#adamsnackdriver

[oberynmartell]

mornings are for coffee and contemplation

The first time Flip Zimmerman woke up with you in his arms, with your warm body laid half on top of his and the smell of your sweet shampoo in his nose, he decided that mornings were the best part of his life with you.

He liked the way you pressed against him, either on your side, with your head resting softly on his shoulder, or with your back to him, his arms enveloping you to his chest, your bare legs tangled with his. There was nothing like waking up to find the sun already slanting in through the shuttered windows and knowing he’d been sleeping too well to be awoken by his faulty internal clock.

His favourite was when he awoke to find you lying right there on his bare chest, your belly pressed right up against his, your head on his chest like you had fallen asleep listening to how his heart beat for you, and he didn’t know if you had crawled there all by yourself or if he had pulled you up there in the middle of the night.

Sometimes Flip held onto you so tight that sometimes he wondered if he was hurting you. But you never complained, never once. Even when he came home from a long day of work or a particularly brutal mission and fucked you six ways to Sunday, gripping you so tight he was sure he left bruises on your hips, when he pushed your legs up over his shoulders and made your thighs sore and your back cramp. No, you just gave him the same soft smile as always, pulling him down by the ears to press his lips to yours so you could give him the same soft kisses as always.

There were mornings when Flip though he could lay there forever, just feeling your sleepy little breaths tickling his skin, watching the way your eyes fluttered every once in a while.

But other times— there were more pressing needs to attend to.

Flip wakes up so hard he is aching, his cock pressed between the cloth of his sweatpants and the smooth curve of your ass, a prison he'd gladly spend the rest of his life in. Your head is pillowed against the firm muscle of his arm, his free hand draped around your hips to keep you close. The shirt you wore, his shirt, is clutched tight in his fist, as though even in his sleep he sought you out.

He can feel the effervescent warmth of an orgasm fade away gently, showing that he had been grinding against you in his sleep, must have been rutting messily against your ass like a teenager chasing his first orgasm. He couldn't blame his unconscious self too much though, not when you were so soft against him.

Your skin is so smooth beneath his palms, pore-less and without the marring of scars or the smattering of moles you had long ago confessed to loving so much. All he wants is to bed his face against your skin and inhale, to drag his tongue over you until he could memorise the taste of your sweet soap, your sweat, your perfume, whatever natural scent your skin gave off that always had you smelling so goddamn good.

Flip frowns, ready to roll out of bed and palm himself off in the bathroom, take care of himself before you woke up so that you two could go to the farmer's market and have a nice breakfast, could read the paper together over your eggs and plan the rest of your day.

But then you're moving, rolling your hips experimentally, thrusting back against him like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. He groans, stills your hips with a hand, never tiring of the thrill that goes through him every time he sees the way his big hand seems to envelop your entire hipbone.

He nuzzles his head against the side of your neck, feeling you stir as his lips kiss along the column of your neck. You moan, still half asleep, and you catch his attention when you breath out his name in a little moan. “Flip...”

Your hand reaches down to thread your fingers through his. You pull his big palm up against your belly so that he can ruck up your nightshirt and slip his hand beneath, his fingers sliding indolently along the plain of bare flesh that he loves to kiss.

You aren’t wearing underwear, you never do when you sleep, and his hand slips between your legs without preamble. He grins when he finds you already wet for him, his ego swelling at the idea that just his hands on you had turned you on so much.

“Flip.” You breathe, needy, waking up more and more each time he strokes his long fingers over your soft cunt. “That feels...You feel so..." It's like you can't choose a word, can't describe how it feels to wake up to a hard cock and a hard man, only one of which is ever soft for you.  

"Good.” You finally settle on, rolling your hips back against him, and his smile widens.

He groans, buries his face in your sleep-mussed hair, nosing at the place between your neck and shoulder where his tongue darts out to lick across your skin. He pulls your shirt over your head, fingers skating up your side to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers and growling when you push your chest further into his hands.

You throw back your hips like you did those nights you dragged him out to that club downtown, where more often than not you ended your nights on your knees in the back bathroom or with his fingers stuffed inside you on the drive back.  

You're fully awake now and aching just as badly as he is, and it feels like years since you've had him inside you, since you've felt him fill you so nicely.  

“I want you.” You breathe and the words thrill him. You feel his rough fingers skitter over your clit as he moves you against him, taking control of your body as he knew you liked, just the right amount of roughness in his grip.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Flip promises, likes the way you always preen under the weight of his pet names. “I've got you.”

He lifts your leg and drapes it over his, his cock nudging lazily against your core as he moves, but you push him away, chuckling gently at the confusion that passes over his face. He pulls away at once and you love him for it, love that even when he's so hard he's leaking, even when he's so desperate for you that his chest is heaving and his eyes are flinty, that he's willing to pull away without question.

But as you always tell him, over the meals he clumsily cooks for you or when you climb into his lap after a long day at work, when you whisper the words to him at night when you know he's just pretending to sleep so that you'd whisper sweet words to him or when he takes you dancing even though you know he hates the noise and the crowds, you would always want him.  

You feel yourself growing wetter at the thought of what he would have done if you weren't here. Was he going to have touched himself? Was he going to have thought of you? You both knew the answer, and it sent little thrills through you like electric shocks.

"Not like that, honey." You pant, breath ragged, feeling his cock bob against your lower back. "I want to look at you when you make me come."

The words make heat roil through him, the pink that crawled up his neck and filled the the tips of his ears making you smile at him, all sunshine and brightness, sweeter than anything he had ever seen. Flip pushes down his sweatpants and kicks them off, feeling you turn in his arms so you can shimmy his shirt up over his head.

He loves you naked, wishes that he could have that way all the time, and he does his very best to. Each night he comes home to you and finds you watching that evening talk show that makes you laugh or sticking a plate in the oven for him and you bounce to your feet to greet him with a kiss. By the time you drape your arms around his broad shoulders he's already tugging at the zipper of your pullover— that old police academy thing that was two sizes too small for him now— and working at your jeans, fingers sliding beneath your shirt to work at unclasping the snaps of your bra.

Theres nothing he likes more than your bare skin sliding against his, than watching the flush of your cheeks corve down your neck and across your chest, than feeling your flesh go tacky when you work up a sweat, when he makes you work up a sweat.

He's all firm muscle and hard plains, bulk and sinew, so broad and strong that it makes your mouth water every time he slips of his plaid shirts or toes off those jeans that show off his long legs so nice. He’s so strong that even without his gun or the sharp steel dagger he thinks you don’t know about, hidden behind the nightstand, you feel safe with him. Like he can shield you from the world with that broad back of his.

After what feels like hours of pulling at clothes and tugging at long underwear, once again you curse the Colorado winters for forcing you to sleep with clothes on at all, you're finally back in his arms, besieging his chest and trembling stomach with warm, open mouthed kisses.

Your lips are a goddamn dream, and he says as much, earning a teasing lick down the numerous ridges of his muscular belly.

Flip rolls you under him, grinning as you spread your legs wide for him, as you brush the dark hair from his eyes so he can look at you, can kiss you proper, as he's been aching to from the very first moment his eyes fluttered open that morning.

You love the way his skin feels against yours, all warm and soft and bared to you, only you. When be’s sandwiched you between his body and the bed like he is now you can feel every sigh, every moan, every shiver that drags through him, and you know that when he finally comes— when you make him come— you’ll be able to feel his orgasm ripple through every inch of his big body. Just the thought makes you flush, and Flip can’t help but fix you with that lopsided grin of his when the redness curls across your chest like a stole draped over your shoulders.

He kisses you long and deep, dragging his tongue across your bottom lip as his big palms reach down to cup one of your breasts, working your nipple between thumb and forefinger, pressing just hard enough to make you a little bit dizzy.

If you have morning breath your detective makes no mention of it, just presses his lips to yours and drinks down the moans you offer once his long fingers have returned to their proper place between your legs. He touches you as he has a thousand times before, but it might as well be the first time, for you're coming apart already and he's barely touched you, and that makes his ego flutter.

"Christ." he curses, feeling you clench around the fingers he pushes into you. He'll never get used to this, the way you tremble beneath him, the way your body slots perfectly against his. Like it was made for him, like you were made for him.

Part of him wants to take his time with you, wants to unravel you, to unspool you inch by inch until you were a trembling ball of pure want. But the other part was desperate for release, desperate for you. To have you as he did now, your arms winding around his broad shoulders, your legs draping loosely over his hips.

So Flip settles for a happy medium.

He fills you to the hilt in one smooth stroke, makes you jolt against him as though you had just been shocked. The silence of morning is broken by the moan that tears from you, loud and lewd, the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. Then he kisses you slow, lets his tongue explore your mouth languidly, lets your head tip back against the pillows as he gives you a moment of respite from the dull pain between your thighs.

You look so beautiful, even with your hair a mess from tossing and turning during the night, even with your cheek lined from the creases of his pillow. He wishes he had a camera, wishes he had his own darkroom, so only he'd be able to look at the photos he took of you, all splayed out and blissful and grinning from the way his cock filled you.

He knows you're ready when your arms tighten around his shoulders and your moans lilt higher, longer. He rolls his hips, stretching your thighs further apart and nestling himself between them, falling into the cradle of your hips.

He wants to be so deep in you that you can feel him in your belly, in your throat, and you’re more than happy to indulge him, more than happy to stretch your legs around his hips and cling to him like a vine against the trunk of a tall tree.

He was big, so big, and you love to feel his weight on top of you, hips slamming into you, bruising you, claiming you like no one ever has. You love when he makes you come, love when you roll away from him and you can feel the twitch of the muscles in the backs of your thighs, the clench of your abs, the burning running down the curve of your throat. But whatever soreness, whatever great exertion you feel, you'd never give it up.

Flip kisses you, sloppy and languid and warm. You can feel his tongue following the curve of your teeth, his lips pursing slightly as he pulls away to spit in your mouth, allowing you a moment of respite to swallow it down. He looks down at you, eyes so deep and dark you think you might be able to drown in them if you wanted to, if he wanted you to, and you know he’s waiting so you by do as you're told and swallow it down, sticking your tongue out, begging for more.

Flip sets a grueling pace that you’re more than happy to keep pace with, until the sound of his hips slapping against yours grows louder than the birdsong that drifts in from outside, until its all that he can hear, all that he wants to hear, provided those sultry moans of yours are part of the deal too.

He takes hold of your legs and hauls them up over his strong shoulders, opening you up to a position that has both your moans lilting through the air like a song. He wishes he could memorise you like this, on your back, legs spread. What a sight to see first thing in the morning, he thought. He can’t believe he spent so many mornings without this, without you.

He never wants to spend another one like that again, and the ring he’s hidden in a balled up pair of hiking socks in his bottom drawer proves that. But he’s waiting for a better time, the perfect time. Doesn’t want to ask you to marry him when his spit is still shining on your tits, making your nipples look like pink diamonds, when he’s balls deep inside you.

“F-f...” You grit out. He wonders if you were going to curse or say his name, but the effect is still the same.

He kisses you again, rubs his nose against yours teasingly, and you huff out a laugh. He loves your laugh, loves that even when you laugh at him theres not an ounce of malice in your voice.

Your hand fists in the back of his long hair, gripping hard, tight enough to make him growl against your lips. Liking his reaction, you do it again, smile widening at the way he shifts to slam into you harder, jerking your body fully, liking the way your small tits bounce, and the pain mingled with the pleasure to make the feel of being inside you only better.

“Fuck.” You say, each syllable drawn out by your moans. He lets his cock slide almost completely out of you, pushes back in, slow, so agonisingly slow, dragging against every ridge, every nerve, every soft edge of you.

“Don’t—“ You gasp. “Don’t stop. Flip please, don’t stop.“

He spits on his long fingers together and lowers his hand to rub them over your exposed flesh, finding your clit with a precision that would make you smile if your mouth wasn’t so busy seeking out his.

His gaze is scorching as your moans lilt higher, overcome by his touch, by the way he presses down firmly on your body. Flip can feel the way your long fingernails bite into the flesh of his shoulders almost hard enough to draw blood, and he thinks he’d be happy to wear any scar you’ve given to him.

He’s happy, so happy, and he wishes he could live in this moment forever, could fuck you forever— for he always thought you were perfect, but when he had taken you to bed that very first time and found that you liked it just as rough as he did— he knew you were.

“Fuck.” he groans, crowding you against the bed, his sweaty body pressing you down, making your skin flush as though you had spent the day in the sun.

Your fingers twist around his nipples, pinching, pulling, clawing at his bare chest. He moans your name so loudly that you can feel it ring in your ears for a moment afterwards, the depth of his voice so gravely that it has you shivering, gooseflesh breaking out over the bare arms you've knotted around him.

You pull him back down toward you, legs slipping down from his shoulders. You liked the position just fine, more than fine. In fact it made you want to scream at the top of your lungs at how good it felt, but you didn't think your neighbors— who had called the cops on you twice before, what an awkward conversation that had been when Flip returned to the precinct— would like that very much. But you just wanted to kiss him again, an insatiable hunger growing in your belly, sated only by the feel of his plush lips sliding against yours as you pulled him down to you.

Your orgasm comes upon you so quickly that you barely have time to choke out a warning before your back is arching off the bed, your hips tilting even further forward, so that Flip is buried so deep inside you that he swear he can see the impression of his cock beneath the hand he's placed on your belly.

You go tight as a balled fist around his cock, and he moans loud enough to be heard through the thick plaster walls, like when he lifts too heavy of a weight or the very few times in his life when Flip has been socked in the gut.

Flip carries you through it, he always does, but it's not long before he's coming right after you, his orgasm slamming into him with the force of a blow. He moans loud, always so loud. Loud enough that your neighbors wonder if he's hurt, if they should knock on the door and ask if everything's alright. But the answering sound of a headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall and the call of a woman's name is answer enough, and Mrs. Horowitz only blushes and turns the radio louder.  

"Flip!" You cry, feeling his weight push down on top of you, his palms somehow cupping your breast and your arse at the same time. "Oh God— Philip!"

You only said his full name when you were stern, which was hardly ever, like his mom had done all those years ago when he was a kid. Or when you were teasing him, when you were only playing at being serious, until you had him smiling like a fool at the sound of his own fuckin’ name even when you were nowhere around, even when other people said it, without your sweet smiles or hungry lips coming up to catch his.

But his favourite time to hear you say it, to say anything really, was now. When he's balls deep in you, when his sweat was on your skin and you were glowing from it, when your lips were swollen from kissing him so much, and his back is aching from the marks you made when you raked your fingers down his skin.

"I love you." he breath, whispers your name, kisses you lazily. "God, I love you."

You grin up at him, looking like the subject of one of those Renaissance paintings he had always loved, with your hair splayed out over his pillows, your expression all blissful as your body gives out beneath him, too tired to even wrap yourself around him anymore.

"What a way to start the morning." You grin, using the last of your energy to lean up and kiss him.

He rolls you over, careful not to slip out of you, smiling to himself as he feels your cunt clench weakly around his cock as he shifts, until you're laying face to face. You run your fingers lazily through his hair, pulling him close. "I love you."

He looks over his shoulder at the clock ticking away on his nightstand, squinting to read the spinning hands. "Only six twenty." he said, as though reading your mind. He pulls you into his arms, wincing as he finally pulls out of you, pleased to feel the wetness between your legs as you wind them through his. "Plenty of time to sleep."

You nod, your eyes already half lidded, your hips pushing gently against his. "Plenty of time for other things too."

You were gonna kill him one day, he thought. But if he died laid in your arms or nestled between your legs, then it would be a death he'd be happy to have.

other flip fics here

[babbushka]

Baking Clyde a pie. He hums in approval after you feed him a bite. You share fruit flavored kisses before he pushes your apron up and bends you over the counter to fuck you.

Mel you broke my brain I have nothing good to add to this lol 

This is his “I’m gonna fuck you when you get home” stance and no one can convince me otherwise. 

When you pull up to the house and see him waiting for you like this, you know you’re bound for some fun. 

He loves your cooking, loves your baking, loves how you want to play housewife and treat him right -- especially when he sees you wearing that red and white check apron, the one with the frilly edges around it. 

“Darlin’, there’s only one cherry I want right now and it ain’t on this table -- yet.” He’ll tell you, his eyes blown black with lust. 

You hardly have any time to clear the pie out of the way before he’s unbuckling his belt, bending you over. He’s so strong, commanding like this when he’s all riled up. He sucks in a breath when he sees you aren’t wearing underwear, when he’s greeted with the sight of your bare ass as he pushes up the apron. 

“All’a this is for me?” He’ll lick his lips, spit on his cock to lube it up -- not that he really needs to with how wet he is -- and pushes into you. 

“Yeah honey, all yours.” You grind your hips backwards, meeting his every thrust. 

The two of you find a rhythm, one that has your knees buckling and your mouth dropping open, and Clyde thrusts into you hard enough to make the table scrape against the wood floors. 

He comes in you, because he feels like it, because he can, and he stays there, pressed flush against you as the two of you are panting over the cherry pie still warm from the oven. Absurdly, he sticks his finger in it and scoops out a bite, feeds it to you, likes the way you suck on his fingers to get every last spot off. 

He’ll make you come later, after the two of you finish the pie and he can eat you out properly, in your big warm bed with your legs around his shoulders. But for now, you exchange sticky sweet kisses tasting of fresh fruit and sugar, cooling down before getting ready for another round!

[thepilotanon]

Listen. I’m a dumbass, but I still mean well.

[thecurlycaptain]

You're just now hopping on the "I'd let Bucky rail me" train?

is every focking one that im friends with on here secretly a Bucky Stan?? was this information is was just supposed to assume myself or?

[k-renne]

#ugh that little strand of hair... you too?

Flip’s hair always looks so perfect, and seeing that one little strand out of place just looks so good for whatever reason? I can’t explain it

[aclamclriver]

The Frost... amazing as always! I like the fact that you passed by smutsville and drove us all into soul crushing angst town. I'm going to go cuddle my pillow and weep, thanks!

          if you drive thru smutsville you need to get off before afterglow city because the next few stops are really bad neighborhoods and soul crushing angst town doesn’t have a great reputation

[whereisthebigstabbyman]

this post in photo form:

People always put Adam into the “ugly white men that people thirst for” category. For me, this isn’t even about him anymore. It’s about how much grip he has on me. I said I don’t want kids. One day I saw a post of Adam Sackler holding a baby. A 3 second gif fucking rewrote my programme. Sure I still don’t want kids. But the idea that he could just trick me into thinking “I’m willing to have your children” even for a few seconds, it’s pretty horrifying. He’s a Greek God marble statue came to life

Listen…

I get this, I understand this, and this is his brand.

He’s built like a MAN. When he’s bulked out, it’s like the testosterone and his pheromones are so fucking strong they shroud him in a supernatural aura of primal get fucked upness. 

LOOK AT THIS SHIT

He looks like he could build the homestead, protect it, and hunt with his bare hands. He’s so thick and tall that it triggers that primal holy shit my uterus deal and also the “Yes I do the cooking, yes I do the cleaning….” thing. 

The thing is, he is attractive. He’s so outside the norm of the cookie cutter Hollywood type that has been shoved down our throats for so long that people are thrown by it.

He’s just a wall of man and there is no way to truly explain or sum it up in any known language.

[jynzandtonic]

I consider it a public service announcement to inform you of this SMOKING FUCKING HOT Biker!Kylo story I just found! OMFG I NEED TO SHARE THIS WITH THE WORLD ITS UNLOCKING ALL MY KINKS - it’s written by punk in docs and the writing is just *chefs kiss* pls go check this out tumblr AD people. You won’t be disappointed 🏍 https://archiveofourown.org/works/32469187/chapters/80519866

Wahoooo! Thank you so much for the rec! @punk-in-docs and @adamsnackdriver are rockstars <3

For those checking it out, please note this is a darkfic with non-con and graphic depictions of violence CWs xoxo.

[oberynmartell]

you asked for it 😉

He has you any way, every way.

It’s almost Pavlovian, the way just seeing him has your thighs clenching together, has you licking your lips. It’s his eyes, sharp and dark and infinitely deep, pinning you in place when he wants to have you. And have you he does, on that couch, on that granite counter in the kitchen, on the middle of his stage or on all of his prop furniture, on the chaise beside the pool, when you both know that anyone who walks by the low fence could see you.

It’s like he’s addicted to you, like he can’t get enough of you. And you don’t mind it, you really don’t. You don’t mind the mess and the laundry and all the ruined underwear that ends up in tatters across the room. You take everything he gives you, and offer even more.

Charlie kneels in front of you, thighs draped over his strong shoulders, legs splayed wide so that he could wriggle himself between. His palm spans the width of hour belly, feeling the way you undulate beneath him, the way he makes you writhe beneath his touch and his mouth and the tongue that makes you come so many times in succession.

He doesn’t even pay attention to himself, to the hardness pushing against the metal teeth of his zipper. He only cares about this, about you. He’s addicted to your taste, your absolute sweetness, the way you tremble beneath him as he sets his mouth on you, the way your hand fists in his dark hair and pulls and pulls and pulls until he thinks you might pull it out. Not that he would mind. Not that he would even notice.

He laps at you, gets a good enough taste of you that he’s sure he’ be able to taste it all day. It gives him a sick sort if pleasure, knowing that, knowing that he’ll be facing the lawyers and the judges and her— all with the taste if your sweet pussy on his lips. His tongue curls against you, plush lips pulling and pushing and twisting against you, lapping at you like he’s starving and you’re some sweet, exotic fruit.

It’s messy. God, it’s so messy. His spit and your come mingle, painting the insides of your thighs and the cheeks and chin he has just spent the morning shaving, until his face is shining obscenely and you can’t help but blush to look at him.

“You taste so sweet.” he murmurs, kissing the velveteen skin at the crease of your thigh. “You always taste so fucking sweet. I could stay between your legs all day, I swear to God.”

“You’d starve.” You tease, tugging at his dark hair, brushing it from his brow in an expression so tender it almost had tears welling in his eyes.

“I’d never starve.” he says, returning to his work, grazing his teeth over your clit in a way that has you shouting in pleasure and surprise. “I’d never go hungry again, not with your pussy to keep me full.”

He makes you come and come and come again, more times than you can count, more times than you ever thought you could, until the sheets of the bed you’ve now been sharing require changing, until you’re so wet that the sounds of his tongue against your slick folds is actively obscene.

You kiss him afterwards, you always kiss him, and you smile as his tongue rolls against yours, as he kisses you long and hard and deep. He loves that about you, loves that you aren’t disgusted by the taste of yourself or ashamed of what you’ve just done.

“I love you.” he says, he always says. “I’ve never loved anyone else like this. Not anyone.”

You brush his hair gently behind the ears he still thinks are too big, no matter how many times you tell him otherwise. You kiss his long nose and his swollen lips and each of his half-lidded eyed. “I love you, Charlie.” You say, and he smiles back at you like it’s your first time all over again.

“I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.” he says, sinking down on top of you.

He lays his head on your bare breast, kisses your nipple in a way only he could make soothing instead of sexual, listens to your heart beat against the shell of his ear, wonders how if beats for him. He squishes you down, all muscle and height and heavy acting intensity. Doesn’t want to be parted from you, not now, not ever.

“I love you so much I don’t think I could ever love anyone else.” he says. He wonders why he says it, why he can’t stop the words from springing forth.

“So don’t.” You say, curling against him, wrapping your arms and legs around his back as though he were your only source of heat in this bracing winter. “Save all your love for me.” You say. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And he knows you will, he knows.

[babbushka]

Sinday you say? Talk to me about being bratty with Pale and him correcting your attitude. ❤

(drug mentions in this one folks!)

“Pale?” You called into his apartment as you shut the door behind you.

“In here baby.” Pale called back, before his voice continued, “No you listen to me you piece of shit.”

Ah, so he was on a business call. You wondered if it was about the restaurant, or his composing.

“I ain’t asking for much all we need is for you to reschedule the fucking gala. The concerto is in four fucking days! How am I supposed to – if you interrupt me again I’m gonna bash your fuckin’ face in so help me God, Richie. Reschedule the fucking gala for Saturday. That’s all I’m fuckin’ asking of you.”

The composing then.

You smiled as you slipped your shoes off, began stripping right in front of him. Pale liked you naked, and you felt comfortable being naked around him, so it was routine for you to shed all your clothes whenever he was around.

You walked into the living room, found his little mirror with the coke he couldn’t get enough of. You figured you’d give him a helping hand, rolled up a hundred dollar bill – because of course Pale couldn’t just use a single, you thought with a bit of amusement – and cut a line nice and neat for him.

Pale was pacing the apartment, the cord of the landline being pulled nearly taut from all his circling around the kitchen island. He stopped pacing once he saw you, what you were doing, how you had your tits out.

Leaning against the kitchen counter he crooked a finger towards you, gesturing for you to go to him, and you did immediately, carrying the little mirror with enough care that nothing accidentally spilled. He tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder and snorted the line up with a pinch of his handsome nose. You put the mirror down, wrapped your arms around his shoulders and kissed and sucked at his neck as the free hand that wasn’t holding the phone snaked down to squeeze at your ass.

“I really don’t give a shit pal I know that you know that we scheduled the theater for rehearsal every fucking day this week leading up to the concerto,” He was now talking the speed of light, pulse jumping in his throat, “I don’t know who the fuck told you you could host the gala tomorrow night – who the fuck hosts a gala on a Tuesday anyway – but you can’t, and that’s fuckin’ that. No I will not hold you sonofabitch!”

He squeezed at your ass hard, kneaded at the meat of your ass for a minute before letting it go with a little slap. You gasped against his throat and let a hand of your own slide to the front of his very nicely pressed trousers, your fingers working swiftly at the button closure and unzipping the fly.

Pale was still very much on the phone, and he snatched your hand up quickly with a, “Be nice.”

You huffed a little laugh, and kneeled on the floor of the kitchen, absolutely no intention of being nice. Pale was such a smart dresser, you thought, as you untucked his silk shirt from those trousers, exposed his abs. A smart dresser and fit. You kissed at his lower stomach, ran your tongue across the planes of hard muscle there. You loved the way his stomach fluttered, just from the feeling of you being so near, of you teasing him like that.

He was hard, it was painfully obvious with the way that thick line bulged out from inside his trousers, and you thought you’d be good and help him get a little relief. Pale almost dropped the phone when you fished his cock out, licked up the shaft. His other hand fisted your hair and pulled you off of him, a big angry glower cast in your direction.

“What’d I fuckin’ say, huh?” He hissed, covering the receiver with his shoulder. You pouted, looked up at him with big doe eyes and he sucked his teeth, “Oh are you bored? I’m not givin’ you any fuckin’ attention? You need me that bad?”

“Uh-huh.” You grinned, the fist in your hair tightening, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too but you don’t see me bein’ a brat, do ya?” He countered.

You pouted again, started to move away.

“I can go – ”

“Get the fuck back over here,” He frowned, not wanting you to actually leave, not wanting you far away from him at all, “’I can go’ yeah no fuckin’ way you’re goin’ anywhere…Yeah I’m still on the god damned line.” He spoke into the phone.

The hand in your hair slid around to the front of your face, and he grabbed your jaw, held you in place. You took the opportunity to make out with his hand, suck on his thumb.

“Mmm,” You moaned, loud enough to make Pale’s cock – which was still out and hanging heavy right in front of your face – twitch.

Pale looked at you for a minute before letting out a deep annoyed sigh.

“Richie? Hey Richie, fuck you.” He hung up on the guy, slammed the phone down onto the wall unit.

He wasted no time in hauling you up to your feet.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He asked, making you grin. “A terror, you’re a right fuckin’ terror. Into the bedroom, now.”

“But – ” You wanted to get fucked right there, he’d done it plenty of times before.

“Now, (Y/N).” He cut you off, his tone brooking no argument.

 Once in the bedroom, he was pounding into you like there was no tomorrow.

“I shouldn’t even give this to you, fucking whore. I should make you beg for my cock, you’re so pretty when you beg, the way your eyes go wide like you’re afraid I’m gonna say no. When the fuck have I ever said no to you, huh?” He asked, pushing his cock all the way into you with each of his too-hard thrusts.

“Never!” You gasped out, back arching for him as you took him on your hands and knees.

“Yeah that’s right, never. Because I’m a real nice fuckin’ guy, who wants to keep his girl happy even when he’s busy.” He punctuated that last bit with a sharp shove to the spot between your shoulder blades, pushing you down so your tits rubbed against his sheets as he held a firm grip on your hips so your ass was in the air.  

“You love fucking me.” You spread your legs just a little wider, just enough so he has better purchase to slide his big cock between your folds, “It’s your favorite thing.”

Pale grunted and you moaned as he slapped your ass, watched the flesh ripple before his eyes.

“I’ll have you know my favorite fuckin’ thing is eating this pussy out, but you’ve been bad. My bad girl.” He shook his head, not really angry, but just frustrated enough that he was going to make you feel it.  

“What are you gonna do to me?” You already knew the answer, but you liked to hear him say it.

“I’m gonna make you come so many fucking times you’re gonna go blind from it.” He said through grit teeth as his sweat dripped down his nose and onto the back of your neck, “I’m gonna tie you up and fuck you for hours and you’re gonna be sobbing into my satin fucking pillows by the time I’m done with you, gonna be leaking my fucking come for days.”

“Please?” You whined, the thought of that so delicious.

He growled, yanked you off his cock just enough so that he could flip you over, your pretty face red and blotchy from where you’d sort of been suffocating into the pillow.

He slid back into you so easily, leaned down to bite at your nipples as your slick wet his thighs. Your legs wound around him, pressed him deeper and deeper into you, toes curled as you threw your head back and moaned.

“What a perfect whore you are, so perfect for me, you take my cock so well. I ought to keep it shoved in you forever, how about that? This cunt of yours’ll keep it nice and hard and hot. You can fuck yourself on it when I’m on the god damned phone working.” Pale spit into your mouth and you just laughed around it, that laugh turning to a whine as he just barely grazed your gspot. “Needy slut, I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

“Pale! Oh, pl – please.” Your hand snaked its way down your body but he caught the motion and smacked it away.

“No you don’t get to fucking touch.” He snarled, the bed creaking just a little from the force of his hips, “You’re gonna come on my cock, again and again before I even think about playing with your pretty little clit.”

“Please? I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be good.” You begged, feeling your orgasm start to build in the pit of your stomach, feel it start to spread to your lower back.

“No you won’t you whore, no you won’t.” Pale bit your jaw, bit down hard and then soothed it with his tongue, “But that’s okay, because I like you when you’re bad. Say my name you slut, go on.”

“Pale! You’re so fucking good, your cock is the best, I’m all – oh fuck! – I’m all yours, this cunt’s all yours.” You babbled, until finally finally, his dick worked its magic and you were coming, clamping down around him and shouting out his name again and again and again.

Pale didn’t give you any reprieve, just kept fucking you through it, thrust that thick cock of his in and out of you, chasing his own pleasure. He always liked to come at least once before he dragged himself out like this, before he “punished” you with mind-blowing sex, and you let yourself just go limp like putty in his hands, as he manhandled your limbs however he wanted, plowed into you.

He came in you with a long sigh of relief, winced just a little as he milked it for all he could, still pumping his cock inside of you as his come flooded your cunt. He tipped your hips up in that way he sometimes did, wanting to make sure not a single drop was wasted.

“Just you fucking wait until I’m ready to take you again sweetheart.” He panted against your forehead, and you stretched out underneath him smiling like the luckiest girl in the world – because you were.

[thepilotanon]

💞💕💞Happy Valentine's day!💞💕💞

Happy Valentine’s Day, friend!!

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Two; Outsider.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: Implied violence, sexual thoughts and some emotional abuse.

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it. 

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia. 

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left. 

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~  🥀 ~ ~ 

 Night falls dark and still over the landscape brushed with snow. Westwell’s gardens seemed crushed under the icy weight.

 It seemed the heavy blanketing of it muffled and blotted out all sound. But it’s a peaceful intrusion.

 The huge square windows of Westwell Manor are flaked with frost and each square of glass glimmers gold with the tall candle holder placed in each one. A stick of fire and gold warding off that indigo night that shrouded heavy and deep in the sky above. Trying to spill into the window.

 Iris is sat in her small bedroom. A tomb or a cell, really, was how it felt to her some days. Wall to wall draped in pretty Morris flowered wallpaper of white sprawling flowers with navy and blue birds and country vines.

 Her double bed with twisting pillars of dark mahogany twine up to the wheat thick canopy that is draped over it. The mattress is layered in a fluffy champagne coloured eiderdown and white embroidered scalloped-lace pillows. The floors are dark walnut wood, and they creak wildly. Groaning. Cold and heat seeps easily through the cracks between them in winter. Chilling her toes. And in summer the warmth of the creaking cracking house bleeds upwards.

 The walls of her bedroom are sparse but some have photo frames of embroidery or pressed flowers she’s collected over the years held neatly in small wooden frames. She has a small stool by her bed with the tapered candle lit on a brass holder. Apricot flame coming off the long drip of the Chantilly candle. Casting pools of orange up the warm-ivory-bone of the walls. A jug of dried wildflowers sat on that little stool spices up the air. Dried lavender and clary sage, wild shasta daisies and a green-pink hydrangea bulb. Her little stack of modestly worn books lay piled neatly on the floor next to her bed.

 Iris is sat at her dresser, pulled near the window. With the roaring fireplace just to her left. Above the mantel hung a gilded mirror on the chain. Candlesticks alight, set on the dresser and on the alcove of the sash window. Two candles flank the oval of the mirror she’s sat looking into.

 Mother is behind her, dressed and ready in her purple muslin gown and her white fichu. Stabbing pins into her daughters hair. Every time she sticks in another pin, Iris winces. Blinks through the stinging pain of it. She was attempting a more fashionable colonial coiffure. Easier to produce.

 “Your hair is much too thick to curl properly.” Her mother addresses her idly. Snappily. Tugging back a section back behind her ear.

 “Posy and Flora have much finer hair.” She offers.

 As ever. Iris doesn’t know what to say to that. Should she offer an apology? Should she agree? Disagree? She fails to know how to be.

 So she remains silent and watches her mother’s reflection in the looking glass as she almost crossly dresses her hair.

 Caroline Ashton was maturely beautiful woman. With skin as clear as fine porcelain - like smooth cream. Even if sporting wrinkles by her mouth and eyes belying her later age. She had hair exactly the same as Iris’s. Except her mother’s was such an opulent shade of cinnamon-black. Stroked with streaks of silver like lightning bolts had struck through. Her eyes were clear silver. Two discs of shining moonstone. Very mysterious eyes, Iris had always thought.

 Lately those eyes seemed permanently hardened over like rainstorms. Clouded over with disappointment at her eldest.

 Always wishing she could do more to see more of the love that used to linger there. Nowadays it seemed like Caroline could only look at her and see the blemishes. Only see the wrongs.

 The frown lines seemed deeper. The cutting remarks appeared more frequent. She was always telling her to sit up straighter, correcting her posture. Smoothing out the wrinkles in her dresses. Always picking. Forever finding something lacking.

 Iris likes to think she was doing it out of an abundance of love. But it’s becoming clearer and clearer to her that it’s really about the opposite. It’s not about her wanting to provide for Posy or Flora or Father.

 It’s purely selfish. It’s all about her ensuring they don’t lose any respect in the ever omnipotent eyes of society.

 If her mother thought less about their image; perhaps Iris could love her more.

 As it is. Coldness and distance lay weighty between them. Thicker and frostier than the snow outside. The ground between their geniality and affection lay strewn and twined with thick vines of barbed thorns. No way to tread such hallowed ground without drawing blood.

 “Posy and Flora have had their hair in bows all day.” She points out. She shuts her eyes and grits her teeth as another pin slams into her skull. Yanking her hair right at the roots.

 “And they’ve taken all week to fret over choosing their dresses.” Iris adds.

 She looks up to see those steel swords of mama’s eyes cutting into her in the reflection. Mouth was a grim line.

 “You should know by know what’s expected of you, Iris. And not take the matter so lightheartedly.” She warns.

 “They can take balls seriously, as real chances of finding matrimony. Why can’t you?” She asks with a cruel tone.

 “Mama. Flora and Posy haven’t taken anything seriously since they day they were born.” Iris insults plainly. Speaking truth.

 “You know they only delight in attending ball’s and assemblies because they wish to make greater spectacles of themselves in front of soldiers from the militia, and get flirted with, by any creature sporting breeches.” She adds.

 “Atleast they try.” Caroline cuts in.

 “And I do not?” Iris asks. Flatly exasperated. She huffs.

 “You only danced with three men at last months assembly. It’s simply not good enough. You must try harder. Your sisters may have prettiness and confidence in unholy abundance. And they apply it. You wither away and that will never gain you a husband. For heavens sake- What upstanding man wants to marry the silent wallflower?” She declares gruffly.

 She fiddles with her new satin gloves sloped in her lap. Her dress was ivory silk printed with frail gold flowers and embroidered scalloping on the hem.

 There’s Van Dyke pointed lacing around her neckline and the same embroidered trim on the three-quarter sleeves. White helped ‘lift’ her ash eyes apparantly. It was fresh out it’s box from the dressmakers, Madame Larousse, on Pembleton high street. Indian printed silk and Italian lace. The most expensive fabric in stock.

 Their maid, Julia, had earlier laced her stays so tightly over her cotton chemise, Iris worried she broke several ribs. Her nails stung into the wood of her bed post.

 Mother was stood getting her gown ready on the other side of the room. Watching her eldest have the breath thumped right out of her lungs. “Tighter.” She ordered. Iris clutched a hand at her stomach.

 “A man could go a long way without seeing a bust like yours Iris. We must take advantage of it.” She comments wryly. Julia tugs tighter on the strings. Iris’s jaw clenched all the more.

 By the time she’s finished her waist is tucked right in and her breasts clasped high on her chest, almost so high they hit her chin and there’s scant space between her cleavage and her areole tumbling free, this gown is so low cut.

 She tugs it up higher when mother isn’t looking. Spectacles of her fertility not quite on such prominent display now.

 She fancied this silk of it was so fine and thin - and clung so tight to her body, one breath of wind would closely reveal her wide hips. And doubtless her chemise and garters could be glimpsed through the thin sheer sheen of it.

 And here she was now, submitting to her mothers inspection and brutal torture. Laced up in her silken gown. With her best stockings, and slippers. Earlobes dropping pearls, and a head full of silver decorative pins and an ivory comb.

 Speaking of which, the latter is just being wrestled into the weave of her coiffured braided bun, at the back.

 “There...” Her mother says. Fussing with a few strays. Tucking them in where they should belong. As she picks at Iris’s mud hued hair. She idly asks her questions.

 “Will you be dancing with Armitage tonight?” She asks. Insinuated, more likely.

 Iris averts her eyes and pats the back of her hair. Checking it in the glass.

 “Will he be in attendance?” She asks offhand. As if she had no clue.

 “Of course he will. Brendol knows the Hearst’s very intimately.” Her mother shrilled.

 “You will dance the first minuet with him and I’ll hear no more fuss about the matter.” She orders. Cold eyes finding her daughters in the mirror.

 Armitage Hux was the son of a strict local army colonel. Tall, dashing, hair as brilliant as copper and eyes as cool as teal sea-foam in contrast. He was lean and willowy in stature. Always bedecked finely in his uniform. Buttons gleaming, blushing blood of a red coat brushed and pressed to within an inch of it’s life.

 He’s not a bad man - he doesn’t drink or laugh at her. Or try and fondle her in a darkened corner.

 He just strikes Iris as being incredibly vain and undeniably haughty. He thinks all the world should be owed to him. 

 He only wanted to talk medals and glory and rank. How he was a model soldier. And so admired the bravery of gunfire and glory in battle. He’d never even seen battle - his father bought him a conscription and shook hands and pulled favours to get him a high rank in the military. Sergeant Hux, he now was.

 He didn’t seem to be able to equate soldiers and uniforms and weapons with actual war or combat. But liked to boast about how deadly he was. His sharp reflexes. His skill as a swordsman and marksman. Iris felt like stuffing cotton in her ears - or sticking her eyes with pins all night - anything but listen to Armitage spew out his toy soldier reveries.

 “He is a very agreeable man. You would do well to land him, Iris. He would make a most affable husband and a good match.”

 “I barely know him, Mama.” Iris pointed out.

 “You don’t need to know him. That is no hindrance to a proposal of marriage.” She says crossly. “You need not know your husband. You merely have to do your wifely duties by him.” She reminds.

 My duty of keeping my mouth shut and my legs and womb wide open, Iris thinks.

 “I thought I heard he was courting Mary Simpson?” Iris pipes up. Uncurling two tendrils of delicate hair from in front of her ears.

 “She has barely a thousand pounds a year. Brendol would never stand for him marrying such a girl.” Caroline declares mightily. Speaking in derision of the girl who was beneath them in every sense.

 “Besides. Lord Hearst says there will apparently be a very rich gentleman from the continent in attendance tonight too. A Lord Ren, from Bavaria. It would do well to seek him out.”

 “Every matronly mama worth her salt will be throwing their daughters in his path. I do hope he doesn’t trip on the sheer number of them crushed underfoot.” Iris says lightly. Pulling on her gloves.

 “And if he is a Lord, why has he deigned in all his lofty power to grace us with his presence, and to come to a small county rather than go to vastly over stocked marriage mart in London?” Iris questions.

 “Don’t be so blockish, Iris. Maybe he has business here to attend. Mrs Wilson told me this morning that he’s bought Hellford Park out in its entirety. Now that takes an extraordinary fortune.” She corrects.

 Iris looks directly at her mother. She spies the gleam of want in her eyes. The hunger that such a sum she could snatch up in her hands.

 “Lord’s marry Heiresses to sugar mills who are poised for ten thousand pounds, or widowed old Duchesses with vast crumbling estates. Why would he in his lofty state and means, lower himself to wed a girl of simple country gentry, with a barely three thousand pound dowry?” Iris sarks.

 Mama gives her a pointed look. Like a ream of needles pressing in her skin.

 “Then you will make a even better spectacle in front of him. And show him how elegant and courteous country girls can be and see if you can’t win him over that way.” She insists direly. As if she were plotting a serious military offensive.

 “If he is a Lord, he will be titled. Titled means landed money and dignity.” Her hair is yanked yet again. “He could well be the answer to all our prayers.”

 Your prayers, Iris points out rudely inside her head.

 “He could be a hideous old letch.” Iris says, rightly.

 Mother stabs one final pin into her head. As if in revenge. “Looks aren’t everything- Money. Station, and respect? That is forever enduring.”

 So are things like love, intimacy, friendship and happiness. Those things endure too. But Iris can’t imagine her acerbic mother has ever felt happy or loved a day in her life; she likes to think her marriage, when it comes, shall be different.

 She ends the conversation on that dazzling note. Iris’s scalp is on sore-fire by now.

 The door opposite them creaks as it’s burst open. Impending footsteps barrelling down the creaking floorboards of the corridor shortly before signalled their arrival. Flora and Posy.

 Fully gowned and gloved and perfumed to high heaven, with their hair pulled in elaborate coiffures on their heads. They had perfect curls. Perfect flounces and ruffles on their dresses. Cheeks a healthy pink. Eyes wild bright with excitement.

 They look like blooming silk roses in a summer garden. Iris feels more and more like a singed daisy in her own gown.

 Flora was dressed in a cobalt muslin, with a roller print of dandelions laid in pinstripes down the fabric. Posy was in a demure blush pink cotton. With lace trim tumbling over the neckline. And Iris sees she wins the honour of wearing the rose silk slippers. Flora is in some ivory ones that have seen more mends and fixes than is earthly possible. For silk slippers didn’t come cheap.

 Both her sisters have much lighter colouring; they both still have the chowder grey Ashton eyes.

 Flora’s hair however, is darkly mousy brown. Golden like toffee leaves that come off the trees in autumn. Posy is far more chestnut red. Blazing bonfires and russet red embers. Overall more enchanting than that of Iris twigs and sticky-mud hued locks.

 They are a barrage of noise and silliness as they barge into Iris’s room. Flora flops onto the end of the well made bed and Posy nosily inspects herself in the looking glass over the fireplace. Preening. Voices overlapping.

 “Mama! Did I tell you what Fleur told me earlier today?” Posy insists. Flora speaks louder over her, in order to be heard.

 “Mama....Have you seen my pink silk shawl for I’m sure I left it in the drawing room.”

 “I haven’t seen your shawl, Flora. You should take better care. And what did Fleur say, my dear?” Caroline asks in a soft voice.

 Whilst fixing strayed hairs at Iris’s nape. Pulling and pinching. She had no softness reserved in store for Iris. She rather wants to roll her eyes at that.

 “There will be a gentleman of certain lordly magnificence at the ball tonight.” Posy sing-songs. Aiming her teasing words at Iris. Who gives her a cutting look at her bubbly behaviour. Steel daggers made of her grey eyes.

 “He’s said to be most handsome, sable haired, and devilishly tall. And he’s single. And Lord Hearst says he’s a recluse who barely leaves his castle, so we’re very honoured he’s coming and he has eighty-thousand a year.” She awards with great enthusiasm. Flora giggles.

 “Maybe you should set your cap at him, Iris.” Flora jabs teasingly. “We could all be vastly improved by such a match you know. I could finally stop wearing these hideous thin old slippers.”

 Iris wished to point out that she wasn’t being induced into matrimony merely to vastly improve the quality and state of her siblings footwear.

 And quite wondered if he sister knew all that she’d have to undertake in making such a match - all she’d have to give up to be some man’s wife. All she’d have to do-

 “She won’t. For she’s already got a suitor whose madly in love with her.” Posy insists.

 “Hux is not in love with me, Posy. Don’t be ridiculous.” Iris says. For starters she wasn’t his red uniform or his army commission. Those were the things he was resolutely enamoured with.

 Standing from the dresser as she speaks, and going to where her new slippers were laid out by the maid on the bed. Flora eyes the silk things with jealous disdain. Iris fixes her satin gloves up over her elbows. Disappearing under her sleeves. Mother is too busy fussing with Posy’s neckline - tugging it up to cover more of her second youngest’s chest. She protested so at the action.

 Iris took the opportunity to slide a small pearl hair comb into Flora’s hand. Her favourite one. The one with coral flowers and paste amber gems on it.

 Iris flickers a look over the mother and a silent understanding passes between the sisters. ‘Put it in, in the coach in the dark. So she doesn’t see.’

 Flora smiles awfully wide up at her sister. Grateful that she shared out her pretty things. Flora was the youngest - the youngest daughter deserved nice trinkets too.

 “If you’re all ready we’d best be off soon. The roads are icy. It will take an age. I won’t have us be late.” Mama orders out to all her girls.

 She turns her head to Iris “Fetch your things and the velvet cloak. And for heavens sake don’t be long. We don’t have all night.” She frets.

 Marching out the room after rearranging some of Posy’s curls. Barking at Flora as she passed to fix the wrinkle in her gloves. The door grated and whines as she shuts it, lock rattling in the frame.

 Iris savours the silence - the crackling of the fire. The owl hooting off in the tree tops outside her window. She lets it soothe her. Let’s out the deepest sigh as they’re now left alone.

 She crosses to her wooden wardrobe cabinet by the door, and opens the door to search for her blue velvet cloak. She throws it around her shoulders and ties it up. Posy hands her sister her cream silk reticule.

 “She just wants you to marry well.” Posy says with some attempt at comforting.

 Iris nods, glumly stroking her sisters hand in thanks. Looking into her earnest young face. Still so full of innocence and hope.

 Her heart shaped little face so full of impish naivety.

 “She might do not to make me feel exclusively like a breeding mare to be sold to the highest bidder for marriage at every conceivable turn.” Iris says wryly.

 Angrily shoving a meagre few possessions into her reticule from her dresser. She looks down at her empty dance card that mother would see absolutely filled with names by the end of the night.

 She wipes away an angry tear from the corner of her eye with a handkerchief that Flora gives her. Her anger crowded and crackled the room. These two didn’t deserve her ire, after all.

 She sighs yet again. Letting the churning anger eating at her bleed out. Frustration filtering away. She plasters on a smile. Posy steps forwards to her exasperated sister.

 “Can I borrow your diamond droplet earrings? They’d go very well with my dress...” She asks coyly. With her hands behind her back.

 Iris rolls her eyes. Maybe they did deserve just a little bit of ire after all-

 “You are both enormous pests.” She says. Guiding them out her room.

 “Come on. Lest we hold mother up and I don’t much fancy our chances then.”

 She corrals her pests of sisters downstairs. Makes sure they too are cloaked and ready. They have their gloves and she does uncurl Posy’s palm as they’re heading out the door, dropping the diamond and earrings into them. They sparkle in the moonlight.

 “Lose them and mother will have your head.” She whispers to her in caution as they alight the warmth of the house into the cold sting of the night air.

 Snow crushed under their slippers as they make for the coach. Slipping to step up inside the cold wooden enclave of it. Rubbing their cold hands together to create some heat.

 It was just the Ashton ladies in attendance tonight. Father cared little for balls. Something mother sniped at him for regularly. Ernest Ashton would far rather stay home of a night with his ledgers and his books and his brandy than subject himself to the silly gossip and frivolity of idiotic society people present at balls.

 Her father was a tall, quiet man. Sturdy and aged as an old oak. Strong and strapping figure even in his later years. He quietly took interest in the world where her mothers inclination was to devour it.

 He had an open broad face. With tame blue eyes and thick greying hair. He was a studious man. Often kept to his study or the gardens. He enjoyed his ornithology and his Entomology books. He collected butterflies. All pinned out in cases in his study. Lining the walls.

 It was a place she found infinite comfort in. Wandering into her fathers study. His entomology collection like dots of silken colour in their cases. Old leather books and volumes and manuscripts. Edifying proud in their papery silence. The old wood of his desk worn by years and years. The smell of the study. Of old leather and pipe tobacco. And peppermints from the little jar he kept on his desk.

 He didn’t press Iris in the same way her mother always prevails to do. But then she sees the frayed gems and worn and mended holes in his clothes. The faded material in his waistcoat. How he hasn’t bought himself new shoes in two years.

 That’s how she can put up with every snipe and every cross word that spits out her mothers mouth.

 Iris sometimes quite wondered how her parents ever stood each other for any length of time to bear any children. They were entirely separate people whose interests did not align. They agreed on very little. And settled for that.

 It’s so cold in the coach they can see their breath as they bump and shift along the icy roads. Trees make terrible dark shapes in the near distance, beyond the frosted glass of the coach door window. Iris sits, peering out. Watching the full bowl of the moon slither white off the silver and black landscape. Off the snowy fields and perched on the roofs of the hamlet of houses they pass by.

 The carriage crawls slow up the winding drive of the Hearst’s three acre estate. Horses hooves hitting the hard paved path. Clopping in the night air. Skipping over the frost. They’re but mere minutes from exiting the coach, when mother decides to speak up and issue a few last desperate words of strict orders upon her eldest;

 “Take every opportunity Iris. I won’t have it said in the gossip sheets tomorrow that you didn’t even try.” Caroline insists. Fussing with her own thick muslin cloak draped over her lap.

 Iris looked at her mother then. Across the dark carriage as she tuts at the specks of lint sullying Flora’s cloak where she’s sat next to her. Picking it away.

 She strongly suspected Caroline Ashton could have the whole world in her palm or on a string; and even then she’d find fault in it. Pluck displeasing bits of it out like loose threads.

 She has that irate frown darkening her features. Cloudy set in her eyes. Posy’s little gloved hand reached across and held her sisters tight. Squeezing it in comfort sat there in the dark. Iris turns and looks to see Posy’s heart shaped face beaming up at her.

 “You should let us introduce you to Captain Clifford’s friends Iris. They really are the most splendid fun. I’ve heard many of them say they quite fancy you, you know.” Posy grins. Whispering hushed to her sister to keep her spirits buoyant.

 Iris strokes her hand and she can’t help smiling. More at her always sunny hopes. How bright her outlook on life was. She saw ball’s for the fun they were meant to be.

 A dance, a party, a celebration.

 Posy wasn’t yet tarnished by the knowledge that her hopes for future happiness depended on her behaving well and taking things seriously. It stopped being fun and became a chore. Iris lost her starry eyed wonder about ball’s years ago.

 She hoped she could help Posy keep her gleaming eyed wonder and fun for just that bit longer. She would suffer every second of misery to keep it that way if she must.

 She squeezes her hand back. “Thankyou. That’s very sweet. But I fear I shall be otherwise engaged in dances.” She excuses.

 Besides, most of the young Militia men she met were very wet behind the ears. And all madly enamoured with exhausting dances and infatuated with every beautiful young lady in attendance. Declaring they fell head over heels with every girl they so much as walk past. She finds their overeagerness and exuberance a little trying.

 Before long, they draw up the grand old stone columns abutting the front of the huge house.

 An immense hulking beast of a thing. Lit with autumn-blaze torches in the night. The coach lurches to a creaking uneven stop. Jolting. And a helpful gold liveried footman in a powdered wig steps to and opens the door to help the ladies out.

 Caroline doesn’t even glance at the man. Looks right through him. Flora flutters a flirty smile. Posy and Iris offer a polite snippet of thanks.

 The Ashton ladies make their way up the torch lit steps and into the greatly heaving bustling foyer of the Hearst’s grand house.

 Renford Manor was one of the finest houses in the county. The gardens were splendid. There was a maze and a famed marble garden gazebo.

 A great split imperial staircase opens into the large cool foyer. All ivory marble. Hues of Eggshell and ice. Imposing, echoing and cold. Footsteps rattle like claps up to the ceiling. Distant notes of the small orchestra float through the air like zipping flapping insects.

 Everything glimmers. The chandeliers that drip with gold and crystal. The old pearl and sharp onyx pointed tiles on the floor look like they’ve been scrubbed raw. They gleam almost too brightly.

 They hand over their cloaks to more footmen to be put away. Letting their ball gown splendour come forth. Iris is almost crushed by the amount of people there are in attendance here tonight. Lady Hearst was known to stuff her parties to the seams. The whole county, and all of the two neighbouring ones, had most likely been invited.

 Mama encourages them all up the staircase. Idly smiling greetings in passing to her matrons of her acquaintance. Iris skims one hand along the smooth cold of the marble banister. Holding her skirts up as her slippered feet hit each step. Steps firm and steady.

 They come to one of the big main ballrooms. Looking through the scope of many double doors, leading onto another room and the next and the next furniture pushed aside. There was such a crush of so many ladies and numerous gentlemen packed in. Coats of all colours on the men. The spectrum of silks and cotton dresses so vast, it quite made her head spin.

 Flora excitedly giggles and slips away. A flurry of laughter erupts and she joins hands with a little gaggle of her more intimate friends.

 Iris raises a brow at her behaviour, not surprised to see that she caught a glimpse of a fair few red coated members of the militia in that particular direction. Mother huffs and gruffly tells Flora, through gritted teeth, not to linger too long.

 Iris and Posy linger by mother as they chat to an elderly companion. Mrs Bishop. An ever worrying woman, Who ventured the world was going to end if there was slightly too much rain. She was practically apoplectic about the snow. Iris shares a look of pain with Posy. Who excuses herself with a bob of a curtesy to go find Flora.

 “Pest.” Iris smiles at her as she slips away from conversing will dull matrons about the impending end of civilisation and the earth as they knew it. Anymore and Iris will be forced to rush for  a vinaigrette of smelling salts to revive the poor dear when she swoons.

 Iris stands with her hands folded demurely in front of her. Her eyes wandering over the party in full swing behind her.

 The crush of noise, music and heat and bodies. Candies flicker doomed shapes copper and black up the light walls. The tall windows are guarded with heavy emerald draperies. Cascading waterfalls of apple green. Spilling and tumbling like grassy hills.

 The windows glimmer like yellow square gemstones from the candles in their stands dotted everywhere. The dark floorboards glow with it too. Patches of orange inbetween the shadows.

 The ballrooms, of which there were three, all adjoined by French pocket doors, are kept fairly dark. Lit only by the honey slither of candles reaching apricot slithers of light at every corner. People chatter and laugh to the din of a faint violin chorus of Mozart.

 Laughter, Baritone gruff and the sparkling light of ladies chuckling delight flutters up to the ceiling. The room seems to burst at the seams with it all. Like a room full of butterflies. The heat, the noise, the voices and music. It was almost too much. Everything is palpable and it stings and rips at her eyes and ears.

 They eventually depart from the hysterical Mrs Bishop. Leaving her fanning herself on a settee. Trying not to succumb to a fit of the vapours.

 They make their way through the ballroom. Chatting and conversing and being mangled in the almost too heaving crowds. She loses count of the amount of times her toes get stepped on. Or elbows sharply prodded into the soft of her back as people pass.

 Eventually; much to her mother’s delight, Iris is propositioned by a young gentleman from the militia, into a dance. There seemed to be no sight of Hux yet. Much to Mama’s chagrin.

 He’s very polite and puppyish, delivers her safely back to her mothers side when the polka dance is through. Kisses her hand, declares her daughter a fine dancer, then is off onto the next partner.

 They are lingering on the far side of the dance floor, just idly watching. In full view of the doors and the adjacent ballroom. Through the two sets of double doors either side of a great roaring stone fireplace. It’s light casting copper over every dancer.

 “We won’t waste our time on him.” Mother harrumphed when he leaves. Looking with disdain as they watched him ask Primrose Charleston to dance the next.

 “Mama. It was merely a dance.” Iris points out with a futile smile. “Don’t tell me you were picking out wedding attire and embroidered initial pillowcases.” Iris mocks.

 That earns her a sharp look. She smiles in forbearance right back at her mother.

 Her cheeks now pinkened and her eyes bright from the exercise. She likes dancing. When her partner isn’t a clumsy one, or reeks of port or body odour, or wine, or has wandering letching hands. It’s actually rather enjoyable.

 “We should be setting our sights rather more higher than some penniless officer.” She insists. Watching the couples twirl and sway in front of them.

 “Heaven forfend I dance with a man sheerly for the joy of it.” Iris concludes.

 Caroline tuts in exasperation. Mumbles under her breath. “You do so vex me greatly sometimes, Iris. Even worse than your sisters.” She grumps.

 Deep down inside, Iris is a little proud of that accomplishment.

 A flurry of footsteps and squeaking squeals and suddenly Flora and Posy burst into view where Iris and her mother are stood.

 Their voices are high pitched and they’re panting with excitement. Flora slings her hands into Iris’s and twirls her around with elation. Iris stumbles in the circle Flora leads her in. Posy is stood by Caroline grinning up a storm.

 “Mama, Iris. He’s here! He’s here and he’s coming this way!” Posy giggles. Iris and her mother remain perplexed.

 “Who is, my dear?” Caroline seeks. Frowning a little.

 “He is surely the most handsome man I ever seen. And so tall. Did you see him Flora? That chest...” Posy flatters.

 “Taller than any man I’ve ever met. And so well built. Such stature.” Flora says back.

 “And he has dark eyes, Did you notice?” Posy asks.

 “Of course I noticed! Very dark eyes. They are positively enchanting.”

 “Bewitching.” Posy giggles.

 “And his shoulders in his coat. So large.”

 “For goodness sake, lower your voice-“ Iris chides at the both of them, glancing around the ballroom. Trying to decipher who they were so flustered and flapping about.

 Her eyes don’t make it past the door-

 The room seems to have slowed. The dancers are distracted. People around the fringes of the ballroom chatter louder. Deafening din rising. Gossip flourishing.

 For Lord Hearst is at the entrance of one of the double doors, conversing with someone, and that someone walking by his side, is one of the broadest and most strapping men Iris has ever seen in her whole life.

 He wasn’t just a man.

 He was entirely too much, man.

 “That’s Lord Ren. The handsomely rich one all the way from Bavaria.” Flora hisses to them all. “I’ve never seen a gentleman more strongly built, or beautiful.” She giggles loudly.

 “I beg of you, lower your voice.” Iris chides. Pearl earrings jitter as she moves her head. Ash eyes governed by lintels of her brows creased up in a light frown.

 Everyone’s eyes in this small stale society, is fixed solid upon the sight of this newcomer. Hungrily devouring this unfamiliar brooding man.

 Obsidian jacket. Snowy shirt. Scarlet cravat like a bloodied noose around his neck, with a seers eye of a winking diamond pin studded in the knot. He radiates charm and magnificence. And masculine appeal.

 “He’s in mourning to be wearing such dark colours.” Mother presumes. “How unusual for a man.”

 “Don’t fret, Mama. Lady Hearst assures me he’s most certainly single. Now, Iris might have her chance at him after all...” Posy cackles.

 Iris rams an elbow into the bony cradle of her sisters petite hip.

 “Do try and endeavour to behave.” She chides to Posy. Whispering harshly.

 This mysterious Lord is unfashionably attired in all black. Perhaps he is in a state of mourning? Ink black breeches cling tight to his strong thighs and wide wide hips and shining boots come to his knees - the wrong sort of footwear for a ball but he doesn’t appear to notice. Or even care.

 He had an air about him that couldn’t be ignored. The dark clothes. Sable hair. It was long too. Far too long by societal standards. It curled at his neck. Swept in tumbling waves back from his face.

 He’s scanning the room like he hates everything and everyone in it. A soured scowl on his face. The softness of his full lips are pursed and there’s a predatory quality to the way his eyes flicker around the crowds. He seems above it all. Distant. Untouchable. He was a Lord - he held himself superior as one as if a different species.

 “Fleur told me he’s quite the scandalous man....” Flora begins.

 “I heard he was married. Once before, but she turned mad and killed several servants. So he locked her in the dungeons and she’s still here raking her fingers to the bone at the stone walls to get out.”

 Iris wants to roll her eyes. Now it’s Posy’s turn for interjection;

  “And I heard that his castle is haunted and full of ghosts. And he seduces young noble women and then sacrifices and feeds them to the devil. Maybe he’s prowling for next victim?” She gasps frenziedly.

 “You two need to stay clear away from anymore novels.” Iris scoffs.

 She lets her eyes slip back over this Lord’s frightening exterior. She focuses on the dark pits that were his eyes. They seemed oddly familiar. As if she’s glimpsed them before. In a fanciful daydream, maybe- or maybe it was a dreadful nightmare.

 They’re too far away to make out their true colour. But it must be a truly dark for the way they eat up all the light and glitter like rough cut gemstones lost to shadow.

 His arms folded behind his back pulls his coat right across his chest. Exposes the musculature of him: he is big and beastly. There was no denying; his figure is redoubtably masculine. Intimidating and strong- meaty arms, no tapering away at his waist. He was entirely built of great slabs of muscles.

 A warriors figure through and through.

 Iris thought that such a body frame belonged in a previous age. A more ravening one. A cutthroat one. That stature was suited to a gigantic rampaging viking or a crusading knight in steel armour.

 Quite why she thought so she can’t fathom. That big shape of his seemed unsuited to the setting of a dainty English ballroom. It seemed more natural for him to be on a battlefield slicked up and splattered in the blood of his enemy’s.

 She watches as he boredly sizes up the room before him. An arcing sweep of his eyes and he’s done with it. Thrown aside all interest. Devouring all pitiful excuses for life. As if he’s looking or searching for something...

 Then he looks right at her-

 His eyes spear directly into her. See’s her. Meets her grey gaze and keeps it. Steals it away beyond her reckoning.

 One side of his lip curls up. His eyes churn to look nearly honey gold in the light. Trick of the mind. All in her head. It was surely just the candles malforming the shade-

 But it seemed more than him just seeing her. It was as if he could gaze right through her. Pierce her skin. Puncturing her very soul - she’s sure.

 Her whole body feels his looking at her. She thrashes and aches.

 If she has one. Some flimsy scrap of quivering human spirit in her, it is quaking and trembling now, and very much intoxicated by this man.

 Her cheeks flush and she feels that betraying annoying heat slither down her neck and flourish at her breast. She swallows and blinks and tears her eyes away. She looks at her shoes cause she’s suddenly got a spinning head and her mouth is woolly.

 That look and those savage eyes had set a flame blazing right down to her bones. There’s something she feels deep down that almost seems strange. Uncertain yet resolute. A tug on her stomach. An unknown yearning.

 She realises quickly that this was the same pair of eyes that stole her breath this very afternoon. The gentleman from the imposing black carriage. Twice now she’s locked eyes with him and stared.

 He must think her either a raving simpleton or a gawping lunatic.

 “Iris. I do believe he’s staring at you.” Posy hisses with a wide impressed smile.

 “Oh he is! He’s definitely staring.” Flora squeals. Tugging and shaking her sisters hand.

 “Iris. Stand straight. Stop stooping. Chin up for heavens sake- look decent.“ Mother shrills through a gritted smile. Smiling demurely in the intended direction of Lord Ren. Preening herself like a flustered hen.

 Iris dares another look up. Clasping her hands together delicately in front of her. At the front of her skirts. Him and Lord Hearst are mere feet away now.

 “He’s coming this way! Mama! He’s coming over...” Posy grins. Flora laughs with her.

 By now, Iris’s heart resembles a mad creature clawing at its cage, desperate to be free. Thumping and thudding her neck. Quivering nervous breaths leave her lips. Heartbeat hammering and pulsing in her ears.

 He’s looking at Posy or Flora, she thinks. He must be. They always draw men like magnets. He’s not looking at me- he’s not. Really. He’s not-

 They are closer now. Lord Hearst and Lord Ren are mere metres away. The entire room seems to be holding its breath. Another dance starts up and she’s glad for that distraction.

 Her cheeks remained flushed and she raises her eyes when the air shifts around them. She can scent the brandy and violet water coming off Lord Hearst. There is his stout waistcoat and his perfumed wig. Lord Ren appears unscented. But a fusion of aromas simply pour off his vast body.

 Sandalwood oil. Probably used on that thick rakish mane of his. There’s something else too, something earthy darkly rich, that mingles with the musky new wool of his coat. Peppermint or spices. She can’t tell. It’s damnably distracting.

 “Praise the lord in heaven. We are saved.” Her mother mumbles gladly under her breath. Smile wide and gentle. Artificial and superficial to hide her truer nature.

 Lord Hearst and Lord Ren are right before them now. Right in front of them. “Mrs Ashton.” Lord Hearst begins in greeting. Iris watches her Mama curtesy politely to the old lord.

 “Might I have the pleasure of introducing you to Lord Ren. An old acquaintance of mine...”

 Iris looks from the doddery old form of the red faced Lord Hearst, up and up up, into the face of the dark stranger. The top of her head would barely come to brush at his collarbones. His eyes are still fixed on her face. A shock jolts through her like she’s been burned.

 “Lord Ren, this is Mrs Caroline Ashton. And her daughters. Miss Posy Ashton. And Miss Flora Ashton...” Lord Hearst introduces. Flora and Posy bob demure little curtseys at him. Bowing their heads and smiling prettily like fools.

 He barely glances toward them. His eyes were fixed on Iris.

 “And this is her eldest daughter, Miss Iris Ashton.” Lord Hearst beckons to her. Stood back behind her two sisters, and almost guarded by her mother.

 She curtseys. Chin to her chest and she bows her neck in a manner she hopes comes across as graceful.

 Lord Ren smiles. It’s terrifying in its power and beauty.

 It moves the corners of his lips. And he comes in a step closer. Advancing.

 Posy and Flora flatten back a little. When one hand comes around from his back, Iris could see he had thick leather gloves on. As if entranced she reached out where his hand beckoned to hold hers.

 She slipped her satin gloved hand into his big offered dark palm. It sits right in the middle of the wide thing. So dainty in comparison.

 He brings her silken hand up. Bows down and lays a kind kiss to the back of it. His eyes hadn’t left her since he entered the room - they didn’t start shying away now.

 This is a man who is not shy. Not any bit of him.

 He draws her hand down, very slightly. Freeing his lips.

 “Enchanting to meet you, Miss Ashton.” He says.

 Iris never knew a voice could be so deep. His voice sunk right to the core of her. Right through flesh and bone. Sinking deep. She’d expected a Bavarian accent. Or a continental lilt. But his accent is precise, crystal-cut English.

 She blinks. Remembering she had a verbose vocabulary to make use of.

 “It’s an honour to make your acquaintance, Lord Ren.” She gasps out with some hint of strength in her voice. When she lets her hand slips from his, her body feels strange. Her whole arm is left tingling.

 She finds herself sighing as she pulls her hand back. He straightens his back with ease. She knows her mothers eyes are looking sharply at her so she remembers her politesse.

 She feels like the whole world is watching them converse.

 “Are you, enjoying... your time in England?” She seeks. “I understand you are recently arrived.”

 “Very much.” He looks amused. “I haven’t been on these shores in- quite an age.” He says. She can’t help but feel there is something cryptic to his meaning.

 “Do you mean to stay long, in Hampshire, your lordship?” Flora asks. Batting her long lashes up at him so much she could fan out a chandelier of candles if she’s not careful.

 His eyes calmly flick across to the smallest Ashton sister. But linger back on Iris.

 “Not long. But after tonight I think I’ve found sufficient reason to extend my stay.” His smile twitches smoothly once again.

 “Are you enjoying Hellford Park, your lordship? Surely it is the finest house in the county, is it not?” Posy enquires.

 Another flicker of those charcoal eyes to the other little Ashton. Really, there were too deuced many of them, Kylo thinks.

 “It is an immaculate house. The snowy woods are very pleasant this time of year.” He agrees.

 “Of course. The climates in Bavaria are surely similar. I imagine there is much snow on your own estate, your lordship?” Iris asks.

 He seems pleased with her interjection. As if she were the only soul whose voice he wished to hear.

 When he looked at her, it was like they were the only two people in this room. The only two that mattered. It’s just them, in the candlelight, cast by flame. As if no pairs of eyes are watching - when in reality there are hundreds looking in. 

 “Indeed. The summers are short, and the winters are long and frigid. I am somewhat familiar with the clime of snow. It falls more gently here than in Bavaria.” His eyes glare warmly across at her. Increasing her blush.

 Caroline steps in with a saccharine smile that showed far too much teeth. A leer it could rightly be called.

 “You must come and dine with us at Westwell, Lord Ren. We would be honoured to receive you. We can promise you an elegant dinner service, and cards. Why we dine with six and twenty great and fine families around the county. We would be very much favoured with your visit. I wager you won’t get finer, prettier companions or better conversation elsewhere...” Mother boasts.

 He smiles right at Iris and it spears into her hot chest like an iron poker stoked too long in the fire. Red hot.

 “Indeed. I Thankyou greatly for the invitation. Madam.” Then his eyes grow blacker. “You have very fine daughters. God has blessed you three times over.”

 Flora giggles a beaming smile. Posy bats her lashes and grins. Iris fiddles with her hands and examines the floorboards, reddening at his charm.

 “I often think so, myself.” Mother preens.

 “Of course all my girls are immensely beautiful. But, it is my Iris who is revered around these parts as a local beauty.” She lies.

 “Mama.” Iris blushes crimson. Averting her eyes.

 “A rumour well circulated indeed.” Kylo’s looking at her. And to her amazement. She bravely looks back.

 “And she deserves every such compliment I can bestow.” Kylo adds.

 “You are too kind, Lord Ren.” Iris smiles slightly at him. It makes his chest pound harder. Watching her bosom heave at the neckline of her dress.

 His mouth waters. That same scent from this afternoon hits him square in the jaw like a rounded fist. He all but moans at the erotic pleasure of it. Of her sweet scent drifting up his nose. Stoking at his eager hunger.

 He will tear something apart tonight, rip it limb from limb, and glut himself on that sweet penny-metal flush of blood spilling down his parched throat. And as he does- as he feasts and drinks and crimson drips from his maw, he will think of this moment; of her aroused scent tangled in his nose. Stirring his own lust to boiling point.

 He bids the Misses and Mrs Ashton’s a goodnight.

 Lord Hearst had more introductions for him to make. More simpering sickening people to meet. All the same. Savagely polite and viciously boring. Their superficial kindness and flattery turns his stomach.

 A bevy of swans the lot of them. Preening and pathetic. He could barely hide his disgust at the stench of rotten perfume that beat off each one of their hot pulsing throats. All the vapid girls that desperate Mother’s shoved in his chest to make introductions.

 It was like the sheep throwing their own sweet little lambs out into the slobbering wolves.

If this were a less guarded age he might have already slipped away under guise of a romantic tryst in the garden, to drink a few of them dry.

 Posy and Flora squeak and shake Iris’s arm after he passes. He is led around the ballroom, that great vast man. Introduced to all the good and the great. They gabble and squawk at their sister about how she’ll be the next Lady of Hellford Park.

 She shushes them and sees it makes Lord Ren lock eyes with her from over where he towered loftily across the ballroom crowds.

 Her heart starts beating wild again. A demure smile and she takes her eyes away elsewhere. And that heartbeat calls out to him like the pound of a war drum. A bell summoning him to worship.

 Oh yes. He thinks. She is the one.

  And she’ll do splendidly.

 ~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

[k-renne]

I'm feeling so attacked right now! 'Special honey's pussy'?!?!

Hey that was Clyde not me...can’t help it that he loves the taste of it so much

[punk-in-docs]

1) is there a story you’re holding off on writing for some reason?

Ok sorry I’m about eight billion light years late in writing the reply to this- HOLY FUCK OMG YES THERE IS

For legal reasons I can’t give away too much because I feel like no matter where @adamsnackdriver is, she can see me talking about things we’re plotting and she’ll come and throw a flip flop at my face or something.

But suffice to say this picture I’m going to include is a big big clue of who/what I’m dying to write. I’m very excited to start this one day, after I’m done with my long af AU’s. He’s such a challenging character I think I’ll need to use every single writers weapons in my Arsenal. And you know something? I fookin can’t wait

[thepilotanon]

...

I honestly do not remember what I sent, but I’m happy.

I got your prompt @thepilotanon. You are one of the very few people to make me crawl out of the hole I've dug and wallowed in, in order to write and post.

[cas-backwards-tie]

17 questions, 17 people

Tagged by @morby . Thank you so much, lovely. I hope you’re having a wonderful day! I always love doing these kinds of things and this one is interesting! (edit: by now, I ended up drafting this and now I've got to queue it so it’s been a while)

Nicknames: (My name is really hard to nickname, but here are some of the random ones people have come up with for me over the course of my life:) G, Gillo, Crystal (no idea why).

Zodiac: Pisces/Aquarius.

Last Thing I Googled: Hulu 5003 error.

Song Stuck In My Head: oh gosh. idk the name but let me look it up. I only know some of it bc of edits. Apparently it’s called Dandelions by Ruth B.

Number of Followers: 1,911.

Amount of Sleep: tonight? oof. I stayed up to correct my sleep schedule again so 0. zilch. none.

Lucky Number: 14.

Favourite Song: Neon Lights by Pim Stones.

Favourite Instrument: Piano?

Dream Job: Actor.

Aesthetic: Cutesy. (if I had to guess lol)

Favourite Author: Rick Riordan.

Random: I’ve made two candles recently from the leftover wax of other candles and it keeps sinking? Like in my new jar, right around the wick. It’s weird.

Tagging: @itsaconquestofimagination , @callmehopeless , @direnightshade , @wayward-rose , @kylosupremeimagines , @myriadimagines , @kylorengarbagedump , @floral-and-fine , @thepilotanon , @joeybelle , @clumsycopy , @paperpocalypse , @miss-rori , @inkinflux , @adamsnackdriver , @sithlordintraining