steve is an aphrodite kid and has the rare ability to charmspeak but he tries to use it on reader but it backfires on him because they're immune to it and bickering/bantering ensues!
(also please correct me if im wrong if some demigods can be immune to charmspeak because its been a hot min since i've brushed up on my PJO lore)
i will be your fool | 1.3k words
about: mostly similar to the request but i did take some creative liberties
c.w. none, some angst in the beginning but pretty minor, fluffy cute banter, hopefully the beginning of a series
a/n: got all giggly while writing this, steve is a loser loverboy and reader thinks that’s hilarious, reader isn’t immune but a secret second option ;), divider from @/cursed-carmine per usual
Steve doesn’t like being able to charmspeak people. He hasn’t told anyone besides Silena about it, even though she hugged him and told him it’s a great ability that he should be proud of.
But she didn’t tell any of their siblings and he knows why. It’s a scary ability.
All demigods are scary to normal people. They’re stronger and tougher— not only are they the troubled kids who get into fights, they win the fights. That usually entails leaving whoever they fought beat up and a little worse for wear.
Steve’s dad gave him an insurmountable amount of grief when he knocked out three of Tommy H’s baby teeth in third grade. He totally deserved it though, he called Vicki Carmichael a “bitch.” Who calls a nine year old girl a bitch? Who teaches a nine-year-old that word?
Ares kids are worse, he’s heard stories of them breaking people’s arms as kindergarteners. Still, he’d take being a born brute over a born manipulator.
He told himself he would only use it if the situation is dire, if it’s really necessary, and he’s kept that promise to himself. Up until now at least.
It started small, Lacey took the last blueberry pancake from the breakfast buffet. He only meant it as a teasing jab when he complained “that was supposed to be mine!”
She passed it over to him with a glazed over look in her eyes and Steve felt guilt crawling up into his chest, cold and instantaneous. When they sat down at the Aphrodite table he wordlessly gave it back to her along with his eggs and bacon mumbling something about not being hungry.
He ran out of shampoo the other day and asked if he could borrow Mitchell’s without giving it any thought. He handed him the bottle with the same empty and thoughtless look in his eyes. Steve left the cabin immediately and went for a walk circling the entirety of camp twice.
He’s always given himself strict rules about charmspeak. It’s only to be done to people in absolutely dire situations, where someone’s life or the fate of the world is at stake. It’s never meant to be used in a petty or gods forbid callous manner.
Now it’s spiraling out of control, and he’s terrified of speaking to anyone at all.
He ends up speaking to you though.
It was meant to be a quick errand. He left his spear in the training arena and went to grab it before dinner. The littles have knife throwing lessons with one of the Hermes campers after the advanced melee timeslot. He’d kick himself if one of them gets injured by tripping over it.
When he walks back into the arena he finds you attacking a training dummy with his spear. He’s seen you a few times— you’re in the Hermes cabin but he’s pretty sure you’re unclaimed.
He stops in the doorway, not because you noticed him, but because he forgets how to move for a second.
You’re fast, faster than you should be with a weapon not sized for you. The spear is too big in your hands, it sits uncomfortably and he can see the strain in your arm from handling it. Still what you lack in brute force you make up with precision. Rather than hacking the dummy like he would have, you’re strategically dismantling it.
If that dummy was a person, they’d be dead ten times over. Something hot coils in his stomach at the thought.
He waits until there’s a pause in your movements to come up behind you and clear his throat. Your eyes snap to him like a wild animal, steadying the spear like you’re ready to run it right through him if you decide he’s a threat.
“Uh that’s mine,” he lands on after a moment of fumbling for words.
Your shoulders relax and you lower the spear, he takes that to be a good sign. Your eyes roam over him momentarily, maybe you’re trying to figure out if you’ve seen him around before. Then your face relaxes into a lazy smile like you find him amusing.
“Is it now?” you ask, voice thick with— is that mockery? “You shouldn’t have left it laying around. The littles come here in five minutes.”
“Yeah I uh that was an accident.” Steve’s eyes train on a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead and catching on your nose. “It was only a few minutes ago, I came back for it.”
“Uh huh,” you reply, and it takes him a second to realize you’re still making fun of him. “Very responsible of you.”
“I don’t usually leave it laying around,” he defends with a hint of shame in his voice. He begs his mind to come up with something witty, to banter and make you crack a real smile. His mind does not comply.
“It’s too heavy, if it was lighter you could do more damage.”
“It’s not yours!”
Oh great. Now he just sounds like a toddler stamping his foot. Isn’t being an Aphrodite kid supposed to make flirting and wowing pretty girls a whole lot easier?
That gets not a smile, but a snicker out of you. “Maybe I want it.”
“Just give it back,” he says, expecting his voice to come out as snippy and maybe a little childish. Instead it comes out soft and with something careless laced between the vowels.
The coil previously in his stomach shoots up to anxiety in his throat. Well shit, he’s bolting the second you hand him the spear and never speaking to you again.
You blink, processing the sudden shift in his tone. Then you laugh in his face. “Did you just try to charmspeak me?”
For a moment your laughter makes him want to smile, it’s a nice sound he’s earned. Then he panics.
“No! Definitely not!” He snaps, face flushing with humiliation.
“You so did!” You're laughing harder now. The sun hits it just right, illuminating your skin and making his face feel hotter.
“I didn’t mean to!” He insists, embarrassment and shame crawling up his throat. “I just— I didn’t want to— I just wanted you to give back and sometimes it happens— I swear I have a rule—”
“A rule?” you repeat, laughing finally calming down, but your chest still rising and falling.
“Yes a rule,” He says miserably. “A big one.”
“Oh well that’s… responsible of you,” you reply, the lazy smirk returning as you plant the spear on the ground and lean on it.
“I don’t use it unless it’s a life or death situation,” he finally finds his voice and hopes the flush in his face is tapering down. “I never use it on people.”
“Not even to get your spear back?”
“No, of course not,” he shakes his head.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyways,” you shrug your shoulders and toss the spear to him. “Maybe you should try practicing more often.”
That statement is almost enough to get a laugh out of him. The last few weeks have been unintentional practice that leaves guilt as a parasite gnawing on his skin.
It hits him like the wind being knocked out of his lungs as you drag the dummy back into the corner you found it. His charmspeak didn’t affect you in the slightest, hell you laughed in his face. Some indescribable feeling spreads across his chest like a salve being spread across a burn.
“...How did you do that?” Steve asks, a plea wrapped up in a soft murmur.
The mischievous glint in your eyes drops at his voice— gods does he look that pathetic? You open your mouth to respond and his breath hitches in anticipation, but then the moment is cut short by a group of first graders running into the arena yelling your name.
You stumble a little as the kids tug on your hands and the hem of your shirt. Smiling down and ruffling their hair as you greet them. You’re pushed away by them herding you to the weapons rack like a current carrying you away from him.
You look over your shoulder and mouth ‘later’ at him.
He goes back to cabin ten and immediately snatches the master schedule from Silena’s nightstand to check when the knife throwing class ends.
I am currently on a sort-of-hiatus, taking time for my head. But I still check my notifs and am severely disappointed (but not surprised) to see yet another community member using AI to generate their "work." There isn't much to say other than I am heavily irked by this news, especially after another account so recently being discovered doing the same thing. The user has now deleted their blog.
Don't be angry with yourself if you have enjoyed work in the past and then found out that it's AI, a lot of the time it's difficult to clock. It's what you do after that matters. Unlike the post, delete your reblog of it, unfollow and/or block the user. Or, if you want to, put your opinion out and make sure that your friends know, let the AI user know they are doing a bad thing by using it.
To those who are also disappointed at this revelation, don't be too bogged down by it as it's only fanfiction. I know we all have our favourite stories, but make sure that that isn't the only place you are drawing happiness from. And you will surely find more fiction to love, as the community is very passionate and excellent art is put out almost daily. You could even try writing your own stories and making your own art of what ideas you'd love to see! Don't allow your art fear to hold you back from seeing what you're capable of x
Generative AI is theft. It is invasive, disrespectful towards artists of all avenues, and takes away the beauty and importance of the creative process. It withdraws the heart of art and leaves behind a poor, warped husk of what it should be. Not only that but it's detrimental to the environment, and you should care about that. Whether you use it to "assist" you with idea generation, or whether you get it to "write" or "paint" it for you, it's extremely wrong.
I advise that if you desire to make art, do it yourself and with your friends. Enjoy the process, don't be set on the result or the feedback. Generative AI is already said to be affecting its user's ability to learn. Don't allow the corporations and machines to control you, to tell you your worth, or to diminish you as a person. Nurture your mind and body, create, love, feel. Connect with real people, real art.
We are very lucky to have this space to share and create and befriend. The people who traipse in and lie in whatever way they choose to should be told they are wrong in a mature manner. Don't "crash out" and spew at them, just tell them they should reflect and change what they're funnelling their energy into.
Lastly, if you use generative AI to "create" your "work", kindly turn on your heel and fuck off out of these artistic communities and off of my blog. You're extremely unwelcome in a community of genuine and very real artists.
i’ve never been more shocked in my entire life… another reminder that you can’t trust anyone and especially kpop men YOU DON’T KNOW THEM!!! i hope the victims get justice… sm held on to lucas so what taeil might have done is on a whole new level… it must be horrid the way they’re handling this
logan and his controversially young girlfriend, headcanons. — content warning age gap. nsfw. both characters are of the age of consent. use of the word ‘daddy’ and ‘father’. 18+ only.
logan’s notoriously short-tempered. that, and there isn’t much that can calm him down— so he often lives life perpetually bothered. when he met you, however, there wasn’t a single person who knew logan that couldn’t see the way you leveled him out. kept him calm. only thing is, they don’t know you’ve achieved this unknowingly— the x-man uncharacteristically mellow when you’re around because of how fucking hard his dick gets when he’s with you.
it’s not like you can help it, either. you’re so young, your generation so blasé, so unforgiving and unapologetically true to themselves. what you want, you get, and you make it known that the wolverine is the prize you’ve set your eyes on. it only spurrs you on, his attraction to you— light touches and lewd whispers a drug to the man. he gives you all you want, and more.
where he’d normally criticize others for a relationship like yours, he turns a blind eye to the underlying problems with it. when wade makes a snarky comment after seeing the hickeys sprawled along his tensed neck (again, a trademark of your youth. logan was too young for hickeys, or so wade told him), he finds himself defensive of you.
“if she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t chase it.”
and he’s right. if you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t chase it. but you do. you want it oh, so, bad, and it ignites that twisted, perverted part of him once locked away. anything to remind him of how young you are, how wrong it is? gets his dick so fucking wet he can’t do anything other than indulge in it.
“bet no one’s fucked this cunt like i have, huh? need a real man to do this shit.”
“old enough to be your fuckin’ father, you know that, you greedy girl? gonna let daddy fill you up, hm?”
takes you to bars you’re too young to be in because he loves when you get drunk and plaster yourself all over him in front of all the gross, slimy men who wish you were theirs. keeps his claws unsheathed when he wraps his arms around you and shoves his tongue down your throat so everybody knows you belong to him and only him.
pretends to hate the clothes you wear. plays big bad boyfriend when other men comment on just how good you look so he has an excuse to bend you over anywhere he pleases, just to remind you who you belong to.
where he’d normally shy away from any form of pda— he basks in it with you. one hand on your ass as you walk side by side, gripping the flesh like you might run away from him at any given point. pulls you to his lips at any and all stops just to refresh the taste of you in his mouth. pulls you onto his lap in restaurants and fondles your breasts the corner of the booth where he knows the waiter can see each time he comes to check on you.
never thought he’d be able to find someone to keep up with his stamina. tells you that you keep him young. sometimes, you’re able to go longer than he is— using his cock while he busies himself with other mundane activities until you’re worn out. nuzzle your face on his thighs next to his flaccid cock just waiting for it to harden again, shaking excitedly as you’re able to wrap your lips and kitten lick your way to stuffing his impossibly large member in your mouth.
and boy, does he love watching you make a mess of yourself all over him without him having to lift a finger. where he thought he had the tendency to be demanding and impatient, you succeeded him by a mile. doesn’t care what time of day it is, what he’s doing, your word is law.
a/n: still working on other fics i swear but i just need to get this idea out of my head and onto the blog👩🏻💻 smut, fluff, angst - don’t hold your breath waiting for it though….
“awww….” you coo, raising a hand to his face, stroking your thumb over his cheekbone. he leans into your touch, eyes blinking up through his lashes - hazy from too much to drink. “would you have treated me right?”
“the best,” he mumbles, the corner of his pouty lips brushing against the heel of your hand. “would’ve given you flowers on every date, remembered every special anniversary, would’ve dropped everything if you asked me to come over, we would’ve moved in together with a dog, you would’ve been my everything—”
“yeah?” you say, softly, hand dropping to his shoulder to give him a few sympathetic pats. “you regret that you couldn’t do all that?”
“most of all,” his voice dips low, stretching his syllables out, and you can see him swallow. “i regret that i never got to fuck you.”
your mouth goes dry.
he’s still looking at you, bambi-brown hair tousled over his brows, neediness making his gaze stick to your skin. slender delicate features, tall and crumpled in on himself against the bar. the sweetest boy you knew, the sweetest boy you never thought you deserved —
Summary: Small tales of private and precious moments shared with Astarion, when the world still sleeps.
Today's tale: You're trying to stitch back together your shirt, Astarion must intervene to save the day.
A/N: A collection of little stories that will be released sporadically, in no particular order. A place for me to store all the sweet little ideas that lurk in my mind about this darling pale elf. Feel free to send requests for any moments you'd like to see. <3
Masterlist
It was an accident. A split second of distraction that got the blade of your enemy slashing into you. It cut through more cloth than skin, you didn't even need a healing potion. But it was your favorite shirt.
You've never been very adept with the needle and thread. Having lived your whole life with the privileges that rested inside your family's estate back in the city, you didn't have much need to mend your own clothes back together whenever they tore apart.
And now you were paying the price for the unlearned skill.
The night was quiet, most of your companions had already retired for the night. Yet you sat crosslegged on a large pillow in your tent, soft candlelight illuminating just enough so you wouldn't prick your fingers.
Scratch insisted on laying beside you, his soft white fur warm as it rested against your leg.
The silence of the night was most welcome, when the days were as hectic as they have been lately.
As you passed the thread through the fabric of your shirt, needle piercing it quite clumsily, you couldn't help but think the stitches looked too far from each other. Or could it be too close? Should it vary depending on the thickness of the fabric?
"Darling?"
You jumped at the sudden voice—soft as it may have been—yanking the needle back and not piercing your thumb only by an inch. You cursed under your breath.
"What in the hells are you doing?" Astarion's choice of words sounded strange in the tender tone of voice he used.
You looked up to see him staring down at you with a confused frown on his eyebrows. The flickering fire of the candles coming from beside you kissed his features ever so faintly, making him seem like the remains of a dream. Dark red eyes, silver hair that reminded you of stardust. What a goner you were. And to think he chose you, too; if anything to warm his bed on cold nights.
"I'm… mending my shirt," you shrugged, with a sheepish smile on your lips, briefly lifting the shirt and needle in your hands.
Astarion opened his mouth only to close it again. He blinked, and shook his head. "You're doing anything but that." He stated, a little exasperated. "Have you ever done this before?"
You shifted your gaze from him, to the shirt on your hands, and back to him. "… Not really, no."
Astarion scoffed, "Well, clearly not."
"Come on it's not that bad." You raised a brow, finding his indignation at your lack of skills rather amusing.
"Not that bad? That thing is gonna tear itself apart with the first movement of your arms." Astarion gestured wildly as if you'd personally offended him, and started walking to the other side of you that wasn't occupied by Scratch. "Move over," he simply said.
You shuffled to the side a little, giving him space on the fluffy pillow beneath you. It was a tight fit as he sat down, his thigh flush with yours.
"Hand it over." Astarion wiggled his fingers and you did so quietly, handing him your shirt along with the needle and thread.
He mumbled something about basic skills and how you'd be lost without him. You didn't pay much mind to it, instead, you were rather enraptured by the way his fingers worked; precise, gentle, and deftly, with not a single wrong movement as the fabric of your shirt molded between the digits. He sews the pieces together from the inside, the needle hardly piercing, more like caressing its way through. It was evident he had done it many, many times before.
You inched closer, and you only realized you had done so when Astarion's movements halted. Needle hovering in the air as his shoulders tensed. His lips pursed when his throat worked through a gulp. You followed the motion, breath fanning over the skin of his neck, you were almost certain you'd seen goosebumps there.
It was a beat, and then Astarion was back to his work. But it was enough to bloom a warmth to your chest, that maybe you had the same effect on him that he had on you.
Leaning your cheek against his shoulder, you asked; "where did you learn to do it so perfectly?"
A quiet chuckle fell past the elf's lips, though it held no amusement. "The clothes we wore were hardly a concern for Cazador, as long as we looked presentable enough to lure people back for him." He frowned, a bitterness flashing through his eyes as his knuckles grew even paler with the way he gripped your shirt, "If we showed up with a torn shirt or ragged pants, that was on us. Even if it were his orders that caused it." The last words were low and forced out, as if the mere thought of them had thrown Astarion back into those dark streets and into the arms of people who didn't care if they ripped him apart.
You wished there was any amount of comfort or honeyed words that you could tell him that would erase the memories altogether. But there wasn't. All you could do was kiss his shoulder and brush your fingers over his arm until his grip relaxed again. Hoping that your love would seep through your pores and melt into his skin.
Astarion leaned the tiniest bit towards you, his lips brushing your hairline in a silent thank you. It felt… strange, how you were able to bring him back from the depths of his mind so easily.
Moments were spent in silence, until the pad of his thumb brushed over the freshly mended corner of your shirt, admiring his work; it was barely perceptive. If you didn't look too closely, you wouldn't even say it had been slashed through with a sword at all.
"Wow, you're good," you whispered, following the same path he had traced with your own fingers. Feeling over the fabric.
A low hum came from the vampire beside you, "I know."
You bit onto your lower lip. Your fingers tangled with his when he didn't pull away, all timid and tentative yet brimming with affection. "Maybe you could teach me someday, and I could mend your clothes for you, too." It went beyond just torn fabric, he knew it, you knew it.
Astarion ducked his head, he hesitated, yet he squeezed your hand quite tightly. "I would like that."
⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3
You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.
the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.
jacobvanloon
areudirty
2087
snowghoul
stormborns
