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lfzyxf · 10 months ago

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Could you please write some isaac lahey fluff, maybe about reader wearing his sweater?

I'm so excited to write for Teen Wolf again. Thank you so much for requesting this, I hope its to your liking! Masterlist Word count: 1480

It’s easy to forget that even in Beacon Hills, California the weather gets colder during the winter. So easy that you’re now sitting in class shivering and struggling to focus on whatever Coach is saying. You pull the sleeves of your sweater down to cover your hands before rubbing them over your hands, trying to warm yourself up.

After a few more seconds of trying to warm yourself something in the corner of your eye grabs your attention. You turn slightly to see it’s a cardigan being handed to you by Isaac. You’re not that close to him even if you wish you were, you mostly got to know him when he became friends with Scott. But even then, you were too shy to actually try and get to know him better.

You hesitantly move to take the cardigan before smiling softly at him. All he does in response is wink at you before turning back towards the front of the class. Holding the sweater in your hands you feel how soft it is, you recognize it as well. It’s a long grey and black striped cardigan. You recall it being his favourite with how often he wears it.

Finally, you put it on, instantly feeling a lot warmer. The sleeves fall past your hands which makes you roll them up. When you look back up you see Isaac staring at you, a soft smile resting on his lips and his cheeks tinted a soft pink. You smile back at him before finally focusing on whatever Coach is going on about this time.

After an incredibly boring 40 minutes class is finally over. You quickly rush to grab your stuff so you can make it on time for your next class on the other side of the building. You barely make it on time, plopping down in your seat next to Lydia. “Did you run here?” she asks looking at you with a raised eyebrow. “Basically, I don’t know who made my schedule but when I found them-” she interrupts you, pointing at what you’re wearing “is that Isaac’s cardigan?”.

Shocked you look down; you completely forgot you were wearing his cardigan. “I-uh, yeah. I was cold during class, so he lent it to me. I completely forgot to give it back.” You explain while Lydia just stares at you with a smug look on her face. “He just happened to notice you were cold and offered you his favourite cardigan?”

Your cheeks start to feel warm; you shake your head while playing with edge of the cardigan. “I’m sure it didn’t mean anything to him, he was just being friendly I’m sure” you reason. She clearly doesn’t agree as she just shakes her head right as the teacher walks in.

Classes are finally over for today causing you and Lydia to walk back to your lockers with excitement. The group is going over to Scott’s place to hang out for the rest of the day. When you arrive at your lockers the others are already waiting on you. Stiles is leaning against the locker next to yours with Scott next to him, they’re talking to Allison about something. You quickly open your locker, stuffing your books into it. “Is that a new cardigan?” Allison asks confused, pointing at it. You don't get a chance to respond before a different voice responds, “It’s mine actually.”

You quickly turn around, and behind you is Isaac, leaning against the locker next to you, similar to Stiles. He smiles at you before asking, “I hope it kept you warm?” Your brain takes a moment to catch up before you respond, nodding “Yes, yes it did thank you! I’m sorry for running off with it, i had to run to make it to my next class and I just completely forgot about it.” Your cheeks are heating up again as he looks down at you, eating up your every word.

He shakes his head softly “Nah don't worry about it, you look better in it anyway. Wouldn’t want you to freeze either” he says before standing up normally “are we leaving?” He asks nodding towards the exit. There’s a moment of silence before Scott speaks up and we leave to go to his place for the scheduled hangout.

While making your way to Scott’s place Allison and Lydia hang in the back with you. “So, what was that about?” Allison asks smiling. You shrug “I have no idea-” “he clearly likes you” Lydia interrupts. You push her softly before shushing her. “Maybe don’t talk about it so loudly?” you say with wide eyes, glancing at Isaac hoping he didn’t hear anything with his heightened senses.

Lydia simply rolls her eyes while Allison puts her arm around your shoulders. “Why don’t you just ask?” You stare at Allison for a moment before replying, “Are you actually insane? Do you need medical help?” She laughs before shaking her head “You won’t know until you ask.” You sigh softly, looking at the ground “What if he doesn’t like me like that? It would just get awkward between us.” “But what if he does” Lydia responds, she’s smiling softly at you, a comforting look in her eyes. “You can’t let this opportunity go to waste just because you’re scared.”

You take a breath before nodding “I’ll talk to him about it later.” The two girls smile at you until Stiles interrupts the sweet moment “Can you guys walk any slower?”

Stiles is terrible at Mario Kart, that much is clear by the fact that he’s lost 3 times in a row. He still refuses to give up, convinced that he’ll one the next round against Scott. You stopped playing after the 2nd round, your head started to hurt from how loud Stiles screams when playing. Lydia and Allison are sitting on the sofa watching Scott and Isaac absolutely kick Stiles’ ass in the game. Even after another round of losing Stiles is convinced he can win so he goes up against Scott once more. This time Isaac doesn’t play, similarly he complains his head is starting to hurt. “I’m not even that loud!” Stiles retorts, or more so yells. “Yes, you are” all of us reply in turn.

You’re still laughing when Isaac walks up to you, crouching so only you can hear him. “Could we talk for a moment?” He asks looking up at you. You nod briefly, wondering what on earth he would have to say to you in private. “Of course,” you stand up before following him to the kitchen, moving to sit on the countertop with him leaning against the kitchen table.

The both of you stay silent for a moment, tension high in the air. “So, what did you want to talk about?” You ask softly, playing with the hem of his cardigan that you’re still wearing. It takes another moment for him to respond, “You know, when I first met you, I was wondering why on earth you were even talking to me. I was an absolute nobody, I barely had any friends, and I wasn’t doing great in lacrosse.” He sighed before continuing “After Derek bit me I was convinced I could finally ask you out. That you would finally want me like I have wanted you. But even then, I was too scared, I couldn’t get myself to tell you how I felt.”

He moved closer to you, his hand moving to cover your cheek before softly caressing it. “But today I finally had the guts to make a move, and when I saw how adorable you looked with my cardigan on, I knew I had to tell you. But then you ran out of class, and I missed my chance. So, I’m telling you now because I’m not missing another chance.”

He moves even closer, your knees pressing against his legs. He tilts his head down to look into your eyes before he speaks once more “I really like you-” he laughs softly “Honestly, I think I might be in love with you.” You can’t hold back your smile; your hands move to rest on his chest when you ask if he’s being serious. He nods, his head dropping down to rest against yours. “I feel the same way” you laugh, “I was too scared to say anything.” The two of you laugh for a moment. Finding the fact that both of you felt the same way but were just too scared to say anything incredibly stupid.

“Then, could I ask for the honour of being yours?” He asks, smiling at you, his cheeks painted an adorable red. You quickly nod in response, smiling before finally kissing him. His hands move to hold your face, the two of you enjoying the moment until you are once again interrupted by Stiles screaming in victory as he finally wins a game.

#teen wolf #teen wolf x reader #Isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey fluff #teen wolf fluff #daniel sharman #request #isaac lahey imagine

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 9 months ago

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"dance recital" - hotch x mom!reader!

your family attends your daughter's dance recital

1480 words, domestic family fluff

cw: none? unless u hate kids then don't read this xD

a/n: i am looking at requests and actually have a couple of them started! inspiration just struck and i needed dance dad hotch xD plz keep sending requests i love getting them

---------------

Lizzy had been practicing for weeks, at home, in the car on the way to school, even in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. If there was a free moment, she was up on her toes, practicing her dance routine.

When she turned four, she was so excited to sign up for dance class, and now her very first recital is later today. She takes it very seriously, and you attribute that entirely to her hardworking father.

You’re standing in the kitchen, packing the picnic lunch you’ll be sharing as a family after her recital in the park. PB&J, no crusts, for Jack. Even though he’s nearly ten and he should be eating his crusts, you can’t help but to baby him a little. He’s been such a good big brother to Lizzy. You were anxious about that when you were pregnant with her, since Jack was so used to being the only kid. And there would always be the looming presence of Haley and the family he was a part of before you came along.

But Lizzy became the center of Jack’s world when she was born. He’s so doting and always playing with her, from when she was an infant to now.

Nutella and peanut butter sandwich for Lizzy, because she has a sweet tooth just like her mother. Turkey and cheese for you and Aaron. “D’you want mayo, honey?” You call out to wherever Aaron is in the house. He was in the living room just a few minutes ago, but with your two crazy kiddos, he could have ended up anywhere.

“Just the mayo, no honey,” Aaron jokes and nearly makes you jump as he enters the kitchen, padding silently behind you despite being the largest person in the house. Must be that fancy tactical FBI stealth training.

He stops at the counter, leaning against it and facing you. Your eyes meet his and his voice is low when he speaks to you. “You need to make a big deal out of this,” he prefaces, nodding to the doorway. You don’t fully know what he’s talking about, but you understand enough, so you set your butter knife down and turn around to face the doorway. Aaron makes a drumroll on his thigh. “Come on in, kids!”

Jack enters first, in a bright orange t-shirt that is definitely a size too big. Written in blue, puffy fabric paint, no doubt by Jack himself, are the words PROUD BIG BRO. Jack’s also holding Lizzy’s hand, escorting her into the kitchen. She’s in her violet tutu and has her hair up in two haphazardly pulled-back pigtails that could only be described as the work of her father. She’s walking on her tiptoes, with her free hand arched up in a semicircle shape, mimicking all the ballerinas in her books.

You’re beaming, and take the sight in silently for a moment before bursting into uproarious (for one woman) applause. “You guys look so great!” You exclaim, grinning at the kids, and then back at your husband. He’s got this sly look on his face and you want to smooch it off. “When did you make this shirt?” You ask Jack, stepping forward and grabbing his face with both of your hands. You kiss his forehead and ruffle his hair.

“Dad and I did it while you were at the store last night,” Jack explains.

“I love it, baby,” you tell Jack, and he beams. You stroke the apples of his cheeks with your thumbs before releasing him.

Lizzy lets go of her brother’s hand and leaps for you. “My big girl is all dolled up for her first recital,” You lift her up, hugging her close. “Did Daddy do your hair for you?” you ask.

“Yes! He sang our song and I didn’t cry!” she says. You always sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to Lizzy while you brush her hair because she’s very tender-headed. It makes your heart soar to learn that Aaron did it, too.

“I’m so proud of you!” You kiss Lizzy’s face all over until she squeals and wriggles to get away. “Why don’t you guys go play in the living room for a little bit, and we’ll get going soon,” you suggest. Jack races Lizzy into the living room, leaving you and Aaron in the kitchen alone.

“You did her hair,” you say as you smirk up at Aaron.

“Yeah, I know. It's not as good as when you do it,” he settles back against the counter and you roll your eyes. He’s holding his palms out, wiggling his digits. “I’ve got sausage fingers, and she cries if you pull the twist-tie too hard. It’s heartbreaking.”

“And you made a shirt with Jack,” you say, ignoring his self-deprecation. Your smirk has turned into a full-force, Category Five Grin.

Aaron realizes what you’re doing as you inch a little closer. He takes your wrist delicately, tugging you toward him, and you kiss his lips three times in succession, each a quick thank-you for all he’s done. “You’re the one driving her to classes twice a week,” Aaron deflects. “And Jack to school, and to soccer practice, and doing all the shopping and-“

“Aaron,” you roll your eyes in warning. You hate when he butters you up like this. You’re just doing your job, just like he is when he’s away on cases.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he holds his hands up in defense, and you snatch them like they’re precious jewels. You kiss him again, this one longer and lingering.

You finish packing your family’s lunch into the cooler. Lizzy’s recital is at a small amphitheater in the park, and after you drop her off with her teacher backstage, you and your boys find a good spot on the green to set up your picnic blanket.

Aaron makes this small grunt when he squats to sit down on the ground and you hold back a snicker. Jack does not read the room and calls him an old man.

You’re giggling as you sit down, Aaron tugging you to sit between his legs. You affectionately run your hand through Jack’s hair a few times before the first class comes up onto the stage.

You watch the first class, and the second, clapping politely. Then, the four-and-five-year-olds are announced, and you are on your feet immediately. You hear a bit of rustling and Jack and Aaron are standing up, too. You grin when you see Lizzy with the other little kids, holding the hands of the boy in front of her and the girl behind her as they all walk in a line.

Their dance is simplistic and whimsical and joyful, set to a light, poppy tune that makes you think of spring. You’re grinning and watching Lizzy float across the stage. She’s not the most graceful, but she hits every move at the right time.

You hear rustling behind you and turn over your shoulder to see Aaron and Jack subtly performing the dance with the class. They’re not moving nearly as dedicatedly as the group on stage, but they’re helping Lizzy from the audience. It’s so sweet you want to cry.

When Lizzy’s group is finished, the three of you on the lawn explode in applause. Aaron wolf-whistles behind you and Jack is cheering, “that’s my sister!”

After the other classes go, you’re allowed to head back and pick up Lizzy. She’s giggling with the other kids in her class, but she freezes and grins like it’s Christmas morning when she sees you.

“Mommy!” she squeals, and runs to you. You lift her up off the ground in a hug and spin her around, before passing her off to Aaron. He does the same thing. “Dizzy! Dizzy!” She’s squealing, and Aaron finally sets her down.

“Dizzy Lizzy, huh?” Aaron teases, running his thumb and his forefinger down one of her pigtails. “You did so good, sweet girl!” He was never the best at baby-talking to Lizzy, but now that she’s a little girl, he speaks to her so excitedly and she always beams when she learns her father is proud of her.

“You got the leap at the right part!” Jack exclaims proudly, and you watch as Lizzy hugs her big brother.

You point out the picnic blanket with the cooler and tell Jack to take Lizzy ahead to it. Jack loves being responsible, so he takes Lizzy by the hand and leads her towards your family’s setup.

Hanging back with Aaron, you look up at him and brush his dark hair off his forehead. “You learned her dance?” you ask with a small smirk on your face.

Aaron’s dark eyes gaze into yours and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close to him. “She was doing it every chance she got,” he shrugs, like it’s totally no big deal. “You’re telling me you don’t have it memorized?”

#criminal minds #basketonthedoorstepofthefbi #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner #hotchner #hotchner x reader #hotch #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x you #domestic hotchner

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euniveve · 9 months ago

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"𝐈'𝐦 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤" - zhongli

pairings: zhongli x gn!reader tags: HURT/COMFORT (like major major comfort), glasses wearing!reader, insecure!reader, reader has self-worth issues, fluffy fluff fluff, reader is implied to have depression w.c: 1480 a.n: ngl i wrote this one shot a while ago, it helped me back then, hopefully it'll help some of you guys as well, i think this is beta read (again i wrote this a while back, i forgot) remember that you are loved my dears <3

Another tear hits the cold hardwood floor of your apartment; your glasses have long been housing the pools of your sadness before you finally take them off to bury your face into your knees, choked sobs wrangle out of your throat as your chest burns from the hurt.

What was it again that triggered this? You couldn’t remember… Crying sure does affect you; it drives your mind deeper into its sadness, an inescapable hole of helplessness with darkness surrounding you, not an oil lamp in sight.

A series of knocks fell upon your door– making you jolt in your uncomfortable position, your heart beating out of your chest as you feel the pit in your stomach grow. You don’t want to meet people now, you don’t want to pretend to be fine.

For once, saving face stood second before your needs.

“Qin ai de?” the familiar warm baritone from the other side of the door said, “It’s me, are you alright?”

You open your lips, tears still freely flowing down your cheeks but you stop yourself– deciding to close them again. Maybe anyone is fine, anyone else. But not Zhongli. You cleared your mucus-filled throat, trying to force a clear stable voice, gulping your saliva thickly before closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in preparation.

With a shaky breath out you fake a smile, trying your best to sound how you normally do. “Y-yeah! I just wanna be in silence and think; don’t worry about me!”

A few seconds of silence pass by and you hold your breath, waiting for the sound of his feet walking away to grace your ears but you hear none. Instead, what little light the gaps at the bottom of the door provided was blocked before Zhongli spoke again.

“Forgive me, my dear, for I have to do this.”

You couldn’t even take a second to process the words he uttered before the door flew open, revealing the silhouette of your very handsome, very tall former-archon-boyfriend. Almost out of instinct– you cover your face, your trembling hand making out a very poor mask as you try your best to get away from his sight.

“Love, my dear heart,” he cooed, his footsteps dawning closer and closer before it stopped in front of you. The melodious rustle of his fabric as he bends down to meet your face, his amber eyes unmistakable in their sadness as his brows furrow in slight frustration at the sight of your visibly distraught figure.

Zhongli reaches out; out of instinct, it seems, to comfort you, to hold you at least, his long slender finger wanting to touch your hand to move them yet you flinch when his hand hovers; afraid and unsure.

“My love?”

“Pl-please go away..” you whisper meekly, “I- I don’t want to�� I don’t want you to see me like this…”

“,,,”

You quickly and harshly wipe the tears off your face, trying your best to give him a smile while your hand is still covering your puffy eyes. “I’m okay! I think…”

“But you are not,” he said matter-of-factly, his brow furrowed in confusion before his hand finally reached yours, warmth blooming on your skin with his comforting touch. “You are not okay.”

“I will be,” you muttered, “Please? I’m a mess now– I–”

Your hand was moved away, and even with your lids covering your eyes, you can imagine those brilliant eyes; so full of warmth and love you almost want to run away and hide again.

“My love please look at me.”

His voice is but a whisper and there’s care lacing between those strings of sound. Archons do you even deserve this? You are certain that you don’t but it feels so right.

It feels like you aren’t worthless.

It feels like you matter.

You finally open your eyes, and another waterfall of tears threatens to escape but you can see his gentle smile, the softness of his lips, the curvature of his cheeks; whatever is happening now, it feels like love.

Are you worthy of love?

“You are scared,” you hear him say softly, “you are scared and that is okay, I’m here for you.”

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself whispering.

“What for?”

‘Everything.’ you wanted to say, ‘for being me, for stealing you away from someone better, for being selfish.’

Ah– there it is.

“For being selfish,” you repeat your mind, your eyes shifting to the wooden floor, his gaze tho comforting, feels so real. Like he could see through your walls; like he could tear them down with the slightest of touch. “For being selfish enough to get your love, to be so imperfect yet accepting of it– I’m so sorry.”

You wince at yourself. That sounds more pathetic than you intended. Gods; why does it have to be him? You wouldn’t mind if it's anyone else. Anyone else can call you self-absorbed or pitiable or even entitled.

But please, archons please, let it not be him.

“I’m not worthy of it,” you end your sentence with a defeated whisper, “I know I'm not worthy of it; I keep pushing you away, I’m difficult, I’m a horrible person.”

You bit your lip, you can hear him breathing steadily, his hand still grasping yours with that signature comfort, that loving warmth. It feels so good that you want to run away; so good that it feels like knives as the back of your mind keeps shouting at your words.

Ugly, untrue, you know this, but when those words are repeated thousands – no – millions of times it starts to sound honestly beneath useless praises.

“I’m irreparably broken.”

Silence is between the two of you and it feels deafening. You are ready for this, for him to leave, and how could you not? You have to imagine it time and time again, with every step apart from him, every second without his presence, you imagine it over and over and over again; hoping, praying, that when it eventually happens, it would hurt even less.

Because you are ready.

“I used to forge weapons as an archon,” Zhongli whispered, his thumb starting to trace the back of your hand. Slowly but surely, you feel his body getting closer to you, that golden touch of his cupping your cheek, those citrine gazes that inspect your very being and you can’t help but lean into his touch.

Archons, you are horrible.

“I forge new weapons for my adepti. Ones made of jade, of black steel, of unbreakable stone, cor lapises, agates, and carnelians.” he took a deep breath, the chilly autumn air filling his lungs before he continued. “But I always prefer to reforge my old weapons.”

“Huh?”

He laughs, that signature rumbling laughter that makes you shiver, that fills you with ease and serenity; it has you longing for a home only he can make, only he can fulfil. “Yes, I prefer my old weapons; one that has my hand moulded on its handle, one that has been broken time and time again.”

You feel his fingers on your cheek, your cold, tearstained cheek– you want to flinch away but you can’t. Zhongli is your home, you couldn’t hide away any longer.

“So my love, if you are broken then allow me to reforge you.” His voice, archons, his voice resonates deep within your heart, filling its cracks and smoothing its surface. His and completely his, he once noted and each and every time he breathes he reminds you of it. “if you prefer for your pieces to bask in the sun then allow me to carry you, every chuck and dust.”

“I’ll cut you,” you whisper, trying desperately to deny him of the pain you know you would bring. “I'll hurt you; I have jagged edges and–”

“Then do it.”

His arm wraps around you, his hand tugging your head underneath his chin. He places a kiss on the top of your head, feeling the way your body fits with his; longing for the sound of your laughter and accompanying smile.

But Morax knows better; perhaps that person is gone, perhaps they are buried underneath the rubble. And yet he smiled to himself, gripping you tighter, not letting you go. He is pained, it is true. But a god can afford pain.

Let him afford the pain, as long as you wouldn’t have to feel it.

“I’ll hold you until you feel full, I’ll love you until the last stone crumbles, I’ll be by your side until your soul turns to dust.”

He let go of a breath. It sounds heavy; and perhaps for Morax, it is. His lover it seems has been at war. What sort of warrior god lets their spouse fight a battle all alone?

“I love you,” he whispered, “and that’s nothing your thoughts can change no matter how hard they try.”

#☁️◝ the holy codice: little musings #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #zhongli fluff #zhongli fanfic #zhongli #genshin fluff #genshin drabbles #genshin impact zhongli #genshin impact fanfic

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pluvpluvpluv · 8 months ago

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Study Break

18+ || MDNI || Content Warnings: SMUT, characters aged up, established relationship, language, praise kink, thigh riding, lil bit of breeding kink, semi public sex I think that covers it all

Word Count: 1480 exactly

Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

A/N: Happy Thirsty Thursday :) This was written in one sitting and not edited at all. I read through it once before going “yeah post it”

~~~

MC was ready for summer. Summer meant NEWTs were done and she could take a month or so off to celebrate and relax before diving headfirst into her next adventure. She had spent the last two summers under an apprenticeship with Fatima Lawang, making the trip from Feldcroft to Keenbridge every day to study and learn business from someone she truly looked up to. She would be opening a small apothecary in the hamlet she now called home. It was a wonderful location, since she knew Bernard really stuck to selling beast byproducts and plants. She wouldn’t be encroaching on his market, and she could also source ingredients from him. It was going to be, thankfully, a mutually beneficial existence.

She had moved to Feldcroft at the end of their fifth year. Sebastian had nowhere else to live over the summer months, she really had nowhere to live over that time, and neither wanted to be alone. So, when that first year had come to an end, she just followed him home. He had started courting her about halfway through that summer. She had accepted and they had practically lived together like a married couple ever since.

Before she could get to the summer and enjoy her newfound freedom with the love of her life, she had to pass the NEWTs. In order to get her apothecary license, she needed to score high in Potions and Herbology at the very least, but that wasn’t going to be enough for her. The reputation of saving the wizarding world at fifteen years old meant she was expected to do exceedingly well on all of her NEWTs, and she was determined to do so.

She had taken up residence in one of the more secluded corners of the library. It always ensured that MC wouldn’t have to share the table and she could have all of her books open and spread out. Only a select few people knew of where she hid out to study, which limited the interruptions. Except in the case of her boyfriend.

She didn’t know how long she had really been studying when Sebastian finally sat beside her. She didn’t even look up from rereading a paragraph she had already read ten times before. She still retained nothing.

“MC. Love, you missed lunch. I brought you some food.”

“Thanks Bash. I’ll eat it in a minute. I just need to understand what this page is saying.”

He set the plate down and moved the book.

“Considering it’s well past lunch and I didn’t even see you at breakfast, I think you can’t understand the page because you’re hungry. Eat and take a break.”

MC glared at him, debating whether or not it would be worth the argument since they were both the most stubborn person the other had met. That train of thought was interrupted by a rather loud growl as she was betrayed by her own stomach. She ate the food that he brought her without further complaint.

While she ate, Sebastian sat beside her and scanned over the tomes she had laid out on the table. She was paying more attention to him instead. The way that his eyebrows furrowed when he was focused on a paragraph in one of the books and the way his lips moved silently with the words. She focused on his hands as he turned the page and the way that the muscles in his exposed forearms flexed even with that small movement. She could feel herself growing hotter by the second, and it led to the realization that she and Sebastian hadn’t been intimate in nearly three weeks. It could’ve been a record, honestly. Even before he was courting her, after they took each other’s virginities that first summer in Feldcroft, they hardly went more than a couple days without going after each other. The joys of two students living with no chaperone.

“I can feel you staring holes in the side of my head, MC. Have you finished eating? Do you want me to read to you to see if that helps you understand the material better?”

The way he cared for her had also always been one of her favorite things. She had never been good at keeping herself in check, but Sebastian always did his best to make sure she didn’t overextend herself.

“I—uh it’s mostly gone. But I was thinking about something else.”

“Were you? Care to share with the class, darling?”

“I could use your help. Just in a different way.”

He looked at her curiously for a moment before it seemed he registered the look on her face and his expression grew more heated.

“Have you been thinking too much? Do you want to turn that brilliant brain off for a minute?”

His tone was condescending, and while it would normally agitate her when he spoke to her that way, this time it felt different. She nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving his own while a smirk grew on his face.

“Do you remember over the winter holiday, you told me about how one of the girls had talked about grinding on a pillow when she didn’t want to do things herself and I made you do it for me? We don’t have a pillow here, but I bet I could have you grinding on something else and feeling as good as you did that night. Come sit on my thigh, darling. We’ll see if you can ride me like you rode that pillow. Maybe you’ll make just as big a mess on me.”

As she settled in on his lap, she was grateful she had opted for a skirt instead of one of the few outfits she had with pants. The back of the skirt that draped over her boyfriend’s knee would hopefully help hide what they were doing if anyone were to stumble back and find them.

She gave an experimental roll of her hips, and she felt Sebastian’s thigh flex beneath her. MC let out a shaky exhale as she did it again. The thin fabric of her knickers and the coarse fabric of Sebastian’s quidditch pants provided the most delicious friction to her clit. Sebastian’s large hands settled on her hips beneath her skirt, the feel of his fingertips on her bare skin lighting her nerves on fire.

“Make sure you stay quiet. Don’t need anyone hearing how I’m helping you study,” his voice purred, the effect going straight to her core.

As she grew more confident, her pace picked up. Sebastian helped, tensing his thigh and slightly pushing her hips down when she rolled them to make sure that the bundle of nerves she was focused on didn’t go a second without feeling something.

“That’s it, darling. Use me. Grind that needy little cunt on my thigh.”

MC gasped softly, biting her lip as the familiar tension in her lower stomach began to build. She was able to keep her volume down, but she couldn’t keep herself from whining and whimpering completely.

“Bash. Oh gods. I-I’m~”

“Keep going, darling. I can feel how bad you need it. That pretty pussy is drooling through my trousers. You’re making such a mess for me, my good girl. Go on. Cum on my thigh. You can do it, honey.”

With his encouragement and permission, she felt herself giving into the pleasure as her orgasm hit. Her hips stuttered, but Sebastian kept her in rhythm. She registered his low moan too, her chest heaving as she started to come down from her high.

MC’s hand moved to where she assumed she’d find Sebastian’s bulge, hard and aching for the attention she wanted to give it. Instead, her hand landed on a warm, wet patch on the front of his trousers.

“Sebastian Sallow,” she spoke his name low and soft, her frazzled brain slowly putting the pieces together as she looked up at him. “You came in your pants. Untouched. Because of me?”

The boy’s freckled cheeks flooded with color as he blushed. Her normally suave boyfriend seemed embarrassed by this turn of events.

“I may have. You didn’t see yourself. Or hear yourself for that matter. I didn’t realize it was going to happen until it just…happened.”

“That is one of the hottest things you’ve ever done. If we can sneak down to the library floo flame without getting caught, we can make it to the ROR. And I can give you something else to cum in.”

He let out a dark chuckle, looking at her with blown pupils.

“You think this is a game, MC? Hmm? Merlin, I’m gonna get you so fucking pregnant.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t stop the giggle that fell from her lips. She was still giddy as she pulled him down the stairs and towards the floo flame on the back wall.

Thank Merlin for study breaks.

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy fic #sebastian x mc #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow fic #sebastian sallow x mc

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feyqueen91 · 26 days ago

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ZaunDads Fix-It Fic with a Twist by @blackfoy

When the Hound Awoke (1480 words) by BlackFoy

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Vander & Vi (League of Legends), Claggor (Arcane) & Jinx (League of Legends) & Mylo (Arcane) & Vander & Vi (League of Legends), Jinx & Vander (League of Legends), Jinx & Vander & Vi (League of Legends), Benzo (Arcane: League of Legends) & Vander (League of Legends), Mylo (Arcane: League of Legends) & Vander (League of Legends), Sevika (Arcane: League of Legends) & Vander (League of Legends), Vi & Warwick (League of Legends), Jinx & Warwick (League of Legends), Jinx & Vi & Warwick (League of Legends), Ekko & Warwick (League of Legends)

Characters: Vander (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends), Claggor (Arcane: League of Legends), Mylo (Arcane: League of Legends), Benzo (Arcane: League of Legends), Ekko (League of Legends), Jinx (League of Legends), Sevika (Arcane: League of Legends), Warwick (League of Legends)

Additional Tags: Jinx Goes by Powder (League of Legends), Young Jinx (League of Legends), Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, POV Outsider, Protective Vander (League of Legends), Good Parent Vander (League of Legends), Vander Needs A Hug (League of Legends), Vander remembers being Warwick and everyone is worried, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, not that anybody knows that is what happened, Past Brainwashing, One Shot

Series: Part 1 of The Hound's Gone Feral

Summary:

The Hound, after everything, has found himself back in time. He does not know how, and he does not particularly care. All he knows is that he will protect his pups this time, no matter the cost.

#arcane #arcane: league of legends #vander #arcane vander #arcane silco #silco #Silco x Warwick #silco x vander #vander/silco #vanderwick #vandwick #warwick arcane #arcane warwick #fix it fic #zaundads #uncanny valley effect

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artandthebible · 2 months ago

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The Nativity

Artist: Lorenzo Lotto (Venetian, c. 1480 - 1556/1557)

Date: 1523

Medium: Oil on panel

Collection: National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, United States

The Nativity

Tradition says that Francis of Assisi created the very first Christmas nativity scene in AD 1223 after a trip to the Holy Land and Christ’s birthplace. So began a new tradition that took root in many Western countries. Today, we can see nativity scenes in front of churches and homes, on street corners, and in pageants every Christmas season.

The word nativity is taken from the Latin nativus, which means “arisen by birth.” A nativity scene is a representation of the night of Jesus’ birth as depicted in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke.

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jaylver · 1 year ago

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SILVER SPRINGS — P.JS

synopsis: falling in love and starting a band with a man who you swore to be your soulmate was your first mistake. after your break up, you wrote a song about him, not knowing performing it with him would soon haunt him for a long time.

pairings: guitarist!jay x singer afab!reader

genre: lovers to exes, broken relationship, break up, band au

warning(s): angst, profanities

wc: 1480

a/n: yes this is another jay fic ... guilty. and it's also a fic based off a song ... guilty. dedicated to any fleetwood mac fans because this is based off their song 'silver springs' and also inspired by stevie nicks and lindsey buckingham's relationship, specifically that ONE performance. hope you enjoy this one! please leave a feedback and reblogs are appreciated!

Who said breaking up with your boyfriend who also happened to be part of your band was a great idea? Not you.

You blamed the fame. Something in you had a feeling that blowing up and gaining attention would eventually turn sour, but you didn’t think it would affect your relationship. It got to both you and him.

Jay, your first love and the man who you started the band with, called it quits right before a show.

He was a sweetheart, and he has always had decent manners, but to break up with you before performing was a low blow. Maybe it was an outburst that he could no longer hold in, or he just had an intrusive urge to do so, but whatever it was, it was so unprofessional and not cool.

Obviously, you turned up on stage almost ripping the guitar out of his hand and smashing it into pieces, but you didn't. Instead, your eyes were red and puffy, voice hoarse and stage presence at its all time low, just like you. The drummer of your band, Heeseung, was avoiding the tension actively, whilst Yunjin on the keyboard was casting concerned glaces. Then there was Jake, the other guitarist, glancing in worry between you and Jay.

It didn't take long before fans figured out something was wrong, and their theories were proven correct when the news got leaked out. Just great, wasn't it? Especially when you were at your peak of fame.

"Oh, don't say that she was pretty,"

It was pathetic. Arguing with Jay and breaking down crying one night when he came back to your shared apartment to get his things.

You didn't expect your sudden outburst during then. You admitted that it was you who picked an argument first, but how could you not when he brought up his recent date?

"Did she say that she loved you?" You mocked, noticing the things you've said had angered him equally.

"Fuck off, would you? We're done, alright?"

His words cut deep, unexpected and surprising. You scoffed, turning your head away from him. "I loved you years ago, but have you ever loved me?"

"Don't talk bullshit with me, Y/N. I've always loved you!"

"Then why would you talk to her while we were together?" You choked down a sob, remembering the rumours plastered over the tabloids, ones where he never denied. That was when you began not to love him, losing sparks and devotion.

Jay was silent, jaw clenching and the grip on his boxes tightened. He knew you struck bullseye and he couldn't deny it. He was aware that he's a prick, a scumbag that didn't deserve you, so he'd gladly take all the punches from you, but seeing you cry was making him weak.

“Can you tell me, was it worth it?"

The silence followed, tension filling the air around you. He shook his head, holding onto his boxes and turning around for the door. That was the end, wasn’t it?

“I know I could’ve loved you but you wouldn’t let me,” you said softly, falling onto a chair, needing to have a seat before your feelings overwhelmed you.

Without anything more from him, the door closed, leaving you to yourself in the home you once shared with the love of your life. Now, it was an empty shell reminding you of times you had together, continuously haunting you even as you took a pen and started writing down lyrics into your notebook.

Releasing the song you wrote about Jay was probably the best and worst decision you’ve pulled.

Despite the break up, the state of your band wasn’t affected, instead you two took the professional path and kept it together for the sake of achieving each other’s dreams. It was hard and definitely awkward at the start, but you grew accustomed to everything eventually.

What you didn’t expect was the song blowing up. The fans loved it, they ate it up, taking in every part of the dramatics of your break up. Of course, the label and your bandmates didn’t mind the fame that came along with it, but you could tell Jay was bothered.

It was the night of your first performance after your break up and the song’s success. You mustered the little courage left in you, hoping you wouldn’t crumble whilst singing the song you wrote about him, or literally any song in general. Thankfully, the set list was short, and all you needed to do was sing then leave. Easier said than done.

You heard the screams of fans, felt the flashing of lights, but all you could think of was Jay who stood to your left, setting his electric guitar up. It might've taken you a while to come to an idea of getting back at him, but it was definitely a great one. Singing the song you wrote about him while all he could do was listen, coming on stage and be reminded of you, those could be your best revenge.

The familiar sounds of the guitar began the song slowly, you sang naturally and didn't think much about it. That's when you felt his lingering gaze on you, the same eyes that stared back at you with love once were filled with unspeakable emotions.

As the song continued on, reaching almost the end, the tension between you and him only grew. You turned to face him now, holding tightly onto the microphone stand, pouring out your vulnerability with each word, never breaking eye contact once.

"I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you, give me just a chance!" you sang harder, seeing him strumming his guitar with equal strain.

"You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you," hands reaching out to him, you felt as if you were the only ones there. "Was I such a fool?"

You were professing your love for the last time, knowing he had already moved on, you were just a fool. Anger, pure rage were genuine and raw as it continuously flowed from you.

"You'll never get away, never get away, never get away!"

Every word from you came out like a spell, cursing him with every ounce of you. Your lyrics were placing an eternal curse on him, one that has him never getting away from you, your voice and your pain.

Jay stared back with the same ferocity, his eyes screaming loud, gaze never leaving you for even a second.

Until the last minute of your stage, you only learnt to breathe deeply and stop your stare on your past lover, legs weak and head spiralling. Oh God, you need a whole tub of ice cream once you get home.

Being left alone in your own room backstage after closing the set, you finally had the freedom to collect your emotions and thoughts, still shaking a little. It didn't take long before you heard a knock on the door, expecting Yunjin to come and check up on you, but it wasn't.

It was Jay.

"Hey," he breathed out, seeing your seemingly beaten down state.

"Hi," you couldn't believe he was here, not when you literally sang a song about him to his face earlier.

"I–uh–just wanted to come and tell you that … it was a great performance. You did well,"

"Oh," that totally caught you off guard. "Thank you,"

The awkwardness between you and him made you cringe. It wasn't an everyday occurence to be in a band with your ex and having to see him frequently, especially when he came to compliment you.

"I hate this, Y/N. I don't want you to hate me but I understand if you do. I'm sorry, for the things I've done and said. Just … don't be a stranger,"

"I won't," you said shakily, gulping in anxiety. "I've got too much love for you, it doesn't just dissipate after years. You're always going to be someone to me,"

Jay smiled, releasing a breath of relief. "I love you too, and I wish nothing but happiness for you,"

"For the both of us."

Months passed and the success of the band only grew bigger. You and Jay were on civil terms, but nothing was the same as it was.

Jay might've slowly gotten over you and the break up, but it seemed that you kept haunting him.

Walking down the streets, he saw your face on bilboards for campaigns you've shot for. Going into stores, he heard your voice playing from the speakers. Performing on stage, you were there, under the bright lights, shining and sparkling.

He would never get away from the sound of the woman that loved him. He would never escape you.

Time might've casted a spell on him, but he would never forget you and you would always, always haunt him.

☆ permanent taglist (open):

@silentkarnival @strvlveera @freshsaladbowl @bejewelledgirl @fakeuwus @yenqa @hsgwrld @ilovegyuvin @enhacatalog

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adverbian · 14 days ago

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This is some extremely niche humor, but. So, these two guys, Angelo Poliziano and Pico della Mirandola. Both poets in Renaissance Florence circa 1480-1490. (They were also murdered together in 1494, which no one knew until their bodies were exhumed in 2007, but that’s not involved in this story.)

This is the flirtiest goddamn beta-reading exchange I have ever seen.

(For flavor: These letters were originally written in Latin. The English translation is Shane Butler, 2006; available to read at OpenLibrary.org.)

Pico writes first, enclosing some new love poems he’s written, and asking Poliziano to beta-read for him. He says “Give it to those poems rough.”

Since I have arranged my poetic trifles, by which I made sport of my love affairs for as long as youth allowed, into five books, I am sending you the first of these and intend to send you the rest, provided that in this one I find in you a friend instead of a flatterer.

For they come to you on the strict condition that they be chastised and spanked and that they pay the price for their errors by enduring fingernail and skewers.

Translator notes at this point: “The elaborate (and largely untranslatable) erotic and sadomasochistic humor of this sentence depends on […] two technical terms: the Latin phrase ad unguem, "to the point of being ready for the fingernail," which strictly refers to a carpenter's ultimate test of the smoothness of a join but which was used broadly in Latin to describe the successful finish of any work of art (especially poetry), and the symbol of the "skewer" or "dagger" (†) […] used in textual criticism since antiquity to mark spurious lines of verse.”

In other words, “Yeah, daddy, mark it up good and hard.”

Poliziano replies, enclosing his beta comments:

My, you are a wit to match me with your Loves and to require that such attractive boys be received by me —though I hardly am the type to wear a furrowed brow — with such nasty strictness. They say that Love all by himself challenged Pan, a god, to the ring and threw him on his back. How do you suppose that I can wrestle with Venus’s whole team? Nevertheless, you — yes, you, Pico, who can be refused in nothing, no matter what it is, without gross sacrilege — insist on this. And so I prevailed upon a few of them to endure a little abuse from me. […]

In other words, “Your poems are a whole team of extremely hot twinks, and you asked me to wrestle all of them so roughly, instead of just taking them to bed. But I did it. For you.”

Pico replies, waggling an eyebrow:

My Loves declare that they never have enjoyed a reception more stylish or entertaining than that which greeted them over the course of the past few days at your house. Even as they themselves take full credit for the friendly way in which you did it, they are enormously in your debt for pricking them at all. Yes, who wouldn't want to die on the receiving end of that sword of yours?

WHO

WOULDN'T

WANT TO DIE

ON THE RECEIVING END

OF THAT

SWORD

OF YOURS

!!!!!!

In other words, 🍆💦🍆💦🍆💦

I need to see the entire transcript of their DMs immediately.

#angelo poliziano #pico della mirandola #Renaissance Florence #letters of note #beta reading #ye olde beta reading

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pluviowriting · 8 months ago

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Study Break

18+ || MDNI || Content Warnings: SMUT, characters aged up, established relationship, language, praise kink, thigh riding, lil bit of breeding kink, semi public sex I think that covers it all

Word Count: 1480 exactly

Repost from original blog @/pluvpluvpluv

Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

A/N: Happy Thirsty Thursday :) This was written in one sitting and not edited at all. I read through it once before going “yeah post it”

Part Two Here

“MC. Love, you missed lunch. I brought you some food.”

“Thanks Bash. I’ll eat it in a minute. I just need to understand what this page is saying.”

He set the plate down and moved the book.

“Considering it’s well past lunch and I didn’t even see you at breakfast, I think you can’t understand the page because you’re hungry. Eat and take a break.”

“I can feel you staring holes in the side of my head, MC. Have you finished eating? Do you want me to read to you to see if that helps you understand the material better?”

“I—uh it’s mostly gone. But I was thinking about something else.”

“Were you? Care to share with the class, darling?”

“I could use your help. Just in a different way.”

He looked at her curiously for a moment before it seemed he registered the look on her face and his expression grew more heated.

“Have you been thinking too much? Do you want to turn that brilliant brain off for a minute?”

“Make sure you stay quiet. Don’t need anyone hearing how I’m helping you study,” his voice purred, the effect going straight to her core.

“That’s it, darling. Use me. Grind that needy little cunt on my thigh.”

“Bash. Oh gods. I-I’m~”

“Sebastian Sallow,” she spoke his name low and soft, her frazzled brain slowly putting the pieces together as she looked up at him. “You came in your pants. Untouched. Because of me?”

The boy’s freckled cheeks flooded with color as he blushed. Her normally suave boyfriend seemed embarrassed by this turn of events.

“I may have. You didn’t see yourself. Or hear yourself for that matter. I didn’t realize it was going to happen until it just…happened.”

He let out a dark chuckle, looking at her with blown pupils.

“You think this is a game, MC? Hmm? Merlin, I’m gonna get you so fucking pregnant.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t stop the giggle that fell from her lips. She was still giddy as she pulled him down the stairs and towards the floo flame on the back wall.

Thank Merlin for study breaks.

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow fanfiction #Sebastian sallow smut #Sebastian sallow x mc #Sebastian x mc #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fic #Sebastian sallow fic

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t1oui · 2 months ago

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OKAY so it's day 2 of jegumas, prompt is cookies... and i'm posting for the prompt fireplace instead to kick off the minific/series i wrote for this fest. i DO have something written for cookies, but that'll have to be posted later since it comes after fireplace. so... series time! this first chapter is literally just set up, not much jeggy i'm sad to say. dw i promise i make up for it in later chapters

@noblehouseofgay | day 2: cookies fireplace | total word count: 1480 | strangers in italy part 1

When Regulus was young, Christmas — the holidays as a whole — meant frilly dresses and stuffy ballrooms. He would sit in the corner with Narcissa, watching people dance and ignoring her fretting over “Auntie Walburga’s terrible sense of style”. She was the first one in the family to know about him after Sirius, just came out and told him one day that it was a pity he couldn’t be a boy openly because suits and dress shirts would look so much better on him than gowns. When Regulus just stared at her, terrified, she scowled at him and waved away his surprise.

“I’m not a fool, Cassie,” she said. “Especially when it comes to fashion.” Regulus watched her weave her way through the evening, thought about how she was the only one to make it past seventeen without being married off, and thought that Narcissa was selling her own intelligence short. He never said anything, though, because he had no doubt that she knew.

continue reading on ao3 !

#hp fandom #harry potter fandom #hp #marauders era #25daysofjegumas #james potter #regulus black #jegulus #james x regulus #regulus x james #narcissa black #narcissa malfoy

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blackangelism · 9 months ago

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Born to Die

hey, so, basically, i was writing this fanfiction called born to die based upon kurt cobain and an original character called nirvana lacey anhedönia and, well, i never finished it and i think i’ve lost the inspiration to. but, i still want it to see the light of day because i think it’s beautiful (sort of). so, here we are.

Gibson Girl.

1480 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ You wanna… ]

Lovelace.

That’s what I’m fucking carving into my arm. With that oh-so-American size of the knife, the cut was deep and my handwriting as unhinged as it could be, probably and possibly worse than the cruel (upon me!) variety of forms it takes; like it was in my journal (I’ve always adored the copulation of the words probably and possibly as it tends so well to my seeming lack of sincerity and existential confusion), but worse, worse. Tingling all over I was in not an aroused, sexual way—but in the way it tingles when the high becomes scary, when the swirly faces start to scratch at you and when your belly feels scarily pregnant (everyone whom I know wants children; I wonder, am I sociopathic or a prophetess? Probably both, they’re primarily synonymous anyway). I knew so damnéd well I was addicted to this shit, the little, translucent, hallucinatory blotters (I prefer ’em trippy on both the outside and in, and pink; but I’m an addict! I’ll take whatever anyways) I get by shaking my ass to the guy whose name I do not wish to have my married brain clouded with. He still cut into my head like the knife that was working with all it’s effort and my inputs carving that v on my plump, ripe forearm. I was addicted as fuck; and I fucking loved it. At the very fucking least, I was pumping out poems like a heroine of the fifties. It’s what it was: the fifties had Sylvia Plath and the eighties had me. Downright iconic. The blood by now—I felt like a lamb, but I knew I was the dragon—was flooding my lap on which that forearm of mine was settled. I apologise if my writing, grammer, thoughts, anything else is fucked up in this or don’t make sense—I’m drugged up into Cloud Nineteen (ten blotters, two packs of Marlboro Reds over this evening).

I know I sound fucking insane and I probably am, and I treat myself to pain Virgin Mary couldn’t have dreamt off—but, I promise I’m not mean. Just a hard, excessive exterior and a tight, eager posterior in this dollhood of mine. Does that even make sense…? I don’t fucking know shit… “Ah, fuck…” I whispered with the most disappointing one I could muster when I fucked up the second l of Lovelace.

Lovelace, Lovelace… Great, I have to recall him.

The fucker who got me into this.

Norwegian trucker in India who was friends with my greaser pa, Norman Anhedönia, called Gibson Lovelace. The chap had forty years worth of oxygen wasted in his shallow breathing (he always breathed shallow, even when he came; I had noticed), a nine-incher monster of a dick, pedophilia, a drunkard wife and an obsession with me. I’d always been what Nabokovian terms would term nymphet, and I do say I’m split on it. I’m a shit daughter and a demon child, or am I? Maybe I’m just depressed and suicidal, or I’m fucking divine and the reincarnation of Eve meant to meet her Adam through a senseless act of violence upon myself (I didn’t know at the time, but I was fucking foreshadowing; go me.). Every girl needs a senseless act of violence properly upon herself but rarely upon the other to discover her one and only cult leader.

Anywho, Gibson led me into his truck away from my father who was too busy cleaning his shades listening to Elvis on the records: January of ’77, I was seven going to turn eight in the November of that year. He fucked me raw, smashed my head so hard into the steering wheel that I bled (I was questioning too much), kissed my cuts and made me promise I wouldn’t pick up a knife again but didn’t do shit about what I actually felt; he told me to stick my tongue out and placed this thin translucent sheet of pink from a little booklet he kept in his glovebox. And I decided that I loved it. I’m at fault, I’m at fault… Fuck Waheguru.

I’m finished. I squeezed my arm as hard as I could, the blood spraying over the marble floor (I had tucked the rug away; I can’t let Mumma see). My incisors with the utmost force to keep my vocal chords at bay dug into my chapped bottom lip and drew blood there too. It trickled down to my chin and came to nirvana at my lap resting amongst the other red molecules; it left a ferric taste on the tip of my tongue, slightly bitter and quite sweet. Bittersweet. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood… Blood, everywhere. Gibson would’ve rubbed it all over my nipples and told me to lick it up like it was his sperm all over my asscheeks or, well, just cheeks. I did have quite big tits for an almost twelve-year-old, I must admit… I’ve always had more estrogen and my estrogen was also more sensitive: susceptible. Susceptible to manipulation, fuckery, religion, what not… Finally, I could fucking feel something except for the stimuli of my g-spot and the irritation in my nostrils that still blossomed when I chainsmoked indoors or that itching feeling in me when I go too much time without my LSD. I have this delusion that I only pump men good or pump out good stuff when I’m pumped on those little squares: He said that LSD would be good for me when I told him that I write; I’ve been pumpin’ poetry for my baby ever since. I hate children, and I sincerely wish that all babies die alongside their parents and the doctors and the nurses and the medical’s parents and me…

My disorders kicked in (Borderline Personality Disorder, majorly untreated) and I fucking panicked. After so much shit, I fucking panicked. Panicked. Jumping up almost to slam my head to the sink I was cutting up like ham under, I had to hold onto the sink to make myself stand actually. I slowly experienced my hand creep up to switch on the faucet (like Gibby did to the faucet in my eyes everytime he crossed my neurocircuitry) and my other arm (I’m right-handed) creep to wash the blood from Lovelace off. Thankfully, I had a few bottles of peroxide, a pack of Reds, a babydoll dress all set up, razor and men’s shaving cream, my skincare, makeup—all of that set up, and the shower prepped as well. Today, I was to die.

The same year as Gibson’s arrival to me, I spiralled and ended up flinging my curvy body down the roof of some pretentious hotel in Seattle. I didn’t die, unfortunately. Then, well, I was transferred to a crazy people place for four years until I got out in March of ’81 (this year!) equally, if not more, fucked up. I had glowed so much surrounded by my little hellspawns, my creatures... My paradise is dying in the arms of nobody. But, I couldn’t care when the blotters kicked in and helped my cerebrum in distorting so fucking shittily my face into some eldritch horror that passed the likes of werewolves mid-transformation and golems. I giggled manically at the twistings of my eyes into the hair and my ears into halo, my mouth stretched through the giggle was transmuted to the petrified image of a dog and a lady and what fucking not. Oh, I need my pen… Pen, pen, pen, pen,... pen!

The lad

I tried to write into the journal page I had kept open on the small settee of my bathroom that I had also made sure to drip some of my essence onto (not like that, pervs; the blood, I’m saying) but my mouth wouldn’t co-operate with my cerebellum or my cerebrum. The giggles just wouldn’t stop and they just got more and more distorted like guitars fitted into amps and amps and shredding. I fell back on the ground, it cushioned by my ass, and held my head in my arms, shaking my head as if to curate outside of my all the fogginess and to shake out of my trip. I wanted to write, write! Not whatever the fuck this was. My eyes were squeezed so hard, I was crying. And, I couldn’t fucking stop laughing like a shitshow.

“Oh, God, stop, stop, stop, just fucking stop…!” Hadn’t even realised I was sobbing but in that moment that epiphany hit me like a freight train (whatever the fuck a freight train is; I just picked up on the writing tool from whatever I read using this). My arm was still bleeding, smearing blood over my cheeks; my lip was still cut from my teeth, bleeding the smaller bits too; I was shaking like a fucking banyan leaf in the rainstorms of Wash.

• • •

Strangers.

5010 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love ]

Even the isolation, deprave, and mesophilia of our fucked-up, Lacey, crazies hospital was better than this drenched, little town. What was better than any of those two fucking disasters, though, was my stance on the railway tracks. Sittin’ there like teke-teke, waitin’ for my gorgeous guts to be smashed over, destroyed, violated, clawed out by the grinders of the train. I’d never seen starry nights—the ladies at Lacey would never have enough testicles to let me watch a shooting star and hope that it crash into me, the fuckin’ meteorite. My years at Cawnpore already were quite less in number, and it eternally was too polluted for us to see something more than the dhruv star and a few other killers; I’d never seen starry nights. According to this astronomical magazine I picked up while the nurses took us out to the local stores of Lacey for us teenage girls to detoxify our battlefields for minds, today was a meteor shower and I was thoroughly intrigued by blazing space rocks in the skies, so I bluffed and fucked my way out of the hospital. My egg and sperm donors did not believe for a major nanosecond that I was cured. At two years of pained age, I was standing in the middle of the gray-like-me roads, conscious of the act; at four, I burnt my pierced earlobe on purpose, using the steam-fuelled iron to; at six, any blade I pranced upon would find it’s metallic way to scent the room in the aroma of my equally metally blood, I only wished for one to kiss those marks and draw about them, to be what the lyre was to Apollo; at eight, this curvy brain of mine finally snapped into her hemispheres and told me to fling my curvy body down the highest story of our hotel. At eight, my suppliers abandoned their Catholic mistake of a dolly into a mental hospital in my Americana birthplace, Lacey.

There, I morphed myself like the blesséd Phoenix, curse, profanity I am into The Mother. Mother Lace, Mother Nirvana, Messiah of thee, and the literary combo of Three. One of the only times I shall ever cherish are my years with those six girls… My girls: my loves, only ones who would ever succeed in enveloping me with so much heat that the outward exterior, the exoskeleton of middle fingers and catty hisses, melts into a puddle of rot beneath me and the inner delicacy of my wretched fragility and mortality is on display for all those mental fuckers to eat.

Needless to say…, I missed my bundle of little women, my packets of compressed, oppressed joy. So, I lay there longing with my arms stretched onward craving hiraeth in the Heavens—now that I look back, it never was hiraeth. I knew exactly what my home was: the browned mental hospital where I spent four formative years of my Jim Morrison's life in. I longed for the hug of my collected daughters, their soft digits brushing my hair as they softly inquired escape from the hellhole I promised to save them from. My girls... I loved them, like the mother they never received. I had promised, I had promised… I was a betrayer. What mother to those girls…

On instinct I experienced my hands reach to the crown of my head, relief coursing through my blood the moment a thorn stung me. Their entity had crafted for me a crown of thorns to relish me as their Lady and Saviour. I did feel blood seep from the pinch, but I stuck my finger between my lips and thrashed my tongue around, gazing at the dying glows of the starry night.

I pretended to be Jesus.

I am Judas, or am I?

I don’t even know what I’m writing. You’re hallucinating while interpreting strange symbols written left-to-right in lead and antimony compounds upon thin, delicate tablet-like structures made of tree sap, so I guess we two are never too far apart in our crazy.

Well, to them (my girls: Laine Jean Ray, Bonita Ana Dios, Aurora May-Belle Long, Theresa Midge Check, Verbena de Baïa Voisin, Margaret Sarah Check), I still remain Yeshua. Yet, I feel a wolf in lamb’s skin as myself; a panther in the throes of the night sky that I stare emptily, tearily, upon. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (translation: you people are fucking dumb).

In my convulsing tubule of thoughts birthed by my cerebral quality, I failed in my life to notice movement, possibly a metre from me. I was laid over the railway track like a corpse, eyes empty yet body warm for no reason at all. It truly seems bizarre how the movement noticed me neither—maybe dissolved so much in the grief were they that they were as heady as me, as crazy as I! Trapped inside the fever dream of their own thoughts, vowed to never spit it out, bit tongues and summertimes spent in clawing bedsheets and clamping hands over the own lips so as to refrain from the awareness that might spread. That might say…: I am iron. I am usable, extremely so. Exploit me, as if you have not already. Though, I might have not warneth thou… I rot as vigorously as I am used, keep me out in the world and I will break down and become ash of myself. In the velvet night, a puff of air as a sigh crawled out of me, liquid dripping down the corneas of I, ruining not the night (this was to be, I planned to die today for fuck’s sake) but my precious mascara and eyeliner. Oh, how I worked on that lining to accentuate my inherited, unwanted, auto-appreciated felinity. I’d be the prettiest girl in the morgue.

Someday you will ache like I ache.

Anyhow, the shower from the atmosphere had concluded a few minutes prior. And, well, finally, the train I was waiting for to scramble and crumble my guts into nothing but wasted potential, like I already was, had arrived… Only, it arrived wrong. It ran over the steel beside me, beside us (counting in the movement I am). A severe monsoon bummer filled my chest, the void in my heart had been concealed tightly and packed with Lyssa, Eris, what not. I craved to screech at the tyrant Father for his sin, for his fucking disruptive mercy on me—I did not want mercy! I needed death to fuck me like his personal, unpaid, loyal servant-girl; I needed it violent! So, as soon as all registered in my voluminous cerebrum, I recoiled in my pose, resorting to the protection of a foetal position as I screamed out my sobs and muffled them by staining my shaved thighs with my lipstick and drool smelling of minty chew-gum that I chewed last minute, tears of brown-black from my mascara and liner, hitting my head against my knees and punching the bloody rails that I was once moonbathing over until I experienced my knuckles burn and bruise, actual slivers of blood peek through the skin. I continued then too, but was too passionate in my quiet wailing to keep up the aggression.

And, thence, I swiped my tears with my bleeding knuckles, unrealising in my little girl’s misery of the fact, and smeared blood over my eyes and mascara over my blood. By some distance, I could hear some twigs crunching, maybe it was the movement I hadn’t noticed beforehand. When I did notice in that current moment, fear struck my gut like Cupid’s arrow when I had seen Priscilla Presley for the first time in forever. Naturally, a response occurred within the fatty mass of electric muscle in my head and I recoiled within myself, burying my face in my knees that I had pulled to my tits, only my eyes blinking up like a defensing cat—if I had been a cat, my pupils would have shrunken to that reptilian, creepy glare. I saw that the thing was lighting a cigarette, my cravings relit alongside (the appearance of the thing was half-revealed in the dim spark).

Stupidly as I ever could be, I murmured from my coil, “Do you have a light?” However softly I did speak, the boy did hear because it was the death of the night in wherever we were, the railroad was as quiet as could be with the crickets around chirping and inaudible bats may or may not be sauntering about. Dim moonlight that I somedays worshipped (as a witch, I did) proved herself, and I saw him. The first predicament was that he’s cute: blond, ice eyes, hopeless swagger, shaky legs. He paused himself in his trek, and slowly but mildly clumsily, turned to see my form. Perhaps cold moonlight proved her importance to hallucinatory pages of dead sap’s inkéd words of feel-good love. Wow, fuck, I went overboard on there. So, he scrutinised me for a moment, squinting to gaze at me carefully.

I’ll never forget what came out of my future husband’s mouth the first time he spoke a single thing to me…: You look very pretty when you’re crying; tears suit you. I don’t think that I can emphasise the moan that was nearly to escape me at that very moment, it was a shockwave of whatever down my spine to my ladyness. My knees dropped to become flat, just legs, and I did acknowledge the gashes in my doll heart bleeding so vigorously, it matched my swallowed drool.

“You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.”

His honeyed voice, sort of scratchy as I observed he was pubescent and hormonal in his blue jeans, white striped shirt—walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn!—and black-y jacket he kept open, pushed me to experience the yayo-type, giggly joy of his chuckle, he shook his head in amuséd denial of his drunkenness. He was poetic, he had a slur, he had his thin lips wrapped around a cigarette—shit, I needed them wrapped around mine… And, I loved it. Why the fuck was I enamoured? “You’re a hypocrite,” He paused for a moment, maintaining that smile. Two distinct holes, punctures in muscle, were noticed by thee truly, myself, at that very moment; I felt my ribcaged heart palpitate. “You’re bawling your eyes out here like Virgin Mary.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful.” The moan that was slowly and gradually, steadily and irresistibly, mountaineering up my throat finally escaped in the form of this: *Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful*. Which, I did mean—how could I not mean *this*? I’m not Lisa Rowe, you buzz (although I wish to be—have you not read the sheer charisma produced from the description Kaysen emits of her? She was definitely the prettiest girl in the morgue!).

Hands of his extended to mine, both, and I took them, shakingly wobbling from my psych-out. I felt drunk. As terror-inducin’ it seems, drugs had exhilarated me, no cock of a man who had money this nymphet had onlooked had been left out, I was such a La Lolita for my crazy desires—but I had never had a swig before. Smelling the booze off my falling, twisted guy as he pulled me up from my literal and mental death—I only knew that my heart was hitting at my sinews, she felt a depraved wanderlust. Some wanderlust it was to, like a man in a Prime Minister pose, mark that free, angel Earth mine with maybe a flag (a tattoo) or a hole (a lovebite), something, somewhat. I held onto his shoulders for both metaphorical and literal support, he held onto the curve of the lower back I possessed, though the fabric of his jackie didn’t benefit friction and he kept slipping his arm off accidentally because, one, he adorned too much weight on; two, the fabircs intermingled like our forms, the cheap satin and whatever the fuck his jacket was made of. “Why am I a hypocrite, though?” I finally asked this little blond dude what had been pestering me (I am not to blame for this worthy-of-disdain obsessiveness, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am Cool Girl: I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive) for how millennium long. His ocean eyes matched mine for a moment, and he seemed to think through for a momento before he permitted the giggle of a hyena break out of him: Because you’re pretty when you cry, and I’m not.

“Yes, you are.” No hesitation was laced through me, none of that unaware uncertainty that I usually experienced leaking through my tune when I comforted one of my girls—my girls...—and instead was there an ignorant stubbornness. I was always stubborn, but what the fuck? I, having registered in my still plush cerebrum that my crown of thorns (gifted to me by Laine specifically, although all the girls worked on it) had fallen like my Lucifer when I had risen, thence I bent to grab my status, injuring my already injured hand thus further as the thorns pierced and pricked into my skin. And, I didn’t even cry…

He recoiled almost physically at my olden compliment (remember the first dialogue of the previous paragraphed rambling?) and I was due a breakdown of my psyche in that very singular fraction of a minute when my man suddenly perked up, “I only have this cig,”, changing the subject. Yahweh, my knuckles burnt. I ohed a tiny bit, and chuckled, extending one of my quivering, weak limbs and bending to wrap my lipstickéd lips on the ass of that cigarette, same one he took a drag from not fifteen seconds ago. His Atlantic eyes widened for a twiddling momentous, and, possibly and probably in drunken stupor and marijuana heights of his death wish, he giggled—I physically felt my pupils dilate, what the fuck? Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the aftershocks of my tiny-teeny mental breakdown on the rail, maybe it was hisself… Damn, I think I understood Grant so well in that miniscule moment: Heaven is a place on Earth with you.

The world was built for two.

Delusional, I was convinced that it was us two the moment he grabbed the cigarette from me for his chance, and he examined the matte, messy mark of my lip stamped on it.

With the dumbest smile he could muster in my damnéd opinion, this little, blond, territorial, underdeveloped man adjusted his lips on the exact place I had left my shine, suckling it like it was some part of me. He knew what he was doing, I could pluck it from the glitter in his pretty orbs that told me shit he’d never be able to spit out in our tragic, magic relationship of some thirteen years. We kissed in death like we kissed in that moment, he blew smoke into my mouth and I giggled, almost extracting the alcohol of his from the roof of his mouth as my tongue felt her way around. We parted for perhaps, well, a second (I don’t remember the details, I’m writing this after our wedding sex, 1988. We’re in our flight back to Olympia from Honolulu, and he’s sleeping on my tits), and rejoint as I adjusted the angle to kiss-fuck this virginal Cherub better. “Darling, is this your first?”, he nodded, responsive—to be frank, that was adorable...! I’m pretty sure I squeaked out of sheer kiddy excitement, squeezing the sides of his face (cheeks). My grip migrated to around his neck, form bent for he was teenier than I. I didn’t even know his name and we were kissing in the blue dark…

Parting, I only gazed into his oceanic gaze and breathlessly giggled, “Oh, wow, fuck,... That was…, yeah.” A grand total of seven partners (three females, four males) I had engaged in before this merman, and I had never felt myself stolen of breathe ever in my existence after a mere kiss. Possibly was it the intoxication, the nicotine fucking over my senses so that my taste buds tickled with the enriching experience of his glazed cavern, but was it not thrilling, oh Mary! I had enchanted outward the sweetest giggle, and he in his still stupor snuggled his head inside the curve of my shoulder and chest; he was only that much tall. I was not lanky in any aspect, neither I am still—on the flipside, truth is that my mother repeatedly insisted upon me to not drown in my head and force her to onlook, rather to go outside, soak some tan (I am racially brown, thence I don’t require a tan) and run some. I decline profusely, tangling in blankets again and writing what, if discovered, would have positively filed me into the South Sound Behavioral Hospital yet again for a term not of four years now but of God-knows-how-long.

Eventually, I figured: some other day, this nymph may or may not have only prolonged my life now, and I told myself it. By the railway roads were grasses uncared for (like most daughters were; the human was their mother and the stain’d, tall grasses were the lost), we decided unconsciously to sit by those and talk the dimlight of the night off the clouds, to dawn we conversed. As unbelievable as it may sound considering the turbulence not even Athena might have dreamt of that had plagued the twisty courses of my lifetime, I had not sipped upon the liver eater yet: alcohol! With my newfound darling, that was precisely what I did.

We were dwelling inside uncanny synchronisation with our acts: we looked around at the same time, fixated on the same piece of cement, reached to gasp one another’s hands the same moment. I didn’t flinch, neither did the blond darling. Which..., was quite, well, it was especially choking as I... Usually froze at contact of the physique from someone whom I loved. Around this time, with my drink-induced lover, it felt good.

We curled up by grass, against a gray boulder-like structure, perhaps a part of a rotten or demolished building of some sort, debris. There, I suckled upon the lengthy cancerstick and inquired like an owl: “Why were you here, anyway?” In a casual tone I did, as if it was something so normal that I was nonchalant. “Oh, y’know, to kill myself.” The answer delivered by this sweetness would dwelling in me a day or so afterward (take that very literally) was just as nonchalant, confirming the suspicion conjured by my despaired subconscious that he was just as heady as me, as crazy as me, someone who would rot along me like iron all the while fearing the rot, hiding from something murmuring within thyself and teetering about; aura as a nymphic call and melancholia as the default ring of the mood. GOD is a teenaged girl of grunge and glitter, and I am a doll (soulless, empty, pretty with no matter on the inside yet pretty from the back—it matched!).

“No, no, like, why?” I repeated with an accentuated tone and my regular gestures of hand and eye, “The reason you wanted to kill yourself. I don’t judge, promise.” I shrugged, chuckling a bit as I passed the miniature cancer to him for a drag. “Clearly.” He chuckled too, widening his eyes momentarily to allude to my appearance; as I remember it, that elicited out from me a little giggle. I mean, it was the factual; darling, not lying. A girl; a girl dressed in a pearly babydoll dress with lacy tights (opaque white-like, frilled, a bow on top of each, knee-high) and no footwear with mascara smeared down her face from a clear breakdown of her battlefield for mind, manic brown eyes with a grape-coloured lipstick on pouty heart-shaped lips, blood and dirt also staining her optic area due to her bleeding knuckles from which she punched the steel of the rails because the train did not run over her? Paired alongside the fresh wounds on display littered across that fatty arm of hers? Oh, she was a crazy chick—and I could tell that this little guy loved it. He loved my mania, he loved my blood, he loved my crazy, he loved everything that I loved about myself. Maybe it was his alcohol that urged him this way, but I loved him for he loved what he saw.

But is she pretty on the inside?

“Well,” I spaced back in with the thrill of his voice curling the air around us; I wish we were plunged into steel. Sound travels best in something like steel… What would his voice be in steel? The thought messaged down my spine a shiver. “’s mostly everything about my life. Wouldn’t say I’m addicted, but all I do these days is mope and get high, or drink. I’ve been this since last month. Last year, I saw this… This dead boy who hung himself in the woods. That really affected me, I think; I’ve got suicide genes.” He paused a bit, sighing as he was passed the smokestick again. I puckered up a bit and drew closer to his pretty face, rounding my lips out and pushing out a ring of cigarette smoke. On impulse, he stuck nose through the centre of the dissipating smoke ring which drew from me another giggle—he was just like me! I did that too! I’d never thought someone else would…? What the fuck is going on?

Taking a drag, he then resuméd: “My parents are divorced… I’m really embarrassed of that.” He added a bit hesitantly, I could gauge that he still felt the shame of it all; which perplexed me. A divorce is shameful? How so? It’s a fucking life decision… But, that’s okay because this little one was clearly less mature and emotionally developed than I, although that amount still was remarkable considering his physique and my presumé of his age (which I thought to be elder to me, but still not too much so). “Why?”

“I want my real family back. My dad promised me he wouldn’t remarry, and he fucking did; to a bitch nonetheless. I hate her and her children are so… Phoney…!” Humming at his hurt words, I was analysing him: eyes gliding over the pasty, smooth contours of his vanilla face; staring into the trench of his pupils surrounded by his ocean eyes as he passed back the almost dead cigarette to me. The guard he wore over his exterior again was forming as he read that I was reading him without contempt (he thought I was feeling that, but I was simply analysing him emotionlessly—as if he was a labrat and I was dissecting him to figure out the following: what the fuck is this little shit?). But, I got him before he leaned away or apologised: Don’t worry, go on. Say it. I hate my cousins too. He relaxed yet again, I could see his shoulders come down and he leaned into me again,. Our heads were almost leaning against each other’s, breathes intermixing with each intake and out. “Go on.” I repeated, tapping his knee to accentuate my point.

He snapped out of whatever daze (he was reading me too, perhaps; mentally dissecting my Barbie body too, perhaps) and his hand came to clasp mine. I bit back a giggle and a smile at the contact, he did notice the corner of my lips tilt upward so he took that as a positive for further lacing of his fingers with mine. I, now a bit assured in myself, squeezed his hand and nudged him again: go on.

“Right,” He chuckled, “So, well, I just feel… Alien. You know, when I was little, I used to look at the stars,” He pointed briefly to the stars that were shining above the both of us, “And imagine my real family because I just felt like I wasn’t from here, like I was from another planet. I think I like that feeling, I was homesick for a place that didn’t even exist. And, to be honest, you’re the only other alien I’ve met.” That made me giggle after I muttered hiraeth at the sentence spoken second to the last. I found in my nicotined mindscape that this… Theory, was almost verbatim of a theory I myself had gardened in my meadow for mind. “Y’know…! I felt like that too, still do actually. I just used different terms for it. I called whatever the fuck our species are Earth Angels, angels on Earth. I read somewhere once that a person with scars of cuts on their arms was called an angel by a kid, and I think I really internalised… That.”

He chuckled, “Your mind is divine, Pretty. Yeah, I think my family is also a reason in why… I want to kill myself, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely. I love them so much so I do what they want and they hate me for every speck of originality; I don’t know if it’s my mental disorders or it’s my hormones, but every small inconvenience makes me wanna kill myself. I’m also a hater! I hate everything and I do nothing to change it which, admittedly, makes me an arsehole—but, fuck it.” We both had laughter crawling up our throats and I could tell it wasn’t actual laughter. Oh, no. It was mania, laughing not because it threatened to spill; laughing because you had nothing else to do. Like crazy people (I do think that I am insane, in some way, shape or form. But, I also think that I’m supersane. Who fucking knows? I think a lot, don’t I?).

The cigarette had gone out by now, I think I had stubbed it out by pressing to the moist ground after he had truly started opening the shells of himself, not wishing to be distracted by drugs when I had the most addictive and healthy sedative offering his lifestory to a little shit like me. “Well, what’s it for you? I haven’t ever seen… You around…” He slurred out as we jumped down from our maniacal, little, episodic bursts of sacrilege or insanity… Well, are they not synonyms?

“Ah, so, I just moved here about a… Maybe a few days ago? I think a week or so. I moved from Lacey, though I’m actually Indian. Well… It’s a fucked-up fairytale, really. My whole ancestry and family is the following: sexist, racist, extremist to Sikhism, religious, doomed, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, very, very Indian. It’s only my grandmother who acknowledges the sexism floating between our family; she dreamt high and was ambition incarnate but her marriage to this horrible fucking man led her to be so oppressed she couldn't speak a word of English without being thoroughly taunted for it.” His face clearly contorted into a gnarly grimace, and I felt my nose start to itch and burn again remembering all this up… Never had I ever trauma-puked this well or been so comfortable vomiting it out to someone I did not know.

“’s just… Fuckin’ Hell. I can’t translate it into words, I can only feel.” Shaking my head in a paternal sort of disappointment (no matter how much I despise the fact, I am my father’s daughter; his copy of carbon) at my inability, I felt myself pulled in again… How? How was he doing this shit? Being so fucking kind? It made me anxious, admittedly. Why was he so kind? What did the fucker want?

I’m being too cynical. I wanted to cry; instead I accepted his tentative comfort and shoved my face into the nook of his neck, breathing down it like a vampire in the night. I had the purely feminine, feline urge to wrap myself around him like Sarin and never let go to slowly dissolve into him even if maggots eat us out. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why…? For a few minutes I think, we stayed in that exact position, in a sort of silence that neutered my turmoil. His arms were gel onto my wounds, and I, terrified, readily crept in like the Dutch beetle on the elm.

“Don’t.” I eventually muttered out into the tender, pale, untouched flesh of temptation on his neck; I don’t know why I did it, don’t decipher or discover the root at all. What is a girl to do when offered love on a silver spoon when she only possesses a forked tongue of venom caused from licking slivers of love off a parental knife? I was a black, not racially but spiritually. I was corrupt, disgust, free-use trash for swollen cocks with zero semblance of any soul and only a pretty body. It’s my pretty power which is my ugly. I am disgusting… I sometimes feel the scorching need to cleanse myself, to face redemption, to hurry to salvation; and other days I revel in the hellfire of lust that would surround me once I am liberated of this uséd body.

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maximwtf · 2 years ago

Note

Can you write Villain/tall era! peridot x sapphire! reader? Idk what else to put there but maybe she was with peridot to help her with her research? (like directions, how the experiment would likely turn out etc) ;p

Peridot x Sapphire reader

words: 1480

google docs pages: 3

Warnings: none?

opening: A sapphire has been assigned to join Peridot on her research concerning the kindergartens and the cluster on earth. How can you make the stubborn gem listen to you?

AN// Thank you for the request! I’m looking forward to writing more su fanfics!^^ I’m mainly going to write for Pearl, Peridot, Holly blue agate, Jasper and Yellow/Blue diamond for now!

I’m also not sure if sapphires can see multiple futures or just one, but I think they’d be more useful if they could see many, so that’s what I went with !

Gif by: Me

“Watch out!”

You had been assigned to follow and help a peridot on her mission. She had been sent on earth to check on the cluster and to do tests on the old kindergartens. Your job was to make sure nothing goes wrong, and to keep the green gem safe.

But before the two of you could even warp there, the homeworld warp pad on earth had to be fixed. To do that, the green technician had sent a bunch of flask robonoids down there. In all of the futures you saw, the warp pad had been fixed, which meant that there was nothing to warn Peridot of.

You watched from behind as the gem typed something on a screen, mumbling about log dates as she went on. You happened to hear her state her facet and cut number too. Peridot Facet-2F5L Cut-5XG. Unimportant information, but you’d still savour it in the back of your mind. You heard the screen she had been typing on close and the boot of her limb enhancers hit the surface of the warp pad. “The robonoids have finished their task.” She said, indicating that it was time to go on earth for the first time. You made your way on the pad too, standing next to the tall green gem. Your form looked much smaller than her’s, but that didn’t bother you. A bright white light overtook the bodies of you two, moving you to a warp pad you had never stood on before. The blue sky matched you perfectly, alongside with the blue crystal like warps that surrounded the two of you. The stomping noises the peridot had made got your attention. She was making sure the warp pad was properly fixed, but you already knew it was. The robonoids had done a good job on it.

As Peridot began to write down another log date, your attention started to wander. Her voice and the noises from the screen were just background noise now. Your mind went through multiple futures to see if there was any danger around the area. In most of them, the first visit seemed calm, no danger. A silent gasp left your mouth, not loud enough to alert the working peridot. In a few of the futures a group of gems appeared. You furrowed your brow and kept looking. There was no way that could have been the most possible future. Were you imagining things?

The sound of Peridot breaking one of the damaged robonoids brought you back to reality. “Peridot.” You said silently, turning to look at her even though she couldn’t see your eye. She seemed to have not heard you, as she walked down the small steps, only to find something that didn’t belong there. “Peridot!” You said a little louder this time. She looked up at you. “There’s something here. We still have time to go.” You said quietly, still unsure if the gems you had seen were here, and if they were, where were they? Even with the uncertainty, it was safer to leave for now. “So it seems. This site may have been compromised.” The green gem said as she got up. With the newly found item in her hand, she stepped back on the warp pad.

You watched her place a glowing green box on it and then you were off again, soon back on homeworld.

After this, and throughout the whole mission a group of gems and ‘a Steven’ had been on your backs. They were in all of the possible futures you saw. With your help, she had been able to avoid most contact with the gems, up until she had started to act on her own. The green gem had lost the bottom part of her limb enhancers on one of her legs, and also all contact to homeworld. You were stranded. Telling the green gem that ‘I told you so’ didn’t help. This mission was sensitive, and as much as the peridot seemed to want to change the future, it shouldn’t have been done here. That had ended the two of you in the least likely future, where you got stranded.

There was one future that you saw. One where this ‘Steven’ was able to fix the homeworld warp pad. And so you had sent Peridot on a mission to get this Steven to the Galaxy Warp, where you were waiting.

The place was calm, not a noise nearby. Only the sound of waves hitting the sides of the Galaxy Warp. You had located yourself on the homeworld warp pad, sitting on top of it as you waited.

Soon, a bright light overtook the darkness of the night, and Peridot appeared with the ‘Steven’. They fought for a while, before the green gem got tired of wrestling and levitated the ‘Steven’ in the air. It was asking what the two of you wanted, which she replied to by saying. “I want to get off this lousy Gem-forsaken planet!” Before dropping him on the ground. She did most of the talking, telling the ‘Steven’ why she needed him.

Peridot had placed herself in front of you, knowing you were more precious than her. Your personal rubies had stayed on homeworld, and not that they could come and help anymore either. You had no way to contact home. This mission was supposed to be quick and easy, but you should have seen this coming.

As of right now, there seemed to be no threats. ‘Steven’ would either be able to fix the warp pad or not, but as of now him fixing it seemed the most possible. You watched him try, but nothing happened. The warp was still broken, and you had no way to go back home. Your mind began to wander through possible futures again. What if that didn’t work, what then?

Peridot kept yelling at the Steven in the background, which you had grown used to over the time you had spent with her. A lot of complaining. A second silent gasp left your mouth. The likely future was the one where the gems appeared here. In that it either ended with you escaping with Peridot or- The futures began to mix again as Peridot began to speak of the cluster. And so it happened, the gems appeared right on time.

Peridot placed herself in front of you, shooting at the gems. Your mind was going through the most likely situations as quick as it could, but nothing seemed to lock in place. Hearing the gems beat up the green gem in the background was when you saw it. They were going to poof her. “Peridot!” You called out, but just a little too late. You watched Pearl place herself behind the green gem as distraction, and when Peridot would turn around, Garnet would finish her.

You sped up to her, dodging an attack Amethyst had been trying to land on you. Taking a firm grip on the green gem’s hand, you tried to run off the edge of the altar with her, but it was too late. Just as you were able to take a hold of her hand, Garnet grabbed Peridot’s waist which caused her to poof in a matter of seconds. Hearing her gem fall on the ground stunned you, but there was no time to stagger.

As stubborn as the gem was, and as much as you would have liked to blame her for getting you trapped here, you needed her. Ducking down as the pearl’s spear went over your head, you picked up the green gem and sped to the other side of the arena. After placing yourself on one of the warp pads, your mind found the most peaceful place to warp to. You had to give Peridot time to reform.

With one last look at the limb enhancers from which smoke rose from, the warp pad under you activated. It consumed you and the green gem in your hand with bright white light, and took you away from harm's way. The gems would be after the two of you, but in a good hiding place you might have just been able to stay for long enough to get Peridot back. She wanted back home just as much as you did. Without the limb enhancers the already failed mission would have been even harder to complete, but you could try. Maybe she would now listen to you.

Pt. 2 - "Keeping up hopes."

#steven universe #su #peridot #steven universe peridot x reader #steven universe peridot #peridot x reader #steven universe x reader #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #peridot su

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worldsentwined · 8 months ago

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Fandom: Piano Man - Billy Joel (Song) Rating: Teen Warnings: None Relationships: Davy/Paul (Piano Man), Bill/John (Piano Man) Additional Tags: Gay Bar, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Light Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Humor, Character Study Word Count: 1480 Summary: Now Paul is a real estate novelist who never felt a need for a wife and he's pining for Davy, who's still in the navy, but (hopefully?) won't be for life. (See also: The Piano Man is actually about a gay bar, and some people are more observant than others.)

Now that authors have been revealed, here's my contribution to this year's Jukebox Exchange! I could not resist the opportunity to add to the "Piano Man is about a gay bar" lore, haha.

#my writing #jukebox exchange #jukebox 2024 #piano man

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whatstruthgottodowithit · 7 months ago

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Marauders Masterlist

Sirius Black

The Way We Were Pairing: Sirius Black x Original Female Character Word Count: 21,444 [11 Parts] Rating: Mature Only the Good Die Young Pairing: Sirius Black x Original Character Word Count: 2300 Rating: Mature Dive Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader Word Count: 2300 Rating: Teen A Little Magic Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader Word Count: 1300 Rating: Gen The Other Evans Girl Pairing: Sirius Black x Original Female Character Word Count: 250k Rating: Mature

Go On Moony [The Other Evans Girl Drabble] Pairing: Sirius Black x Original Female Character Word Count: 1192 Rating: Teen The Girl of My Best Friend Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader, Remus Lupin x Female Reader Word Count: 2995 Rating: Teen & Up The Boy Who Broke His Own Heart Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader, Word Count: 26534 Rating: Mature The Dating Game Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader, James Potter x Female Reader Word Count: 13380 Rating: Mature

The Dating Game Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader, James Potter x Female Reader Word Count: 13380 Rating: Mature

James Potter

The Dating Game Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader, James Potter x Female Reader Word Count: 13380 Rating: Mature

Faithfully Pairing: James Potter x Female Reader Word Count: 2250 Rating: Teen

Messy Christmas, Everyone Pairing: Sirius Black x OFC, James Potter x OFC, James Potter x Regulus Black Word Count: 15000 Rating: Mature

Because I Liked A Boy Pairing: James Potter x Regulus Black, James Potter x Lily Evans Word Count: 15000 Rating: Mature

Our Family Pairing: James Potter x Lily Evans Word Count: 2264 Rating: Teen

Angels Like You Pairing: James Potter x Regulus Black Word Count: 1414 Rating: Mature

Remus Lupin

Sundays Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Word Count: 1113 Rating: Gen She’s Got You Pairing: Remus Lupin x Female Reader Word Count:3000 [2 Parts] Rating: Mature I’m a Monster Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Word Count: 5000 [4 Parts] Rating: Mature Let’s Do It [Requested] Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Word Count: 5000 [2 Parts] Rating: Mature Perfect Pairing: Remus Lupin x Female Reader Word Count: 1000 Rating: Gen Hearts Don’t Break Around Here Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Word Count:500 Rating: Gen Furry Little Problem Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Word Count: 1480 Rating: Teen

Wolfstar

On My Own Pairing: Remus Lupin x Sirius Black Word Count: 1210 Rating: Teen

I Cry 2 Pairing: Remus Lupin x Sirius Black Word Count: 3434 Rating: Teen

In The Kitchen Pairing: Remus Lupin x Sirius Black Word Count: 1172 Rating: Teen

Too Sweet Pairing: Remus Lupin x Sirius Black Word Count: 3017 Rating: Teen Complexly Chaotic Pairing: Sirius Black x Female Reader, Remus Lupin x Female Reader Word Count: 968 Rating: Teen & Up

Poly!Marauders

Comfort Zone Pairing: Marauders x Reader Word Count: 2758 Rating: Teen & Up

Lily Evans

Good Luck Babe! Pairing: Lily Evans x Marlene McKinnon Word Count: 2221 Rating: Teen

General

The Grand Tour Pairing: None Word Count: 2103 Rating: Gen Eraser Pairing: None Word Count: 220 Rating: Teen Castle On the Hill Pairing: None Word Count: 1300 Rating: Teen

One of The Boys Pairing: None Word Count: 7500 Rating: Teen

Head Canons

Dating James Potter Dating Sirius Black Dating Remus Lupin Sirius Black [NSFW Alphabet] Remus Lupin [NSFW Alphabet]James Potter [NSFW Alphabet] Marlene McKinnon

#the marauders #marauders fic #marauders #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #wolfstar #dead gay wizards #poly marauders

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drivinmeinsane · 1 year ago

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Hot Chocolate ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day One ※ Officer K / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

※ Summary: It has taken months of trading and seeking but you finally have all the ingredients for a special surprise just in time for the winter holiday.

※ Rating: No mature content.

※ Content/Tags: K survives, Fluff, Established Relationship, Generic Winter Holiday

※ Word count: 1480

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

Gnawing on your lip, you examine the careful line up of ingredients on the counter in front of you. Cocoa powder, honey from K’s bees, salt, milk, vanilla extract, and marshmallows. All real, not fabricated, and painstakingly collected. You’re all too aware of the cost of the items. Everything has to be perfect and it has to rely on your faded memories of a paper recipe card from your childhood. It, along with the rest of the recipe cards in your family’s possession, had eventually been used as tinder for a fire. You sigh, more of a growl than a quiet exhalation of air.

“I told you not to fuss,” K says from the other room, his voice gradually getting louder as he comes to stand in the doorway. He leans on the frame, finger marking his place in the paperback he’s holding.

You look over at him and are about to lean to block his line of sight to your kitchen project when you realize that his eyes are solely focused on you. Warmth bubbles up in your chest. “And I asked you to stay on the couch.”

He shrugs, unbothered. You approach him, knowing that he will be a silent observer until he gets a scrap of attention. K never asks for it directly. You’re barely to him before the replicant extends his arms and pulls you to his broad chest. You encircle his waist and find comfort in his warmth. Heat is a rarity this time of year. Central heat belongs only to the wealthy. He allows you to turn the two of you so his back is to the kitchen and to the surprise that you’re so worried about. Thankful for his patience, you press a kiss against his collarbone where the neck of his shirt has loosened up enough with age to expose it. K shivers and his arms tighten around your body, but one of his hands comes up to cradle the side of your face. His fingertips gently trace the shell of your ear.

“What are you working on, sweetheart?”

“It’s a surprise,” you say, closing your eyes contentedly.

K is all but petting you. His fingers leave trails of heat in their wake as they course new paths over your skin. The weight of his gaze bores into you, equally heated. He always looks at you like he cannot believe you’re present, tangible, able to to be touched. Filled with regret, you extract yourself from his embrace. His hand lingers, sliding across your jaw as you take a step back to gain much needed distance. If you weren’t careful, you would spend the rest of the holiday in his arms. Not a bad thing, but you want to give him even a small token of your affection in the form of a new experience. You’ve spent many hours discussing the flavors of different foods with him. He had been limited to the tasteless, synthetically produced excuse for food from his inception date to the time Deckard gathered his body off the stairs outside Satelline Labs.

Catching his free hand as it falls from your face, you give it a firm squeeze that he returns, careful to not crush your considerably more fragile bones in his grasp. His eyes are darting, examining every facet of your features. You bring his hand to your lips and give it a soft kiss across the scarred knuckles before letting it go.

“I won’t be long, honey. Put something festive on?”

He nods, relieved to have a task. You retreat back to the kitchen while he starts to flip through the collection of records that you and K have slowly been building together since he came into your life all those months ago. As with most of the objects in your shared home, they were scavenged from defunct buildings or traded for.

Turning on the burner, you place a pan with milk on the slowly heating element. You let the milk reach a near simmer before turning it off and slowly add the cocoa powder and salt to the liquid. You whisk it thoroughly, breaking up any clumps, and stir in the vanilla extract and then a reasonable dollop of honey. You scoop up a little bit into a spoon, blow on it, and sample. You add another pinch of cocoa powder before gathering up a second shallow spoonful and having checking it again. It tastes good, real.

From the other room, you hear music start to play. It sounds like the opening notes to Jingle Bells. You smile. Of course he chose the Frank Sinatra album.

You move the pan to a potholder on the counter and take a mug down from the cupboard. You’re careful when pouring the hot chocolate into it, not wanting to waste a single drop. It is just enough to fill the mug with a finger’s width of space left for the marshmallows. You pick up the pillowy shapes with your fingers and gently deposit them on the surface. They float on top of the concoction like the seabirds you and K saw over the edge of the sea wall during a calm morning not so long ago.

Before making your way to the living room, you pick up the mug. Its chipped porcelain is warm against your knuckles when they brush against the side of it. K is sitting on the couch, drumming his fingers on his knee. He’s watching the record leisurely spin.

“Honey,” you say, coming to a stop in front of him.

He looks up at you with a crooked smile. “Darling.”

“Happy Holiday,” you say, offering him the still steaming mug, “Here. Be careful. It’s hot.”

The replicant takes it from you with a steady hand. He peers curiously into the vessel and pokes at one of the marshmallows with an exploratory finger. “What did you make?”

“Hot chocolate,” you tell him.

K brings the mug to his face, inhaling the scent deeply. He presses his lips to the edge of the cup and takes a pull. He doesn’t swallow right away and insteads lets the hot chocolate sit in his mouth for a brief moment, savoring the flavor. His eyes slip closed when he swallows but when he opens them, he looks dazzled. He rushes to take another drink of it.

“Thank you,” he says once he has swallowed the second sip.

“Anything for you.”

The former LAPD officer reaches out with the hand not holding the mug and draws you to him, not standing. You come to rest on your knees between his spread legs. He leans forward and tips your head up with a still calloused hand, once from a firearm, now from farming a few select crops and tending to bees. You meet his gaze and hook your arms around the outsides of his thighs. You’re waiting for him to make the next move and he doesn’t disappoint.

He leans over further and presses a kiss to your mouth. His lips are hot against your own, and he tastes of sugar and chocolate. You can’t help but brush your tongue against the seam of his lips, swiping your tongue against his when he willingly opens for you. You’re fighting to not pant into his mouth and instead force yourself to withdraw, consoling yourself by sucking on his bottom lip. His grip on your chin tights slightly, just on the edge of too tight. He pulls away. You rise onto your knees to chase after him but he sits up just enough that you can’t capture his mouth in another kiss

His blue eyes scan your face, tenderness etched onto his features. His lips are kiss-swollen and glossy. “What can I do for you?”

“Read to me?” You ask. You get to your feet, using his sturdy legs as an aid. You take a seat on the couch next to him.

“Such a simple request, sweetheart,” he says softly, picking up the book he was holding when he sought you out earlier. He shows the cover to you and you nod your approval before shifting so that you’re pressed against his side. You are all but curled up in his lap.

K puts one arm around you, holding you close. His body temperature runs slightly higher than yours and you sigh into the warmth of him. He parts the pages of the book with his free hand. The book is splayed open on his knee. He seeks out the first page and upon finding it, he begins to speak.

“‘And still I dream he treads the lawn, Walking ghostly in the dew, Pierced by my glad singing through,’” K reads steadily. The soft tones of the album playing on the restored record intertwine with his voice. He reads long after the needle reaches the end, long after you’ve dozed off against him.

#12 Days of Goosemas #Blade Runner 2049 #br2049 #Officer K #officer kd6 3.7 #Officer K x Reader #Ryan Gosling #Ryan Gosling fanfic #blade runner #blade runner 2049 fanfiction #.my work #.my posts

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