#<500 words

[bunmurdock]

mean!matt murdock & shy!reader + wet checks

matt catches your wrist as you walk by, pulling you close, eyes dark with intent. "come here," he mutters, his voice low, commanding.

his hand slides up your thigh, slipping up under the waistband of your skirt.

“oh. baby.”

you squirm, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. “ah,” he warns, a gentle if not firm warning. “don’t be difficult, sweetheart.”

“you’re not supposed to—” you stammer, cheeks already burning, but he cuts you off with a quiet chuckle, ignoring your weak protest.

“let’s see.” his hand presses right over the wet spot, rubbing slowly, deliberately. you can feel the slickness spread beneath his touch, your breath catching in your throat as your embarrassment deepens.

“theeere it is,” he murmurs, more amused than anything, his fingers dragging through the dampness. he snickers softly, making you squirm even more, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“it’s not— i’m not like that!” you stammer, but your voice wavers. your face burns, mortified at how easily your body betrays you.

he’s already smirking, rubbing his fingers over the soaked fabric. “hmm,” he hums, contemplative. his fingers push just enough to feel the slick mess between your legs, curling around the slick, the wetness unmistakable. “what’s this, then?”

your eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the humiliating squelch of his fingers against you. “mhm,” he hums, cocky and clearly enjoying himself. without warning, his fingers retract, and before you can react—rip.

your eyes fly open in shock, staring at the torn lace in his hand. “matt!” you yelp.

he laughs, kissing your temple. “relax. you won’t need them anyway,” he says, tossing the ruined fabric aside like it’s nothing.

your heart pounds in your chest, heat flooding your face as you glare up at him, cheeks puffed in frustration. “but—those were my favorite!” you huff.

but his hand moves against you, unrelenting. “matt,” you whine, voice trembling, cheeks burning hotter as his fingers brush over your clit, too light to give any real relief but enough to make you shudder.

he chuckles softly, fingers moving slow, torturous circles. “my—girl. predictable girl,” he murmurs, not even paying attention to your growing frustration. “always wet, aren’t you. fucking filthy.”

you can feel the heat between your thighs building, your body betraying you as he starts pistoning two curled fingers inside, a thumb pressing hard on your pulsing clit.

“matt, it hurts—,” you start, but it falls flat, especially when he gives your clit a gentle slap.

“hurts, huh?” he mocks, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. he does it again, the softest sting that sends a jolt through your body, making you whimper.

“i'm being so gentle, baby.”

masterlist

[iamamythologicalcreature]

COC Day 8 - "Sick"

Sorry this is late. I honestly forgot I'd doodled this tiny little text ficlet. Just some randomness that popped into my head with this @carryon-countdown prompt.

Simon POV:

“I’m not sick.”

I sigh as I eye a wall full of homeopathic teas. Surely there’s something here, out of like 500 different herbal blends, that will help Baz out. I pick one up and read the label (like that will help). “You’re malnourished,” I murmur into my mobile as I read, “which I could fix, but you don’t want to bite me.”

I can hear Baz roll his eyes. “I’m fine, Snow. And I don’t get sick, so you don’t have to cure me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Maybe this one? Is echinacea beneficial to stubborn blood-starved vampires? Maybe something with more iron in it. Maybe I should be stuffing supplements down his throat.

“I don’t get sick. I’m a dark creature of the night.”

I love how he uses that excuse like it isn’t at least partly responsible for his current condition. Prat. “You fainted.”

There’s a pause, then Baz mutters, “I took a strategic break from consciousness.”

I snort. I’m going to stuff him with iron supplements, then kiss him stupid. “You like green tea, right?”

Baz lets out a beleaguered sigh, which has a sort of honking cadence to it over the phone. “I’m not sick.” A pause. Then, “But I do like green tea.”

Right. Into the basket with that blend. “If I ‘took a break’ the way you did this morning, you’d have had me at Dr. Wellbelove’s within the hour.”

“That’s different.”

Red meat. I could do steak. I’m pretty decent at grilling. And if all else fails, Baz needs practice putting out fires, right? “Really not,” I say after a second. “I’m getting you protein powder, too.”

“That’s barbaric, Snow.”

“Oh, I’ll show you barbaric, Pitch,” I say with a smile. “But only if you drink your tea, and your protein shake, and top it all off with twice as many rodents as usual. And if you ask nicely.”

A pause. “I’m still not biting you.”

Was that hesitation? My altruistic desire to help Baz suddenly seems like a potential opportunity. I dump three flavours of protein powder into my basket, including one I know has the consistency of ground chalk. “Promises, promises, Baz.”

[elliesmissingfingerss]

cowboy hat — e.w. drabble

pure fluff. literally just fluff. wc: 474

ellie picked up a lot of mannerisms from joel over the years. she adopted a slight southern twang to some of her words and her word choice would get progressively more southern as she spent more and more time with him.

people started making jokes about it, since she grew up in fedra school and had absolutely no reason to have any southern accent whatsoever. she loved it, though. it was proof to her that joel was so deeply ingrained into her life that it was affecting her behaviors and mannerisms.

it made her feel all the more his, and him all the more hers. they were a family, truly.

imagine ellie and joel on patrol one day, walking through some old abandoned building when ellie finds a cowboy hat.

she'd pick it up and try to get joel to put it on, cracking jokes about his "cowboy heritage." when joel continued to refuse, ellie shrugged and plopped the hat onto her head.

she realized quickly that she didn't hate it. it kept the sun out of her eyes, for the most part, and joel would watch her with a soft smile, clearly amused by her antics and not even bothering to hide it.

so she kept it.

she'd put it on and inspect herself in the mirror sometimes, allowing herself to fall into a fantasy in which she was joel's actual daughter.

growing up in texas with him, all warm smiles and stupid jokes in place of his furrowed brows and reprimands about her safety.

a life without infected.

she'd end up keeping it hanging from her bedpost. she liked it there—on display. it made her happy to see it and think of her little fantasy.

you'd be hanging out in ellie's room one day, smoking one of the joints she had found on patrol and fooling around. you'd spot the cowboy hat hanging from her bedpost and smile to yourself, an idea instantly forming.

you'd snag the cowboy hat quickly and put it on, about to start making jokes about her having a cowboy hat when her face changed.

she'd raise a single eyebrow in a way that was always so reminiscent of joel, it was one of the first mannerisms that she'd picked up from joel.

ellie would lean in real close, her nose bumping yours as she whispered, "you know... there's a rule about cowboy hats."

you wouldn't respond, too focused on the way her eyes flitted between your eyes and your lips. your heart was practically beating out of your chest.

she'd flick the underside of the hat gently before her hand would trail down to grip your chin between her forefinger and thumb. "wear the hat...ride the cowboy," she'd murmur before connecting your lips and pulling you up to straddle her lap.

[miss-grimwood]

Colours - Bellamione

(smut)

‘Have you ever considered wearing colours?’ Hermione asked.

Bellatrix scoffed. ‘Black is a colour.’

‘It’s not, it’s a shade.’ Hermione corrected.

‘I look good in black.’

Thinking the conversation was over, Bellatrix rolled over, snuggling into Hermione’s side.

‘I think you’d look good in red.’ Hermione continued. As she spoke, her hand trailed up Bellatrix’s thigh, pulling her black nighty up around her hips.

‘So pretty against your skin,’ she continued, her fingers continuing on their path, finding Bella’s clit. Bellatrix gasped as she pressed down gently, moving her fingers in slow, barely there circles.

‘Would you wear red for me?’ Hermione purred. Bellatrix squirmed under her touch, desperate for more.

‘Yes,’ she mumbled, if only to satisfy Hermione, to make her press harder.

‘Do you mean it?’ She asked, pausing her movements.

‘Please, Mione, I mean it.’

‘Good girl,’ Hermione growled, flipping Bellatrix onto her back.

@sapphicmicrofics

[tllgrrl]

“…suddenly there came a tapping…” by @tllgrrl aka nefertiri jones

Sarah Wilson/Bucky Barnes, Valentina de la Fontaine | <500 Words | SFW

Summary: After dinner, an unexpected visitor shows up on Sarah’s porch.

* * * * *

Post-dinner clean-up is done, Cass and AJ have commandeered the dining room table with homework, and Bucky is also there on his laptop, offering assistance when needed while he’s doing some preliminary research for Sam’s upcoming mission with Team Cap.

Sarah is in the mudroom taking a load of towels out of the dryer when a rapping is heard at the front screen door.

“I’ll get it,” she says softly, gently squeezing Bucky’s shoulder as she walks past him.

He catches her hand, and kisses it.

“Alrght now,” she giggles.

He looks over his shoulder, watching her walk away before turning back to his laptop. He continues studying the maps and notes, but he also listens.

Stepping up to the door, Sarah’s smile fades a little as she sees a short, very well tailored White woman standing there, tapping something into an impressive cellphone.

It’s the latest model with a lot of camera lenses on it.

“Hello,” Sarah says, trying not to stare at the large streak of purple in the woman’s otherwise black, highly coiffed hair. “May I help you?“

Quickly glancing over the tiny woman’s shoulder, she sees a black SUV parked at the end of the walkway, and an also very-well-tailored (and serious-looking) black-suited White man standing next to it.

There’s another one in the driver’s seat.

The woman on the other side of the screen door looks up from her phone, smiles an overly bright smile that stops at her eyes, and introduces herself as “Director Valentina de la Fontaine” as if it was supposed to mean something.

“Is Sergeant Barnes in? Sergeant James Barnes.”

The Director looks past Sarah, and on a wall she sees a photo hanging in the middle of a bunch of what looks like family pictures that span several decades.

That center photo, though in an old frame, is very new and immediately catches her eye.

It’s Barnes in a suit and tie, smiling broadly, standing just behind a radiant Black woman who is wearing a pretty yellow dress. She’s holding a bouquet of yellow and blue flowers. His arms are wrapped around her.

Standing in front of them are two young Black boys also in suits but wearing low top Chucks sneakers. Like the happy couple, they’re also grinning ear to ear.

The woman in that photo is the tall, frankly stunning Black woman that’s now standing in front of her. The photo pictured on the fancy cell phone screen identifies her as Sarah Wilson, recently having become Sarah Wilson-Barnes, which now makes this Retrieval even more complicated.

Director de la Fontaine has no patience for complications.

12 hours later…

On a private jet to Langley, Bucky Barnes is not a happy man.

* * * * *

After seeing the Thunderbolts* teaser trailer that Marvel dropped, I’m still thinking that Bucky is going to be tasked with babysitting, and finally joining up to work beside, the Messy Avengers. But how did all that happen? I got some Thoughts that start with this little ficlet that’s been on my mind for a minute, ever since the lineup was announced.

Thanks for indulging me and giving it a read. Feel free to let me know how you think it all went down.

[marointhemoon]

strong like glass

John’s going to be okay. Looking at Rodney, Elizabeth isn’t sure he can say the same. To be fair, neither can she.

Written for @deadheaddaisy. This work is also available on AO3.

Length: 300 words

As far as Elizabeth is concerned, Carson’s voice didn’t shake when he said he could hear John’s pulse, nor when he said it was growing stronger. The doctor was trying to focus. If pretending not to notice him on the verge of a breakdown was the same as not distracting him, so be it.

No matter what he, she, or anyone else thought three minutes ago, John’s going to be okay.

Watching Rodney as he leaves the room, Elizabeth isn't sure he can say the same of himself. As she rises, neither can she.

She finds him near her makeshift office, pacing.

He stares at her, incredulous and welling up, as if coming to find him isn't a matter of course.

“You okay?” she asks, her voice thin.

He could say something snarky. Something arrogant. Something to diffuse the tension. “Never better,” he manages, before letting out an equally watery chuckle of his own.

She bites her lip, takes a glance up and down the hall. He does the same. No one's coming.

As they look at each other again, Rodney breaks first.

She could say something about taking him down a peg. Something about how for all his condescension, he's crying too. Something to distract from how disconcerting that is. As she sees his head tip down, hears an apology under his breath:

Oh, absolutely not.

Elizabeth walks over and wraps her arms around him. He returns the tight hug, burying the lower half of his face to muffle a sob. Her face squishes into warm fabric that quickly gets stained with her own tears. They sag into each other, the tension of the last hour easing.

No one’s going to die today—John’s not going to die today—and that’s enough. Going back to normal is tomorrow’s problem.

[kay-elle-cee]

@jilymicrofics May Prompt 24: Belong || 419 Words One night, 4 POVs || Installment 4 of 4 || Previous installments here: one two three MICROFIC MASTERLIST

James hasn’t let her out of his arms since he walked through the door.

Okay maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate, but now that Lily is tucked into his side on the loveseat, he has no plan to let her leave.

Tonight’s mission had been…awful. He needed this time with his friends, the alcohol, Lily to calm his nerves and tether him back to the present. He’s not sure, but he feels that Lily’s thinking the same with the way her hands find purchase in his hands, on his arms, in his hair as she peppers him with kisses he’s only too happy to return.

She’s like a balm on his frayed nerves, and at that thought he pulls her closer, heart pounding.

Her fingers lightly graze over his arms, unable to stop touching him, to stop looking for injuries he's sworn to her aren't there, and he grabs her hand in reassurance before capturing her lips in another slow kiss. He knows they should maybe refrain a little from their affectionate displays but the alcohol has dulled that reason and Lily just feels so solid and real and promising in his arms. He’s always known (always known) that the two of them were meant for each other but lately, with all the heaviness of war, it’s struck him how much they just belong.

A question is on the tip of his tongue. Not the question, but a question nonetheless. It’s something he’d been thinking about for the last month, after his parents had gifted him the family cottage for his nineteenth birthday. He’d wanted to ask this week—maybe over a lunch or a drink—but this moment feels so indescribably right that the words threaten to spill forth.

James moves his lips to her neck, to the spot right below her ear that he knows makes her grin. Between featherlight kisses, he whispers, just loud enough for her to hear: “Move in with me, Evans?”

The thunderous pounding of his heart doesn’t quell itself when he hears a shocked laugh, as if caught off-guard. Lily looks at him, beaming from ear to ear, eyes shining from alcohol and excitement, and nods, pulling his face to hers and crashing their lips together for a kiss that threatens to end him then and there. He smiles against her lips and feels the grin reciprocated as they stay wrapped up in each other, the heat from the room's fire burning hot and wild in his chest as he pictures a future that's theirs.

—

I had so much fun with this series, and I appreciate all the positive response around it! Y'all are amazing 💕

[16woodsequ]

I have an ask for a drabble and I thought it was for Steve and Tony, so I wrote this tonight kind of reflecting my current feelings about wanting to write but being unable to do much of it.

I realized the ask is for Tony and Bucky so I'm not posting it with the ask, but please enjoy this therapy drabble I wrote because I needed to write a little something to try to ride the wave of emotions my brain is in right now.

Set in an au where Tony and Steve talk about their feelings lol

Just Something

"I'm doing real bad."

It only takes one text from Steve to get Tony up and out of his chair. The wellness texts had started as a begrudging agreement between the two when neither one wanted to admit they needed help, but now, after years of growth and effort they feel more second nature.

This type of openess between them had taken a long time to achieve, but Tony is glad for it on nights like this.

JARVIS locates Steve easily, which means he wants to be found, which is another good sign.  

Tony finds him sitting listlessly on the common room couch. The sun has set, the room grey and shadowed as night sets in.

"What's up?"  Tony asks, sitting down next to Steve. He can tell just by looking at him that it's a bad night and he's glad Steve had reached out. 

Steve shrugs, frustrated, not meeting Tony's eyes. "I just feel…grey." His hands clench. "Just empty. And tired. And like I might crack open inside. And I feel so frustrated because I'm tired of feeling this way but it feels like it always comes back up, no matter the effort I put in against it."

Tony knows the feeling. Depression is a beast with many heads and sometimes it feels like resurfacing from the depths of an ocean, only to be pulled under again by a black, sweeping wave.

"Do you want to do anything?" he tries. Distractions are something he and Steve do together often now when one or the other needs to 'ride out the wave'.

Steve just shrugs dejectedly. "I want to draw," he says softly. "I feel it in me so much it's like I can't breath… but thinking about trying to compose something just exhausts me. I feel like I can't finish anything. I'm tired."

Tony hums for a second before spying one of Steve's many sketchbooks under the coffee table.

"Maybe you need to let yourself do something small," he says, grabbing it and holding it out. "Scribble, or throw something together just to get out what you're feeling."

Steve reaches for the sketchbook, looking hesitant. Tony nods encouragingly. 

"I do that sometimes in my lab," he says. "When my brain is blocked or feeling low. I'll just weld random bits together or finish a really quick, silly project. Just to get something done."

Steve glances down at the book and pulls the pencil out from the coilbound spine.

"Just something," he repeats, some of the bleakness in his eyes easing as he takes a breath and opens his book.

[nought-shall-go-ill]

Jily Microfic — May Prompt 3: Hagrid

This @jilymicrofics piece is a continuation from prompts 1 and 2 (click on the links to read), though as with the others, you can read this as a stand alone piece.

May 1976

“Hagrid?”

“Hagrid.”

“But Hagrid is a member of the school staff, Potter,” Lily said in exasperation. “There’s no way he’d just trot out and get a rare flower from the forest for me just because I asked him.”

“Well, you won’t know that until you ask, will you?”

James was leaning nonchalantly against the common room wall, twiddling his wand absentmindedly between his thumbs. Ordinarily, Lily would have thought such a look was ridiculous — an obvious attempt to make himself seem cooler, more laissez faire to the younger students — but she had yet again become a little preoccupied with how tall he had gotten.

“Look, just forget I asked, ok?”

Lily was unsure why she’d even considered it in the first place. Yes, Potter had been very helpful in providing her with that flower for her last Potion’s project, and yes, he had seemed very nice these past few days, covering for her when she was late for class and getting her that last slab of crumble at dinner, but that didn’t mean he still wasn’t the same old berk deep down.

She turned to leave, all too aware that a few sets of bewildered eyes had noticed them standing there together.

“Or I could ask,” James blurted out in a muffle of mixed words. “He needn’t even know it’s for you. I’ll ask, and I can get the flower for you by tomorrow.”

Lily raised eyebrows.

“And you think he’ll say yes to you?”

“Just you wait and see, Evans.”

He smiled, and Lily walked away smiling also. Perhaps this friendship — was that what it was? — would have some benefits after all.

“What was that?” she overheard Sirius ask his best friend from behind her. “Since when are you so pally with Evans?”

[jilymicrofics-deactived]

James knows, deep down, that he shouldn’t let himself get as riled up by Evans as he does. He should ignore it all — ignore the way she flicks her hair over her shoulders, that haughty tilt of her chin, the indignation that sparkles in her eyes when she glares at him.

It shouldn’t itch underneath his skin, a fury that never seems to quell, when their arguments tumble into something wild, a forest fire determined to burn through any tentative sprouts of greenery, those shy and hopefully threads of friendship that bravely fight their way through the debris.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But he can’t seem to help the way he rears up immediately in defense, the stiffening of his spine when she meets his eyes. It doesn't matter how much James knows he shouldn’t. His instinct, always, is to fight back. ***

Check out this lovely little jilymircofic added to the discord by @oneofthesirens!

Fancy giving one of these a go yourself? Check out the January 2023 prompt list here. Or alternatively you don’t even have to use our prompts at all! Just tag us in your jily creation under 3K words to be reblogged! You can also add your submissions to the discord (ask for an invite link) or the AO3 Collection!

[equallyloyalandlethal]

Thiam Drabble #8

“Why didn’t you tell me you were living out of your truck? My parent’s house has plenty of rooms!”

Theo sighed, eyes closing with a groan. Of course now was when Liam would bring that tidbit up again. It made sense, though. The chimera had been orchestrating the pack to keep him and Liam apart the last two weeks since Mason had let that detail slip. Yet, here they were, locked in the truck’s cab for the next couple hours as they drove back from a kelpie killing mission. His little wolf was learning when to pick his battles. It made him proud, almost enough to smirk, but he doubted the expression would be well received. 

“Because I’m not a charity case that needs adopting,” he answered, carefully not looking to his right. “I can manage by myself.”

It was the truth. Most of it, anyway. He hadn’t wanted charity or pity, still didn’t in fact. Accepting help like that never sat well with him. Life was exchanges, a give and take cycle on constant repeat. He ought to know, given how well he manipulated the cycle over the years. People rarely knew what had happened until he was two cities gone and back underground with the Doctors. Some even thanked him for it. 

He huffed quietly, shifting to face as much towards the driver’s door as he feasibly could while still safely piloting the vehicle. Besides, what would he get out of living in a house? There were plenty of places he could find a shower and enough fast food joints around town open till all hours that he didn’t need a fridge. There wasn’t anything he needed that he couldn’t get while living in his truck. 

 “That’s beside the point. You don’t have to do it all by yourself anymore, you’re one of us, part of the pack. You should let us help you,” Liam pressed. 

Soft creaks and squeaks of skin on leather said Liam was moving, but Theo didn’t expect for the wolf’s hand to meet his shoulder and tug him back to facing the other. Nor was he ready for the gentle frown on his face or the purse of his lips. Theo’s breath hitched, catching in his throat before he remembered how to breathe and forced air back out, shaking his head once roughly. 

“I don’t need it,” he snwered, hoping whatever non-existant deity of the hour would take pity on him and prove him wrong about their existence by having Liam not notice how strained his voice was.

The wolf’s eyes narrowed just the slightest fraction of an inch. Shit, he thought, both his wolf and coyote snickering in the back of his head. This was gonna be a long ass night.

[bunmurdock]

dark!matt murdock (or ddba!) who doesn’t let you go out with your friends until you’ve handed over your panties to him first. fisting his cock with the soft fabric, wrapping the wet spot that’s already there over his tip as he pumps himself to completion. after he’s cum into the fabric, he unscrunches it, bending down to have you step back into it—one foot after the other—and pulls it up until the wetness is flush against your sensitive mound. he’ll have you feel him all day so you never forget that you’re his.

[happy-snake-noises]

Smoke and Mirrors

Fandom - Harry Potter (but can honestly be read as an original work)

Characters - honestly was supposed to be Regulus Black and an OC but names aren't mentioned so it could be anyone

Additional notes - Aromantic Original Character, Short drabble, honestly just clearing out my WIPs, Smoking, Like mildly sexual lol, absolutely no beta, we die like Reggie

Smoke curled from the ashtray, sat in the middle of the rusty garden table, sat on the balcony, during a cold, grey night under the London sky. Occasionally, patches cleared up in the sky, revealing the inky blackness above. And if he was really lucky, he could see the dying remains of the constellations above, now nothing more than pathetic dots in the sky.

Smoke snaked upwards from her fingers, floated upwards from the burning end of the cigarette in her grasp, held elegantly, yet carelessly, nonchalantly between the knuckles of her major and index. She lounged, head thrown backwards, and her legs propped up on the empty chair in front of her. With every inhale, her chest rose, before stilling, then descended again – and then repeat. She knew his eyes were on her – she didn’t stop him.

Smoke poured out her mouth, cascaded from her parted lips, still red and swollen from endeavours only a few minutes prior. The ring that sat upon her bottom lip pushed against it ever so slightly as she pursed her lips to blow rings of smoke. A silent laugh left her, her shoulders shook and her legs pressed together. She brought the cigarette back up to her lips, dragging on it almost softly, before resting her arm against his thigh again. He recognised that gleam in her eye before she even need utter words. He leant towards her, hand on her neck, pulling himself closer until his lips brushed her.

Smoke flowed out of her mouth, out of her lungs, right into his. He breathed it in, like a drowning man would oxygen. He held her close, even as she began to inhale shakily, afraid that if he’d let her go, he’d crumble to dust.

He blindly reached out to stub out his fag in the tray, then reached to cup her face. The kiss was slow and gentle and tender. It wasn’t heated or passionate, or hasty in any way – there was nowhere to be, no end goal. It was a simple kiss. A simple kiss that meant so many words to him, but could be epitomised by three.

“I love you.”

He felt the tears trace along his fingers on her cheek before he felt the trembling exhale against his mouth. Her mismatched eyes blurred behind a veil of tears, turning to molten gold and burning forest in the glow of the street lights. The filter of her cigarette gave a soft crunch as her hand balled into a fist. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but she didn’t utter a word.

“You don’t have to say it back.” New tears rolled down her face as her eyelids fluttered closed and she leant into his touch. A sigh left her lips before she opened them again.

“But I do.” She rested her lips against his in an almost chaste manner. “I do too.”

“It’s alright.” He brushed away her tears, and smiled. “I know you do.”

-

Hope you enjoyed this small piece -Rem

[meteor-writes]

Hello, haven't done this in a while but have been wanting to get back into writing and remembered @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thanks for existing guys!

Scars - 324 Words

In the clouded mirror, Maria no longer has edges. She's a blur. A smudge of foundation on the edge of the sink. She wraps herself up in the warmth of a towel and tucks it neatly closed over her breasts. How long until the room cools? The steam is already condensing into little bundles of pearl on the tiles and a chill blows over her shoulders.

It's a reminder that it's a brief respite - the blur. A shapeless time where water drips from her hair and Maria doesn't mind because there's no shirt to soak it up and chafe her with it.

She dabs her face with the towel and winces. A red dot has appeared on the white flannel.

Don't scratch.

Don't pick.

Don't squeeze.

She traces her fingertips over her chin. Draws them over tacky, barely-dry skin, until she hits it. The bump. A thermal fissure. Maria bends down. The blur doesn't disappear quickly, but it disappears all the same and at the centre of the mirror is a radial slice of fog-free glass. She tilts and it's swallowed whole. A red splodge with nail polish shine.

Will it scar?

A permanent rupture in a perfect canvas. She should have been more careful. Mama always has to knock her hand before it makes contact. And everyday Sara sneaks her concealer in the school bathroom. “It'll pass,” she says, “as long as it doesn't scar.”

What if it scars?

Maria pulls the towel over her hand and sweeps a quick twenty-four hours. Her face is there. Brows furrowed. Lips gnawed. Skin rocky. A new one has grown overnight. A thumb tack pressing firmly into her vein.

You should switch face wash.

Have you tried non-comedogenic?

Don't worry, it'll get better with time.

But what about the scars?

The mirror has fogged again. Just the single point in the centre is clear now. Maria is no longer a blur. She is a blot.

[miss-grimwood]

Undressed - Bellamione

‘Go on then, strip for me.’ Bellatrix commanded casually, from the bed.

‘Oh, you sure know how to keep the spark alive.’ Hermione teased. 

She pulled her shirt over her head and Bellatrix wolf whistled. Hermione only rolled her eyes in response.

Ten years of marriage had tamed them. The sex was still good, of course, provided they accounted for Bella’s bad back and Hermione’s dodgy knee, but lingerie had been long replaced by comfy knickers and warm pyjamas.

Still, as Hermione undressed, Bellatrix couldn’t help but ogle her.

‘You know, five years ago I’d have had you pinned to the bed and screaming my name before you could get your nightie on.’ Bellatrix told her.

‘Yeah, whatever.’ Hermione laughed. She slid into bed beside Bellatrix, pulling the covers around herself as she snuggled into Bella’s warm body.

@sapphicmicrofics

[apuzzledprince]

Idk if i ever posted this here, but! This is a short thing i wrote after fighting Papyrus when attempting the genocide run and then immediately reseting because i felt awful about killing Papyrus.

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Merciful - 441 words

Stepping into Snowdin, you feel an uneasy chill run down your back--the townspeople eye you wearily, and vaguely you understand that they know. They know what you have done, however spotty the memory, they know to fear you. Suppressing a shiver, you hold yourself tighter and continue walking--oh how you want to walk into the shop, to warm yourself for even a moment. You aren’t sure you deserve it.

After you had left the Ruins you had done everything you possibly could to befriend Papyrus--you did his puzzles, poked at the too-frozen-to-eat spaghetti, told him Junior Jumble was difficult--and still you felt as though you could never make up for what you had done.

You walk past Grillby’s, you walk past Papyrus’ and Sans’ house, you walk until you stand in the bone-chilling cold with Papyrus in front of you. You try to let him kill you, to soothe the ache left in your chest from before the Reset. He never does; the moment your HP hits one, you are put in the shed and asked nicely to stay put. You don’t; you can’t. You don’t deserve this Mercy.

So here you stand, Papyrus in front of you. Between the two of you, the words “Papyrus is Sparing you.”

And for a moment you’re not here; you’re back before the Reset, you’re holding a weapon in your hands. Your hand hovers over the Mercy button in front of you, and you know it’s the right choice--the choice that you would rather make--but you retract your hand and press Fight without looking at Papyrus.

The snow is cold, your blood is colder. You realize that you’re staring at the Fight button and quickly jerk your gaze to Mercy. Your sin weighs heavily on your shoulders, it sticks like dust to your Soul. This is the right choice. This is the choice Papyrus deserves, you know this to be fact as your hand gently touches Mercy, but is it the choice you deserve?

Your Soul aches and pulses with magic, you don’t know the answer anymore. Papyrus clearly thinks so, he’s smiling so, so, wide, but you can see the tremor of fear echoing through his bones. He doesn’t trust you, not fully; something is telling him to be cautious. You can’t really blame him.

You pull your hand away from Mercy, choosing instead to Act. You ask Papyrus to kill you, to cut off your head, to make you pay for what you have done. He’s concerned and confused. He tells you that he can help, that you can be friends.

You want to believe him.