#Muff Coupling

[kpop-bbg]

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 7)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie Part 13 - The Release Part 14 - Someone like her smutty💦

Part 7 Recognition

It was time to start again. Alastor couldn't forget what his mother had wanted, even if she didn't ask it of him directly. And while he finds his comfort again in killing, Detective Brady finds a lead.

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, smut, reader's thighs as ear muffs, referencing cruel racists in the early 20th century south, reference to marital violence, pussy eaten, p in v sex, no creampie BOO, bad dancing, Alastor's southern accent, Alastor's mother, gossip, murder, greed , two idiots pretending they aren't madly in love, poor family planning, lots of 1920's slang with notes for your ease」

I think I fixed the broken tag list!

....it's been over a month. Here's nearly 9000 words of our favorite idiots. I feel weird labeling this smut now as...we are...kinda past the smut point and just making sweet sweet love. lol ugh gross. thank you to everyone whose offered help, donated, and shared the word about my mom! It’s been an immense help and has made her a little emotional (in a good way) <Florida stole my moms teeth— explanation and donation link> unrelated, anyone want some RadioDust?

Minors…. Minors. My inbox counts as interacting when you’re literally in there requesting smut. I know your bio has no age but baby honey darling I can tell by your writing. 🔞 Do Not Interact 🏠🚗

A development he knew was coming even if no one else believed him. A drug addict with debts to the local crime syndicates disappearing was neither suspicious nor a mystery. Everyone was confident it was obvious Tommy was at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain or halfway to California.

But not to him, not for Detective Brady. He had been on the beat for the better part of a year, convinced there was a connection between some of the disappearances in town.

No one wanted to hear it though, most people didn’t even care the people were missing. Only the occasional wife, concerned how she would keep a roof over her head and food in her kid’s bellies with the man of the house gone. But other than that, no tears or chest beating for the missing men and women.

Which made him confident there were countless more unreported cases. Just because no one missed them, a crime is a crime.

But, no bodies, no blood, no crime scenes… he looked like he had lost the fucking plot to his colleagues.

The city didn’t want the bad press, not to mention the fact there was no actual crime to be reported. Someone up and left down? Okay, he was a wife beater? Probably left with his mistress. The cruel den mother of the home for unwanted kids? Her assistant takes the lead and she moves onto a new town to menace. Probably running from the people angry with her.

But he finally had something. Tommy was pimping out dancers, and even laid hands on one. Surely there was a man looking for revenge for that. Can’t knock around a man’s woman and have it go unanswered.

So he tried again to find the woman whose only name he knew was a moniker. Autumn Hind.

Every time Brady came to the theater, another excuse. You left early. You were on the roof smoking—- oh, you slipped out the back. Weekends were your off days, so that was useless.

“You’re obsessed.” Detective Freeman threw an eraser he’d picked off his pencil at Brady. He had seen the man devolve slowly over the past couple months.

“Thanks.” Brady was staring at his notes.

“Not a compliment, Kenny. Shit happens, people leave town. You’re acting like a handful of no shows are some conspiracy.” Freeman came to stand behind Brady, leaning over to read his notes, “How can you even read that chicken scratch?”

He clapped the notebook shut, “Every report was a person less than liked. What are the chances they all leave town in the middle of the night, last seen in the same general area?”

Freeman patted his shoulder, “Did you just ask me why a bunch of assholes,” he stood up and made a show of stretching out tired muscles, “who liked illegal hooch* and jazz with plenty of enemies disappeared?” (*booze)

Brady slapped his desk, “There! You said it! They had enemies. But what— what if they had one enemy in common. A bar manager or — or a,” he was still looking for that link.

“Kenny, the boogeyman isn’t roaming New Orleans killing people. If the higher ups don’t care, if the families don’t care, it doesn’t matter. Let it go.”

The sleep deprived detective sunk into his wooden chair, swiveling side to side anxiously, “Tommy’s mother cares.”

“Yeah well mom’s are famously bad judges of character.” Slipping on his jacket, he shot a worried look to his partner, “Ya gonna go home? Janet’s probably a mess. You’ve been keeping late hours.”

“Nah not yet. I gotta get to the theater before this dame goes ghost on me again.”

“Yikes, still? You’ve been chasing her for a while.” He was making a slow inching walk to the door.

“It’d be easier if I had some support. I gotta do this on my own time.” A deep sigh, well past the point of hiding his frustration with his colleagues and bosses. Freeman looked over the wrinkled shirt and wilted tie, evidence of a man losing his grip.

“Welp, good luck buddy. Hope you get to the bottom of whatever this is.” He gestured at the messy desk and disheveled man, “See ya tomorrow.”

Brady waved without looking up. His eyes were staring into the black leather of his notepad. Tommy was the only recent assumed victim with any real suspicion. The woman whose husband disappeared after going to see a show? Only enemy to him was her, and she wasn’t strong enough to take him down. Deadend.

Most recent, nice young man from up north. Went out for a good time, hoping to catch a little lady for some stress relief, according to his coworkers. Never showed up at work the next day. No one had a bad word to say about the man. Making him an outlier, but still. He was young, strong, soft spoken. Not an enemy in sight but no family to worry, either. Deadend.

But Tommy. Someone cared he was gone. He was in the jazz game, the drug dens, the illegal drink business, and had a heavy hand. He was the perfect bad man, right?

He looked across his desk. Bad men. The occasional unsavory woman. Maybe it was just their time. They pissed off the wrong people.

Or the wrong person.

Someone who worked downtown, someone into dance and drink, someone with nights free to do his work. Maybe a hired gun? No, some of these people didn’t have the money for that.

Plus, one person and so many missing? That would be unheard of, it’d be some kind of record for Louisiana.

A record Brady could claim.

When he entered the theater James, the manager who replaced Tommy, noticeably rolled his eyes, getting in front of the man. “It’s real bad for business to have a cop in here all the damn time. Come on, if you’re not here for a raid then could you be a little less obvious.”

Brady looked past him, “What do you mean?”

“You’re— what is it? What can I do for you?”

“Here again for Miss Autumn. Care to give her real name yet?”

“No can do. Ain’t my business to tell. She’s finished her set, asked to head home early.” Brady turned and kicked a chair over, a large man approaching behind the manager before seeing the hip badge and backing up. “Nah we’re not doing that. We’ve told her you’ve come by but she’s a busy lady. Several gigs here and there. Enough, you’re harassing the dancers now.”

With a snap, Brady had his finger in the manager’s face, “Whatcha gonna do? Call the cops?”

“She. Isn’t. Here. What the fuck do you want? For me to tie her up and bring her to your station?”

That’d be ideal.

A month, nearly. Coming once or twice a week to try and speak to you but every time he missed you. He was going to snap if he heard one more time you were gone. Maybe everyone was in on it. Maybe you werenin the back right now laughing at him.

Brady scanned the room, “Where’s she live?”

“How the fuck would I know— please, leave.” James gestured to the doors.

He lifted his badge up, waving it at the patrons seated closest to him, “Yall know it’s still illegal to partake-,”

“Jesus! Enough!” The manager pushed him back, flashing an apologetic smile to the guests, “She moonlights Sundays at The Dime near the park on 5th, singing for a friend. That’s all I got about her life off stage. Will you fucking go?”

The detective perked up, “See, was that so hard?”

Finally, he could feel his fingers grasp the shifting shadow that was his only lead.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“I never said sorry.”

You turned your head, not expecting him to say something serious. Waiting, he didn’t add explanation. Sorry? What had he done… ran out of milk? Forgot to bring in the towels before it rained last week? A quick search of your memory yielded nothing.

“For what?”

He was staring off in front of him. “For putting you in danger before. In the park. I am sincerely sorry.”

You’d somehow almost forgotten. It’d been weeks. Every bad feeling that night had brought you had been carried away by good morning kisses and gentle words before sleep. Nearly every night was spent in his bed, Alastor dropping you off at your apartment when he went downtown for work. The incident in the park was a different lifetime already.

Had he really put you in danger? Or had you rushed into the danger of his hobby to feel closer to him?

“I put myself in that situation. You didn't throw me at that guy. I don’t do a damn thing I don’t want to do. You should have learned that by now.”

Tough act for a woman who jumped up to pour some man’s coffee.

You shook your head, you had to stop equating doting on Alastor as a show of weakness. It wasn’t. Even if admitting that meant admitting you were wrong.

But he had put you in danger’s way, he knew it. “No, you wouldn’t have ever been in that situation if it wasn’t for me.”

Your laughter bounced off the car windows, “Alastor, you met me getting choked to death by a strange man. People will always make dangerous situations for women to be in. Don’t act like you’re special.” A sly smile to ease his anxious heart. “I’d rather be in danger for you than just because I’m a woman. If it’s gonna happen anyway, might as well be worth something.”

His hand slipped onto your thigh, expression softening before his own smile grew again, “Don’t lie to my face so easily. I am very special, we can all agree.”

You looked around, the two of you alone in his car on a side street, “All? You know the trunk is still empty, right?”

“Oh, is that so? You’re quite dangerous yourself, I nearly forgot why we were here.” He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed. “When I give you a wave, back up to me, okay? Don’t leave the car. Just drive off if-,”

You kissed his cheek, “Shut it. Not a chance. Go give em hell, baby.”

Alastor crumpled against his steering wheel momentarily, your words cutting his heart open in a most wonderful way. He could never have predicted getting kisses before beginning his dark work. What had he done to deserve this? Perhaps proof someone in hell was in full support of his actions. Straightening his back and checking his hair and glasses in the mirror, he flashed you a smile before slipping out of the car.

When Alastor said he was ready to begin killing again, you were a mix of excited and scared. Excited for normalcy to return but scared of the dangers presented there in. You’d been dodging the blue eyed detective for a while already, and moving forward meant possibly making mistakes he could grab a hold of. Not mentioning the risk of someone hurting Alastor again…but for your part in everything, you and Alastor found a compromise.

A deal had been made. You’d stay in the car and bring it to him when he was done. He had asked you flee if something went wrong but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen. Crawling into the driver’s seat, you tried to remember what he had taught you. How to get it started up, how to make it go backwards. How to make it go, in general. You’d never driven a car. Well, not until Alastor insisted on teaching you. Driving up and down the long stretch of road he lived on, Alastor white knuckling the door handle as you jerked the car forward with every failed shift. You had started on his land, but he feared for his home's safety with you behind the wheel.

Your hands slipped down the steeling wheel, big and round. Your mother would’ve had a hoot had she seen you in the driver’s seat. Clearing your throat, you leaned into the back of the car and double checked the canvas was properly secured.

Another man tonight. The few times you’d both gone out for leisure, having preferred to spend time alone at home, Alastor had gotten gossip that piqued his interest.

You remembered the way the woman’s hand touched his arm when she leaned in. “You didn’t hear it from me but it’s best to avoid French Study on Thursdays. Real piece of work slipping something in drinks and robbing people.” He reported what she had said back to you. It’d panicked you, realizing you were closer to being on Alastor’s list than you’d realized.

“No, the issue isn’t the stealin’. It’s what he does with the people with,” he had been delicate as he said it, taking another long sip of whiskey, “other things of value. And the fact this man has no need to steal. It’s ridiculous! His family has been land ownin’ and well off for generations.” Alastor was always impassioned when discussing the things he hated, even when slipping into drunkenness. His accent came through when he had too much to drink, his real accent. The accent his mother had. “You robbed men for power balance, for their assumptions you were easy to manipulate to begin with. He? Uh, Him? He’s just a piece of shit. He thinks he’s better than everyone else. And no one would report him ‘cause his family name.”

His drink spilled a little, when you had offered to clean it he just slipped the button up off. He lost his usual classy air as the bottle emptied. Which you actually liked.

The benefits of drinking on his back porch was no need to worry about decorum. Music was softly spilling from the open window behind you, Alastor’s prized record cabinet spinning the newest presses.

“It’s like there’s a little bug under my skin,” he wiggled his fingers over his sternum, “It’s gonna dig into my bones if I don’t cut it out.”

Despite your own drunkenness, you nodded and followed along, “So, ya gonna kill ‘em?”

Alastor pouted, making you snort, “I don’t want to think about that right now.” He enunciated every word clearly in his practiced and professional voice.

You’d ended the evening playfully arguing the merits of prohibition on the jazz scene and watching Alastor dance around the wrap around porch. But the conversation hadn’t ended for him.

Little hints he was still focused on it popped up over the following week. Alastor randomly asking you how it felt to be drugged, did you wake up in pain? Embarrassed? Scared? You caught him staring at the greenhouse from the window one morning, lost in thought. Before he had finally said he wanted to go out again, you understanding what that meant, you’d seen him turning a dinner knife over and over in his hand impatiently.

And now here you were. In the car beside a park late Thursday, Alastor having done some scouting while you’d finished up early at the theater.

It took hours. Which was good, it meant Alastor wasn’t rushing. He liked the stalking aspect of killing, of watching someone from across a room knowing exactly how their night would end. And as that man whose name would soon be buried with him alternated smiling and barking orders at staff, Alastor felt his stomach flutter. Like watching a slab of meat slowly turn over the fire. The crueler he was, the worse he acted, the more Alastor found his fingers tapping on the bar with anticipation. Perfect. Damn yourself more. No fake smiles or double faces, no, people like him didn’t even try to play the game others were forced into. Born with money and land already theirs, they didn’t even know the rules.

But Alastor did. Alastor mastered them at the tender age of 14. When he realized his father’s features were a shield. His mother’s lessons on manners and charm his weapons. The first time he was in mixed company, when someone leaned in and whispered a cruel “prank” he had planned for a young dark skinned woman on the other side of the room, he understood. They pulled back and smiled at him, and he managed to muster one of his own. Just smile, they’d take it to mean whatever they wanted it to mean because they thought he was of the same mindset. They assumed it. Like so many other things people would assume about him as he grew.

When he told his mother the story after getting home, she shook her head. When he had asked her what he should have done, she set down her book.

“Well, I’d love to say you should have stood up for her. But I’d also like to have my son above ground.”

He asked her why she couldn’t have both.

“Sweetheart, we don’t usually get the choice to do either, let alone both.”

He offered a solution, after a moment of thinking, “I shoulda buried him first then.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that was how the world worked?” She returned to her book, “If God just struck em down dead as soon as they hurt people. Better yet, before.”

It would be nice. It was nice. Because Alastor couldn’t wait for God to make the world his mother mentioned. He grinned ear to ear, gloves a second skin, as the man crawled backwards in the grass like an animal cornered. His heart was pounding in his ears. Where to cut first? The gut, his family fat and soft from the money they made off the labor of others? The pale neck of a man who never spent a day outside, instead indoors drugging strangers for sport? The chest covered in a fine cotton shirt he didn’t appreciate?

He wished he had many arms, as many as he could imagine, to slash and tear in tandem.

“What do you want? Money?” the animal asked him.

Alastor shook his head no. No, he didn’t want money.

“Do you know who I am?”

Alastor nodded. “That is precisely why I am here.”

Would he beg? Cry? Bargain? Experience told him it’d be the latter.

“Alright well, if you know who I am you know you’re making a mistake. Here.” The man opened his wallet and pulled out a few greenbacks, holding them out for Alastor. Alastor’s smile softened slightly, remembering tossing you a wallet once before.

He reached down with his left hand to take the money, but instead grabbed the man’s wrist. Swiftly, quicker than the man could process, he took the knife tucked into his belt behind his vest and stabbed the man in the stomach.

Staring into his eyes, he could see his own image looking back at him. Smiling.

Alastor grabbed your face with both wrists, hands bloody and one still holding the knife, and kissed you when he’d flagged you down.

“Is this for bringing the car around without running you over?” Your eyes glanced at the knife beside your head. He apologized, tossing it into the trunk.

“No, just happy to see you.” A mischievous grin that made your knees weak, his body shimmied closer until he was pressed against you, stealing another kiss. His arms stretched out to keep from bloodying you. Your fingers slid up his cheeks to return the kiss. “Thank you, dear.”

When you returned home, to his home, that is, you took to task bringing in the laundry he’d left on the line and putting away the things still on the counters from breakfast. You couldn’t resist going to the second floor room and looking down into the greenhouse. You couldn’t see perfectly well, but you could see nonetheless. Alastor didn’t want you in the greenhouse yet when he was working. He said it was the ugliest parts, the kind that would sure give you nightmares or rob you of your appetite.

Considerate. But, it only made you more curious. Would you be sick if you saw? Would you never eat meat again?

What would you do if you didn’t have any reaction at all?

You watched Alastor leave the greenhouse and lock the door behind him, so you hopped down the stairs to meet him in the hall beside the kitchen.

He’d been sweating, shirt open to reveal a thin white undershirt, and under his arm was a canvas roll. He lifted it up, “Tools. Rinsed them off but I’d like to dry them under the electric lights.” You grabbed the aprons from the wall hooks, Alastor letting you slip it over his head and tie it for him. “Why so tight?”

“I like the way it makes your waist look.” You’d seen him wear it when making biscuits. It made his shape so clear. It reminded you of watching water drip down his sides and roll off his hips in the shower.

He beamed, “I’m listening. What exactly do you like about my waist?” Sharp brows raised as that friendly tongue peeked out at you.

“Hush.” You cooed.

You stood on the long side of the table, him at the short, and took turns wiping the tools dry and checking the other’s work.

As he grabbed each one he would tell you what he used it for. Holding up the garden shears and explaining the point along the blade that had the strongest force. The advantage of curved pruning blades when used on a human body. His eyes were gleaming as he spoke, looking so lovingly at each item like it was a loyal pet.

He finally noticed you were grinning and chuckling softly, so he dropped his smile for dramatic effect, “What? What’s so funny?”

Shaking your head, you set down the next item for him to inspect, “Nothing. You’re just so cute when you’re talking about your passions. Your face lights up from the inside out.”

His breath hitched, smile actually lost as he processed every syllable. Your turn now to notice him staring as you looked up from your work. You recognized that look though, the wide eyes and serious lips. The air of the kitchen felt like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm rolled in.

Alastor set the tools back onto the canvas one by one and carried them to the counter. Before returning he picked up a small knife and set it near the edge of the table.

“Come here.” He nodded his head to space in front of him. The way he said it, that tone, made your heart begin to skip beats.

You slid between him and the table, Alastor lifting you up with a startling ease and setting you onto cool wood. Kicking your legs a little, you set nervous hands onto your lap. You wanted to touch him. To pull him by the apron straps into you.

“How do you always say the right things?” He closed the distance between you, one hand on your neck while his mouth came to your ear. “The things I didn’t know I wanted to hear?”

Swimming. Your mind was swimming. “Why is your idea of right the same as my idea of the truth?” You could feel the grin. Sighing into your ear, down your neck, his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you off the table enough to press your core into his clothed erection. Even through his pants and the apron, you could feel him clearly. When did he get so hard? You always wondered in those moments if it was the topic of discussion. Or the knives. Or your need. Biting your lip wasn’t a thought out action, but Alastor loved to see it. Rolling his hips into you in response.

“Wanna go upstairs?” you asked.

He shook his head, slipping off his glasses.

“Oh no, don’t even wanna see me?” You teased, but firm hands held you tighter to him in response.

“I won’t be letting you get far enough away from me for that to be a problem.”

When he leaned down and his lips so very gently pressed into yours, you could feel it. That missing something from before. It was in the air, it was rolling off of his body and dampening your senses. A desire, a drive that you felt that first time you had sex with him in that apartment above the theater. A motivation that was lacking last time in his bed.

His eyes were staring down into yours, waiting for your response. Eagerly you replied by chasing his mouth with yours. A chain of kisses as you tried to ever remember enjoying kissing another person as much as him.

Not a single soul. Why did it feel like this was all you ever needed? Eyes closed and lips on lips, hands in his hair, it felt like you’d been holding your breath all of your life. His body on yours was a gasp of air.

For Alastor, he couldn’t even think of breathing when around you. Let alone when your mouth was on him. Every time you touched him all he could think about was the word ‘affection’.

So when your tongue swiped up his lips, he moaned as he opened for you. Not because he was new to kissing someone with so much lust. He’d grown accustomed to the things you did to him. No, because you were a fever that had taken hold of him and your kiss the medicine that soothed his delirium.

He wondered, was that why people called it ‘love sick’?

“You really like me, don’t you?” He asked, nose sliding up your jaw.

An opportunity presented to you. A chance to spill over the edges.

You pushed it away, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer.

“Something like that, yeah.”

His hands pressed flat against the table to balance the deep roll of his hips against you. One of your own fell behind you to keep from falling backwards, the other flung over his shoulder. When you moaned into his cheek he captured the sound with his mouth and slipped his tongue back into you.

You liked him. He’d known people to love and not like their partner an ounce, but the way you appreciated his quirks made his heart sing in its brittle cage. You never ceased to see him. The issue with always putting on a show is people tend to be disappointed when the actors become human again. But you never met his persona. He was knife wielding, bloodlusting Alastor from the first word. So when he was himself, you recognized him clearly. Because he was all you ever knew.

And you liked him

You appreciated him.

He dared to think maybe he could inspire more from you. A thought that made him twitch below the belt.

Closer. He needed you closer. He needed you so near to him that he’d never forget the feeling of being wanted. It’d be imprinted on his chest and his arms and his lips.

Impatient hands slipping up your sides, along your neck, down your chest. His greedy mouth suddenly understanding the same greed he once marveled at in your own kisses. Hot tongue sliding over yours, delving deeper into you with every return.

When his hands seemed to come to an agreement, they yanked you forward again. You’d fall off ass-first if he pulled you any further.

You watched with only slight horror has he grabbed the small knife and hiked up your dress in tandem. A gulp, worried the other shoe had finally dropped on a too-good situation.

“Are you particularly attached to these panties?” His eyes were looking up and over his glasses.

“No?” Did you really need panties, you wondered. Ever? Girdles we’re falling out of fashion perhaps you’d all be naked again soon enough. Maybe you two could start another Eden. A pomegranate’s juice the new red staining his skin.

Not even a tremble, his hands lifted each side and sliced them free.

“Oh?” You didn’t have a real question in mind when he tucked the panties into his back pocket. Just a need to express you saw it and didn’t understand it.

Alastor took your hand and pressed it against his hardened length, eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness to them. But when your hand took hold of him and squeezed, everything softened in his features. Funny how where one area grew stiff another melted.

He rolled his eyes closed as you finally undid his belt and pants. A struggle you didn’t see, Alastor trying to keep from pouncing on you like a horny virgin. He didn’t want to rut into you, he didn’t need the pleasure. He needed something he couldn’t see or explain. He just knew you held it behind your teeth.

When your skin pressed into his and you both moaned together he was sure you were the same. One person, split into insufficient parts. Finally lined up flush in place.

When you circled your hips against his aching cock, he wondered what you were chasing after. Was it the pleasure? He’d give it to you in spades.

He was on his knees with his face between your legs before you could close your thighs in surprise.

You needed both hands now to keep from falling back onto the table. “Alastor,” a whine.

He knew better than to talk with his mouth full, so he let two fingers work their way into you with shallow thrusts. Easing you open for him.

“Yes?” His eyes didn’t leave his fingers, glistening under the kitchen light. You hadn't thought much ahead past his name, once his fingers were in you and curling up to find your spongy and soft bundle of nerves your mind had gone empty.

“We can just fuck, if you’re horny.” You watched him watching himself.

“Where’s the fun in that?” His mouth returned to your mound, broad tongue forming a point and finding your clit.

A lazy moving tongue would be frustrating if not for his fingers punishing your g-spot. Consistency was key, and his hand was focused and skilled.

Suddenly you remembered the piano in the sitting room. That’s where you knew that movement from. That clearly practiced muscle memory.

Alastor felt confident everywhere but rarely did he feel comfortable. When your thighs came together and squeezed him at the ears, he felt positively cozy. Would you be so kind as to be his ear muffs come winter? He’d have to remember to ask when his mouth was free. How many cold nights he could now rest assured he would have warmth just a little dive of his head away.

Lowering his mouth, nose buried in your muff, he wriggled his tongue in with his fingers. Not enough, rarely was anything enough any more. He stilled his hand and prodded at your sensitive walls with that intrusive tongue, relishing the little movements you made in response. Taking his digits out entirely, he buried his wet muscle as deeply as he could reach.

The huffs of exhales you were making triggered a moan from him that you felt through your skin. His enjoyment was tripling your pleasure.

Goosebumps ran up your arms at the combine sensations of his moaning and prodding.

When his lips and tongue returned to their uneven teasing of your clit, three fingers now swiping past your inner spot with every thrust, your hands came to his head. Fingers slipping through his hair and gripping every time your body shook. Encouragement, the more you tugged the surer he was he was doing the right things.

And oh, he was. You said the right things but Alastor always seemed to act on them. Your senses lodged themselves between the even stroking of your g-spot and the unpredictable movements of his tongue. One kept the pressure rising as your orgasm climbed, the other pushed you along jolt by jolt.

Curious thing. That night in the park he didn’t have much reaction to your enjoyment, but he found himself not fully softening in his lap as he continued. Normally, unless still physically stimulated or the rare time you stirred something in him, he wasn’t very… battle ready.

But the feeling of you pulling him in by the head, fingers in his hair and thighs at his cheeks; this was different than the others. He was sure now it wasn’t just physical pleasure you wanted. His pride said it was more.

Dozens of times before— he truly was a rake in some aspects, though admittedly it was all in the pursuit of avoiding “sex”, as defined by most, not chasing it — he helped a date find release with his tongue. But it never did anything for him. They moaned and said his name and screamed. Which was lovely. Who doesn’t enjoy recognition?

When you said his name, it was heavier. It was material, it had mass and as its gravity began its pull he found his mind circling that sound. He was pleasing his darling, not placating. And it made him react in that unusually crass way.

He felt like an apex predator when killing, tearing open animals made for him to hunt. But you made him feel baser. Prey in your gentle bite.

As your orgasm mounted, you began tugging at his hair to pull him off. You didn’t need him to stop, but everything was suddenly too sensitive. It was alarming to feel your body rocking from overstimulation. A strident cry filled the kitchen as your back arched off the table. He didn’t let up, despite how much you thrashed under his mouth. Rolling pleasure, muscles electrified and shaking beyond your control.

You patted his head harshly, “Good, I’m good. Alas—tor! Fuck!”

Ah, he loved when you swore. It punctuated your otherwise preternatural aura with a touch of humanity.

He stood and leaned over your now reclining body. Your pussy still clenching and legs shaking as he admired his work. You admired his shape in his apron, his broad shoulders and sharp eyes. Caught between your legs like a lion in a mouse trap; he acted like he had no way free of you. His grin widened and he made a display out of licking each finger clean. Eyes never leaving yours.

You knew many men to squawk at going down on a woman. To balk at wearing an apron. To grimace at the suggestion of cooking a meal while their lady took a nice bath or enjoyed a coffee. Alastor seemed to not think twice about any of it. How nice it would be. To have a partner beside you, to not be the woman in the often referenced “behind every great man is a great woman.”

“Alastor, I want you.” You pulled him down by the neck and stole a kiss. When he began to stroke himself fully back to life you pressed that hand to his chest. “Not like that. Though I’m not declining the offer.”

His eyes saw something in yours. “Sweetheart, you have me. There is no part of me that isn’t possessed by you. I know we keep things relatively… tightlipped for safety but I’m your fella and you’re my gal.” His nose touched yours. “But if you want more, I’ll become more. I’ll break myself apart and make myself better.”

Your heart sank. Sitting up to command a little authority, a feat given you were sitting panty-less on a kitchen table, “Don’t you dare. I’ll always meet you where you are, got it? Don’t go… groping around in the darkness for me; trying to find what I need. I’ll always come to you. Because you’re more than enough as you are.”

A little cough to clear his tightening throat, “I’ve not had a day of darkness since you arrived.” A kiss to your forehead before a soft thumbpad wiped at the corner of your eye. “Did I make you sad?”

You wanted to say it. But not now, not like this. You didn’t want Alastor to connect love and sex. To think one was necessary for the other.

While you were coming to learn how lovely it was to pair the two together, it was a fact they were wholly independent things. And you couldn’t allow him to think they were a set.

“You’ve made me too happy. It’s absolutely terrifying.”

But Alastor had found your expressions of acceptance always tumbled the circle of Love to overlap with that of Sex. It was only in that mixed space did he find desire in pleasure.

A wicked smirk, “Let me pile on my affections and drown out your fears.” His hips rolled into you again, a surprising eagerness returned to his lap. “Can I continue?”

With a nod and a smile, “But not another word of change, buster.” You leaned back on your hand for support. Alastor was happy to return to your heat, lining up and sinking into you. An embrace like no other, one he found particularly earnest when with you.

Close. Finally. You began where he ended, a natural extension of who he was and who he could be. The things he could have. A relieved sigh he didn’t try to hide before he began moving, a moment when his tension could melt. You were both an unseasonably warm autumn day and the cool comforting shade of an unfamiliar tree. Both the heat and the relief.

He watched your body rock against the table, even fully dressed you managed to look more scandalous than any show he’d seen downtown. He was grateful he didn’t seek this comfort often in others, the way his mind melted made him feel vulnerable. He couldn’t think straight. And then you began to make those lovely little groans, high pitched and needy, and he was sure his soul was errant.

As his thrusts deepened, cock no longer kissing your cervix but ramming into you with good intentions, you dropped back as you lost the battle against his hips.

Alastor’s arms slid up our waist and pulled your arms towards him, “Too far, I can’t see your face.”

Your arms were slung over his shoulders as your back curved for him, “You don’t need to see my face.”

“Tsk, wrong.”

Your new favorite place was right in front of him, wherever his line of sight was you wanted to be in it. Nose to nose, heads tilting to recapture soft lips and softer moans.

Until the softness left, Alastor’s skin slapping against yours as he dragged those lovely sounds from you. He watched your eyes roll closed, mouth open as you moaned with the safety of the seclusion of a country home. A thought bubbled up, inspired by you.

“I want the neighbors to hear you.” That smile half cocked across his upsettingly handsome face. His hand slipped between you both to repeat the motions he learned before. Hard and fast, no choice but to raise your voice.

Your head fell back, clit still sensitive, “You don’t have neighbors!” A new moan hitting the walls.

“I do— just a few miles down the road, dear.” His mouth latched onto your neck but he didn’t suck like he wanted, he couldn’t bite. Your skin was your job, your body not his to mark. Suddenly he remembered, “Do you still have that make up? For your bruises?”

You couldn’t understand why he would bring that up while balls deep in you but you nodded.

“Would it work on your neck?” He nipped lightly.

It clicked, “Absolutely.”

You felt like a teenager again. When his tongue swiped over your soft flesh before he began to suck on the skin there you could feel the heat rising off your chest. You could feel him everywhere, and with the knowledge he wanted to hear you, you tossed your shame out of the kitchen window and relaxed into the pleasure.

As he moved up your neck he left little marks behind. There was no sense left you didn’t occupy. He could smell the soap and sweat of your skin, taste your cunt still on his tongue, your sights and sounds a decadence he couldn’t get used to. And the feeling of you… velvety walls, a feeling finer than silk as he slipped in and out of you. So incredibly hot on his most sensitive areas, pulling him back in with admirable strength.

He felt his orgasm ratcheting up but tried to hold back. He wanted more time to experience your ecstasy, to wallow in your openness. Even pressed skin to skin now wouldn’t satisfy that deep desire for this unique level of intimacy. So he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he had it.

But, he knew he should prepare. “I don’t want to dirty your dress.” A lust heavy voice penetrating the nap of your neck. He’d made a risky release before at your urging, something he often thought about when work got quiet. But he knew he needed to think clearer now.

“Then don’t.” A terrible reply but you wanted all of him, every drop of his hunger for you. “Keep the mess in me.”

“My dear,” he slowed his hips, autopilot keeping them moving at all, “I don’t think now is the time for,” you tightened around him to trip him up, which worked spectacularly. Alastor had take several seconds before continuing, “talks on family planning.”

A pang of nausea and fear, small and sharp in your abdomen. It wasn’t that you weren’t aware of biology, just that Alastor brought out your baser animal instincts, too. And before, when he came buried as deeply as he could reach, it felt like you’d actually completed some ritual. Bears hibernated, birds migrated, Alastor came in you.

You’d never let a man do that before Alastor. “I just want to… accept everything you are willing to give me.”

He bit his bottom lip to redirect some attention away from his now throbbing member, “And when you’re sure on me, I’ll always provide.”

A pout that he kissed, you accepted the terms. An argument could be made you were already very sure, but you were well aware how naive that sounded when you’d known each other for so little time. Had a coworker told you she’d met a guy and within three months was ready for… the consequences, you’d have laughed and asked if she was drunk or just stupid.

Alastor wanted to provide. But he knew you’d be the one with the raw end of the deal, he couldn’t risk coercing a decision in the heat of the moment. If your mind was half was addled as his with pleasure then you were in no state for big decisions.

Life changing decisions.

Decisions that filled empty homes.

Fuck, why wasn’t he a less considerate man?

When his kiss deepened, so did his ministrations. He was fully sheathed and so unwilling to draw back more than a couple inches you wondered if he had changed his mind. It felt like a man not wanting to stray too far from home. One hand on the small of your back, his other other on the back of your neck. When he pulled out he pressed his tongue further, only stopping the kiss when he came onto the little space of table between your thighs. Soft and swollen lips parted as his breaths ran ragged. A smile spread across your face as you watched his eyes open, witnessing a pleasured blow out of his pupils.

When he grabbed a kitchen towel and cleaned the table, you chuckled at his grimace. “See? My way is cleaner.”

He didn’t reply at first, taking the cloth and hovering over the sink before tossing it into his trash. “Only in the short term. We can finish up tomorrow with the tools?”

Your legs kicked again, not ready to slide off, “Mm, it’ll be easier in the daylight.”

“Instead,” he zipped his pants but removed the belt and set it on the counter, “Let’s get zozzled* and sway around the sitting room? Crash where we land.” (*drunk)

“I’ll pour if you get the music on.”

He turned to leave but paused, “No, I’ll handle the drinks. You always have too heavy of a hand.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last time…”

“I’m not sure I remembered I was at home and not at a drum* last time…,” He uncorked the label-less whiskey, grabbing two glasses with one hand. “Didn’t wanna insult the pretty waitress.” (*speakeasy)

Fair. You weren’t much for drinking and always underestimated the strength of illegal hooch. Some were weak and some could kill you. But fancy Alastor had connections with the kind of people no one dared to risk harm to, so he always had the most trustworthy goods.

Good music, great whiskey, and even better company. You thanked him for being safe while working, he praised your ability to learn new skills so quickly. After a few drinks he pushed the coffee table against the wall and you drunkenly swayed around the room to something playing smooth and low. As much as you enjoyed your conversations, having your head tucked under his chin as neither of you said a word somehow filled in the little cracks of your heart more so than any talk. For him too. No tension after sex, no stress of how long he’d get to breathe before the next instance of prodding to do it again. He could smile and close his eyes and feel the room swing and sway in total safety.

A safety neither of you knew was being threatened from afar.

When you woke, Alastor was gone. A note on the table letting you know he’d run out to grab some things for breakfast. Telling you to relax and recover.

You put the furniture back, bringing the glasses to the kitchen and his belt to the bedroom.

Coffee and a slow perusal of his home. Intimate details you tried to not stare at when he was there. The rare photo of his mother, a woman you didn’t speak about, a conversation you didn’t need to have, but someone you knew existed fondly still in his life. A silent thank you to her.

No photos of a man to give thanks to you so you turned to the little curios and mementos. 

Little seashells and sand dollars, a small gator’s skull. Books, about anatomy and history. Novels about crime and love and mystery. Ticket stubs for films he’d seen. Little bits of his mother scattered in. A woman’s necklace. A chatelaine* with all of the accessories and tools. (*wikipedia page)

When you felt you’d spied enough, you crawled into his side of the bed and inhaled as deeply as you could. His pillow smelled like him. You let yourself sleep off the hangover surrounded by pieces of Alastor.

Pieces you couldn’t contain. Pieces left around town as a dick* hunted for his personal monster. (*a detective, but also, a dick, fuck this dude?)

Beth, or Betty as you called her, the friend you often sang for, was cleaning up from the previous night when Brady walked in. She tried to tell him they were closed, but he took a seat at the counter anyway.

“I’m looking for a singer named Autumn. She been around lately?”

She paused, knowing the name was tied to your work. This man didn’t know you. “Whose asking?”

“The city of New Orleans”, he set his badge on the counter top.

“Is she in some kinda trouble?”

“She the kinda dame to get into trouble?”

Beth laughed, “She doesn’t try to but men, liquor, and jazz tend to make it happen. She’s okay, right?”

He took a deep sigh, trying to blink away the exhaustion and remember he needed to be someone strangers trusted. Being honest hadn’t been working and being rough barely got him a lead. “Well I was hoping you’d know. Found out someone roughed her up a bit ago and just wanting to make sure she’s okay. But I don’t have her legal name, no address, nothing to track her down.”

Shaking her head, she leaned onto the counter, “What? Some egg* forget it’s just a show?” Brady shrugged. “I can’t say. She hasn’t been by in a couple weeks.” (*man)

He asked why. Feeling the deadend approaching.

“She was just doing me a favor. Once she got a guy she didn’t have much time.”

Fighting the urge to slam his fists against the wood and sling his notebook across the bar, Brady took slow breaths. Jaw clenched as he grabbed his pencil, “That is wonderful news. Hopefully a fit guy who can… keep her safe.”

Beth laughed a little, “I don’t know about that. He’s kind of a daisy*, but real kind.” (*a non-masculine man)

“Could I get a name? Or her address? Wanna follow up. See for myself that she’s doing well.”

She tapped the bar with two fingers and winked, “Ah no can do. Flatfoot* or not, I don’t tell men where to find sleeping ladies. But her fella is in radio though. I recognized his voice right away. Popular too, really ritzy air about him.” (*cop, detective)

As he left, he slapped the notebook against his palm over and over. When he stopped to take a second to congratulate himself something caught his eye. Across the street was a park he knew well. Following the block and turning, he could see the white and green awning of the cafe he’d seen you at before.

Had he been there? He hadn’t questioned why you were alone on such a nice day. But maybe you weren’t. Maybe you’d been playing him from the start.

Enough games.

When you took the stage that evening, a Friday show with a promising crowd, you felt like solid gold. Alastor would be there to pick you up in a few hours, you had every need met. And now you had the adoration of strangers to pump up your chest.

Until you passed your come-hither eyes over the crowd and a striking ocean blue pair knocked the wind out of you.

James was standing behind Brady, mouthing an apology. You missed a beat in your routine but forced your smile back. It took a second, to slide back into the actress you were when away from Alastor. Every time it got harder and harder to fall back into that role but you managed. His eyes never left your face, and you thanked God your heaving chest could be seen as fatigue and not the sheer panic that had taken ahold of your body.

When you were on the other side of the curtain you considered rushing out the side door, into the alley and down the street. But you couldn’t. You’d successfully brushed him off for so long but now that he had seen you, had made it clear he was there for you, you couldn’t flee. Innocent people don’t hide from cops.

Feet dragging, you saw some of the dancers standing around the dressing room door. “He’s out of his gourd if he thinks I’m changing with him in there.” One said loud enough to ensure Brady heard. When you entered the room he was sitting at your make up table, legs spread and your shoes in his hands.

“There she is!” standing, he extended the shoes to you, “Don’t stare like a deer in the lights. I’m sure you knew I was coming. Slip these on, we’re going for a ride.” He gave them a shake, “You can call your mac* from the station and let him know you’ll be late.” (*man)

˖  ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei ,  @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog  , @poinappel l , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima a , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @rubyninja1 , @simphornies

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf ,  , @fizzled-phoenix ,  @phobophobular  , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo    , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk   , @bontensbabygirl 

[fuctacles]

Hearing is important

For @steddiemicrofic "plug" | 437 | no cw | musician Eddie, crushes, pre-relationship | thanks @blasvemous for the idea 🥰

"Soundcheck in five! where the fuck is Eddie?!"

Eddie Munson was everywhere. Because somewhere in this fucking venue, there had to be a spare set of earplugs. He kept asking around, everyone had their own noise-canceling headphones on, but someone told him about spare cheap foam plugs in the green room.

He burst in there, grabbed a handful, and was now running around leaving a trail of neon foam pieces behind, searching for something better. He inevitably runs face-first into Chrissy's clipboard. 

"Eddie!" She grabs his shoulder in a vice-tight grip, her manicured nails surely leaving a bruised indent in his skin. "We need you for sound check!"

"Well, I need ear protection for Steve, because he's being stupid!" he huffs back, and her glare softens. 

Her eyebrows crease together while she holds his vibrating form anchored to their plane of existence.

"Did you check the green room?"

"Yes!" He waves the fistful of earplugs, and it's a good thing they're best friends, because he'd get decked otherwise. 

"Try the security room, I'll check with roadies."

He nods, and they move in separate directions, each with their own quest.

"Do the sound check without Eddie, something came up but he'll be there asap," Eddie hears Chrissy's voice in his ear. Sometimes, he wishes they didn't have unfortunate homosexual crushes on their friends so that they could become the perfect unproblematic heterosexual power couple. But alas. Steve and Robin existed and were fucking hot. 

Eddie was about to interrupt the broad men clicking through camera footage when he heard someone yell:

"Sir! Mr. Munson!"

And he turned his head to see a green-haired guy waving at him. He wears the same walkie and ear equipment as the rest of the staff so he takes a step back to look at him inquisitively. The guy waves a pair of headphones in the air and Eddie perks up with hope. 

"Heard you were looking for some ear muffs. I carry them around in case of panic attacks," he says once they reach each other. Eddie hesitates. 

"Are you sure it's okay?"

The man shrugs. 

"Just give them back to me at some point. I'm CJ, the staff knows me." He pushes the earmuffs into his hands. 

"Okay, shit, thank you so much!" Eddie grins, squeezing his arm in thanks. "I'll make sure they get back to you!"

And then he's off to find Steve. 

Steve, the lovely dumbass who said he doesn't need earplugs, he'll just take his hearing aid off. 

But Eddie needs him to hear the 'I love you' he's going to say once he grows a pair. 

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

now that her girlfriend has wings again, imagining Charlie makes very good use of them, and in ways so sappy everyone else at the hotel wishes they'd just be doing normal weird stuff instead

Charlie: "Vaggie, you know what?"

Vaggie: "What sweetie?"

Charlie: "Sometimes I look out at hell and I just think WOW, I sure WISH I could see something soft and fluffy instead!"

Vaggie: "Really."

Charlie: "Yeah!! Something light... and downy... maaaaybe with the consistency of a feather pillow mixed with the universe's best hug... posssssibly scented like that one deodorant I mentioned liking once and you've mysteriously been wearing ever since..."

Vaggie: (rolls eyes) (smiles)

Vaggie: (summons her wings and drapes one comically over Charlie's entire head) "Like this, babe?"

Charlie: (muffled) (ecstatic) "I LOVE YOU SO MUFF!"

Angel Dust: "Sickening. If you gays keep this up, I'm gonna puke."

Vaggie: "What happened to your non-existent gag reflex?"

Angel Dust: "Your relationship's a bit too long-term even for it, toots. You need to put a ring on it, so's you two can start hatin' each other like a normal fuckin' couple."

Vaggie: (panicking) (dying) "VAYA! Shh- shhh!!!!

Angel Dust: "Oh fuck-"

Charlie: (still muffled) "Did he just say put a WING on it??

Vaggie: "Uh..."

Angel Dust: "Sure did, Charlie horse."

Charlie: (still under vaggie's wing) "She's already doing that though?"

Vaggie: (glaring) (spear out) "... you, are the luckiest damn man in hell."

Angel Dust: "Don't I know it, with a body like this~"

Charlie: (staying snuggled) (yet concerned) "Angel Dust, do we need to get you some glasses???"

Angel Dust: "Naw, but I might need help writin' a will after this."

Vaggie: (sloooooowly... puts away the spear)

[starry-bi-sky]

What would a mother not do for her child What lengths would a mother not go There's a bond that exists between mother and child With no end to how strong it can grow It's a promise for life between mother and child It begins from the moment of birth.

================

She is six years old, and standing on the porch at her Auntie Alicia’s cabin. She is six years old, and holding an old rifle in her hands, standing at the railing and pointing the nozzle at a large target a couple feet away. There’s a pair of old ear muffs covering her ears. Behind her is her daddy and her sister, and Auntie Alicia. She can’t see them. 

Danielle Martha Fenton is six years old, and her momma has her arms wrapped warmly around her, keeping the gun steady for her. It’s heavy and the butt digs into her shoulder uncomfortably, and she feels nothing but determined. And nervous. 

Her momma was teaching her and Jazzy how to shoot, and they’re down in Arkansas to visit Auntie Alicia for her second “Divorce-iversary” as Auntie calls it. She keeps a hunting rifle in her gun safe for the rabbits that like to nibble on her garden. She mostly grows rhubarb, which goes untouched. But her carrots and greens and other veggies like to be tempting snacks for the game. 

Regardless, she is six years old and learning how to shoot. Her momma and her daddy (mostly her daddy) have been banned from every shooting range outside of Amity Park in a hundred mile radius. So Auntie is the best place to learn, or so momma says. 

Danny thinks it's just an excuse to see her sister, not that she's complaining. She loves visiting Auntie.  

She’s already seen Jazzy do this, her momma told her before the muffs went on to shoot when ready. No use trying to fire when you’re not; you can’t afford to miss when shooting ghosts. 

Danny breathes out steady, just like momma taught her, and quells her trembling little fingers. She focuses down the barrel, and pulls the trigger. 

Immediately, the recoil throws her off, the side of the gun that her cheek was resting on knocks against her skin, harsh enough to bruise if it weren’t for her momma’s steady hands holding onto her. The bang of the gun startles her more than she thought it would, and her heart leaps up and runs a jackrabbit through her chest. 

The gun is carefully slipped out of her hands, and Danny lets it go easily, her cheek smarting in pain and her eyes wide and following up to momma. Momma turns the safety on, and with a gentle hand, pushes against her chest. Danny takes a few steps back, and slips the ear muffs off her head. 

Mommy is smiling big at her, something that Danny can’t help but replicate on her own face as her heart swells. “Did I get it, momma?” She asks, watching as she passes the gun off to Auntie Alicia, who steps over to take it.

“I’m going to go see, sweetie, but I think you did.” Momma coos, before planting both her hands on the porch railing and, in a single leap, vaults over the side and onto the grass. She’s dressed all comfortable for the summer heat, with her hair all tied back and in shorts and a tank top and nice boots. Danny’s ribs swell hopefully, and she stands on her tiptoes to watch her walk over.

“I’ll be hard-pressed to believe if you didn’t, Martha Mae,” Auntie tells her, grinning like a cat, “that was a damn good shot.” 

‘Martha Mae Knight’ was Danny’s granny’s name. Auntie Alicia calls her that because of her middle name — and because, by her words, she has her momma’s weird-shaped eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. The kind that could scare a hawk into singing like a robin. It was Danny’s favorite nickname ever.

Daddy laughs brightly, the sound painful on her ears but twice as nice, and despite the distance, Momma whirls her head around to shoot Auntie a glare; “Language, Alicia. Not around my girls.” She warns. Her accent always comes through when they’re around Auntie. It’s Danny’s favorite thing to listen to. 

“Do you think so, auntie?” Danny says, bright-eyed and ever-optimistic. Auntie Alicia nods fiercely as Momma finally reaches the target and searches for the bullet hole. Daddy then comes up behind her, still laughing, and claps a hand onto her shoulder so hard that it makes her knees hurt.

“Of course she did!” Dad boasts, as bright as the sun and twice as warm. He shakes Danny affectionately, wobbling her on her feet and pulling her straight into his side. She goes so willingly with a burble of giggles. “She’s got the eyes of a Fenton! And our family are darn good shots.”

Auntie eyes him up and down, her smile immediately fading off into a pressed line. “I’m sure you mean she’s got the eyes of a Knight. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at twenty paces, Jack Fenton.” 

Jazzy holds back giggles from where she’s standing by the door, her ear muffs in hand, and Danny watches her Daddy’s dark eyes immediately narrow. Just like Auntie’s, his smile tapers off into a frown. 

Before he can say anything, there’s a cheer from the yard, and they all turn to Momma clapping her hands in delight. 

Danny immediately pricks her ears up, and would’ve darn near rushed over to the railing if it weren’t for her Daddy’s hand on her shoulder. She yells instead, excitement thrumming like a hummingbird against her ribs, “Did I hit it, momma?!” 

Momma beams at her with all the pride in the world, “You sure did, Danny!” And she turns to press her finger against the target, right on the inside red ring of the battered old bag. “Right here, sweet girl!” 

There are cheers from all around, and Danny’s heart bursts inside her lungs with shiny, sunshine glee. She puffs her chest out big, and smiles so wide it hurts the cheek where the gun smacked her. Her Daddy shakes again, squeezing her tight against his side in a hug that Danny happily reciprocates. 

“What’d I tell you, Martha Mae?” Auntie tells with a big wink and a wide grin, the gun still gripped tight in her hands as Momma makes her way back over. “You got a Knight’s eye.” 

When Momma makes it back over the railing, she hugs Danny tight and praises her shot. Danny looks her in the eyes and chases the feeling, and asks to shoot again.

[cabinetofquriosities]

Nothing Matters

Agatha x Rio || Warnings: Violence and Smut

Just a note: These are based on actual historical events that happened, which is why I aged Nicky down to 5 when he died in order to fit the dates. They are pretty fascinating events. I encourage anyone reading to fall down the same rabbit holes I did while researching them!

(Listen along while reading)

——————————————————

1755 - Lisbon

Classical music filled the stuffy air of a palace in Lisbon as nobles danced with one another. The rich were flirting, feeding, and forgetting the world beyond their gilded walls. Outside, families were celebrating All Saint’s Day on the first of November. Children ran from door to door, collecting treats from their neighbors. Little did they know, the shadow of death was amongst them.

Agatha Harkness was still marked by grief only six months after losing Nicholas. She had killed and drained enough witches to fill a town, but Death still hid from her. After the hell she had been plunged into, Agatha yearned to pull her former love down with her. So, she had something planned that Rio would not be able to ignore.

1872 - Boston

Summer Street was packed with people who were going through the motions of a frigid November day. Men walked arm in arm with their wives. Teenagers blushed as they wooed one another. Merchants had their doors open to the cold in hopes of welcoming passerby’s.

In the thick of the crowd was Agatha Harkness. She wore a scarlet two piece silk dress with a lace lined jacket and bustle at the back of the skirt. Her hair was pinned up with banana curls spilling down the back of her neck. Her hands were snug in a fur hand muff.

Her power felt completely renewed. She went on a bit of a bender with killing witches. She had been betrayed by her own emotions as Rio showed up in every dream for the last few years. She was used to one here and there, but not every night. She needed to get that beast out of her system. So, she killed and stole power in hopes of summoning her. The two were still diametrically opposed to one another, still “separated” or estranged spouses for lack of a better term, but could never stay away for too long. Every so often, Agatha would find a way to see her and the two would reunite for a night at most in a tangle of bodies and limbs. It had been over a decade this time around.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The gentle sway of the ocean rocked the passengers to sleep as their destroyer treaded the boards overhead. Her heels clicked as she walked over the deck.

“Ma’am?” the captain called.

Agatha turned, her curls falling loose around her shoulders and still wearing a long, sheer bejeweled dress from dinner. After all, she had to dress for her Lady.

“Yes?”

“It’s too cold to be taking a walk out here.”

“It is,” she said with a smirk.

1755 - Lisbon

Death always had a sense of when a seismic event was coming. Whenever a wave of death was about to strike, she would feel the pull of it. Rio had tried to avoid revealing herself by waiting longer after a witch would die to claim her soul. This, though, this was so far away from Massachusetts. She incorrectly assumed that Agatha wouldn’t be traveling overseas.

She couldn’t show up late to an event of this size. With how massive the event promised to be, she figured it was a natural phenomenon rather than anything that could be caused by Agatha. So, she donned an elegant dress, her hair pinned in curls, and appeared at the epicenter.

Agatha heard the music shift to a Minuet. Couples made their way to the ballroom floor to dance. She stood and saw the woman who had been just out of reach for the past several months. She strode over and swiftly took her by the hand before Rio even had a chance to register it was her. Agatha whirled her into a spin before stepping back, giving a deep bow with the rest of the ladies in the dance.

Rio looked like a trapped animal, her eyes betraying the panic she felt at being so thoroughly tricked. She went along with the dance, one that was playful in nature and felt so inappropriate for their situation. Agatha straightened up and raised her hand, pressing her forearm against Rio’s as they walked around one another, their gazes locked.

“Did you really think you could run from me?” Agatha hissed.

1872 - Boston

Rio knew there was a likelihood of Agatha being close to this given its location, but knew she had to arrive for this. While it wasn’t the same bodycount as a natural disaster, the violence and discord she could sense coming required her presence.

She walked down the cobblestone road. A little boy accidentally ran into her. She grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him from falling. He looked up at her with wide eyes, feeling the aura of decay around her. Those eyes looked too familiar to ones she had seen before. This one wasn’t meant to be lost today. There was no need for him to witness it at all. She led him into an alleyway before the child knew what was happening and swirled her fingers. A small door appeared on the side of the building. She opened it, motioning for the five year old to walk through. He did, not noticing he was on a street in a nearby town until the door shut behind him.

“Special treatment, I see,” a voice said behind Rio.

“He wasn’t meant to die today,” Rio said.

She turned around.

“Agatha.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Do you need an escort back to your cabin?” the captain asked the wandering passenger.

“Oh, no need,” Agatha said, redirecting her gaze to the stars above, “My love will be here soon.”

“Okay, well, please be careful,” he said, “And stay away from the edge of the ship. The ocean is deadly at night.”

“That it is,” she said, nodding at him.

A dapper young man wearing a suit crossed his path before making his way to the Agatha. The captain noticed how feminine the man’s features were. He felt unnerved by the interaction, feeling something of a chill down his spine as if Death had brushed past him.

“Your love?” Rio asked, Adjusting her top hat.

She turned around to face Rio with a cruel smile.

“It would have sounded suspicious if I said my enemy.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I wasn’t running,” Rio said as they danced.

“You were hiding,” Agatha said.

“I don’t always show myself to others every time I collect.”

“You used to with me,” Agatha said.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me after-“

“DON’T… say his name. You do not get to ever say it again,” Agatha snapped before resuming their dance.

“I just thought you needed time.”

“Time…” Agatha said with a bitter laugh, “Well, you never give much of that, now do you?”

Rio stopped in her tracks, ignoring the music filling the room. Her eyes darkened. Could she really be that willfully ignorant of the situation? Human emotions always twisted the reality of things into absurd shapes.

“I gave everything I could,” she said, her voice dropped low.

“Then you fall far short of expectations. You are the original Green Witch. Lady Death. And all you could manage was five years.”

“You have no idea how much those years shifted the balance of the universe. I would have given him all the time that existed if I could.”

“But you didn’t,” Agatha seethed.

“I couldn’t,” Rio said with a defeated sigh.

She looked around, feeling an electricity in the air around them. Whatever was about to happen was coming closer.

“I cannot have this conversation right now. Something terrible is about to happen. You should leave while you can,” Rio said with an edge of urgency.

“Oh, I am very aware.”

Rio tried to resolve the enormity of the event with being caused by a single person. This event would affect a third of the Earth. She looked at her with genuine shock and amazement.

“Agatha… what did you do?”

1872 - Boston

“Rio,” Agatha said with a sly smile, “Long time, no see.”

“Well, our meeting in New York didn’t exactly make me want to come running back.”

“Oh, please,” Agatha said, stalking towards her with a pout, “You love it when I’m cruel.”

Rio arched a brow before shaking her head with a bemused smile. She hated how right she was. It was a rare treat for Death to have someone who did not fear or revere her. Agatha gave her the gift of the unexpected in the endless cycle of nature.

“You are the one behind what is about to happen, then?”

Agatha looked downright giddy as she said, “It’s already begun.”

Agatha took Rio’s hand, running her up the stairs of the nearest building they could find to the roof. Agatha beamed at the view like a kid showing an adult the drawing they had made. Rio looked at the skyline of Boston, not noticing anything out of place at first. A few moments passed and then, she saw the smoke.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Your enemy,” Rio echoed, “Is that where we still are?”

Agatha looked at her with a flash of vulnerability before throwing her mask back on.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” she said, lifting her chin.

“For someone who hates me, it seems like you’re pretty determined to see me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was bored.”

“Really?” she said, nodding, “Sure. Let’s just say that if it makes you feel better.”

Agatha scowled before walking to the edge of the deck, hanging onto the railing. Rio followed behind, never allowing Agatha to be too far away in a deadly situation. She knew it wasn’t her time, but it was usually because Rio was there to protect her. If Agatha had gotten sick or killed by another witch, then she couldn’t do anything but take her to the other side. She couldn’t cure illness. She couldn’t interfere in an attack that she was not present for. However, if she was a source of protection while present, it would not upset the sacred balance. People were taken before their time far too often and she could do things to prevent that. If it actually was their time due to something fated and intrinsic like an illness, it was not preventable. It was how she saved Agatha time and time again, but also why she couldn’t save Nicky.

“What are we looking at?” Rio asked.

“That,” Agatha said as an iceberg appeared in the distance.

1755 - Lisbon

“It is not what I did. It is what I am about to do,” Agatha said.

She took Rio’s hand, pulling her outside to the courtyard where couples strolled with one another beneath the moonlight. She knelt down, putting her hand on the ground. She closed her eyes and began to whisper an incantation.

Purple light pulsed under her palm. The ground started to shake. The earth broke apart at her hand, cracks emerging and spreading with purple glowing from them. People screamed and fled. Buildings collapsed and the cracks opened up. Men and women sprinted blindly in a panic, falling in and being swallowed up whole. Agatha’s smile widened as she felt the energy of every witch in Lisbon reverberating back to her. Rio simply took it all in with a sense of awe at Agatha’s power of destruction.

She stood and turned to face her. The destruction was unfolding around them as Agatha’s eyes burned into Rio’s. Her gaze reflected rage, sadness, and misdirected hatred. Intertwined throughout those elements was a strong desire that had always bonded them together. Both of them suddenly took three long strides and met in a wild kiss.

1872 - Boston

“One fire?” Rio said with an arched brow, “A bit sophomoric for you.”

“Oh, hush,” Agatha sniped, “Keep watching.”

A minute passed before the building was engulfed, the flames climbing and building with every inch of wood and dried goods. There were no people in the storage house, but that didn’t matter as Agatha worked her magic. She swirled her hand flicked it out in the fire’s direction. A gust of wind whipped from her fingers over the city. The flames jumped to neighboring roofs, burning them quickly with how close and flammable they were. The city was architecturally tight and created with wood as the primary material.

Rio’s eyes went wide and she smiled at the sight of the growing inferno. She reached over, threading her fingers through Agatha’s. Agatha reached up and cupped her cheek with her free hand. She knew their dynamic was too fraught to work in the long term, but these pauses in their rivalry were something she needed. Or, rather, the transformation of their rivalry into something more primal and intimate.

Rio leaned into her touch with a soft look. Agatha moved in, catching her lips with hers. The kiss was tender for all of forty seconds before Rio’s teeth sank into Agatha’s lip, drawing blood. Agatha sucked in a shocked gasp. She pulled back, her look indignant.

Agatha gripped Rio by the throat, shoving her down onto the floor of the flat roof. She looked down and found that Rio had rid them both of their clothing with a wave of her hand. She crawled over her, grabbing her neck again. Rio laughed between coughs as she was choked.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Oh. Interesting,” Rio said with a curious tilt of her head.

Agatha looked at her, peeking out of the corner of her eye. Rio looked beautiful and handsome all at once in the fancy tuxedo and top hat.

“You look good,” Agatha said quietly.

The corner of Rio’s lip turned upwards at the compliment. Any crumb of kindness from Agatha felt like the gifting of a rose.

“Thank you. You look breathtaking,” Rio said, turning her head to look at her directly.

Agatha unwillingly blushed in a way that reminded Rio of when they were a new couple. Agatha had never been in love before, nor did she know any affection from loved ones. The young witch would melt at any kind words given to her. Moments like this reminded Rio that every stage in Agatha’s development as a person was nested within her like Russian dolls. It was such a strange thing about humans that Rio never noticed until she was devoted to one over a matter of centuries.

Agatha raised her hands up, beams of purple shooting from both palms. They wrapped around the massive iceberg. The ropes of energy held onto the ship. Agatha used the ship’s momentum to drag it into a collision. Rio threw her arms around her from behind, holding her to keep her steady as the impact spread across the Titanic.

1755 - Lisbon

The estranged, grieving couple found themselves in a tangle of dangerous emotions. Agatha backed her against an oversized cedar tree. She pinned Rio by the wrists, making a point to dig the back of her hands into the jagged surface. She sucked and bit at her lips, letting her wrists go to start yanking at her bustier, doing everything she could to strip her from the ridiculous layers of clothing that were used to lock the female form in.

Rio reached down to tangle her fingers in Agatha’s hair, but was met with the sting of a slap. Then another. Although Death could shut down sensations to the body, she chose not to. She wanted to feel whatever contact Agatha would give, no matter the type.

Agatha slapped her two more times, leaning in to bite painfully into her shoulder, pulling back with a few drops of blood decorating her snarl. She raked her nails down her arms, leaving angry red marks. Rio let out grunts and gasps with every hit. Tears welled in Agatha’s eyes, her jaw clenched in anger. Rio wanted her to take it all out on her.

Agatha pulled back enough to look at the marks she left behind. Maroon handprints on her cheeks, a bleeding imprint of teeth on her shoulder, and scarlet trails blazing down to her wrists.

Agatha looked shocked at her own violence toward a woman who she never cared to hurt this way before. Just as she was about to pull away and leave, Rio spoke with a shaking voice.

“Keep going. Do everything you have wanted,” she breathed.

Agatha wanted to punish.

Rio wanted to hurt.

“Everything I have wanted?” She hissed.

Agatha shoved her back against the tree, pressing her hips against her. She used her magic to tear Rio’s layers down, leaving her nude. She pinched and twisted her nipples. Rio hissed through her teeth, arching her back. The roots of the tree, sliding up Agatha’s body. They ripped her dress apart, leaving her in scraps of fabric, her body revealed.

Agatha’s violent affection grew as she slapped her cunt and pulled her head back by the hair with her other hand. Rio’s gaze held Agatha’s, refusing to look away.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s grip around her throat loosened just enough to turn it from aggressive to playful. She smiled down at her, able to look at her with more affection than hatred. She hadn’t forgiven her, but she at least intellectually knew that Rio had no choice but to take Nicky, even if she couldn’t emotionally accept it. Rio felt the lightness in Agatha. As long as she didn’t call attention to it, it would continue.

Rio knew that the moment she acknowledged the connection between them, Agatha would throw her walls back up the way they did in New York years ago. Back then, Rio slipped up and said she loved her. Agatha’s expression hardened. Her eyes went dead and she abruptly left her, waiting far too long to summon her again. Rio wouldn’t make that mistake again. She would keep it light and safe.

Rio smirked and rolled them over, grabbing and pinning her wrists. Agatha leaned up, trying to struggle against her hold. Rio bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. She worked her leg between Agatha’s and pressed her thigh against her sex. Agatha gasped and rolled her hips at the contact. Rio smiled devilishly down at her.

“Such a greedy girl. Fuck yourself on me.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The ship had cracked in two. The lights turned off throughout, plunging the vessel into darkness. Shrieks emanated from the cabins.

Agatha turned in Rio’s arms, holding onto the railing behind her while the two halves of the ship tilted toward the middle. Rio pressed her fingers under her chin and guided her up into a kiss under the stars.

Agatha let go of the railing, wrapping her arms around Rio’s neck as they tipped and slid towards the wall of the pilothouse. Agatha cushioned the impact of their bodies crashing against it with a shield of purple mist.

People emptied out of the cabins, running in a panic to find an exit. Men tried to push past mothers and children to save their own hides while the rich locked the poor passengers under the deck when they realized there were barely any lifeboats.

This level of cruelty towards one another was the very reason that Agatha used to justify her murderous acts. If this is who they were at their cores, what would they possibly have to give to the world? The rich especially angered her. Regardless of having every advantage, they were the most selfish beings on earth. If she hadn’t been completely wrapped up in Rio, she would have saved the lower class passengers while dispatching the richest. However, she was locked into an embrace with her love and the water had already rushed into those cabins.

Agatha kissed along Rio’s neck, running her hands over her suit. She took care to leave as many clothes on as possible. It was not only cold, but Rio also looked amazing in a tuxedo. She slid her hand into the suit pants. Rio gasped and smiled. She rocked her hips over her hand, feeling Agatha’s hand wandering. Agatha’s fingers parted her folds and pushed up the hood of her clit, using a fingertip to lightly play with it. The pleasure shot through her in short spurts that felt like being electrocuted. She gripped Agatha’s upper arms to steady herself, already trembling. The rush of death surrounding them was as intoxicating to her as Agatha was. It didn’t feel like euphoria the way draining magic felt to Agatha. It was more of a flood of adrenaline that activated her instincts as the reaper. It made every sensation that much more extreme.

Agatha, meanwhile, felt the energy of a handful of witches aboard. It spiked her arousal and made her hungrier for her love. She sped her finger, purposely overwhelming Rio with shocks of pleasure. Rio cried out, her hands tightening on her biceps. Agatha watched her closely, taking in every detail, every twitch of her lip, the fluttering of her lashes.

Before Agatha could continue, Rio abruptly turned the tables. She spun Agatha onto her back, shoving her dress up to her waist. She looked down at her bare cunt, tilting her head.

“No undergarments? Looks like you had a plan,” Rio said.

“You know me,” Agatha purred, “Always prepared.”

Rio dove down between her thighs, plunging her tongue into her. Agatha arched her back off of the wall that had tilted with the boat, effectively becoming more of a floor.

People panicked and scrambled around them, not even noticing what was unfolding between the two women. It was always the most delicious thing about the disasters Agatha created. The chaos around them allowed them to have the most depraved experiences in public.

Rio’s dark eyes were fixed on Agatha’s face. She fucked her slowly at first, grinding her tongue against the most sensitive spot inside of her. Agatha’s eyes shot open, her hips flying up. Rio pinned them back down as she moved faster, nudging at her clit with her nose.

Agatha’s hand shot down and tangled her hand in her hair, knocking her hat off. She rolled her hips, trying to fuck her back before Rio laid an arm across them to keep her still. Agatha whined in a rare show of weakness, one that only her wife could draw from her.

“Fuck… Rio!” She moaned as Rio pulled her in closer by her waist.

Rio groaned in reply, the vibration shivering against Agatha. Agatha’s jaw fell as her pleasure crested, crashing over her like a heavy wave. Rio coaxed aftershocks from her while cleaning her arousal. Whimpers left her lips, making Rio look up at her again, taking in the breathtaking sight of her wife gasping against the back of her hand. She turned her head and sucked on the skin, leaving a dark welt on her inner thigh.

Rio emerged from between her legs. She crawled over Agatha, looking down into her blue eyes. She gently moved her hand from her lips and captured them herself.

“Mi amor,” Rio whispered.

“Mi corazón,” Agatha replied, “I love you.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I hate you…” Agatha hissed.

Her fingers were inside of Rio. Two, then three, then four. Rio let out a sharp scream as Agatha stretched her to her limit, tucking her thumb inside. Rio’s face was a portrait of pain, but her arousal only grew. Agatha smiled sadistically as she made a fist inside of her. Rio’s breath caught, her walls strangling her hand. Her arousal squirted from her, the agony burning into pleasure.

Agatha roughly yanked her hand from her, leaving Rio empty. She screamed out from the violent move, clinging to the trunk of the tree behind her in an attempt to keep herself upright.

Agatha gripped her shoulder and pushed down until the weak-kneed woman was on the ground. She swung her leg over, straddling Rio’s face. She lowered herself, using her like a toy. Rio worked with a desperation, needing to give Agatha everything she could while still knowing it would never be enough.

Agatha panted as she fucked her face. Rio thrusted her tongue inside of her, tasting the flavor she craved more than anything. She watched Agatha move like a woman possessed. Her hair was wild and her expression feral. In the distance, the shore was attacked by a massive tidal wave powered by Agatha’s fury.

The churches filled with people celebrating All Saints’ Day collapsed, taking thousands with it. The city of Lisbon was crumbling around them. The impact of the earthquake reverberated as far as the Caribbean from Portugal. Even North Africa was hit. Tsunamis were birthed from the epicenter. From Agatha.

The sheer volume of death left Rio’s head spinning. Nearly one hundred thousand dead. Of that body count, thousands of witches perished, their magic moving in flashes, traveling over several countries, endowing Agatha with power.

The violet glow surrounding her was blinding, the magic of the dying witches proving to be almost too much for Agatha. She shook violently as she kept moving over Rio. She leaned forward on her knees and pressed her palms against the tree. She screamed as her overpowered body unraveled for the very woman she was trying to dominate. She crawled back so that she was eye to eye with Rio, glaring down at her with irises swimming in a deep purple as magic pulsed through every cell of her body.

The dark eyes looking back at her welled with tears that were all too human for an entity like Death. Rio had witnessed the pure rage of grief when she had taken others. She knew it was only born from pain. However, that didn’t take the pain of being loathed by the love of her life.

“He was my son too,” she whispered out, unable to stop the words.

Agatha’s eyes ignited before she shoved her to the ground. Her hands gripped her throat, squeezing as hard as she could. Rio struggled. Her vision blurred, but they both knew that Death could never die. Her windpipe would never collapse. She still wanted her to struggle for breath.

“Some mother you were,” Agatha growled through clenched teeth, “You killed your own son…”

Rio wheezed as she whispered, “He was already gone.”

Agatha strangled her another minute before letting go. Rio gasped and coughed violently. Agatha looked at her with nothing short of pure disgust.

“You could have saved him.”

“I did. Every day for five years. You don’t know how difficult it was to squeeze time from nothing.”

“And you don’t know how it was to wake up to him that morning.”

“You’re right,” Rio admitted, “I don’t.”

Agatha looked down at her, momentarily allowing her to look at her the way she used to. As the ancient witch who only showed true humanity for her.

“I wish I could have done more,” Rio sobbed out, looking stunned by her own display of emotion, “I am so sorry…”

Agatha had no words that were enough, nothing that would solve the grief between two parents. She only had a question.

“Do you see him when you bring others over?”

“Not fully,” she said, “Only shadows. Only whispers… For me to be too close would disturb the balance. His mothers are not fated to be with him yet. I cannot force when that reunion will be. But… He leaves me flowers. He leaves us flowers.”

Agatha simply cried then, unable to contain it any longer. The fact that Rio had glimpses of him while she had nothing should have angered her more, but it only led to another question that was more important than her rage.

“Is h… Is he happy?” The

“Yes,” Rio said without a second thought, “Someone with earth magic… Nicky can only make roses when he is happy. He leaves roses everywhere he goes.”

Agatha’s tears fell directly from her eyelashes to Rio’s cheeks. When Rio tried to cup Agatha’s cheek, the other woman wrenched her face away. She closed her eyes, trying to force her mask to hide her from someone who knew her completely. She opened them, but still revealed her own adoration and passion for the woman in front of her, despite her anger. That look would fuel Rio in the centuries to come. They would remind her that their bond had withstood the worst tragedy possible. Emotion would crash against it like the water crashing against the sand miles away, but that bond would always hold.

Agatha came to the same conclusion internally, beneath the storm of trauma and misery. She was cursed and blessed to be forever bonded to Death. Her lips collided with hers with a painful impact. Purple flowed from her to Rio, tying them together in that moment. She was there one second and pulling away the next. Rio sat up as Agatha left, walking into the clouds of destruction left in her wake.

For years and centuries later, Rio would leave Nicky’s roses by Agatha’s bed as she slept to give her comfort. She would keep half for her and give half of the blooms to his other mother.

Agatha, for her part, would pretend to be asleep when she would hear the familiar footsteps. Death could come like a thief in the night, but Agatha occasionally felt it just before. She would savor the kiss laid upon her forehead, the light touch of her fingers as they brushed stray hairs from her face. She savored Rio in a way she could handle during those first few decades following Lisbon before calling upon her time and time again with unprecedented disasters throughout time.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s back bent like a bow as pleasure wound itself tightly in the pit of her. She rutted herself against Rio’s thigh as the other woman wolfishly grinned down at her. She sucked in a gasp as her hips stuttered. Rio suddenly moved down her form in a flash, grabbing her thighs and bending her in half. She leaned down and ran her tongue along her soaking cunt. She drank her in as the air around them heated up as the crowds below them ran from the flames.

Agatha wanted to watch the destruction, but Rio was far more captivating. She tangled her hands in her own hair, her body quaking with pleasure. Rio sucked on the little bundle of nerves that made her scream while thrusting two fingers into her.

Agatha’s brows bunched together as her walls strangled them, already overstimulated. As she came again, she pulled Rio out from between her legs and into a kiss. She hummed against her lips with her arms wrapped around her. Agatha slid her hand down between them, teasing Rio. Rio shook her head and took her hand.

“But…” Agatha started.

“This is about you,” Rio replied, bringing her hand to her lips, kissing it with a, “Milady.”

Half the city was reduced to ashes as the flames licked up the building below them. Fire surrounded them as they shared one last kiss. Rio pulled back and smiled as frenzied cries came from the adjoining buildings.

“That’s my cue,” Rio said.

As Agatha pushed the fire away from her with tendrils of purple magic. Vines grew from Rio’s feet, crawling up her body and forming into a tight, form fitting outfit. She stood on the ledge, turning to face Agatha. She waved at her with a smile before jumping off of the roof.

Agatha waited until she was out of earshot to say, “Always a pleasure, My love.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

People plummeted from the ship, trampled one another, froze in the water. As the sounds of pain and anguish surrounded them, the band continued to play. In the middle of the mayhem were a small collection of those who chose to meet death with grace. Being around them was a comfort to Rio. Unlike the fear and terror she was typically shown, these people were more focused on finding peace in remaining moments.

The ship began to sink further in. Jewelry, furs, and other meaningless things that lost all worth in the larger picture of life plunged into the depths of the Atlantic, disappearing into the places where sunlight refused to follow. The lifeboats were full and floating away. Some were filled with vulnerable people who were rightfully saved while others were filled by the ruthless people who pushed their way to the front of the crowds. Their morality didn’t matter to their fates on Earth. That would catch up to them years later when Rio came for them. The people left behind held each other and sobbed in the realization that there was no way to escape their demise.

The musicians played to calm the passengers, the transcendent sound of strings flowing through the screams. Agatha held a hand out to Rio, who took it in hers. She pulled her in, pressing her cheek to Agatha’s as they danced. Rio hummed their song into her ear. The stars shone down on them with a beauty that stood in opposition to the tragedy unfolding beneath.

Next to them sat an elderly married couple who chose to stay. The wife had refused to leave him behind when offered a seat on the lifeboat. She wouldn’t take someone else’s place when hers was with her love. He tried to convince her to leave, but she shook her head. They held hands, listening to the music while gazing at the moon.

Agatha looked at them over Rio’s shoulder and saw the devotion that she and her own wife shared. The words the woman spoke to him earlier were some of the most romantic she had heard. “Isidor we have been together for all these years. Where you go, I go.”

She realized that the same applied to her and the woman in her embrace. Regardless of what happened, of what they did, of how they tried to resist, they were each other’s home. Although she wasn’t yet ready to fully welcome Rio back into her life, she knew that she would be sooner rather than later. Like the couple beside them, they would walk through life together.

The old man kissed the back of his wife’s hand, earning a youthful blush from her. Rio could feel their acceptance. The two would greet Death as they would an old friend.

This story was based on the Lisbon Earthquake of 1755, the Great Boston Fire of 1872, and the sinking of the Titanic in 1912.

If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment and reblog it! Also, check out my other playlist fics!

Thank you for reading ♥️

[chaotic-starlight24]

darry and pony OR darry and soda

@forgthetheaterkid also asked for Darry and Pony :) So this post is for Darry and Pony’s friendship

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of trauma, Mention of one or two of my ocs

Darry is really strong and he has always been. So to mess with Pony he likes to pick him up by his ankle and pretend to inspect his shoes. He’s done it ever since Pony was little and Pony always giggles and yells at Darry to put him down. Soda is usually nearby laughing as well.

Pony is nefarious for being a great liar. But Darry is the only one who can see the signs of him lying.

Pony can be really quiet around other people, so Darry doesn’t really realize that his brother is comfortable around him when Pony talks to him. 

Darry and Pony were so similar at the same age. Their parents were always laughing when they heard Pony’s snark because Darry was THE EXACT SAME WAY. Darry could be real shy sometimes until you asked about football or books with a lot of hidden meaning. Then he could yap for hours. Darry also had similar colored hair to Pony until he turned 14ish. 

Darry and Paul were best friends up until their big fight in senior year, so Pony grew up honestly not seeing Darry too often. They were still pretty close ofc, but Darry was often at practice or hanging out on the west side. But on the days Darry wasn’t doing that, he would usually bring Pony along for stuff. Whether him and Two-Bit were running down to the soda fountain to grab milkshakes or just trying to play catch with him. He wanted to make sure Pony was looked after and felt loved.

Every night, the brothers would sit together on one of the beds and Darry would read to them. He knew Pony loved stories and Soda struggled with reading on his own so he decided it’d be a nice little thing for them to do. Pony’s favorite was The Chronicles of Narnia and Soda really liked Charlotte’s Web.

I’ve mentioned before that Darry has bad anxiety about Pony and Soda after the events of the book so let me get a bit more into that. Pony still swims after it all goes down but for the most part he stays in the shallows. If the rest of the gang goes out into the deep Pony jumps onto Darry’s back so he feels more safe. Darry also knows that Pony gets rather triggered by trains chugging by (And honestly so does he) so he finds a way to either get ear muffs for him or just ways to make Pony and Soda’s room quieter. 

Throwing one of my ocs in here, whenever Rosemary and Darry are hanging out together or cuddling Pony is always there gagging or rolling his eyes. Whenever it's around the entire gang Johnny or Tessa always tells him “Bro you can just leave or like, look the other way.” But Pony is stubborn.

After the Curtis parents died, Pony noticed the change in Darry immediately. Darry was no longer happily guiding Pony through math questions, now he was sitting there with his head in his hands because why couldn’t Pony just wrap his mind around this?! There was no more of Darry slipping a couple bucks into Pony’s pocket when he walked out, now there was Darry sifting through unpaid bills as Pony watched him from afar. Darry still had some happy days but they were a lot more scarce.

As Darry got a bit older, he was more embarrassed by the greaser reputation. He tried to fit more into the soc mold. One afternoon, Darry was going to walk with Pony home afterschool and as Pony came out of the school he saw Darry talking to Paul. So he hid behind the wall so he could eavesdrop. Paul had started to gain more of that “Greasers are bad” mindset so he was dragging different greasers through the mud or making mean jokes about the east side. And to Pony’s dismay, Darry was just laughing with him and making comments of his own! Pony had felt tears in his eyes as he heard his own brother snicker about how ugly the long, greasy hair was and the raggedy tank-tops that were so on the rage were. Pony wiped his eyes and pretended to walk out the building and Darry’s mood changed immediately to being all smiley and happy. Darry said his goodbyes and they started their walk home. Pony could barely look at him, “Dar, I don’t like when you wear that jacket…” “Why? It’s real handsome!” “You get mean… I heard that stuff you said.” “I didn’t mean a single word of that, Pone. We were just horsing around.” “Then why did you say that?” “Oh Pony, you don’t need to worry about me and my buddies!” Pony just simply nodded and Darry noticed the hurt in his eyes. It knocked Darry back to reality and he had a sorta “Oh crap” moment. After that Darry tried to stay away from those kinds of jokes.

The first few months after the parents’ deaths, Darry was hardly there. He was mainly focused on jobs, food, and bills. So though at night he was at home, Pony and Soda didn’t see him too much. So they were dealing with their grief together but Darry was keeping all that in himself. Which eventually led up to their first major fight. They were eating together for the first time in a while and Pony made a comment on how they never see Darry. Which led to some more passive-aggressive comments getting thrown. Soda could notice the tension rising and tried to calm them down but then it became too much on Darry. Months of knowing he couldn’t go back. Months of knowing he couldn’t ask his dad for advice or his mom for comfort. No more peaceful family dinners where his concern was whether or not he would have to eat the green beans. Now it was a matter of did they have enough money to have them. So Darry stood up with tears forming in his eyes and he screamed about how alone he was now and there was no hope for him. All because of them and their parents! Pony immediately shot back how it was partially Darry’s fault because of his cake. And Darry yelled how it was Pony’s for forgetting to go to the store. They ended up with Darry slamming his door shut and screaming and crying into their parents’ bed. Pony sitting in him and Soda’s room with his arms crossed and full of anger. And Soda sitting stunned at the dinner table with tears streaming down his face, the weight settling on him that he was the one who now had to keep the peace.

After a week of Pony and Darry avoiding each other, they eventually confronted each other. They hugged and made-up. Since then they never used their parents’ deaths against each other. But they have had many hurtful arguments.

[therealslimshakespeare]

But he also takes breaks to make her his mama’s pesto and he feeds it to her with his hand cupped under the fork and he does the dishes like he belongs there

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK

lu is so real for this my ovaries would EXPLODE

RIGHT?! Like I feel like he feels her attraction for a little while, maybe? Little while, and fights it in panicked unsurety and then confusion, smidge of guilt for how the fuck he accidently elicited this, then he realizes he is too, she makes the first obvious move and he just moans like a bitch at it and they go from there. An absolute “we need to talk about this” mess of a couple who can’t stop kissing long enough to talk.

But Lu’s ovaries did indeed explode and she about ground her muff in his face she wanted him so bad when he was doing this domestic shit

[theladyofbloodshed]

Who We Could Have Been - A Mor & Nesta friendship

A little one-shot set during the first week when Nesta is in Velaris after entering the Cauldron. It shows the Mor that I wished we saw, the care that I wished Nesta received, and a friendship that was never allowed to grow <3

It scratched at the windowsill, a never ending scrape-scrape. Nesta pulled the pillow over her head, wishing the bird would make the dive from its nest and splatter below rather than having to endure another moment of it thrashing and cheeping from the nest. Even the feathers in the pillow were too loud to her ears, the scrunch of the sheets too much. She took a respite in the bathroom, glad for the cool water that she splashed on her face and neck.

Velaris was a hell. Being fae was a nightmare. Her body was alien to her, the movements foreign and lumbering like a newborn lamb. Nesta moved quicker now as evidenced by the number of times she’d overbalanced with her steps. It was not only speed. Her body was stronger. The soaked nightgown that she’d been brought here in had ripped in two when she tried to pull it off her body, so she’d been left naked and crying in the bedroom whilst searching for the promised robes that were within.

Maybe another might be glad for the speed and strength, but Nesta hated it. Her senses were amplified; the colours brighter, her hearing tuning in to every slight sound, she could smell when one of them was cooking at the other end of the house – and that always had a far richer taste than she was used to. For the first couple of days, all Nesta could stomach was dry toast. It was all too rich, too heavy for her new-found palette.

A soft knock at the door came as it did every morning around this time. The others left them alone, which Nesta was glad for. Hopefully, the blonde one would get the hint soon enough.

Morrigan never did.

The key in the door was useless because she used her magic to turn it back around, so Nesta had to wonder why they even bothered with locks in Prythian if people came and went as they pleased.

‘Good morning. How do you feel today?’

Nesta pressed her hands to her temples, the noise shooting through her.

‘Do you have a headache again?’ Mor took a step forwards. She tilted her head so blonde hair cascaded across her face. ‘Shall I send for Madja?’

‘I do not want that woman anywhere near me,’ declared Nesta.

That rotten healer had smiled at her and said everything was perfect. It was not perfect. It was far from perfect. It was long limbs and pointed ears and everything too damn loud.

She clutched her head, voice rising, ‘Will that bird leap to its death or leave me the hell alone?’

Morrigan’s eyes widened then she held up a finger. ‘One moment.’

While she departed, Nesta perched on a sliver of the mattress. Buried beneath layers of blankets, despite the warm spring morning, Elain slept soundly. She reminded Nesta of a girl from a story who pricked her finger and slept for a thousand years. To the fae, that was probably nothing. A blink of an eye and they welcomed a new millennium. She ran a hand against Elain’s face then shivered at the sound of her hair sliding over itself.

‘Ta-da!’

Mor held out a mass of fluffy, white fur.

‘What am I meant to do with that?’

The woman had no bearings on propriety. She crowded Nesta’s space as she placed the two balls of fur against her ears. Her fingers were warm on the points of Nesta’s ears, but she still felt revulsed by somebody touching them. They were a reminder of what she was.

When Morrigan stepped away, it was… better. The sound was muffled. Less intense.

‘Ear muffs! I forgot to give them back to Viviane last time I visited her, but if they work then they work.’

Nesta could finally breathe. The brightness and taste, she could manage. The bombardment of sound had been a constant battle that had been wearing her down.

‘Does that feel better, Nesta?’

She didn’t know why but she felt heat building in her face as tears prickled her eyes. ‘Yes.’

Mor touched her hand. ‘This is new ground for us too. We don’t know the ways in which you’re struggling so I’ll need you to be vocal.’ Her fingers slipped into Nesta’s. ‘You're not a burden for telling us what you need. I know it’s scary. I can’t imagine how you feel. But I’m here. We are all here for you – and Elain – for as long as it takes.’

The final portion of the dam collapsed and a flood of tears broke through. She was not one for weeping or embraces. Tears were to be briefly shed alone then forgotten about. Servants were forbidden from coddling them – and her mother was not the sort to do it either. Yet, when Mor instinctively moved forwards and wrapped her arms around Nesta, she was so grateful for that touch. To not be the one having to hold it all together. To have a moment where she didn’t need to worry about Elain.

‘Let’s go for a chat,’ the woman said against her cheek.

‘Elain,’ began Nesta.

‘Elain is asleep. We won’t be far.’

It was against her better judgement, but Nesta followed. In the week since they had been taken from their beds, Nesta had barely seen beyond the four walls of the bedroom. She’d cloistered herself in there, unable to take any more change.  It was a prison. A prison to fester.

‘We’re quite high up in the house, so we won’t winnow yet if the noise is too much. Velaris can be… loud,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘Do you paint like Feyre?’

‘No.’

‘A shame,’ said Mor as they walked through a red-walled corridor with brightly coloured rugs strewn about haphazardly as if they had too many that they didn’t know what to do with them. ‘Velaris is known for its artists’ quarter. We’ve got lots of markets too if you’re a food lover.’

Disappointment grew in her. ‘Not particularly.’

‘No matter. What do you like to do, Nesta?’

Upset my sisters. Ruin my future.

‘Read.’

Could nothing dim Morrigan’s cheery disposition? Her eyes had blown wide with delight. ‘Oh, do I have the perfect place. Wait. Maybe not today,’ she pondered aloud. ‘Lots of priestesses. Lots of noise. But,’ Mor took her by the hand like she was a child’s plaything. ‘Yes! Let’s go.’

Nesta tried not to frown as she was tugged along the corridor then down a set of steps. Something sweet was baking in the oven, the smell wafting towards them. But it was not the kitchen that Mor towed her towards. They reached a set of double doors where Mor gave her a knowing look.

‘Behold,’ she whispered, pushing open a door.

Rows and rows of books filled her vision. It was a library. A personal library stacked with shelves, each one begging Nesta to run her eyes along it and choose a title.

She moved to take a step then held herself back.

‘It’s okay,’ Mor reassured her, touching her arm. ‘Go in. Have a look. Take as much time as you need. I need to get something – unless you want me to stay?’

‘I can be alone,’ Nesta replied.

The library was warm with wedges of sunlight pouring in through the tall windows. The books in its path had spines damaged by sunlight so the leather was fading. Nesta stood in the light, letting it soak into her bones. Her finger trailed along one shelf, tracking each book and wondering which to read. There were sections on the arts, history, geography, poetry, foreign books – and even a whole section dedicated to fiction. Father always said it was a waste of time. Nothing could be learnt from a story. Mother despised reading entirely.

Why must your head be filled with words? A husband will not take to being outwitted by his wife.  

Their scoldings could never staunch her desire. Nesta had read in secret, had stolen books from father’s collection at night and returned them in the morning. She’d begged the housekeeper to buy her them and she’d find the money from somewhere.

When Nesta was already a chapter deep into a heavy, ancient book about the history of the Night Court, Morrigan returned.

‘I bring snacks,’ she announced.

A handful of cakes had been artfully arranged on a plate, their icing colourful and appetising.

Mor caught her gazing at them. ‘Take one. I brought them for you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can.’

Why did it feel like a weakness to admit the ways in which she was struggling? It wasn’t Nesta’s fault that she was in this life. Not her fault that it was new and scary.

‘Everything tastes so strong.’

Morrigan gave a murmur of understanding. ‘Feyre suffered with that. She just had to push through and get used to it, I think. I wish she was here. She’d be a better help.’ Mor just shrugged, letting the words roll away. ‘What about tea? Can you manage that?’

One of the strange women appeared from the shadows, as if she had always been there.  Nesta was sure that sometimes she blurred at the edges as though not quite real.

‘Is that alright, Cerridwen?’

The woman nodded then vanished again.

Mor leaned forwards and rested her chin on a closed fist. ‘What are you reading?’

‘A history of this court.’ Nesta swallowed. This woman was trying to make conversation, trying to help. Being prickly would only push away the help. ‘All I’ve ever been told is that faeries cannot lie and they will enjoy hurting us. I don’t know anything. I don’t know how long you live, who are your enemies – if you can lie.’

‘We can lie. We can touch iron. We can step across a circle.’

‘What a list of talents you have,’ came a drawling man’s voice.

Oh. It was him.

As Cassian approached, carrying a tray of tea, Nesta’s body coiled tight like a snake ready to strike if he came too close.

Mor gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘I’m helping Nesta to understand how fantastic we are.’

‘Oh, you’re a historian? When did I miss that?’ Cassian came around the back of Nesta’s chair, taking a deliberately longer route to get to the space on the table, before putting down the tray.

‘And you’re a waiter now?’

Cassian threw Mor a wink as he poured the tea for the two of them. ‘A male of many talents.’

His eyes slid to Nesta, cataloguing all of the changes in her. She’d not seen him since he was bleeding out on the floor in Hybern’s castle. She remembered the twitch of his fingers, the jerk of his bloody wings.

‘Your wings have healed,’ she stated.

Cassian slowly – ever so slowly – dipped his chin like he was in disbelief that she’d noticed they were not ruined ribbons hanging behind him. ‘They’re not as they were. I need to practise flying. I’ll, uh, be flying here often to strengthen them.’

His eyes dipped to her lips as she brought the scalding cup to her lips only to have something to do with her hands.

Those words hung there. An offer if she wanted to take it. He’d come here again if she wanted to see him?

‘Shoo,’ said Mor. ‘I have an in-depth history of the Hewn City to tell Nesta and I won't have you spoiling it with stories of how amazing you are.’

Cassian held up his hands. ‘Nes, if you want to know about brave warriors, I’m waiting.’

Long after Cassian departed, Nesta was still on a cloud somewhere. Mor’s words hardly registered although at any other time, Nesta would have been riveted with the history of Morrigan’s family. Her mind was caught on a pair of hazel eyes and a teasing grin. Cassian hadn’t commented on the ear muffs she wore or that she was even out of the bedroom.

For hours they talked, conversation swirling from serious discussions about the political alignment of the Night Court to the best boutiques for clothing and embarrassing stories about Cassian – of which Morrigan had plenty. When Nesta finally gave in to the squirming guilt that encouraged her to check in on Elain and be with her, Mor insisted she take a few library books with her and also insisted that Nuala and Cerridwen would be happy to make her whatever food she wanted as long as she asked them.

‘I’m really glad you came out of the room,’ said Mor, linking her arm with Nesta’s on the walk back. ‘Same again tomorrow?’

Tomorrow. Tomorrow meant a future. It meant no longer hiding. It meant accepting that this was her life.

Nesta offered a short smile. ‘I can do tomorrow.’

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Hallows' Eve

Written: Oct 2 2020

Pairing: dark!Bucky Barnes, dark!Steve Rogers, dark!Clark Kent x Black Female Reader

You expected a nice night on the eve of Halloween with your boyfriend, Bucky.

A/N: Ahh shoutout to my bff @titty-teetee for indulging me with this idea lol. I love ya >:D

October 30th, middle of somewhere, Texas.

Well, there was a house-- rickety as it was, the home stood in a clump of mesquite trees, accented with tufts of Johnsongrass, springing up through the cracks of the stone walkway and leaning against the stairs to the front porch. It had never looked darker than this night had. But even so, the jagged wood roof  rose high to a second story, long windows looked like eyes with the small front door for a mouth. A steady breeze moved through the trees, shaking and whishing the long thin branches, slicing through the air. The whispering of nature speaks to you, like God to man, invoking what has been and what was to come. An unexpected thin place perhaps, the house, having not been filled for quite some time looked like it could have been haunted. Maybe a part of you wished it was. Like the walls and foundation had the ability to make up its own people within, or remembered who once lived there. 

Bucky’s fingers nudged your lower back as you walked alongside him. The duffle bags zipper clinked against the fabric and you were suddenly aware of how quiet it was out here. The crisp autumn air, slowly contorted to that spikey chill of early winter lingered on your skin. So you walked closer to him for some quick warmth. 

“They should be--” said Bucky, lights glowed up from the dirt road. The paleness glowed over both you and Bucky, the house, the dormant land. “There they are.” he said pausing for a moment and then continued once again.

“You had to pick the spookiest spot huh?” you said under your breath. 

He shrugged as he stomped up the stairs. “I was here yesterday, I got it ready. It’s a perfect spot for a quick get away.”

“But did you have to invite company? I was looking forward to it just being you and me.”

Bucky rummaged for the keys in his pocket as a couple of car doors slammed behind you. 

“‘Come on babe, Steve doesn’t have anywhere to go really.”

“I’ll start the fire!” shouted Steve. 

You didn’t turn around, your eyes stayed on the shadows of Bucky’s face where his eyes should have been. 

“Okay, I get that. But what about the other guy? What did you say his name was? How do you know him?”

Bucky jabbed the key with the lock, he chuckled a bit before answering. “Clark Kent, his name is Clark.”

“So you’re picking up strays now?” 

“Get to know him, you’ll like him. He's a great guy, hardly a stray...”

You followed Bucky into the house slowly, he flicked on the switch flooding the living room with light. Okay, you thought, doesn’t look so bad. At least the furnishing appeared to be from within the last ten years, the walls looked newish, with sharp borders, and reasonably decorated. 

“Besides, I picked you up, remember?”

You dropped your bag flat on the ground. “Hey, now. Are you trying not to get lucky while we stay here?”

Bucky continued into the house with the grocery bags. “I’ll get lucky regardless.” he cut his eyes over his shoulder back toward you. It sent another chill, this time up your inner thighs. He wasn’t lying.

“Oh god, not that stupid-”

Bucky ducked in close, the flimsy plastic mask buckled under the pressure of nuzzling your neck. You gazed into the bathroom mirror at Bucky who’s rubber Michael Myers mask was staring lifelessly back.

“I know you wanted to try something different….but….”

His hands kneaded your sides, higher he climbed over your sweater to your breasts.

“You look ridiculous…”

One hand left your nipple and began tugging at the top of your leggings.

“Shh…” he tried to stifle a laugh. “..just go with it..”

And you did, by leaning your head back against the blue denim jacket as his fingers wondered underneath your underwear.

“..let daddy have a feel.” his breathy question muffled through the mask. Slowly he began to circle your clit, mouth hanging open your hand held the top of his black gloved hand and pushed him to press harder.

“Look at yourself...how needy you get.” he whispered.

You try to peer beyond the mask, the slits for eyes but there was nothing. Only darkness met you there. Bucky brought up his hand, held it in front of the mirror and you. He split his fingers, thick wetness strung between them like webs.

“Bend over-- hold on to the sink.” he ordered, with his hands disappearing behind you. The sound of his clothes ruffling you stared back at the mirror.

Bucky stepped forward, knocking your ankles apart with his shiny black boots and yanked your pants, underwear down and gently, he tipped into you. His long length traveled against your folds sinking further inside.

Ghostly scenes are made from the smoke casting up from the flickering fire being fed from lava colored coals. The metal chair underneath you feels cool on your bottom, because even though you are sitting on a blanket the cold night air hangs around you. 

Steve was ending his story. Though hardly a spooky tale, it didn’t have to be, for his tales were based on true events. Speaking of blood and gore the morbid tone grew in his voice and brought a shadow of delight in his eyes. You carefully watched him, observed his hunched over shoulders, his eyes turned to yours sometimes while he spoke but mostly stayed on the fire. 

You chugged from the bottle of hard cider as Bucky ate, that stupid mask was pulled up over his brows. But Clark Kent, this stranger, sat nearly directly opposite. You moved your eyes to him ever so often while Steve told his story. One of the two thought about food on the way here, chicken, you guessed was their craving. Clark leaned back, his black jacket bunched at his waist as he rose a hand to his mouth. The crunch of the crust of fried meat did not break Steve’s momentum. 

When he finished, Bucky nodded to the accuracy of the amount of soldiers, to why the only man left was brave and courageous. Clark’s eyes met yours over the flames, his skin pale, the wavy dark curls framed his face. He smiled at you as he chewed. You noticed it then, unsure why you wouldn’t have before, he held the grey cooked bone between his fingers and stuck the end in his mouth. You blinked, maybe you were seeing things -- this was your sixth cider for the night.

“Are you eating the bones?” you asked.

Clark continued to gnaw on it till it broke off in his mouth. “Waste not want not,” he said through a mouthful.

He continued to stare back at you and at the same time a chill coursed its way down your spine. Shivering in the gentle breeze the urge to go to the bathroom shot through you. 

“I’ll be right back,” and excused yourself from the fire.

Had to be a bit past ten p.m., though this was supposed to be a pleasant fall break, it didn’t truly feel that way. Not with two extra guests. You tried to not feel so desperate to be alone with Bucky. You finished washing your hands and opened the bathroom door. In the dark, lit up by the light of the bathroom a figure stood. You jumped so hard, grasping at your sweater, bent over grabbing your waist, the boogeyman mask simply stared back at you without moving.

“Bucky I swear to -- why would you? -- take that stupid thing off-” and you reached for the mask but his hand grabbed your wrist. Slowly he walked over the threshold, leaned over and flicked off the light. 

“Oh no!” you feigned a plea. “Seriously..--help..help.” you giggled through another.

The door slammed behind him trapping the dark inside. He pulled you close at first, residing to his strength, you let him touch, grab, pluck at your body. Backing you back up against the sink the rubber mask pushed against your neck, smiling in the dark you could hear him attempting to kiss you there. 

His hands ran around the waist of your leggings, one big hand gripped and caressed your ass, slipped toward your split and rubbed your asshole. You jumped again, this time wrapping your arms around his neck. Different, he had never done such a thing before, but you went with it. 

His finger crawled passed it, his other hand pushed down the front of your legging and circled your clit. 

“..help...a big bad man...help..” you chuckled under a moan. 

He jerked you away suddenly, pulled down your leggings and underwear, with a hand on your shoulder he forced you to bend over. The room filled with the sound of a smack to your back side. 

“Bucky!” 

The stinging lingered but white hot pain replaced it with another hit from his gloved hand. 

“Okay!” you rushed out. Maybe he was just being kinky, perhaps your pretending might have put him out of the mood. 

He hit you again making you grip the lip of the sink harder. “I’m sorry daddy..” you hissed.

He was back behind you again, his whole body pressed against you, scratching at the skin of your ass he plunged two thick fingers into your entrance.  Heavy breathing billowed from under the mask, hot air pooled over your shoulder and around the back of your neck. The weight of him bent you forward. He pulled out his fingers from within you and began to prod with something warmer, and far thicker at your slit as his other hand tangled with your fingers on the sink. 

And he pushed in, “..damn!” you moaned.

Jerky, irregular thrusts stretched you more than what you remembered. “Bucky!” you gasped, hoping he would slow the pace. But the other hand grabbed for your throat, squeezed tight and pumped you harder. 

“Daddy, please..” you half begged, half needingly whimpered. 

That changed his stroke, and soon the ache descended into bliss. 

“Fuck...daddy…”

His hand on yours returned to your clit, pushing hard and swiping steadily, your knees nearly buckled. Thicker for sure, veiny too, you thought, god what the loss of one sensory can do on a drunk mind. Your body bucked back against him as you rode out the orgasm. He squeezed harder, hissing and groaning under the mask you could nearly imagine him as someone else. And when he stilled inside of you, even his hiccups of pleasure could be thought of another. You shook the fantasy away as he stepped back. 

Before you could even turn around, the door opened, your eyes shot to his brown boots and then up to his back. And he left you there.

You stuffed pieces of a premade popcorn ball into your mouth. Bucky sat there weaving a tale of spirits walking through walls, of ancient gods embedded into objects best left to rest where they laid. Still buzzing hard you stayed captivated by his tone. It was something about the secretive way his voice projected that kept you staring at him, wondering if it could be true, but knew it mustn’t. 

It was still cool out, the shabby blanket thrown over your sore legs did little to keep the wind out. But it made for a good catcher, which is what you were doing toward the end of his story. Picking up pieces of fallen popcorn, and pizza flavored chip crumbs somehow made it to your mouth despite the only source of light was a waning fire.

“So if you ever hear your name called..don’t ever answer back, unless you can see it’s a actually living person.” Bucky finished and glanced over at you proudly.

“I hate that story.” you slurred your words a bit and shook out the blanket on your lap. “I hope you’re happy, you have to walk me everywhere until we return home.”

You picked up the last bottle off the ground and drank the last bit. The clash of flavors swirled on your tongue leaving a bitter after taste.

“Babe do you have any gum?”

“There’s a pack in the middle console--” Steve spoke up. “Back there in the truck..” he said hooking his thumb over his shoulder.

You rolled your eyes over in Steve’s direction. A smug grin, and a wrinkle on the side of one eye simply gazed back at you. 

“You’re fine,” he said finally. “You’ve got us here...nothings gunna get you.” he reminded smoothly.

And the moment was quiet, poised on the end of the gentle breeze blowing through the heat of the fire. The rustle of sleeping honeysuckle vines, somewhere near the old rotted out shack Steve’s truck sat was the only identifiable sound for a few seconds. 

“Fine.” you huffed and stood up to get that gum.

You walked down the dirt path the short way from the front of the house where Bucky, Steve and Clark sat. The tin roofing of the old shed rocked, and slapped against itself the closer you got. And of course Steve parked on the other side, out of the sight of the house and fire. But you walked quickly, or rather, as fast as two aching legs could in the cool weather. 

The knocking sound only got heavier, louder as you squinted in the dark toward the blackest corner of the area. Steve’s truck was within a few footsteps and you batted away any imaginings of spooky phantoms. You slipped passed the door, your hand flipped up the middle console and snagged up the pack of gum before slamming the door back. And when you turned around, just off from where you had previously walked was a figure. The white, deathly pale mask was the only part you could really see.

“Fuck!” you shouted, dropping the pack of gum. “Bucky!” you hissed and reached back down to retrieve it. 

The yellow fire light was at his back when he moved forward toward you. 

“Okay...no more mask!”

You stuffed the gum under your arms and went to yank at the mask. But he caught your arm and squeezed down like a vice grip. “Hey--easy there..” you said quietly. 

He pulled you toward the shed, but just outside of it, along the rotten wall of it a few old deep freezers were lined up against it collecting weeds, and dust. 

“Oh no, Bucky..those look super dirty..” you tried to jerk your arm away but he only pulled you harder. “...Really? You’re this committed to fucking in that mask?”

This time your hand grabbed enough of the back of the mask to rip it fully up over his head. At that same moment you were jerked forward between the rusty freezer and him. Your eyes now bulging and fighting for light to correct what you were seeing in the dark stared up at him. You blinked several times once more before you realized the angular features did not belong to Bucky. Thick curly hair, messy all over haloed around his face, and of course, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t noticed before, he was taller. It was Clark.

You made to quickly move away from him but he snapped you back, “Get off me!” Your voice shook, and so did your body. 

“Bucky’s right over there...all I have to do is scr--”

The air whipped out of your lungs so fast as Clark slammed his palm over your mouth and rushed your back down on to the freezer. 

“I’ve been waiting all night for this..” he whispered.

No amount of squirming could equal the might Clark welding against your struggling. It was like a man made of iron held you down, even when his other hand disappeared between your legs, the tearing of your legging, your underwear did not loosen his hold. And then the unfolding of his clothes paired with the gentle brushing of the vines against wood near your head sent you into hysterical kicking. Your legs on either side of him squeezed, and jerked to no avail. 

“-don’t act so innocent. You’ve already fucked two different men tonight.”

You stopped kicking, eyes wide above his hand you glowered at him through the dark. “You won’t mind..will you?”

Shaking your head you held your breath. The thick end of his cock began to push past your folds. 

“Slut.” 

He lowered his forehead on to yours, what you imagined was him staring back down at you but could see only the tip of his nose. A shuddering breath pulled through your nose as he sank further to his balls. “You’re wet from it still…”

He started snapping into you, hard and fast, slapping his lust into your unwilling cunt. Clark’s hand slipped to your chin, his lips hovering above yours. 

“Are you going to call me daddy too?” he asked, with his breath steadily huffing into your mouth. “..Say it for me baby..” 

“Let me hear that little desperate voice..” He kissed you, slipping his tongue along the inside of your lower lip and then against your face as you turned your head. “Come on..” And then he started jabbing, a feral thumping into you. Sharp pains up your thighs shot further into your core. You denied him and he lowered his head to your neck. He sucked on your skin, flicked his tongue around and inside your ear. “Say it,” he whispered. 

You whimpered in response as his teeth began to snag on the wet skin of your neck. He sucked hard, drawing out needle points of pain. 

You pray to god Bucky could hear this, you’ve been gone too long certainly either Steve or him could. Clark kept nibbling, and groaning in between thrusts. When you refused once again he shoved his palm back over your mouth, the other brought your wrist up and twisted it into a bone breaking angle. 

He stopped moving inside of you as his deep voice raked over clenched teeth, “What was that?” he asked. The warm palm slid down to your chin. 

“..daddy.” you shivered out.

You could hear the satisfied smile in his voice. “Good..girl.” he whispered. 

“That wasn’t so hard to say was it babe?”

The sound of Bucky’s voice from the darkest, most grown up side of the shed sent your eyes reeling in the dark. Clark put his hand back over your mouth and kept going. 

Bucky stood at the edge of the freezer, in the dark the features of his face were smudged. A gentle hand caressed the top of your forehead. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Let Clark finish.”

At Bucky’s words, Clark released your mouth, he rose up and held your upper arms down as he continued to fuck you roughly. Your eyes stayed on Bucky’s silhouette, high pitch whimpering up at him did not go unheard. 

Bucky cupped your chin and head. “Shush,” he hushed down your sobbing face. 

Another pair of hands tore at the front of your sweater. To his right, another figure stepped to your side. The figures loomed over you while your breasts chilled, and peaked in the cool night air. A deft hot hand kneaded and groped at the nearest one. 

“You told us she was good….” Steve pinched your nipple hard. “She’s fucking outstanding.”

Bucky leaned over you, he grabbed for your thigh but you kicked away. Clark relinquished some leverage to pull your thigh up so Bucky could hold your ankle. “Yeah, get in there good.” Bucky’s voice rose above your strangled cries. Steve got your other leg, held it folded it in high and tight, that allowed Clark to pound you deeper. 

He grinded his hips into yours burning his stiff cock into your core. His grip tightened around your arms pinning you for good below him. “Where am I going to empty my balls?” Clark demanded on a puff of air. 

Tears slid down the corners of your eyes. They rolled from the darken outlines of Bucky above you to Steve at his side and then back to the man between your legs. 

“..in me.” you sniffled out. 

“And who are we--” Bucky asked softly. 

You didn’t bother to look in the direction of his voice, Clark’s head threw back, a deep moan started in his chest as his hips kept pumping. “Say it baby..” Clark whispered.

“..daddy.” you whimpered.

[nikethestatue]

How The Gift Was Made

Another short banger for my Elain Archeron Week. Enjoy!

“You said happiness comes in many forms. Mine is shaped like you.”

Stepping out of the townhome immediately reminded Elain of her life in the hovel. No, not the pretty street lined with white stately rows of homes, and not the twinkling faelights that decorated the trees and the wrought iron fences. It wasn’t the cobble stones that the street was paved with, or the young faelings who were dragging sleds behind them, speaking loudly and excitedly about the snow mountain in the park, upon which they’d sledding. A gaggle of slender young Fae maidens dressed in pink cloaks were walking with ice skates slung over their shoulders. The park boasted a huge ice skating rink and Elain wished that she could go there too. But she hadn’t skated in years and she was sure she’d make a fool of herself.

Nothing really reminded her of her bleak, dreary existence in the hovel, except for the cold. She shivered and sunk her hands deeper inside her rabbit fur muff. It was freezing and the ice pricked her cheeks and her nose almost immediately, urging her to go back to the house. But she squared her shoulders and hopped down the marble stairs and then quickly scurried across the front yard, opened the gate and hurried down the street. She wasn’t being evasive. Not exactly, but she also didn’t need everyone knowing what she was planning and where she was going.

It was a twenty minute walk and soon she was standing in front of a three story building–it was plain, with a simple, symmetrical facade of nine windows and a door. She knocked loudly and the door opened on its own, or maybe by some magic.

She was admitted to a wide, square foyer, neat and impersonal, with a stone staircase leading upstairs. Women, dressed in healer uniforms, moved quietly about the house. Not women. Females. She needed to remember that. They were females. 

“Lady Elain,” she heard and turning around, she saw Madja, the Healer of Night Court. 

She had no idea how old Madja was, but old enough to have wrinkles and white hair, which were tied around her head, in a style that Nesta usually favoured.

“I received your message, Lady Elain,” Madja continued. “And I would be happy to assist.”

“It’s just Elain,” Elain told her. “I am not a lady.”

The older woman gave her an assessing look and said, “Cauldron Made Seer is a lady, if I may say so myself.”

Elain didn’t know how to respond and therefore, didn’t say anything.

“Follow me then,” the healer beckoned, and Elain followed her through a series of rooms. Some were just sitting rooms–comfortable, spacious. Then they passed by three rooms, with glass doors. Elain peeked inside and saw long tables, behind which healers of various ages were working. Mostly, it seemed like they were making potions and salves, but others looked like they were practising some sort of magic. 

Madja finally opened a door and ushered them inside. It was an office–rather plain, with a desk and a couple of chairs, a bench covered with vials and bottles and heaps of herbs, and bookshelves that covered two walls floor to ceiling.

“So, what ails you, Lady Elain?” Madja asked. “Your visions? Your…transformation?”

Oh, what a polite term for what had happened to Elain and Nesta. Transformation. It sounded like something that one would welcome. Something that one would seek out–a transformation. In reality, it was a little less glamorous. 

Feeling her blood sizzle in her veins and evaporate, leaving Elain’s body a dry husk, while the blackness of the Cauldron pressed and pressed and pressed, until every bone in her body was broken and crushed into dust was not the ‘transformation’ she was looking for. And then, the reforging. Perhaps even more terrifying than the destruction of her frail human body. The re-forging of her organs and bones, fusing together, every muscle and tendon snapping into place, her new blood flooding her veins–all of it happening while Elain was fully conscious, trapped in the freezing darkness of the Void. She felt it all–how her new hair sprouted, follicle by follicle, how her nails grew, how she was able to see with her new eyes, how her tongue tasted the darkness, her ears amplifying every sound. She even felt her womb change–something happened to it, to her utter horror. Her natural womanhood was stripped away and something different was put in place. Something that would change the tidings of her cycles. Something that would…accommodate. She shuddered, thinking about it. An average High Fae male was significantly larger than a human man. The High Lords, the Illyrians were even bigger than the High Fae. And…well, she didn’t dare think about all that came along with that increased size.

“Nothing like that,” Elain answered, her tone clipped.

She didn’t mean to be rude, but she couldn’t help it. 

It seemed like Madja noticed the array of emotions on Elain’s face, and simply nodded. 

“So how can I be of help?”

Elain sat down and folded her hands on her lap. 

Maybe coming here was a stupid idea?

What was she thinking? Why?

He…he didn’t care. He wouldn’t care. 

It was…silly. Foolish even.

She got up and said, “I think this might have been a mistake.”

The healer smiled at her and said, “Please sit, Elain. Just tell me what you’d like and then I can decide whether I could accommodate your request.”

“A potion of sorts,” Elain explained. “For headaches.”

“Of course,” Madja didn’t seem surprised by the request. “But I will need a little more information.”

“Yes,”

“The potion would be for a male? Or a female?”

Elain bit her lip and finally answered, “a male”.

“A High Fae?”

She considered and then shook her head no.

“An Illyrian then?” Madja prodded.

“Yes,” Elain nodded.

“Lord Azriel suffers from headaches,” Madja confirmed and Elain frowned at her.

“How do you know it’s for him?” she snapped.

“Oh, well, I just assumed,” Madja said evasively. “No one knows about the headaches…but you.”

“How could they not know after all this time?!” Elain exclaimed, scandalised. 

It was so obvious! She could almost feel the Shadowsinger’s pain when he was near her, especially when he was rubbing his temples.

“He is good at carrying his pain inside,” Madja explained. “He is stoic and the Fae are encouraged to withstand pain and not be affected by it. Illyrians especially.”

She cocked her head to the side and looked Elain up and down,

“And the fact that you knew…” her voice faded.

“What?” Elain pressed, puzzled by the healer’s ramblings.

“It’s just curious, is all. That you would know,” Madja shrugged.

“Why?”

“No one knew, for over 500 years. And you’d noticed it…felt it…within six months. Forgive me,” Madja got up from her desk and smiled, “unusual cases pique my interest as a healer. And this is most unusual.”

“But why?”

“Come,” Madja motioned to Elain to follow her and they walked over to the long bench. “Why? It’s just a bit strange, don’t you think? That Lord Azriel was the one to figure out what was ailing you. And now you have noticed his pain as well…”

Elain didn’t know what was so unusual about it. 

“Mates can feel each other’s pain,” Madja mentioned, as she began fussing with vials and glass jars.

Elain snorted a laugh.

“He isn’t my mate.”

“No. Of course not. The Autumn Lord is.”

Elain didn’t respond.

She preferred not to think about that.

It was easier that way. To never think about it. That mate of hers.

“Come, you’ll make it,” Madja encouraged.

“What? No, I can’t! I don’t know how to.”

“I will guide you.”

“Can’t you do it?”

The healer smiled at Elain’s panic and explained gently, “You are Made, Lady Elain. Your power is infinitely stronger than mine. It’s vast and infinite. It came from the Cauldron directly. My power is just a sliver of yours, and most of it has been learned. Your power is natural. Believe me, you ought to make it.”

“Oh,” Elain contemplated it, but then unbuttoned her cloak and placed it on the chair. 

“I will measure everything.” Madja began weighing out all sorts of powders and herbs, “and you will mix it.”

Elain supposed that she could do that. It wasn’t very difficult. 

They worked in silence, the healer not much of a chatter–thank the gods. Elain didn’t feel like making small talk. She mixed the powders together in a shallow bowl, like Madja instructed.

“He would be able to mix this with any drink and it would dissolve,” Madja explained. “You can taste it.”

Elain wasn’t sure if she should, but she dipped her finger into the mixture and dabbed it on her tongue.

It tasted nice–floral. 

It reminded her of her own scent.

Jasmine.

Madja watched, a small smile on her lips, but didn’t comment.

“I think he would enjoy it,” she said at last. “It tastes pleasant, no?”

“Yes, it’s nice. I taste jasmine.”

“Yes, indeed,” was all Madja said. 

Madja made Elain make a paper cone, stick it in a small glass bottle and pour the mixture inside. 

Elain still didn’t understand why Madja couldn’t have done all of this herself.

“What you’ve touched,” Madja watched Elain closely, “it will transfer to him,”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I am not exactly sure how it works, but like calls to like–your power, your good will towards the shadowsinger has transferred to the powder. It will make it more potent.”

“I doubt it,” Elain smiled. “But it’s a nice thought.”

Madja looked at her and stated with utmost seriousness,

“Do not doubt the will of the Cauldron. Or the Mother, for that matter. It is you, and no one else, who wishes him good tidings and health. You. And there is a reason as to why the Cauldron chose you. And him.”

Two weeks later

There was a tiny box left on the table by the window- a box that Mor lifted, squinted at the name tag, and said, "Az, this one's for you."

The shadowsinger's brows lifted, but his scarred hand extended to take the present.

Elain turned from where she'd been speaking to Nesta. "Oh, that's from me."

Azriel's face didn't so much as shift at the words. Not even a smile as he opened the present and revealed-

"I had Madja make it for me," Elain explained. Azreil's brows narrowed at the mention of the family's preferred healer. "It's a powder to mix in with any drink."

Silence.

Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. "It's for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often."

Silence again.

Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.

Feyre never heard such a sound, deep and joyous. Cassian and Rhys joined him, the former grabbing the bottle from Azriel's hand and examining it. 'Brilliant, 'Cassian said.

Elain smiled again, ducking her head.

Azriel mastered himself enough to say, 'Thank you.' I'd never seen his hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and grey like veins of emerald. 'This will be invaluable.'

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

okay i was scrolling right? And i came across this short and this prompt just wouldn’t leave me alone. So what do you think the m6 would put in a goodie bag thing for the s/o (it doesn’t have to be fall teamed!)

The short for reference:

https://youtube.com/shorts/IOYeRDNZlGk?si=9qFhySSZy3yEhUz9

The Arcana Mini-HCs: M6 building MC a gift basket

Julian: his basket starts out as a romantic gesture but quickly turns into a "I'm-a-doctor-during-flu-season-and-seeing-MC-sick-is-a-trauma-trigger" medic's kit. It's loaded with every cold remedy he's ever encountered and has a bunch of your favorite flowers on top

Asra: randomly decided they wanted to build you one at two o' clock in the morning and just went with it. as most shops are closed at that hour, he ended up filling most of the basket with potions he made out of your shop's stock and added pumpkin bread and trinkets later

Nadia: it started as a basket and turned into renovating Lucio's old wing of the palace into your own private suite. the original basket became the cover for you to unearth the key to the new rooms at the bottom, with the first clue of a scavenger hunt to the doors

Muriel: this actually happened on accident - he'd been slowly accumulating small gifts for you, but kept overthinking how to give them to you and getting too shy to do it. he ended up piling it all together into a basket he wove for your shopping trips as a big gift

Portia: initially meant to just buy you a gift basket, but when she looked at all the vendors had to offer she realized she could do better. she fills hers with all kinds of baked treats and cozy things to do together - jigsaw puzzles, crafting kits, a truth-or-dare book ...

Lucio: didn't think about it until he saw another couple exchanging them and got fired up to do even better. building a gift basket is hard when you're journeymen, so it ended up becoming a small satchel of little luxuries for the road - muffs, snacks, a salve for sore muscles ...

[currentfications]

Ocean Eyes | Part 5

Pairing: Bada Lee x Producer!Reader

Synopsis: Friends visited you at your side hustle

Warning: Swearing, Alcohol, Flirting, Suggestive?

AN: I’m finally no longer (as) sick~ Please enjoy this chapter written definitely not when I’m delirious. Thank you all again for reading ^_^

Previous | Next

You pulled up to the club right around dusk, eyeing the still-empty streets. Soon the place would be crawling with party goers and drunken crowd, but for the time being, a moment of calm before the storm. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” the manager of the AMON welcomed you in warmly. “We didn’t even know who was able to fill in until you called. I was worried I’ll have to let my nephew sub in…” the man in suit and sleeked back hair trailed off as he darted his eyes towards one of the bartender, who looked suspiciously like he’s been drinking the stock.

You chuckled, “thanks for giving me the stage, I’ve been cooped up the the studio for too long - it’s good to get some fresh air.” Tying your hair up into a low pony tail, you unpacked your mixer and hooked your equipment onto the speakers skilfully while the manager frantically updated their DJ roster of the night on their social media. Noticing the frantic scramble, you squatted down to the manager beneath and sighed, “relax mate, it’s a Friday night.” You’re not sure if he’s just naturally skittish or was it because of the last minute changes. Nevertheless, you comforted the man who looks like he’s on the brink of tears, “I got the jams, you got the juice. It’ll be lit.”

Turning a few dials, you started the night off with some 90’s R&B, the swinging jams served as your inauguration into South Korean music scene. You took a quick selfie to commemorate the moment, tagging the anxiety ridden manager behind you and the club with in a short caption.

“Any drinks?” The manager quickly stopped by for one last check before the rush begun.

You nodded, “do you have Maraschino cherries? Two jars of those.” He gave you a funny look for the unconventional request, but needed the sugar - plus it’s not like you were going to accept alcohol or opened drinks from strangers in an unfamiliar setting. You thanked him as you accepted the two jars, checking that the seal was intact before popping a couple into your mouth.

Throughout the next few hours, you subtly increased the amount of bass and energy to your song mixes as more patrons flooded in. A few regulars have noticed that you’re not the intended DJ of the night, but we’re all pleasantly surprised by your set list, thoroughly enjoying themselves as the music and booze flows through them.

“Y/N I LOVE YOUUUUU!!” An excited scream pierced through the roaring party-goers, you lifted your protective ear muffs to see Latrice and a few other familiar faces in the crowd. You excitedly waved back, texting her the time for when your set finishes. She nodded and flashed two thumbs up at you, before turning and leading a small horde behind her towards the bar. You squinted to get a better look at the group, but the flashing lights (and your lack of glasses) proved the task to be difficult.

You tucked a lose strand of blue hair behind your ears, returning your focus to the last hour of your set. Feeding off the crowd’s energy and getting a grasp of the general population’s music taste, the drunken party-goers were all a little disappointed when you eventually handed over to the next DJ.

Leaving the bulk of your equipment on the stage, you pulled off your bulky sweatpants, leaving a minidress behind (a very handy life hack you learned from Ling: spaghetti strapped minidresses works great under sweatpants as a tank-top-when-working and skimpy-when-partying combo). Quickly reapplying a deep marron lipstick and smudging your eyeliner, you hopped off the stage to join the girls.

“Hey mama,” you tapped your best friend at her shoulder, “thank you for coming.”

Latrice snickered and handed you a drink, “of course I had to be here for your DJ virginity in Korea! It’s monumental.” The brunette paused for a moment and waited for you to take a few more sips before opening her mouth again, “there are a few others here, be nice.”

You nodded, curious to know who tagged along. Squinting at the faces, you started to regret that whole ‘you don’t need to see music to hear music’ logic you had when you decided to not put your contacts in earlier today.

Ling, ever the party animal, was the first to jumped into your arms. “God you look a-mazing,” she chirped, “that was a such a good set!”

You spotted the rest of the Jam Republic members and waved at them over the loud music, before landing your eyes on an all too familiar dancer.

“Hey lovely,” you greeted, leaning towards her over the thumping beat. “New hair colour?” Noticing her now grey streaks, you instinctively reached out to ruffle her hair a little. She’s dressed in her usual street wear attire, an oversized hoodie and a light washed jeans effortlessly bringing out her undeniable charisma.

Bada nodded, her mouth gaping slightly open noticing what you were wearing up close. Ling’s words don’t even begin to justify the sight of you. The little laced minidress hugged your figure, a few dozens of inked work decorating your legs and thighs; as you towered over her, she accidentally glanced down your bosom before quickly looked away, finding interest in the bottom of her drink.

Flirting in a loud environment is generally not your thing, but as you were about to attempt, another dancer caught your eyes and your face dropped. Bada chuckled as Latrice immediately stepped between you and the Mannequeen member.

“We are going dancing,” Latrice lead you away by the shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in forever since they handed you the keys,” the brunette complained as she pulled you towards the dance floor.

“And who’s fault was it?” You taunted, glaring at the direction of said fault, earning an eye roll from your friend.

“I said to be nice, didn’t I?” Latrice snickered, reminding you to act civil.

You rolled your eyes right back at her, mirroring the childish behaviour. “I was wondering why you needed me to be nice with Kirsten and Ling.”

Latrice laughed and finished her drink, you quickly finishing up yours to join her dancing. You’re of course no match to the professional dancer, however as a frequent member to the Latin clubs and an occasional Barcadi dancer, you can still hold your own in a club setting (and especially when substances are involved).

Tonight was an eventful night for Bada, as she watched your set for the first time, gawked at you in that skimpy little dress, and now shocked by the way you’re shaking ass and grinding up against Latrice. A odd feeling stirred up in her, and she couldn’t quite distinct if it was intoxication or jealousy.

Noticing the tall dancer’s lingering stare, Redlic inched closer towards the choreographer and proposed a strategy. “I say we both go get our girl back,” the shorter dancer suggested, her eyeing the brunette with the wide smile.

“I’m in,” Bada nodded with resolve, not liking the sinking feeling in her guts.

Taking a deep breath, Redlic took the lead and swooped in for the Queenslander. “Baby can we have this dance?” The platinum blonde dancer poured, batting her eyelashes at a beaming Latrice.

You feigned gagged at the sight, gently shoving Latrice towards her date, jokingly mouthing ‘traitor’ as they walked away.

“Can I have this dance?” Bada asked from behind you.

A smile tugged on the corner on your lips as you turned around, “collaborators, you two.”

Bada mockingly acted shock as she told you “Your accusation would have repercussions,” before challenging you to a dance off.

You took her hands and placed them around your neck before you lean forward to whisper in her ears, “challenge accepted.” You looked down at her in the flashing club lightning, and you could’ve swear you saw her flushing red. Chuckling at the effect you had on the famous choreographer, you teasingly wiggled your hips at her to the best of the music.

She bit her flushed lips unconsciously, gulping hard as she look at at you through her long lashes. When you did that little twerk, the devil on Bada’s shoulder won and she gently tugged on the nape of your hair with a firm grip. Your eyes widen in surprise as a mischievous smile took over Bada’s plump lips.

Bada’s face was inches away from your neck, and you can feel her warm breath on you as her breathing quickened. You locked gaze with the dancer as you wrapped your arms around her back. For a moment there the pounding music faded away, as you two contemplated if it was the lust or alcohol pulsing through your veins.

The tightening of her grip around your neck was a sign for you - as your grip on her hips was for her. You closed the distance between the two of you, and your lips met in a flurry of drunken daze and thirst-filled trance. Her lips supple as yours soft, you both eagerly indulged in the heated kiss. You felt a smirk forming on her lips before she muttered, “toilet?”

Tag list: @bada-lee-ily @lil-elliesgf @rubywonu @wiselight

[fuzzkaizer]

EHX - Big Muff

"this is not the first batch. first batch had "fuzz" instead of "tone" and the power switch was on the volume knob. ... for the first couple months they were all assembled on perf board, and theres assorted variations even within that because they were kinda winging it frankly. ... the first version Big Muffs with the perfboard layout have the tone control sent to ground via the input socket and the rest of the circuit via the output socket. I've only ever seen the conventional triangle Big Muffs with the PCBs having the circuit sent to ground via the output socket because of how it's all laid out inside."

cred: facebook.com/Chris Byrne

[definitelynotstable]

Camomile pt. 3 [Ghost x gn!Reader]

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10

AN: Can’t stop, won’t stop <3

Synopsis: You and a tired and injured Ghost enjoy some camomile. Price has put him in charge of drills while he recovers ...oh shit. Words: 798 Warnings: minor injury Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign Rags): No explicit romance. Fluff as per usual. Relationship development. Soft Ghost <3

Not proof-read (I never ever proof-read).

✧.*

It was unspoken of, these midnight meetings. You would slink into the kitchen and fumble around with the kettle, setting out two mugs of camomile and shortly after the Lieutenant would appear. He would usually bring a book or some paper work and you would doze in your chair, watching over the rim of your mug as he concentrated. 

You had only been with the task force for a couple of months and the Lieutenant had proved to be the hardest to get to know. Soap and Gas wore their hearts on their sleeves, joking and laughing - they were easy too read. Price was kind and fair with a good sense of humour; eyes sparkling whenever he watched his team get together. 

But Ghost was different. The mask made him difficult to read. You prided yourself on subtle observations but the only way to assess the man was through his eyes. Cobalt blue. Hard with furrowed brows on missions, almost black. Softer when Soap was attempting to rile him up, and almost eager with Price. Like a boy searching for validation from their father. You knew that feeling all to well. Most didn’t end up in the Military without some type of familial dysfunction.

The Lieutenant was quiet but calm. You had spent most of your time in the team trying to gauge whether or not he even liked you - his mannerisms were so hard to crack. But after the first night he had wandered into the kitchen to find you sipping from a mug with a stolen teabag it became some type of ritual. And slowly but surely you were getting to know the man you fought side by side with.

✧.*

You hadn’t expected him to join you tonight. The mission had been a success but a tough one nonetheless. You were all a bit battered and bruised, Ghost more than the rest. Price had forced the stoic Lieutenant into the infirmary straight off the tarmac, giving him no chance to escape. It must be a habit of his, you surmised, ignoring wounds and ailments. The curse of needing to be strong all the time. 

So when he shuffled in at quarter past one in the morning, an arm wound tenderly around his ribs, it gave you a scare. You had been dosing on the couch closest to the table, mug of tea tucked in the crock of your arm; lukewarm and forgotten. 

A pale hand wrapped around the mug, pulling it softly out of your grasp. You jolted awake at the movement. He was wearing black neck-muff, covering his face from just under his sharp blue eyes, his white-blond hair tousled. 

You blink blearily up at him as he tilts his head, now having fished the mug out of your grasp. 

“Sleeping durin’ tea-time, Rags?”

His voice is soft and there is a teasing glint in his eyes as he watches you shake yourself awake. 

You push your hair back, stretching slightly. “Sorry LT, didn’t think you would show.”

Ghost nods, walking over to the sink to rinse your mug. You watch him tiredly as he flicks on the kettle.

“How’re the ribs?”

The man in question folds his arms, hip against the counter in his signature pose. “Sore. Price won’t let me train for a few more days so I’m back to runnin’ drills.”

You can’t stop the huff that escapes you. Ghost’s drills were lethal. The Lieutenant raises a pale eyebrow. His cool tone doesn’t fool you, there’s teasing in his eyes. “Somethin’ wrong Sergeant?”

You cough shaking your head, pulling yourself off the couch and sliding into a seat at the table. “No sir, your drills are great sir.”

He scoffs quietly, turning back to face the kettle. “You’re a shit lier, Rags.”

You don’t bother arguing. It’s true. He casts a look at you over his shoulder. Your cheek is resting on your fist, eyelids fluttering. He smiles a little. You don’t notice, too busy focusing on staying awake.

“Anotha’ tea, love?”

“Yes please,” you mumble. God you’re so tired.

A steaming mug is pushed into your hands. Ghost settles into his usual seat opposite you with a small groan. 

“Fuckin’ ell” he grumbles, resting his elbows on the table, mug to his lips. 

You quirk an eyebrow. “Feeling old, LT?”

His eyes snap to meet yours through the wafting steam. “Somethin’ like that.”

You yawn, stretching your arms over to rest behind your head. “Go easy on us tomorrow?”

Ghost’s eyes narrow, he can tell you’re tired. You all are. He takes a long sip of his tea, watching you carefully. “No promises, Sergeant.”

You nod, following suit. “That’s enough for me, LT.”

✧.*

Masterlist

Next Part:

[maehemthemisfit]

Thoughts on Figure Skater! Kazuha who gifts you all the plushies that were thrown on the rink, or him skating over to you after a big competition to kiss you 🌸❄️

or maybe if you dont know how to ice skate, he teaches you ❤️

I talked so much about Lyney and his performance arts *cracks knuckles* lets see

Oh the WAY he skates up to you with his big smile, hugging you tightly and swaying you around. If he ever wins a competition, tears would prick his eyes and you'll wipe them away, telling him how proud you are (only if he'll stop peppering kissing all over your face)

Figure Skater! Kazuha who always looks for you in the audience, smiling and doing his hardest to put on a show for you. (you scold him not to do it since he needs to concentrate on his moves but he can't help it!) You always cheer the loudest when he gets high scores or does he cool spins and tricks.

Figure Skater! Kazuha who loves when you fuss over his performance outfits. If the shade of red matches his eyes, is it comfortable to wear, is it wrinkled. You always tidy him up minuets before he's supposed to enter the rink, mumbling I love yous, wishes of good luck, making him promise to not get hurt, and sometimes a long and cheesy speech for whatever the outcome is. He loves hearing you talk, you sound more nervous than him! He has trouble actually leaving for his turn and sometimes he has to stop your rambling with a kiss so he won't enter late.

Figure Skater! Kazuha who holds you close whenever you're on ice with him. Sometimes you come on ice just to check up on him (you wear cleats or whatever shoes that allow you to walk on the ice) and if he's feeling playful, he would pick you up out of no where and skate for a while and playfully laughs at your panicked state, though you know he won't drop you.

If you can skate, he'll take you to a public skating rink where all the lovely couples go and dance with you on ice.

OH OH AND WHENEVER HE GETS HURT?? You're immediately by his side pulling him off the ice to tend to his wounds. He adores you and your focused face, dabbing disinfectant to his scraps and cuts. You do your best to warm him up- which really ends up in the two of you cuddling. SPEAKING OF !!

Figure Skater! Kazuha giving you his jacket whenever he's practicing in the rink. Your warmth is his priority. Forgot your gloves? That's fine, he brought you an extra pair. No ear muffs? He'll use his hands to warm them. Brain freeze? He'll tug a beanie over your head and kiss your forehead. Runny nose? You can go back home and he'll make you a warm beverage or he'll buy you one.

Figure Skater! Kazuha who also buys your favorite foods at the concession stands and eats with you. You can consider it a date ❤️ but the plushies might be third wheeling.

Yes, he'll share his food with you even when you have your own, he'll still tease you about it though.

I had fun with this ask ✨✨✨ even tho i struggle a lot with his flowery words 🤭

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