Me two years ago: *sends friend link to fic* hey you should try this! It’s really well written and has an awesome plot, and you can easily skip over the “adult” parts like I did! It’s a good length too, about 50k words, so it’s like reading a nice long boook :)
Me now: *shoving phone in friends face* YOU HAVE TO READ THIS RIGHT NOW ITS 2k OF PURE UNADULTERATED SMUT AND ITS FUCKING HOT AS LIVING HELL JUST SO MUCH S EX FUCKKKK
Hey!!!! Your art is AMAZING!!!!! I love your style!!!! ( ＾∇＾). Your art is really soft and inspiring. And the way you draw hair is SO FLUFFY!!! I LOVE IT!! Do you maybe have any advise for me on how to draw hair, for all hair that doesn't go in one direction (like Mihashi's hair) HAVE AN AWESOME DAY! o(^▽^)o
so there u go anon hope this was helpful! Thank you for your sweet words and have a nice day too! ^^
hi! i was wondering if you could write something about a peter x fem!reader where she’s homeschooled and doesn’t have friends and then she meets peter and they become close ? thanks!!
a/n - i changed the request up a bit, and made the reader tony’s daughter to give it an even more ‘fluffy’ feel to it and i think it failed horribly BUT thank you so much for 1k!!! i can’t even believe all the love i’m getting for these fics, it makes me so happy to know you guys like them :) don’t forget to request a peter parker/spider-man fic if you’d like and follow!
I sat at the dining table just across from the living room, headphones in as I watched a math lesson that was just uploaded onto my school’s website. It was just around 10 AM when my school day started, a bowl of freshly cut fruits on the table as I took notes in my small book, sometimes glancing around to see if something more entertaining was going on.
Being the kid of a billionaire had it’s perks, but some downsides to it as well. Sure, I was able to access anything through money, but I was stuck at home a good 99% of my life, hidden away from the public eye at the request of my father. I’ve never been able to go to school and have a ‘normal’ life, with my only friends being the middle aged people the world calls the Avengers.
I paused the lesson and took my headphones out, heading out to the kitchen counter to pour a cup of coffee for myself, only to hear the door opening.
Hi! Quick question, how can you single handedly be one of the funniest blogs while be one of the kindest muns on this website, combined with an amazing art style? Are we all secretly living in an anime? Are you the protagonist? When are you going to unlock your final form? Roughly how far away are we from the inevitable "beach party" arc?
Castiel was a gentle lover, to a fault really, clearly terrified of hurting Dean. He supposed it was hardly surprising, with the strength of an angel all it would take was one moment of carelessness and he could destroy Dean. After all, before Dean, Cas had never had sex while in possession of his grace. Dean bore it out for as long as he could, but soon he couldn’t take it. Every kind word and soft caress sent agonising shards of guilt radiating through him, far worse than anything he had experienced in hell. He didn’t deserve this, couldn’t.
“Cas?” Dean spoke into the sheets as Cas softly topped him from behind.
“Can we…” Dean trailed off, he couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t vocalise something as personal as this.
“Can we what? What do you want?” Cas walked around the bed to where he lay, kneeling down so his face was level with Dean’s, concern creasing those beautiful features. Dean sat up slightly.
“I just… It just…” He couldn’t find the words.
Cas reached a hand out to stroke Dean’s cheek, no doubt feeling the tension in his jaw, seeing the fear of rejection in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Dean looked down, scared that Cas would read his thoughts, and be scared away. Cas leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on Dean’s lips. “You know you can tell me anything.” He said quietly, eyes conveying the heartfelt conviction of his words, the honesty of an angel.
“You’re being…Too nice to me.” Dean looked directly at him with those last words. Too late to turn back now.
He could see confusion cloud Castiel’s expression, he wondered if the angel would even have the human knowledge to understand his meaning, then it cleared.
“I don’t have to be.”
With that, he slammed Dean back down on the mattress, holding him down with a firm hand pressed into the small of his back as he moved to straddle him. He thrust into Dean, hard enough for the headboard to crash against the wall.
Dean cried out. He felt Castiel falter for a moment, lessening the pressure on his back with the hint of a question. Dean nodded his head a fraction of an inch, and that was all the confirmation Cas needed. He resumed fucking Dean, each thrust somehow harder than the last, reaching depths Dean didn’t know he had.
Dean grabbed the sheets, fists curling around the material in an attempt to ground himself. Cas noticed his movements, then in a single smooth motion, pulled his arms away from the bedspread and pinned them to his lower back, effortlessly holding them there with one hand as the other grabbed a fistful of hair and shoved his face down hard into the mattress.
Dean shook as an orgasm was wrenched from his soul, his hips violently bucking beneath Castiel’s punishing weight. Castiel’s own orgasm following close behind.
Cas collapsed on top of Dean, releasing his hands and his hair as he did so. Dean just lay there as Cas planted tender kisses across his shoulders and the back of his neck. It was only when he moved up to kiss his cheek that Cas realised he was crying, tears streaming down his face and soaking the mattress below, his shoulders starting to shake from the silent sobs. Cas hurriedly rolled him onto his side, horrified that he had caused such pain in the man he loved so much.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” The words rushed out, the panic increasing as Dean only seemed to cry harder, his sobs vocal now. “Dean I-”
“Thank you.” Dean spoke hoarsely, the tears not letting up despite his words. Cas was utterly confused.
“I can heal you if you’re hurt, let me-” he reached out a hand to heal whatever damage he had done, but Dean took hold of his wrist and gently moved it away.
“I’m not hurt Cas. I’m… I’m great. I just… I’d needed that for so long…” The tears that had begun to let up flowed down his cheeks once again. Dean turned his face away, feeling shame redden his face as his senses returned. Cas sat back down beside him, pulling him up with the lightest of touches, then brought his face to his and kissed the tears away. Dean leant into the angel’s touch and kissed him softly, slowly, and completely honestly.
“Thank you.” Cas murmured against his lips, his voice deep and emotional.
“What for?” Dean asked, feeling that he should be the one doing the thanking.
“For letting me see you, the real you.”
Dean responded with a deep kiss, not knowing the words to describe all that he felt in that moment, he didn’t need to. Castiel knew all he wanted to say. He let out a blissful sigh, and lay down to rest in the warmth of his angel’s arms, at complete peace for the first time.
The heaviness of summer’s got me feelin’
more tired than ever.
Sun-kissed skin, more like washed out
Stench of sweat makes me sick,
too many spiders, too much time
to do nothing but live w/ myself.
This poet’s run out of words
come back soon.
summer depression! by meiyu.f (via coolvilles) / POEM FROM UPCOMING CHAPBOOK ‘THE GOLDEN HOUR’
“How are you feeling today?” Absolutely nothing to be honest. Most of the time it is absolutely nothing. If anything, like none of this is real. These people, aren’t real, I am not real, the sky out there isn’t real, our society isn’t real, this body I am in isn’t real. Nothing is real nothing is substantial nothing nothing nothing. I’m not ever sure I am awake, for all I know I am in a constant nightmare and I cannot wake up. Or am I even sleeping? I don’t really sleep anymore and I don’t see the difference between the nightmares and this life. They’re all the same, everything is bland and white noise. I feel nothing.
Erm Flintwood please if you're still doing 150. * Winning smile *
pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood
setting: modern, non-magical, soulmates-at-first-touch au
word count: 1394
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet.
It’s worse than that.
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet, the flats of his knuckles crunching against the guy’s jaw, hard enough to draw blood and leave a mark and hurt—and then there’s a strange fluttering sensation erupting in the pit of Marcus’s stomach, a comforting, calming warmth suffusing the blood in his veins and the marrow in his bones and it’s exactly like how they’d described it in Health class, the awareness—the connection—slotting into place so seamlessly that he’s astonished he’d never noticed something missing before now.
“Oh, fuck,” Marcus blurts out. “Oh—fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Marcus’s soulmate—who’s tall and lean and has the prettiest brown eyes, what the shit—is just sprawled out on the dirty arena floor, blinking and blinking and prodding gingerly at the bruise that’s already beginning to blossom—
“No,” the guy says firmly. “This isn’t happening.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus immediately snaps. “I rejected you first.”
The guy snorts, kind of irritatingly sarcastic, before grimacing. His emotions, so far as Marcus can tell, are all over the place; shock and dismay and frustration and—very, very deeply—a flickering, almost unwilling tremor of interest.
“It wouldn’t work, anyway,” the guy goes on, more loudly. “You have terrible opinions about hockey.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus snaps again. “You’re the one in the shitty jersey.”
“He’s won three Cups.”
“Yeah, and he was a fucking healthy scratch for two of them,” Marcus retorts. “Try again.”
“Hockey is a team sport,” the guy says hotly. “It isn't—it isn’t about individual accomplishments.”
Marcus rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever,” he drawls, “but your shitty jersey is still shitty.”
The guy’s mouth falls open, and Marcus can feel the sour note of his indignation—the jagged spike of his outrage—as clearly as if it were his own. “Jesus fucking Christ,” the guy sputters, shaking his head like he’s got a nervous tic. “What are you so—what are you so angry about?”
Marcus raises his eyebrows. “Um,” he says slowly, because, really, what the shit, “I’m not angry. I’m confused.”
“No.” The guy frowns. “You’re definitely angry. I feel it, like—” He gestures vaguely to his chest and upper abdomen. “Right there. Like heartburn.”
Marcus’s nostrils flare, and he scratches viciously at the side of his neck to distract himself from the fact that this complete fucking stranger with boy band hair and, and Bambi eyes is apparently better at deciphering Marcus’s emotions than Marcus is.
“Oh, hell,” the guy sighs, “now you're—embarrassed, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to—hey, come on, where are you—where are you going? You can’t just—hey! Come back!”
Marcus does not come back.
And the ensuing wave of regret that pulses through Marcus’s sternum is lukewarm and salty and depressingly difficult to pinpoint the origins of.
It’s not his, he thinks stubbornly.
Marcus lasts two and a half days before the persistent invisible tugging at his gut becomes too annoying to bear.
He follows it.
He follows it to a bench in Riverside Park that’s near where the gross little fish and chips stand is, and the scent of old frying oil undercut by whatever the fuck is currently decomposing in the Hudson is—less nauseating than it arguably fucking should be, seriously, what the shit.
His soulmate, his soulmate, is sitting with his legs spread obnoxiously wide, wrists crossed and hands dangling in his lap, squinting intently up at the clouds like he’s waiting for them to tell him what to do next. It’s endearing. Maybe. Marcus’s stomach is in knots—a tangled mess of dread and unease and, abruptly, relief.
“Oh,” the guy says, quirking his lips into something that Marcus chooses to generously describe as a smile. The bruise on the guy’s jaw is a lurid, chalky looking violet, partially obscured by the auburn of his stubble. “You found me.”
“Of course I fucking found you,” Marcus says, dropping down next to him. Their knees brush, just for a moment, and it’s like—lightning, bright and fierce and sizzling, coiling around the base of his spine. “There’s been this—this buzzing, in the back of my head—”
“Yeah,” the guy interjects glumly. “I know. I would've—if you hadn’t. I would’ve tried to find you.” He pauses. “I missed you, I guess, which is—weird.”
Marcus scowls down at the sidewalk. There’s a crack in the cement, and it’s dirty, gritty with loose gravel around the edges, splintering off into a dozen hairline fractures before disappearing into the grass. He can feel his own surprise at the guy’s admission, and it’s so—uncomfortable, knowing that there’s nothing he can hide behind. Making himself smaller, holding himself still; they’re not antidotes for anything, not anymore, and this guy—his soulmate—he’s got a rabbit-fast heartbeat and an intimidatingly focused way of feeling things. Marcus wonders how he’s supposed to get used to that.
“I’m Marcus,” he eventually offers, voice emerging gruffer than he’d have liked. “My name, I mean. It's—Marcus.”
The guy turns, slightly, to look over at Marcus. “Oliver. I’m Oliver.” He hesitates before he goes on, sounding nonplussed, “I still can’t believe you fucking hit me. Over a jersey.”
Marcus huffs. “It’s a really shitty jersey.”
Oliver grins, short and sweet and self-deprecating, before nudging at Marcus’s ribs with the point of his elbow. “I’ve, uh. I’ve been told I’ve got kind of a…bad habit of, of taking things too seriously.” His mouth twists, and the stabbing ache of some long-ago insult, or argument; it lances through the pads of Marcus’s fingers, stinging and sharp. “Obsessive. That’s what—I dunno. That’s what I’ve been told. I can be…obsessive. About—whatever.”
“Obsessive,” Marcus repeats, shaking out his hand. “That’s your—one big fault. Enthusiasm.”
Oliver shrugs, easy and casual, like it doesn’t matter, like Marcus can’t literally feel the crippling uncertainty—the tension, swampy and thick—weighing down his limbs. “Enthusiasm is…too nice of a word for it, I think.”
“Bullshit,” Marcus hears himself say, with absolutely zero fucking direction from his brain, or his conscience, or his admittedly flimsy sense of self-preservation. “Enthusiasm is the perfect fucking word for it.”
Oliver startles, slightly, eyes widening a fraction. There’s a coolly refreshing burst of—happiness, maybe; gratitude, definitely—coating the back of Marcus’s tongue. Citrus. Summer. Chlorine and coconut. It’s fucking nice.
“Oh. Um. Okay,” Oliver says, haltingly. “Thanks.”
A tentative silence descends between them on the bench. Marcus drums his fingers against the inseam of his jeans, jiggling his foot and glaring at a rotting spear of tree bark and swallowing around a metallic-tasting lump in his throat that he instinctively wants to label curiosity.
“Sorry,” Marcus grunts, slouching forward. “About the—hitting you. I just—sorry. I was angry. I get angry.”
Oliver stares at him, bottom lip clutched between his teeth, and there’s a swirl of something taking root in his lungs, something chewy and rich, like caramel, so that every breath he takes in is like burnt brown sugar crystallizing against the roof of his mouth, but then there’s more, too, a champagne bubble pop of amusement, and—
“It’s alright,” Oliver says wryly. “I heard I was wearing a pretty shitty jersey.”
Marcus snorts, and then groans, and then laughs, almost despite himself, before confessing, as quietly as he can manage—