sincere; like Matty really believes I should be treated with the utmost care. As soon as I can begin to smile up at him, he’s gone again, throwing his leg up to straddle the bike. With his Wayfarers covering his eyes, slicked-back hair, and tan skin, he looks every bit the rockstar Nina’s friends say he is.

I find myself skipping to him and straddling the bike behind him. I can’t see his face but I imagine it must be twisted into that ridiculous, self-assured grin I witnessed on the first night I met him. Where it once produced acrid bile that stained my throat with hatred, it now endears me to him. It’s indicative of a boyish playfulness, a thrill-seeking tendency that I so admire. Girls can’t afford to be silly and I’ve been surrounded by them for so long. I want to walk around in Matty’s skin for a day and learn what it feels like.

What does it feel like to him when he walks home alone at night? It must be how I feel when I walk during the day. No– it’s even more free, it must be. Even during the day, I cringe imperceptibly away from every man I pass on the street, no matter what part of town I’m in or whether I have my headphones on.

When Matty meets a girl and chats her up, he must not feel any of the apprehension that I do. No poking and prodding to see if she’s the one straight friend that’s tagged along to the gay bar because she’s just “so tired of men” or the sweet, bi-curious loner who’s looking for her first girl-on-girl action. He can just approach them without pretense and genuinely try to get to know them. He can entrance them with the arcane physics of his adorably curly hair and the spellbinding timbre of his speech.

When he speaks up, people must listen to the deeper, commanding pitch of his voice. They must be piqued by the melody of his Mancunian accent. They must believe him, perhaps even when they shouldn’t.

Do I want him? Or do I envy the ease that seems to come with being him?

Do I want to feel his insides? Or do I want to feel him inside of me?

I snake my arms around his middle, trying not to dwell on the soft cotton and lithe muscle that cover his torso. I clasp my hands together just under his ribs.

“You ready?” he asks. I press my cheek to his back, bracing for impact. I nod against him.

“Yeah,” I whisper. He chuckles at my hesitance and hits the accelerator.

And we’re off, bumping down old cobblestone roads, bathing in daylight, and meditating to the sounds of the city – babies crying, birds chirping, music playing, meat mongers yelling like showmen – and it’s not scary. Matty is solid underneath me, resilient. He runs a hand through his curiously straight hair like it’s nothing to him.

On our way to the lake, Matty slows down at a fruit market packed with old ladies haggling with one another. He puts the kickstand for the Vespa out, twirls the keys around his hand, and pockets them. Then he strides over to the gaggle of nonnas greeting each of them in due course.

“Come stai, Matteo?”

“Come sta l’america?”

“Che rockstar!”

They clamber for his attention like he’s a grandson they haven’t seen in several years.

“Tutto bene, grazie,” he manages, his English tongue contorting around the Italian. He still sounds anglophonic when he pronounces the words, but they cheer and coo all the same. Matty beckons me from the bike over to the fruit stand. “What do you want, darlin’?” he asks when I arrive next to him.

I look down at a ripe selection of fruit that’s bursting at the seams with juice. Apricots the color of the sunrise, jewel-toned berries, and peaches: fuzzy, soft, and yielding – not unlike human flesh, I think. My thoughts wander to Matty’s hands and cheeks and thighs. What would they feel like if I touched them? Would they give? Would they warm me? Could I squeeze him hard enough to make him burst?

“Andiamo a Lago di Garda,” Matty explains. The nonnas grab a paper bag and begin pointing to the selection of fruits. “Albicocca, pesca, frutti di bosco,” they gesture to each in turn. Their voices undulate and vary in pitch as they describe the fruits. It sounds like verse to my ears: romantic, melodic, and exquisitely idyllic.

Matty turns to me, “They want to know what you want.”

I look at them – their pink noses and wiry eyebrows and floral aprons – and smile. I mime how many of each I’d like and they pack our bag to the brim. They pass the fruit to me as Matty pays what he owes, bidding them farewell. He runs up behind me as I approach the Vespa and takes the bag from me, setting it at his feet. Then he reaches into his pocket and fishes out a pack of cigarettes. He grabs one with his teeth and lets it stay there, nestled between his lips. My eyes remain trained on his every movement and he notices, tossing me a lighter as he starts up the bike.

“You light it for me, sweetheart?” he asks. My hands fumble with the lighter, bringing it to the end of the cigarette and idling there while Matty inhales. When it doesn’t light right away, he brings his hands up, cupping them around the end and they graze my fingers on the lighter. We look like two school children telling secrets and the moment feels as intimate if not more. How I’d love to know his secrets, each and every last one.

I release the lighter and Matty lets the cig hang languidly on his bottom lip.

“You want one?” he asks.

“I’m good,” I say.

“Too right you are,” he replies, “hold on tight darlin’.”

–

Matty drives calmly down the motorway as I clasp my hands together as hard as I can. The breeze whips against my face and chaps my lips but I don’t mind. With the sun on my face and Matty underneath me, I feel unreal, unstoppable. As we reach the lake, the trees become more abundant. They flank the roads that lead to the beach and smell like fresh-squeezed lemonade, refreshing and revitalizing.

We finally slow down and sit on the rocky shore. Matty hands me a basket of berries and I immediately pop one in my mouth, enjoying the sweet juice that explodes on my tongue.

Next to me, Matty bites into a peach. The juices run down his chin and he uses the back of his hand to wipe them off.

The sticky juice glistens on his hand as he puts it down on the rocks to support himself. I’m mesmerized by the way the sheen that covers his hand catches the sun. I’m like a magpie drawn to anything shiny and ripe and sweet, not content enough with the fruit that’s bursting in my own mouth. I need to have his too.

“Can I try it?” I ask. Matty turns to me mid-bite and hands the peach to me as he chews the bite in his mouth. With the fruit in my hand, I inspect the marks his teeth have left, the place where his tongue has been. The thought that the tangy, sweet flavor will be laced with the taste of Matty’s mouth is absolutely delirium-inducing. It intoxicates me like a drug: the thought that I want him inside of me, that I could have him inside of me if I only lick the spot in front of me. I take a bite out of the yellow flesh and suck the juice into my mouth before passing it back to Matty.

It’s better than I expected. Warm from being outside, not cold and refrigerated and sterile like the fruit Claire and I used to buy in New York. It’s soft, yielding easily to my teeth and tongue. And it’s sweet, sticky. The surface of the flesh is covered in Matty’s saliva and it seems to make me hungry, truly hungry, for the first time in months. I want to devour the peach and then the berries and then every other perfectly imperfect food I can find. It tastes like vitality. It tastes like desire.

“That’s really fucking good,” I declare.

Matty inspects the dents I’ve left in the fruit. Then he runs his tongue over the fuzzy skin and yellow flesh before biting into it. My skin burns from the sun and the eroticism of the situation. We’ve each been inside of one another now, him in my mouth and me in his. I want to taste him properly, from the source.

“How come your hair is straight today?” I ask, reaching my hand out to touch a strand that’s fallen over his face to partially obscure his eyes. It’s stiff and crunches beneath the pressure of my fingers.

“My natural hair would have fallen in my face and gotten us into an accident, especially given the fact I have to drive on the right side here,” he answers, leaning back on a boulder on the beach. I consider his face, trying to imagine his absent ringlets.

“I wanna see your curls,” I say. I kneel next to him to get a better vantage point. From above, I see each gray strand of hair that invites the light into his mop of curls. I hold his gray streak up to the light and let my hand linger as it falls into his hair and then down to his face, feeling the rough stubble beginning to form on his cheeks.

“Yeah? You like my hair curly?” he teases, a blush gracing the tops of his cheeks as he looks up at my face.

“A lot,” I nod.

“I’ll never wear it straight again,” he says to mollify me.

“Good,” I state. I stand up and take my sundress off so I’m standing before him in a white cotton bra and underwear. Matty’s eyes go wide as I remove my clothing and hold my hand out to him.

“Come on then,” I encourage. He stands up smiling, unbuttons his shirt, and removes his trousers, leaving him more naked than I am.

I thought I was beginning to know Matty, but seeing his bare chest reminds me of how much I have left to discover. It’s littered with poems and phrases, crests and colors. His shoulders are broader than mine and they’re covered in sturdy muscle that continues down to his pectorals and upper abdomen. I’m staring, I’m sure of it. He’s hard in all the places I’m used to softness and wide in the places I’m used to encircling in my warm, small hands. I grab his arm and drag him towards the lake, submerging my head in the cool water as soon as it’s deep enough. When I emerge, I push my hair back and toss some water in Matty’s face.

“Oi! What was that for?” he exclaims.

“You said you’d never wear your hair straight again,” I remind him, “Come on, I’ll help you.”

Matty kneels before me as I scoop handfuls of water onto his head until he’s totally soaked. It feels thrilling, having a man on his knees before me, at my mercy. I’m not used to gentleness from boys; only jeers and catcalls and hands obnoxiously placed at the small of my back in clubs. But I don’t want to use my position for anything other than sweetness. I rub his curls lightly, removing the gel from each strand. Matty looks up at me as I massage his head watching my eyebrows scrunch.

“Your hair is soft,” I tell him. He smiles up at me and moves his arms around my hips to hold me as I continue my ministrations on his hair. He breathes through his nose and I feel the warmth that emanates from him as it seeps into my skin. He’s centimeters away from my core, no doubt feeling my heartbeat wildly in my chest and smelling the faint, musky aroma of the wetness that’s beginning to gather between my thighs.

“Thanks,” he says, lips kneading the soft flesh of my tummy as he does. It tickles and my eyes snap to his, gasping. His gaze remains trained on me as he moves his mouth to kiss me there. He uses only his lips at first, pecking and rubbing at me, but soon he grows impatient. He leaves open-mouthed kisses just above the waistband of my panties, sucking the skin below my navel, nipping at it, and smoothing his tongue over to soothe it. He moans into my stomach as he does, letting out a sound muffled by my belly.

I whine in response, grasping tightly at his hair to keep myself steady. He jerks back quickly.

“Ah!” he hisses.

“Oh fuck, sorry,” I duck down to him, holding his face to make sure he’s alright.

“I’m fine, sorry,” he shakes his head. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“It’s okay,” I say, “actually, you’re all good now if you want to, um, rinse off.”

Matty ducks into the water, smiling brilliantly at me when he meets my eyes again. I crouch down, reaching out to him, wringing out his curls, and scrunching them up onto the top of his head.

“Better?” he asks, standing up. Beads of clear, freshwater pool in his collarbones and race across his torso down to his hips. They catch on the sunlight and make him glisten. I want to lick them off his body, trace their path, and make him whimper.

I smile and nod, standing up to more or less even our heights. He wraps his arm around my neck, looking down at my body once we’re close enough that I can’t follow his eyes. I tremble. My arms are decorated with goosebumps, my breasts are peaked from the cold, and my white undergarments are soaked, plainly revealing what lies beneath them.

“You chilly, huh?” he asks. I nod into him. “Let’s get you warmed up.” Matty drags me back to the rocky shore and covers me in his button-down shirt, beckoning me to sit between his legs. He envelops me in his arms like my own personal human-sized blanket and holds me until I stop shivering.

–

“Oh shit, have you ever been in one of these?!” Matty shouts. He doesn’t need to yell to be heard, I’m right behind him on the Vespa. But he’s so excited at the thought of the old 35mm photo booth that stands tall on the side of the road. He leaps off the Vespa and digs around in his pockets for the 10 or 15 cents he needs to get it to work. “This is so fucking sick!” he exclaims. “Y/n! Come over! This is amazing!”

I dismount the bike more methodically than him, taking care not to get my skirt caught on the seat. I push the velvet curtain to the side and am met with a very eager Matty. He grabs my hand and pulls me onto the bench, instantly winding me up in his arms and tickling me. I’m caught off guard as the bulb in the center of the wall flashes, CLICK. I push Matty off playfully, turning back around to him – CLICK. I look at him, chest heaving for a moment – CLICK. It draws his attention and Matty’s eyes flit to my breasts, I notice – CLICK. I launch my body towards his, unable to contain myself anymore. His lips catch mine as I bring my arms up and around his neck – CLICK. Matty’s hands reach around my shoulders, feeling my bare skin, warm from the sun. I move my mouth hard against his, eager to taste the leftover juice from the fruit, tobacco from his cigarette, anything. Anything as long as it’s Matty. I reach into his soft frizzy curls and hang on to them to steady myself and push further toward him until he’s completely up against the wall of the photo booth. Matty’s hands find the smallest bit of my waist and pull me into his lap. His hands fall to my knees and rub all the way up my thighs, caressing the velvety flesh and stopping only when he’s reached the top to grab two handfuls of my ass.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as he releases me slowly.

Using my newfound leverage, I push his head back onto the wall and attack the exposed skin on his neck and chest. I lick his Adam’s apple and kiss the ink peeking out from under his button-down.

“Fuuuuuuck, y/n,” he moans, lifting his head up to watch me as I unfasten each button on his linen shirt. His abdomen is hard under me and it feels so divine; almost painful but in a way that I deserve, that I revel in. I caress each tattoo on his torso with my tongue and his hands fly to my hair, massaging my scalp. I look up at him when I reach his ‘we are kings’ tattoo, partially concealed by his trousers. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as my eyes question him. “Please, go ahead,” he says, needily. His pupils are blown out and his hair sticks up in places it shouldn’t.

I hook my fingers under the waistband of his trousers and boxers, feeling giddy and nervous with anticipation. It’s hardly my first time – boy or girl – but it’s new in the sense that I’ve been used to one person for so long. How she sounded and tasted. Seeing his cock spring out, hard and red, makes me feel like a schoolgirl. I’m intoxicated by everything I don’t know about him and what I’m about to learn. I move his clothes down below his knees and tentatively kiss his inner thighs. The skin there is thin and warm and it smells musky. I reach my hands up to touch the hair that grows at the base of him. Then I lean my head towards the same spot and kiss the skin there. I run my tongue around the bottom of his cock, wetting him as much as I can and kissing him everywhere as I make my way to his tip. When I get there, I look up at him. His head is backed up against the wall and he’s sat on his hands, surely in some semblance of politeness. I move the left one up to cup my jaw.

“Show me what you like,” I plead, “I wanna make you feel good.”

He groans through his lips as he pushes his thumb into my mouth. I wet it the same way I wet the rest of him and then I suck on it, just a little, moaning as I do.

“That pressure’s good,” he tells me. I nod and he takes his thumb out of my mouth and rubs it against my cheek. “Honestly though I really wasn’t expecting this. I don’t think it’s gonna be an issue for you.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re turned on?”

“Very,” Matty chuckles.

I smile at that: an innocent, sweet, reassured one. His words give me the confidence to cover his tip with my mouth, my right hand falling to the base of his length and encircling it.

Matty’s hand flies to the back of my head, under my hair and grips it like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. My eyes fly up to his face as I take him further in mouth until I meet my hand. I move up and down on him, relishing in every whimper and squeeze and twitch he unleashes.

I begin to feel Matty stirring under me, and I look up at him, surprised at what I see. His eyes are open watching me with religious devotion. His right hand travels down my shoulder, blindly searching for the straps of my dress and bra and pushing them down until my breasts fall out, spilling down my chest. Matty wastes no time grabbing a handful of one as I continue my pace on his dick. He squeezes me gently but soon opts to pinch my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it out teasingly and keeping time with me. It feels fucking delicious and spurs me on. I remove a couple fingers from him and take him down further, hollowing my cheeks and moaning around him as he twists my nipple with sadistically erratic pressure.

“Please,” I groan around him. It’s possible he doesn’t understand what I’ve said, but he gives me what I want anyway, touching me rhythmically and gently fucking my mouth as he chases his orgasm.

“I’m almost there,” he pants, reluctantly bringing his hand to my face and pushing it off of him, “You can stop.”

I keep his tip on my tongue and shake my head side to side.

“Please?” I look up at him begging, “Want it in my mouth.”

“Fucking hell, okay,” he breathes, manouvering himself back inside of me, fucking my face harder than last time but still shallowly enough that I can take it without gagging. I need him. I don’t know why or what I even expect to gain from it but his release is the only thing on my mind. It consumes me. I move my hand from his thigh and squeeze his balls gently, then cradle them in my hand. I taste him not long after, salty, warm, and pooling on my tongue. I can feel him pulse in my mouth, giving me more and more. Though the load gets smaller, and each burst further apart from the last, I find myself hoping it won't end. I feel content, consumed by pride and pleasure.

I hold him in my mouth until I’ve caught every last drop, savoring the feeling of him filling me up and the flavor of him on my tongue. I swallow and lap at his tip and shaft to clean him up, and then I tiredly lay my head on his left thigh. It's been a long time since I let someone drip down my chin and licked them up, desperate to get every last drop. It feels good to need someone like that. Like water. Like medicine.

He leans over just a bit to cradle my head with his hand, pushing the front pieces of my hair behind my ear, dragging his thumb to my lower lip, and lingering there. I breathe heavily while my eyes pierce his, mouth wantonly open.

“Fuck, that felt so good, thank you,” he breaks the silence. I take his thumb in my mouth in answer, sucking at it delicately. I release him and kiss the pad of his finger gingerly. Matty takes hold of my hands and lifts my body back to his, holding me in a hug for what seems like an eternity. Time stops for a moment in the booth – it could be the year 3000 or the 80s, there could be a parade outside or a silent street that echoes with each of our breaths – it’s just the two of us, chests pressed against each other, the air thick with elation and longing.

Eventually, I have to peel myself off of him. Matty stands and stretches his arms above his head, displaying his toned triceps and delts. He bends at the waist to retrieve the strip of photos, fingers over each frame as he admires them. He folds the strip just before the last still, hiding the photo where our lips are meeting. Then he rips it off completely.

“There you go, princess,” he places the film with the first four photos gently in my hand. I look up at him confused and just a little sad. “This one’s for me,” he amends, tucking it into his back pocket. “So that I know I didn’t dream it.” He holds my face between his hands as I gaze up at him.

“Angels usually only visit me in dreams.” I roll my eyes and try to avert my gaze from his. He doesn’t let me, tilting my head up toward his by putting his finger under my chin. His eyes search mine with a fervor that would scare me if it came from anyone else. He closes them as he slowly leans forward to catch my lips in a slow, sweet kiss that tastes like goodbye.

“Don’t make me leave,” I mumble into his mouth.

Matty wraps his arms around my back, pulling me further into him, and rests his head on mine. He’s warm and wet and smells like sex.

“Why did you want to do that?” he whispers into my hair.

“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t really. It wasn’t logical, it was more instinctual than anything, a natural progression of my feelings and of the direction in which I was kissing him. I wanted to kiss him there; it felt natural.

“It wasn’t to, like, get over your ex or something was it?” he pulls away to look at my face as he asks, “I’m fine if it was, but I just want to know if you like me or if you’re just going through something.”

“I try not to make a habit of blowing people I don’t like,” I tell him teasingly. He chuckles, rubbing his nose against my cheek, tickling me with his five-o’clock-shadow. He kisses the edge of my face, right next to my ear.

“I like you, too.”

For a moment, I allow my mind to run free with the knowledge of his admission. To imagine date nights and naps on his bare chest on the sun loungers at the villa. My stomach flutters. I want it so badly.

I reach my arms up around his neck and touch my lips to his.

“Will you take me home, now?”

#matty healy fanfiction #matty Healy fanfic #matty healy x y/n #matty healy x reader #matty healy fluff #matty healy smut #matty Healy

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narcissisticmf · 1 year

Text

unsaid | dean winchester x fem!reader

request: "Heyyy, idk of ur requests are open but if they are can u please write a dean Winchester x ex girlfriend smut who is a hunter and who dean is still not over. Sam and Dean rescue her from a vampire nest and dean is angry and worried after her and she's all like "stop acting like you care" and he says something like I'll show u how much I care" + angst + kinda enemies x lovers + dark dean? + marking ; ( set in early seasons llke;1,2,3)" from anonymous

description: after nearly losing y/n to a nest of vampires, her and dean quarrel which leads to something more.

trigger warnings: angst, gun usage, sexual content, seductive behavior, arguing, foul language, marking, oral sex, unprotected sex, etc. please do not proceed in reading if you are under the age of 18.

word count: 2.5k

With your wrists tied tightly in thick rope, you could smell the blood that seeped out from your bruised skin as you were beginning to regain consciousness. You found yourself in a dark room, the only light that shone was from the subtle crack of the door. You were held against a wooden pillar, the rope wasn't giving in as you tried to free yourself.

Your machete was lying against a coffee table in the middle of the room. You lifted your head to see a small group of people coming in through the slightly opened door.

Squinting your eyes, you saw them coming closer dressed in Mick Jagger styled clothing. You parted your lips and stared at them as them headed towards you, strutting as though they were at the top of the hierarchy of monsters.

"You're the morons that jumped me?! You look like a bunch of high school rejects," You laughed as they surrounded you, most of them were men and a few of them were women.

"I'd be careful what you say next, honey," The tallest of them lowered his head to whisper in your ear. You quickly went from laughing to rage, flaring your nostrils as you glared at them.

"Or what? You'll kill me? How original," You snapped.

"We could, but that wouldn't be as fun as watching you bleed out.. dry," He stood up straight and smiled, fangs beginning to push through his gums.

The whole time you had been attempting to pull out your pocketknife from your back pocket, so the more you spoke the more distracted they were to these actions.

"Not very smart," You replied. You used your left hand to reach into your right back pocket, where the knife sat.

"Why's that?" He questioned with a chuckle.

"Well the longer you let me sit here, the longer it'll take me to find a way out," You stated. His face dropped, but his fangs were still out. You were able to grab the pocketknife, flip it open and cut through the rope the whole time, without their acknowledgment.

The sound of the door being kicked open made you all turn your heads to see who was there and to your lucky surprise, it was the Winchesters. You smirked subtly as the vampires rushed towards them which gave you time to cut yourself free.

Once you freed yourself, you hurried across the room and lunged for your machete that was sitting on the coffee table. You snatched it by the handle and hurried towards the vampires. You swung it at one of their necks, decapitating one of them to see Sam standing before you.

"Thanks for backing me up," You spoke quickly.

"No problem," Sam replied.

You turned to see Dean taking on three vampires, so you went to his assistance and swung your blade across one's neck, beheading them effortlessly. It didn't take long before you all had wiped out the entire nest.

Walking along the grass, you were beside Sam as Dean followed. You were still tired from being knocked out and the bruises were still upon your wrists, along with the blood that seemed to have dried by now.

"You could've been killed, Y/N/N," Dean finally spoke as you stopped in your tracks and turned to look at him.

"Don't act like you give a rat's ass about me, Dean," You grumbled. Sam awkwardly climbed into the Impala as you and his brother began to argue.

"I do care!" Dean defended. "Despite what happened between you and me a long time ago, I don't ever wanna see you hurt or worse."

You clenched your jaw and stared at him with exhausted eyes. "I can take care of myself," You replied.

"I never said you couldn't," Dean said.

"But you implied it."

"No, I didn't, actually."

"Yes, you did."

The two of you were stubborn as mules. You stood there, staring at him blankly for a while as stillness filled the atmosphere. The only sound came from crickets singing and frogs croaking. A subtle thunder rumbled in the distant skies.

"Just.. take me back to the motel I'm staying at, it's the Riverside Peak," You whispered, no desire to argue any longer.

Dean said nothing and walked towards the Impala, you headed towards the car and got into the backseat. You released a gentle breath and remembered the few times you had road with the Winchesters in their most luxurious vehicle.

Your dirty fingertips grazed over the leather seat, replaying a few memories you and Dean shared in the back of his car.

The rumble of the engine pulled you from your thoughts.

Once Dean pulled up to the motel room you were staying in, you climbed out of the car and looked through the passenger window at the two of them.

"Thanks again for helping me out, I owe you one," Your lips formed a thin smile as the two of them waved you off.

"We'll be in touch," Sam replied. You nodded and walked towards the door to your room, unlocking it with the key and walking inside. You latched the door shut and listened to the Impala's engine driving off.

You dragged your feet towards the bathroom to have a shower, the feeling of blood and dirt against your skin wasn't one you liked to sleep with. You took a longer shower than normal that night, letting the hot water run down your skin. Goosebumps arose along the surface of your arms and legs as you stood there, beneath the steaming hot water.

The water eased the pain of your wounds the longer you stood in there. With your back facing the showerhead, you leaned your head back to let more of the water run through your hair.

It wasn't long before you got out after having washed your body and hair. You cut the water off and stepped out, grabbing a towel to cling to your body. Drying off, you put on a fresh pair of underwear and a long, baggy t shirt that went down to your mid-thigh.

You let your wet hair rest against your shoulders as you walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to eat something for dinner. You decided an easy meal was needed after such a frustrating day, so you pulled out one of those microwaveable mac 'n' cheese bowls. It satisfied your hunger enough for the night.

Before you got a chance to eat, there was a knock at your door. In your bare feet, you slowly walked towards the bedside table to grab your handheld gun, holding it at your side in case you needed to use it. You walked towards the door and peaked through the small hole to see who it was.

You furrowed your brow and placed the gun back down onto the bedside table, unlocking the door to open it. Dean was standing there in a red flannel, the same outfit he was in after the vamp nest.

"What do you want?" You asked.

"Can I come in?" He questioned, his tone was soft.

You released a breath and opened the door wider for him to enter the room. You latched it shut behind you, making sure to lock it again.

"Is there a reason you're here, Dean?" You stood behind him as he was walking deeper in the room.

He sniffed a few times, "Are you having mac 'n' cheese?"

"Dean," You spoke sternly and he looked at you with those puppy eyes, "What're you doing here?"

"Right, yeah.." Dean mumbled and stood before you, "I just needed to talk to you."

"At three in the morning?" You asked.

"Yeah," He shrugged his shoulders.

"Dean, this can wait until tomorrow," You turned around and started for the door to let him leave, but he followed after you and held your shoulder.

"No, Y/N, it can't," He breathed out, like he was holding it that wholw time.

"Get off me," You shrugged his hand off you shoulder and turned around to look at him. Your back was pressed against the door.

"Look.." He dragged his fingers down his mouth. "What you said earlier about me not caring about you being hurt.. it's not true."

"But it is true, Dean! You don't care," You snapped. "You didn't care when you walked out on me two years ago and you don't care now!"

"Oh come on, Y/N/N! This is completely different," He argued.

"No, it's fucking not," You clenched your jaw, "You hurt me, Dean.. bad. This.." You gestured to the bruises on your wrists, "is nothing compared to the shit you put me through when you left!"

It was quiet for a while. Tears began to brew in your eyes as did Dean's.

"I do care," He replied.

"Show me," You stated flatly.

"What?" Dean questioned with a furrow in his brow.

"Show me you care," You swallowed a lump that built in the center of your throat.

He looked at you with dilated pupils and walked towards you. You could've sworn the moment happened in slow motion. Dean was looking at you with parted lips as his eyes gazed at every inch of your face.

"I don't know what I would've done if we hadn't made it there in time," He whispered.

"Show me.." You breathed out, feeling the knots in your stomach untangle as he lowered his head to press a kiss to your collarbone that was exposed. You leaned your head back against the door and felt him begin to suck on the soft flesh of your skin.

Your breathing became irregular as Dean worked his way up your neck, leaving darkening circles where his lips touched as a way to mark his territory.

"Dean," You shakily breathed. His hands gripped your wrists and gently pinned them to the door, so you had no way of touching him, yourself or anything around you.

"You scared me today, sweetheart," He mumbled against your skin and pulled his head back to look at you intently.

"You don't care," You whispered, leaning in.

"I do care," He replied softly.

"No," You shook your head.

"Yes," Dean brushed his nose against yours. You closed your eyes as he swiftly kissed your lips. You felt him release your wrists so you could grip your fingers to his flannel at his sides. You felt him slip his tongue in, battling with your own.

You gently pushed your back off the door and without breaking the seal of your kiss, you lead him to the bed in the middle of the room. Dean slowly pulled his head back and looked down at you.

"Is this okay?" He questioned.

"Yes," You nodded.

He smiled as you laid against the bed. Following your actions, Dean climbed onto the bed, hovering over you. You sucked in a gentle breath and pressed your lips to his once more. Without pulling his lips back, he shrugged off his flannel and tossed it onto the floor which became a growing pile of clothes.

Eventually, the two of you were completely undraped. You laid against the pillows as Dean left a trail from his lips down your neck and between your breasts. You closed your eyes at the feeling and released a whimper here and there.

"You feeling okay, sweetheart?" Dean mumbled against your skin.

You couldn't speak and simply nodded, shakily breathing as Dean brought his face up to you. He dragged his fingertips down between your legs as your breath shook. He softly traced them over your inner thigh, causing you to spread them slowly.

Dean's index finger slipped over your center, making you whine quietly. The pad of his finger was coated with your arousal.

"Dean," You whimpered as he smirked down at you, gently pushing two fingers in. At first, you clenched around him, but loosened to his touch once you adjusted to the feeling. You looked up into his eyes, holding eye contact for a while as you gently reached down to hold his wrist as he moved his fingers within you. It was as if he was playing the most beautiful instrument.

He removed his fingers and brought them up to your lips. "Taste yourself, sweetheart," Dean mumbled as you parted your lips to let him slip his fingers inside. "Atta girl.."

Taking his hands back after a while, he pressed kisses along your chest and down your stomach. You arched your back softly against the pillows as his lips came into contact with your folds, sucking on the wetness that coated the outside of them.

You reached down to hold a grip onto his hair, gently pushing him deeper against your center. He dragged his tongue up your folds, tracing the first initial of his name against you.

"Oh.. God," You whispered as goosebumps spread across your skin.

Dean pulled his head up to hover over you once again. The tip of his erect brushed against your folds, making you whine softly. He hushed your noise with his lips against yours. Subtle moans were escaping your mouth as you draped your arms around his neck.

"Ready?" Dean mumbled into your mouth.

"Yes," You nodded as you felt he wasted no time before slipping inside you. The sensation was effortless as you moaned into his mouth. He smiled in the kiss and waited a minute before you were comfortable. You were loose against him as he motioned his hips back and forth at a generous pace.

"Good girl," Dean pulled his head back and gripped the headboard of the bed as he slowly picked up the pace.

You closed your eyes and allowed your body to feel the wonderful sensation. It didn't take long before he found the spot within you. Your eyes opened to look at him as he was so gentle yet rough at the same time. You cupped his face and pressed a longing kiss to his plump lips.

"Can I let go now?" You asked breathlessly into his mouth.

"Yeah," Dean nodded and you could tell he was close as well. You whined and buried your face into his neck as you felt your orgasm unfold within your stomach. He felt you come undone as he took the opportunity to slip out and release his load onto your lower stomach.

You were tired and made a miserable attempt at catching up with your breathing. Dean pressed a kiss against your temple and slowly laid beside you. You reached over to the bedside table to grab a small towel from the drawer to wipe your stomach clean.

Once you did, you tossed it onto the pile of both you and Dean's clothing. You turned your head to look at him and smiled with your lips closed together.

"I do care about you, sweetheart," Dean's voice was low.

"I know," You whispered, "I could see it in your eyes."

a/n: i absolutely love this concept and this was so fun to write!! i'm so happy for the person that requested this because i genuinely had the best time writing it! tysm!! requests are always open, my loves! thank you for reading and supporting me! <33 — angelina.

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safety-pin-punk · 11 months

Note

Hi there!! So uh, i was wondering (as a baby punk/goth) if you have any suggestions as to how to subtly dress more punk?? I would love to go full out with it, but i couldn’t without getting into an argument, so if you have any tips, let me know :] thank you!!

Ideas for subtly adding alternative elements to outfits:

Safety pins. Add them any and everywhere. I have them on the lapels of almost every jacket I own, and up the back of a pair of converse (possibly being used to keep said pair of converse together). But adding them to bags or as earrings (or hanging from earrings) works just as well!

Band t shirts. You can buy them anywhere and pair them with anything. Simply jeans and a band t shirt are fairly common even for non-alt people

Start adding some black and other dark elements to your outfits. Even if its just a black friendship bracelet. Maybe it has beads on it that spell out a band name?

Learn how to do simple sewing and mending. The more times something is repaired, the cooler it looks in my opinion. AND thats something that is honestly a life skill and everyone should be able to do if they are physically able

Ladder lace your shoes (I have a how to here), its subtle but can tell someone who knows what they are looking for a lot

Ripped jeans are in fashion. Just make your own out of an old pair, it will look more alt and be cheaper. And you can tell your parents that you were just saving money and making ‘cooler jeans than the people who get them pre-ripped’ should work cause a lot of older people seem to have beef with pre-ripped jeans

Go just a *little* heavier on the eye make up (but not so much you get in trouble). And if anyone says anything about it, there are plenty of more mainstream artists you can say you drew inspiration from (Kiss, Mick Jagger, Prince, David Bowie. All musicians that parents are likely to have listened to)

Choose boots, converse, or vans over other options if you have the choice. Other options are fine (and probably cheaper unless you thrift them) but it’s undeniable that those shoes are staples of alt fashion

Simple chain necklace. Get it from a craft store. Its small, its subtle, it can be hidden under your shirt

If you or your family is religious (specifically christian here), get a stylized cross to wear. I have a cool looking metal one made out of nails. You could always claim that it represents something about Jesus’ suffering or something

DIY in general, even if it doesn’t look punk/alt. The fact that it was DIY basically makes it punk/alt

I’m not Goth, nor do I know *much* about Goth fashion, BUT, I think lace is pretty common? And not exclusive to alt spaces, soo you can just say you think its pretty

Any other ideas or tips for anon are welcome of course!!! (Especially on the goth stuff here lol)

#mail tag #punk #punx #goth #alternative fashion #punm fashion #goth fashion

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ohblackdiamond · 8 days

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bite the hand that bleeds (ace/paul, pg-13)

Summary: Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again.

Paul gets an unexpected art collector at a gallery show, and ends up entertaining his old bandmate for tea.

Notes: Part of a fic swap with @elrohare (prompt: afternoon tea). Please check out her lovely Whenever You're Ready (I'm Here) for a beautiful take on the same setting.

“Come now, gentlemen Your love is all I crave You'll still be in the circus When I'm laughing, laughing in my grave” -“Memo from Turner,” Mick Jagger

Forty meet and greets, that’s the evening’s agenda, with room for maybe five or six impulse buyers at the tail end. Christian, Wentworth’s president, sends him a hard copy the morning of, with notes, though he usually only glances over it. He only really keeps an eye out for the special requests, so he can remember they’re coming up– maybe someone with cancer, or a whole family wanting a picture with him, or a video message to a kid barely out of basic training and stationed overseas– but the bulk, the very bulk of the meet and greets are simple, easy to handle. A couple signatures, a couple pictures, and a smile, and they’re mostly on their way. It takes so little to make them happy, so little. The kids never really changed– they just went from piggybanks to 401ks.

Forty meet and greets. He likes doing these much better than the ones for KISS. He likes not sharing attention with Gene. Most especially, even now, he likes the girls, not for anything carnal, but just that small, secret pleasure of still being wanted at the tender age of seventy-two.

He scans through the list, though he never remembers the names, just some of the faces. The names give their age away anyway, Generation X’s finest crop of Lisas and Erics and– hm, a Paul, too. A Paul Daniel.

It’s just coincidence. He sets his agenda down on his hotel bedside table and tries to think no more about it. He’s got four hours to kill before he needs to get down there, anyway. Maybe he’ll order something on his phone. He taps the screen, checking his messages first. One from Erin he’ll answer later. One from Gene from about a week ago he still has no intention of answering. The phone vibrates in his hand as he’s just about to set it aside– a call, not a text. Christian.

“Hello?”

“I hate to bother you, Paul, but it’s about the event,” Christian says. He sounds a little scattered. Paul resists the urge to snap back at him– of course it’s about the event– letting him go on. Sometimes it’s hard to summon up the energy to respond much. Sometimes, even four months out from his last show, it still hurts to talk. “One of the people on the guest list.”

“If you’re thinking there’ll be some trouble, then you can handle it.”

“It’s not the usual trouble.” After ten or more years of this, Christian ought to know the usual trouble well enough by now. The stalker types, the seriously unhinged ones that believe that buying a painting entitles them to his true friendship, or more. The expectant ones, the oversharing, desperate ones, the nuts that have to be escorted out. Usually the high price of admission keeps them away, and usually, Paul doesn’t get told they even tried to make an appearance. He has people for that. He should have people for that. “All I can say is that I’m sorry. We had one of our new consultants– she just started two weeks ago, and she– well, you know how it is, she’s only twenty-four, she had no idea–”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you had a buyer you may not want.”

“Please don’t tell me Eddie Trunk got his fat ass over to D.C.”

Christian actually manages a snort, but the next words make the breath catch in Paul’s throat.

“No. It’s Ace Frehley.”

–

Paul tells Christian he’ll call him back when he ought to tell him to issue Ace a refund.

He hasn’t seen Ace in six years now. Oh, he’s seen Ace– in a parade of humiliating Tiktoks and Youtube shorts, slurring interviews, horrific concerts– but he hasn’t seen Ace. He’s heard from Ace– the occasional, completely unanswered text– but the last time he listened to him on the phone was months back. Ace’s Hail Mary, his final, desperate attempt to get let onstage for MSG. Ace had fumbled it. Ace fumbled everything.

Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again.

“Have you contacted him? When did this happen?”

“Not since the purchase. That was two days ago.”

“And no one checked until now? You had Ace Frehley buy a painting and nobody noticed for two days?”

“It was on his girlfriend’s credit card.”

“That’s fucking pathetic.” Cancel it. Refund it. That’s what he should be saying. “He does that shit to people. Uses them for whatever favors he can. Uses them all up.”

“What do you want us to do?”

Paul exhales.

If it was refunded, Ace would go to the press. Ace would tell every damn news website in the world that Paul Stanley wouldn’t sell him a painting. He’d get all sorts of publicity. The avatars had gotten bad press, not that Paul gave much of a shit anymore, but if Ace capped it all off, had someone else spin it just right… fuck. It could go so well for him. Ace could play it off like a spat-upon peace offering, and he, Paul, would come off like a bitter asshole, denying him not just the band, but five minutes of his time. He couldn’t win. He wouldn’t be able to win.

“Call him up. Tell him he’s not coming to the gallery.”

“All right.”

“But tell him he can meet me in an hour in Entyse.” Paul doesn’t even question if they’ll get him on the line. Or if Ace’ll show. “There won’t be any trouble.”

“Okay. Paul, again, all I can do is apologize–”

“What for? I was headed there anyway.”

He hangs up. His phone’s buzzing within ten minutes, texts, this time, and then a call, but he doesn’t so much as glance at the screen. He knows who they’re from.

–

Paul walks into Entyse without a reservation and gets seated immediately. It’s not much of a power play; there’s not been any satisfaction on his part in things like that for, oh, forty-five years now. Especially not when Entyse is just the Ritz Carlton’s restaurant, and he only had to head downstairs from his suite.

They offer him the menus, but all he takes is a Coke and a water. He’d half-expected Ace to get there before him, half-wanted to see him wandering in, all stupid bravado, looking around for the front of house, aware that he’d cheated himself out of every rockstar perk Paul’s going to have the rest of his life. But five minutes, then ten minutes pass. Paul’s just about to get up– he can feel a couple eyes on him at this point, wondering, probably, why he’s alone, with a solid half of them not knowing who he is, probably more– and then he sees Ace out of the corner of his eye, getting led to his table like a pensioner to his nursing home bed.

That’s not fair. It’s not, unfortunately, even true. Ace is walking about as well as he ever did, which isn’t well at all, struggling against his own instinct to pigeon-toe. He looks fine. He’s lost some weight over the last couple years. He’s in jeans, a black leather jacket, and a cheap Hello Kitty button-down. And sunglasses, which he yanks off as soon as he sits down, pushing them aside on the table.

“Hey, Paul,” he says.

“Hey.”

It’s not the start he wants. The waiter’s given Ace the drink menu– Ace flips it over immediately and hands it back– and goes into the lunch options, but Ace interrupts him.

“How about tea?”

“The afternoon tea, sir?”

Ace points over to the table across from theirs, where six or seven teenage girls in puffy pastel atrocities are giggling over some tiered tea trays.

“Yeah, what they’ve got.”

The waiter seems completely unruffled. Paul narrows his eyes, looking at Ace– specifically, he’s looking for Ace’s phone– but if he’s got it on him, it must be in his pocket. The waiter pulls out the afternoon tea menus.

“We have two options for tea. The afternoon tea, and the royal tea. Your selections of sandwiches and sweets are completely customizable. The royal tea does include a glass of rose wine and–”

“Paulie, he’s trying to upsell you,” Ace says with a snort.

“I don’t remember saying I would pay.”

“You invited me. And I did buy your painting. That’s how it works, right?” Ace turns to the waiter after a quick glance at the menu. “Gimme the afternoon tea. Uh. Darjeeling. Don’t gimme any of the cream puffs or mousse, all right? Just, uh, substitute in more of the scones.”

“And you, sir?”

Paul had been about to get a salad just to spite him, just to show how little time he wants to spend entertaining him here. Afternoon tea– God, it’s comical. Ridiculous. His youngest had that at her birthday party about three years ago. What the hell is Ace doing? What’s he trying to accomplish?

He doesn’t know.

“I’ll take the upsell. And jasmine tea. No substitutes on any of the stuff on the tray.”

The waiter nods, heading off at that brisk pace. Ace pushes his hair back behind his ear, and smiles.

“You got a good crowd coming?”

“Yeah. It’s a good crowd.”

“’S good. I used to sell my art, too.” Ace is so matter-of-fact that Paul can almost feel his own blood pressure start to rise. He can’t ever outright call out arch meanings with Ace, the way he can with Gene, for all he’s sure they’re there. Ace doesn’t have those tells that Gene does. “It was all on the computer. I used to really like to tinker with it. Now all you gotta do is click and put a filter on it.”

“Not very tactile.”

“Nah. I got settings on my– on my webcam now, for when I do interviews. Barely even gotta put on any makeup with how well that filters out all the imperfections.” Ace peers at him. “I could show you sometime. I guess now that KISS is done you–”

“Cut the crap, Ace, and tell me what you want.”

“Nothing.”

“Cut the crap.”

“What’d you get the upsell for, Paul? Since when do you gotta have a drink to deal with me?”

Paul doesn’t answer, just grabs his Coke and takes a long swig. He used to be able to do Gene this way. Silent treatment him for hours and hours. This last tour– the last tour– it had gotten unbearable for both of them. Each show another nail in the coffin, a relief as much as it was an agony. Another shaving down of whatever was left of their friendship.

He hadn’t even seen Gene since the last show. It hadn’t even occurred to him until just now.

Ace takes a couple sips of his water. He’s not looking at Paul. His gaze is towards those teenage girls.

“My fiancee’s got a girl about that age,” he says quietly. “She’s got a friend that dresses kinda like that, real frilly. She brought her over to the house once. Call themselves Lolitas or something. I don’t get it.”

“It’s Japanese.” Two words more than he’d meant to give him.

“Oh.” Ace nods, glancing briefly at his own shirt. “I’d like to get back over there someday. I dunno that I will.”

Probably not. Ace can’t afford to tour outside of the States. Paul tries to swallow his next comment, but he doesn’t manage.

“I’m not touring again, Ace.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not helping you tour.”

“I’m not asking for that, either.”

“Then what are you–”

The waiter reemerges, first with their teas and then, immediately afterward, with the trays, laden with tiny sandwiches and sweets. Ace’s grin only widens, and he immediately snatches the smoked salmon sandwich from his tea tray and sticks the entire thing in his mouth. One bite.

“Fuck, that was good. Are you still on the vegetarian bit? Can I have yours?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Paul takes his own salmon sandwich from his tray just to spite him, eating it more slowly. But three bites and it’s just as gone as Ace’s. Pretty good. It occurs to him, briefly, that Ace probably thinks Olive Garden is fine dining at this point in his life. It would be sad if he hadn’t done it to himself.

Ace moves onto the quiche. This one, he cuts up into raggedy thirds, stabbing each with his fork.

“Caramelized onions on top. Y’know, my manager, he’s something of a chef, but–”

“Tell me what you want, Ace.”

Ace pulls out his phone. Paul stiffens before he realizes Ace is just checking his texts.

“You never answered me. I didn’t think you would.” He lifts his eyes from the phone, setting it down on the table, face up. Ace’s got the font set as large as he can get it. Same as him. “What I want is company, Paulie. I want your company so damn bad I’ll pay you for it.”

“Like hell. You want an in.” The salmon feels like it’s about to come back up in his throat. “You want me to endorse you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You want a photo with me. Maybe a soundbyte for Youtube.” Paul forces himself to exhale. “Your album barely sold. KISS is gone and you’re still out there in the clubs. So you want a little more buzz. Maybe I’d help you get ten more butts in the seats at those fucking dive bars you play–”

“I’m not at fucking dive bars.”

“When was the last time you sold out an arena? I’ll wait. No. I know.”

Ace’s mouth is pinched, face just a little flushed. He eats the pieces of his quiche in rapid succession, then starts savagely on the remaining sandwiches, just grabbing them off the tray and stuffing them in his mouth. Then he starts on the tea, taking a quick swallow without the cream and sugars Paul remembers him always adding in.

“Same as the last time you didn’t sound like shit.” He grabs the tongs, dropping in three sugars, then the cream, stirring them, eyes full on Paul’s face, daring him to get up, daring him to leave. “Gene told me what happened to you, back when we toured Australia together. I know all about that.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“You ruined yourself and then you blamed him with it. And he believes it, too. That’s the funny thing.” A swallow. “He was about in tears when he told me. Gene’s a snake, but he’s better than either of us. All he hasn’t sold off yet is his conscience.”

The tea trays never looked so comical. Silver tiers, pastel sweets, bright-colored sandwiches. He’s focusing on them because there’s nothing else to focus on. Only that Ace wants him to go. Ace wants him to go so that he can feel like he’s won. But Ace hasn’t won anything. His whole life he’s given up everything he ever had like a goddamn fool, then begged the whole world for their scraps. He can’t get front row. He can’t get the Ritz Carlton. He’s lucky he got fifteen minutes of Paul’s time.

“Gene’s a liar.”

“Not about that.” Another swallow of tea. Paul expects another sharp accusation, but Ace just swaps tactics like credit cards from a billfold. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just like it doesn’t matter what I play like when I go out there. You… you and Gene took me to see James Brown, for my birthday that time. I remember seeing that old man out there, seeing them put all the capes on him, I thought, they should put him to bed, don’t put him out there, he’s a-a fucking dinosaur, now– but they did. ’Cause he didn’t know what else to do with himself. All he could do was sing all the old songs. Put on the capes. Be a joke.”

“You’re the only joke here.”

“We both are.” Ace keeps eating. Almost all the sandwiches are gone from his tray. He’s onto the scones. “I don’t want an in, Paul. I just want someone I can talk to.”

“Talk to Gene.”

“I can’t.”

“Talk to Peter.”

“He won’t.”

“Why me?”

Ace finishes off the scone. There’s a little butter smeared across his lip.

“You know why.”

It’s the music business. The music business. I don’t owe you friendship. I don’t owe you anything. Doc’s adage, the one he’s scrawled on one of his paintings, there in the gallery, burns somewhere in his heart: quality time remaining. Like he’s a bomb about to go off. Like someone’s subtracting his last breaths down. Quality time remaining and in just a couple hours, he’ll be spending that time doing those forty meet and greets for fans that want a moment and a picture and a couple autographs. Fans that only know him from the magazines and interviews and two hours at a time in a couple hundred concerts, but think of him like a brother, like a lover, like a demigod. Ace doesn’t know him, he wants to insist, but that’s a lie. Ace knew him when he was no one.

Ace knew him when the Hotel Diplomat was the best they could manage. When they hauled their gear in a milk truck. When the KISS t-shirts were iron-ons they cut out themselves. When Bill was signing them onto Casablanca. When every show was a rush of adrenaline, instead of a slog. When it didn’t hurt, when he could bounce back from anything, just anything–

(when)

Long skinny legs spread across a cheap yellow duvet. A girl’s head between them. The room assignments had swapped; Peter was rooming with his wife, and Ace, Ace was lying there, getting head from that girl as Paul stepped out from the shower.

(you want in on this, paul? and his finger crooked, beckoning lazily)

(and he did. and he did. that was the first sidle into something new, something filthy. he had taken the girl from behind while she sucked off ace, but it was only after she left that it really mattered. it was only after that that they’d fooled around together, feigning drunk after only three beers apiece.)

(you want in on this, paul?)

Those same legs in faded jeans, close to fifteen years later. No girl this time but the hotel might as well have been the same. Ace’s fortunes had declined even worse than KISS.’ And yet he’d had enough reason to spend the night with him, after the Limelight show, without a girl there for that edge of rockstar excess.

Another ten years. Another scattered handful of moments. Ace high on pills. Paul edging on the verge of divorce. The disgust had started to fester long before then, disgust and awareness. Ace was throwing it all away again, casual and careless. Ace wasn’t what he wanted, in or out of bed, and he never had been. He was still just some crude kid from the Bronx that played guitar better than him, that crashed cars, that drank himself to stupors, only then he was nearly fifty instead of twenty-five.

He couldn’t change. Just kept making the same mistakes. Just kept playing the same old chords, the same chords anyone could play. He’d proved that afterwards, hadn’t he? He’d proved that. The fans had taken Tommy for twenty years. Ace had never been special at all.

Paul tries to think that. Tries to assure himself of that. But looking Ace in the face stops him cold. There’s defeat there, sure. But there’s a spark in those dark, hooded eyes, too. There’s a spark that no stupid tea outing and no amount of barbs from him could ever manage to completely extinguish.

It’s a spark he remembers, and for the barest sliver of time, it’s just enough to almost make him look young.

“Maybe I’m better off trying them. Gene’s not so sore at me anymore.” Ace lifts a macaron from his tray. “He’s still the one paying his old band.”

“I know.”

“Peter’ll let it all go if I visit him.”

“He would.”

“It’s just you I wanted, that’s all.” Ace gets up, having to lean against the table in order to stand. He reaches for his Gucci purse, hooking it to his shoulder. “It’s always been you.”

“Ace–”

“Don’t let them get too weird with you at the event. Pretend you can’t hear ’em.” Ace’s words are only a little dry as he crunches the macaron, then reaches for the remaining scones, wrapping them in a napkin. Paul’s stomach starts to twist. All the fight seems out of him, all the acidity, all the hope. In tearing Paul up, he tore himself up, too. Mutually-assured destruction. “Your girl that sold me the painting, she said–”

“Which one did you buy?”

He says it suddenly, barely realizing it’s out of his mouth until Ace answers.

“What?”

“Which one?”

“The, uh, one of the abstracts.”

“Which one?”

“The blue and purple. Anyway, she said–”

“Sit down.”

“Paul–”

“Finish off the food. I will, too.”

“I’m not–”

(i want)

“You’re coming with me.”

“Paul, c’mon, I know you don’t wanna, not after–”

“I do.”

A couple of old men drinking tea in the Ritz Carlton. A couple of young men under the covers of a Motel Six. Age shattering vocals, crippling fingers. Bitterness seeping in from every raw deal and every undercut and every canceled show, a lifetime of old pains without a salve. And yet, as Ace sits back down, easing into his chair, reaching for the strawberry on top of the tea tray, Paul finds himself almost ready to let it all go.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley #ace frehley #ace frehley x paul stanley #stehley

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forestdeath1 · 17 days

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I...just found....the perfect Sirius Black fancast

It might just be me, but I can't unsee it now

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeuUoLrX/

Sorry for the late answer, today was Snape's day :D Finally we can get back to Sirius, hallelujah!

Ok, he’s not my type, but he’s nice? I mean if you like him, that’s good!

You know why there's no perfect fancast for Sirius Black? Because everyone imagines their own idea of beauty for him! Half the world thinks Ben Barnes is handsome, but I'm not into him. So one "fancast" can never be perfect for everyone.

And secondly, what's important to me is that beauty for Sirius doesn't work without charisma and 100% self-confidence of the model/actor. So it's really tricky.

I don't know any perfect fancast for Sirius. I've found a few for fem!Sirius, but not for Sirius himself. I'm less picky about fem!Sirius because I generally find girls more beautiful, and I don't expect 100% charisma from fem!Sirius.

But I'm very picky about boys' appearance :( This guy here is quite good-looking. He has classic facial features (Sirius should have kinda classic ones):

But he is quite shy. He lacks that confidence in his gaze and charisma to say "yes, that's Sirius." His eyes definitely aren't Sirius's. So we need to add charisma and confidence.

For example, like Damiano David (I suppose USAmericans don’t know about Maneskin, it’s an Italian band), he has zero social anxiety as Sirius. There's confidence in his gaze. Ben Barnes has puppy-dog eyes, and sometimes I think he's gonna cry. But Damiano and Gary Oldman have that charisma (though I don't like Gary's appearance at all, even when he was young). In my opinion, Damiano doesn't fit Sirius either, he has a bit rough facial features (actually Damiano is my fancast for another character :D). But here I'm only talking about the overall impression, facial expressions, gaze.

Tumblr only allows you to attach one video to a post, so the rest will be links.

One

Sirius has to be able to be fun, even if he doesn't need to be! Having stupid fun like this, not caring what anyone thinks.

Two

But at the same time, Sirius shouldn't be so active, he should be slightly melancholic lol I mean yes, Sirius can do whatever he wants. But he’s not an attention-seeker.

I'll also leave these two videos here. Young Mick Jagger (yeah, he's high in the second video , but it doesn’t matter). It's hard for me to explain this vibe in words, probably those who love 70s-80s music understand it.

Four

Five

Sooo it’s really difficult! I want everything and everyone at once, so there is no such thing as a perfect fancast for Sirius.

This is fem!Sirius. This is Loli Bahia, and for me, she's a young fem!Sirius.

Six

Here's who else I considered for fem!Sirius (yeah, this is just my type of women lol):

#sirius black #sirius black fancast #fem sirius black

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statementlou · 1 year

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I was just wondering, about Harry's "people like me" line, I know the whole message is about being queer and etc. but the thing that confuses me is that some people is pushing that he was once in the "working class" but isn't H quite "posh" before One-D? Right? I actually don't get the narratives people are pushing tbh, what can you say about it (genuinely asking)

Well in fact I don't think he does mean queer by that, and I don't think it would make any sense if he did, if he was saying queers never get to be famous pop stars! I think that would be extremely wrong if anyone said it, but the idea of Harry saying it is especially ludicrous given his interest in and knowledge of the incredible lineage of queer musicians he is a part of, such as the 70s rockers he takes so much of his aesthetic from like David Bowie, Elton John, Mick Jagger, Freddie Mercury, and all the other artists he pays tribute to in various ways through his outfits and show playlists and so on.

I do believe he means because he's just a regular working class guy from a small town in England who got lucky on a television show. And no, he wasn't posh before TXF. I feel like that's a narrative that comes partially from images pushed by the early 1D machinery and partially from some aspects of the way his accent sounds to non British people, but while his family was not in poverty or hungry, he absolutely did not belong to a class of people who could reasonably expect to have opportunities to find themselves on the grammys stage in California without a one in ten million arrangement of lucky chances. As someone who knows him and has seen him talk many times, it was heartwrenchingly apparent how overwhelmed he was in that moment, he was shaky and had no idea what to say or if he could manage to get it out before he started crying and so he reached for a familiar thing he says every night on stage, choked it out and got off the mic. But the people watching in this case weren't his adoring concert crowd and didn't know and love him or care about that and weren't thinking about him being from a boyband or a reality show and how much people might look down on him in the industry for that, and without context (and in the context of Beyonce being denied yet another AOTY award) it wasn't the best thing he could have said. I'm glad for him that he's free of the 1D managers trying to shut him up from behind every camera, but possibly he could benefit from consulting with experts a little bit here and there. In specific, given that his analysis around his privilege as a white person is, well, not very advanced, if he wants to avoid situations where he pisses people off just like this he should hire a person of color to consult him on such things, which is in fact a thing that some white people in positions where they say things publicly do to avoid saying things that come off very badly/ are offensive on account of just being a bit oblivious.

#he means he's not a nepo baby!#and its a real point #look at who his friends are in the industry like kaia gerber or whoever #he looks at that and at himself and is like #wow #what are the chances of me being here #and he's right #plus the way people look down on him still #did anyone read that article of who grammy voters voted for with the guy who was like I didn't even listen to HsH #he was in a boyband and I do hold that against him #otoh at least people are discoursing about him winning big rather thanabou t his performance #which is very very good and I'm sure he GREATLY prefers #hopefully this discourse will distract everyone from that #poor nervous babe #blah blah blah

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copperbadge · 1 year

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So apparently Croatia will perform at Eurovision naked if they win (https://www.tumblr.com/dduane/716871796513751040?source=share) and I think Buck Havard will be upset that someone stole his idea!

LOL yes they announced it in the semifinal! They did get through to the final so we'll see. The idea is if they win the Grand Final they'll do the encore naked, which, I'm sure they have something prepared like a series of musical instruments or similar, since performing naked is against the regs (also performing with live animals, I believe, there was a foofarah a few years ago).

That's why Buck was like "Tights and a fig leaf" -- he knew Eurovision regs, but it's also a little easter egg -- it references Robbie Williams, who was somewhat the personality model for Buck, and who has never been particularly shy about going nude, wearing beige underwear adorned with leaves to appear on The X-Factor.

I'm not going to lie, watching the semifinal yesterday I did spend a lot of time thinking about what Buck and Caleb were up to. There was so much about Eurovision itself that I didn't get to cover -- fans, the little sketches they do sometimes during voting or between acts, that kind of thing. Like yesterday several of the groups taught the host their signature dance moves, and it would have been super funny for Caleb to just be like "Here's how you sit" or for Buck to teach the Mick Jagger strut he uses.

I think if I have this much staying power eventually there will be a second Eurovision novel that will be from the fan POV -- a different Eurovision, with different performers, but something that talks about the experience of Eurovision rather than being set against that backdrop. (In either Royals/Ramblers or the Football novel, I'm trying to recall which, Buck mentions the king has him and Caleb co-writing a song to send to the next Eurovision, but says they're just writing the song, not performing it.)

#shivadhverse #eurovision

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jxstacey · 11 days

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You see some preteens and kids walking around, looking a bit lost but otherwise fine. Do you want to approach them?

@tmntstorycomp

(Might as well use the IDW for now)

*Two cops were stepping out of a patrol car in the distance, one was in a parka looking like Patrick Wilson and the other wore shades and a Mickey Mick Jagger haircut with a poor aftershave, both resembling the artstyle of the idw comics, they were following a lead on a “Story Competition” that could be connected to a local diner shootout, they were supposedly at the location but then the Jagger officer noticed the kids walking up the street*

???: “Lou.”

???: “Yeah Bradford?”

Bradford then pointed to the lost turtles .

Bradford: “Those kids seem lost.”

The officers didn’t take long on what to do and walked over to the preteens, it was their job after all to help people out.

Bradford: “Hey kids.”

Lou: “You all seem pretty lost right now, what are y’all are doing out on your own?”

Bradford: “Where’s your parents at?”

Lou: “Chris.”

Bradford: “What I’m just doing what we’re supposed to do!”

Lou glared at the deputy for being so blunt before turning back to the turtles.

Lou: “Sorry about my partner he’s not from around here. Now look I don’t wanna scare you but if you tell us what you’re trying to look for then uh, we could help you out. It’s our job after all, you can tell us if there’s something wrong.”

Bradford: “…Lou you know you’re from Minnesota right-

Lou put his hand up to get Bradford to stop trying to argue, got a good cop/alright cop dynamic here.

(Yeah sorry for the long ass prompt, don’t got any decent drawing skills so i usually write instead)

#tmntstorycomp

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whorekneecentral · 1 year

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the prompts “do you think of me when you touch yourself?” and “don’t pretend to be innocent now” with sergio ramos pls 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

i rlly like the friends w benefits au with driver!reader so maybe as like a continuation of that? like y/n and sergio meet again during a party and y/n realizes she caught feelings so she avoids him … one thing leads to another andddd sergio makes her touch herself while he watches .. 😻😻

thank you!! I can definitely write another part for you!! // prompts: “do you think of me when you touch yourself?” & “don’t pretend to be innocent now”

part one of driver!reader x fwb!sergio

The race weekend had officially ended, the 2022 race season had come to an end and you were beyond grateful. You needed a break and tonight, you were being dragged out by Mick, the two of you would be joining Seb and Hanna as they had a kid free night.

Now when you met Sergio on Friday, you hadn’t expected things to move so quickly nor did you expect to see him again tonight.

Sebastian was trying to talk Mick into taking a jagger bomb with you two when you felt a hand on your lower back. You turned to see Sergio beside you, “hey pretty lady.”

You had avoided him when you saw him in the garage earlier that day, you were focused on the race. “What are you doing here?” You asked, a bit confused.

“Did you get my number?” His eyes find yours, the dull lighting in the packed club wasn’t as horrible as it seemed to be; every single on of his features highlighted.

“I did-” “Here!” Seb was already drunk when he passed the unwanted shot to Sergio, “take it!” He tells the Spaniard. Sebastian got an arm over Hanna's shoulder, a sappy grin on his face as he shouts something in German before you all down the brown liquid.

The little kick the jagger had gave you the confidence to talk to Sergio; as if you hadn't woke up in his bed that morning.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers in your ear, his arm around you. You leaned into him, a hand on his chest. “Should we get out of here?” You asked, looking up at him.

Your eyes resembled something of a baby deer, soft and innocent but he of all people knows that’s not innocence; that’s lust.

His hand tangled with yours after you hugged Seb and Hanna goodnight, promising to visit. Mick had been pulled into a conversation with someone else, not even noticing when you left but you were certain that even in his drunk state, Seb would take Mick home with them.

It was the early hours of the morning, no one was outside except a few people smoking or finding their way back to where they came from. The night was warm, the breeze blowing softly as your heels click along the concrete towards the car.

Sergio’s hands were on your hips, steering you to the backseat of his car rather than the front.

The moment the door shut, his lips are on yours, pulling you onto his lap. “Do you think of me when you touch yourself?” He mumbles against your lips and you mutter a no, hands tangled in his hair.

Sergio rolls his eyes, “I know you do, you admitted the much.” His eyes find yours, moving you to lay back on the cold leather. You had let a few things slip last night; one too many margaritas equaled loose lips and secrets spilled.

“I like these,” Sergio says, his fingers trailing along the black lace under your dress.

"Show me how you touch yourself, I wanna watch." He says, his words catching you off guard.

You look at him, confused. “What ?”

“Don’t pretend to be innocent now.” He drags a finger up your thigh towards where your hand was resting. “So show me.”

“Are you serious?” Sergio ignores your question and pulls your hand between your legs before looking up at you.

“Yes, I am.”

You were still unsure what prompted this but you knew if you wanted to him to fuck you, you should do what he wanted; so you did. Your fingers moving exactly the way it does when you’re home in bed.

“Like that?” Sergio asks, his eyes fixed on your hand, watching as it moves exactly how he does if he was doing it to you.

“Mhm hm,” your head leaned back on the seat behind you, eyes fluttering closed.

He smiles to himself, leaning forward to kiss along your chest. “So perfect for me,” he whispers against your skin, his hand reaching down to wrap around your wrist, “let me give you want you want, darling.”

#I switched a bit! hope this is okay!#sergio ramos #sergio ramos smut #sergio ramos x reader

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thegroovywitch · 1 year

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October 16, 1972: Page, Plant and the Indian jam lost to history

It was a slow Monday in October 1972, and the Slip Disc nightclub in Mumbai could hardly be described as “jumping”.

Around 10 people were in the venue, which was the hangout for the city’s nascent rock scene. Slip Disc measured just 30 by 18 feet, with a third of its floor-space taken up by a stage and DJ booth.

That night, three strangers walked in. They were long-haired Westerners who’d just been refused entry into Blow Up, a far more staid nightclub underneath the grand waterfront Taj Mahal Hotel where they were staying.

Madhukar Dhas, aka Madoo, the singer in Indian psychedelic rock band Atomic Forest, was in Slip Disc that evening. “We didn’t recognise them as they walked in,” Dhas, now 72, tells me. “I thought, ‘Who are these guys?’”. But a second glance changed all that. “I thought, ‘Oh shoot. It’s Led Zeppelin.’”

Robert Plant and Jimmy Page were the singer and guitarist in arguably the world’s biggest band. The Zeppelin members were en route home from a tour of Japan, which itself was part of a vast global tour to promote Led Zeppelin IV, their career-high album.

That year, the band had already played to hundreds of thousands of delirious fans from Tucson to Tokyo, and here were Page and Plant – along with tour manager Richard Cole – in a broom-cupboard dive-bar in downtown Mumbai. Not only that, but Atomic Forest and a handful of other Indian rock bands had made a career out of playing covers of Zeppelin, Stones and Jethro Tull tracks. These men were living legends. And they were now in their midst.

What happened next must rank as one of the more extraordinary “I was there” moments in rock history. It also yielded one of music’s most tantalising lost bootlegs. The evening had a broader cultural significance too. In the retelling and the myth-making that accompanied that night, the events at Slip Disc played a role in establishing Western rock ’n’ roll music in India.

As soon as Page, Plant and Cole arrived at the venue and sat down, it was clear to everyone who they were. Slip Disc’s owner, a man called Ramzan, sent over bottles of local beer: it had no head and glistened with what Dhas said looked like soap bubbles. The trio drank. “They were getting tipsy,” Dhas remembers, “but there was no entertainment. A band was there but it wasn’t their time to play. So this guy Ramzan comes to me and says, ‘Come on, sing!’”

Then just 22 years old, Dhas froze with nerves, telling the owner that his band wasn’t contracted to sing at Slip Disc. “I said, ‘It’s Robert Plant, I can’t sing in front of him.’ [Ramzan] dug his nails into my ribs and said, ‘Go sing, you bastard.’ He was desperate. So I thought, ‘What the hell.’”

Dhas took to the stage with a band comprising a musician called Willie on guitar and a drummer called Jamal (possibly from the band Velvett Fogg). Some reports suggest that the bassist with local band Human Bondage, a man called Xerxes Gobhai, also played. They’d never rehearsed together. After a brief conflab, the group launched into Honky Tonk Woman by the Stones, Dhas doing his best to channel Mick Jagger’s manic energy as one of the world’s greatest rock vocalists sat within spitting distance.

“Plant was about six feet away,” he says. “Jimmy Page was probably 10 feet away. They were enjoying themselves.” He dared to catch Plant’s eye. “Robert Plant gave me the thumbs-up. I thought, ‘Oh my God.’ It was the highlight of my musical career.”

As Madooo sang, word seeped onto the street about the VIPs in Slip Disc. The venue started to fill up. By the time the Stones cover was over, the crowd had swollen to around 50 people – or full capacity. The audience turned their attention to the Zeppelin men swigging beer. A chant of “Jam, jam, jam!” slowly filled the venue.

To everyone’s surprise, Page and Plant stood and walked to the stage. A frantic few minutes followed, as Cole tried to get the best possible sound from the amps and Page found that one of the guitars had been strung with piano strings. “You could only get what was available,” Dhas says. Ironically, Page and Plant had an aircraft full of the most expensive and cutting-edge musical equipment at the airport, but customs officials were refusing to release it. They tuned up and played.

Precise recollections of the impromptu set-list vary. It was recorded by Slip Disc’s resident DJ, Arul Harris, but the whereabouts of the only tape remain unknown. According to Dhas, Page and Plant started with a bluesy ad-lib about turning up at Blow Up, the club under the Taj, and not being allowed in. They had apparently gone to the club in traditional dress – kurta tops and Kolhapuri chappal shoes – and the doorman had dismissed them as hippies. By the time they arrived at Slip Disc, they had changed into Western clothes.

Plant sang in his distinctive high voice, with his trademark vocal stammer: ‘I was walking down / And the man wouldn’t let me in / The m-m-mmmmaaan…’ Meanwhile, Dhas remembers, the “dumbfounded” rhythm section tried their best to join in. After about ten minutes of the Blow Up jam, the band segued into Whole Lotta Love from 1969’s Led Zeppelin II. The crowd went predictably wild, although Dhas found himself with a job to do.

The microphone that Plant was using was called an Ahuja mic. It was the only type available in India at the time, and it was screwed onto its stand, unlike the handheld ones that Plant was used to yanking away. As the singer tried to untwist the microphone, its connection with the cable loosened, and his voice cut in and out. Dhas dashed forward to hold the cable close to the mic so it made a connection. He recalls: “I was literally six inches from [Plant’s] face when he was screaming ‘Loooooove’. I was deaf for about two hours after that. That high-pitched voice right into my right ear – oh boy.”

Others who were present have recalled the band starting with Rock and Roll and ending with Black Dog, with the Blow Up jam happening in the middle. Either way, Page and Plant played for just under half an hour. As the cheers faded, Plant promised the pair would return the following evening. “We listen to you, you listen to us, we’re all one in this music,” he is reported to have said.

They returned the next day as promised, only to find the world and his wife at Slip Disc, many with cameras. Page and Plant hated it, staying for around 10 minutes only. Dhas says it was a “fiasco”: “When the crowd turned up they became these rock stars again.”

Plant has acknowledged the role that the night played in spawning rock in India:

“Jimmy and I played in a club in Bombay in 1972,” the singer said in 2012. “Somehow or other we ended up in there with loads and loads of illicit substances. Some guy is writing a book about rock in India – and apparently it was born in this club, with Page and I wired out of our faces.” (He also recalled playing the drums, something other accounts don’t mention.)

In 1981, Plant appeared as a guest on New York’s WNEW 102.7FM rock radio station. Dhas was having a martini with his wife when they heard the show, and he decided to ring in. “I kept calling, and my wife said, ‘Forget about it, you’re not going to get through.’ I said, ‘No. Where there’s a will there’s a way’, and I kept on trying.” He eventually got through, telling the receptionist: “I’d like to say a word to Robert Plant. I am a guy from India, and we jammed.’”

The disbelieving receptionist hung up. But Dhas rang back on a different number and suggested they run his story by Plant. They did, and eventually the Led Zeppelin singer came on the line. “He remembered the night with fondness,” Dhas says.

The sheer joy of the Slip Disc jam is still present in Dhas’s retelling. Plant’s voice may have stopped ringing in his ear – but the memory of that Monday night in October on the Mumbai waterfront lives on.

#led zeppelin #jimmy page #robert plant #1972 #70s #classic rock #rock #hard rock #70s rock #by dee dee

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