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papasbaseball · 15 days ago

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The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 4

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Teen (Rating to Increase)

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,559 of 9,949

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AO3 Link

Making myself useful after Emily locks me into the Wizard's apartment proves to be useless. Everything has already been done for the day, all the sheets changed, the floors mopped, and even the baseboards dusted. I look to see if I can possibly organize anything else. All of his drawers and closets are meticulously kept, shirts stiffly starched and socks folded into soft green squares. The comb and brush set are still on the dresser, so I straighten them to be perpendicular to the edge of it. I sigh as I look around the room, finding nothing else to even be fussed over.

I have only ever been in a select few rooms of the apartments – mostly his bedroom and the dining room – and always to complete the same chores every day. There were other people above me in rank who had more access to the full apartment, but I was always so busy every day and so eager to get all of my scrubbing and folding done that I never bothered to seek out what had been off-limits to me. It already unnerved me touching the sheets he slept on, so why would I want to go snooping around? He doesn’t quite frighten me as much as he used to, I think.

The wizard's bedroom has other doors besides the one that Emily had brought me through. To the north, there is the hallway that leads to the servants' stairs and the dining room. Directly attached to the bedroom is a bathroom and another door that I have never opened. I always assumed that it was extra storage space for out-of-season clothes.

When I test the handle for this strange door, I can't help but let out a quiet gasp. It’s a study that is about as big as the bedroom I had originally been locked in, but with a ceiling that is pulled so far up into a spire that I cannot see where the chain starts for the sharp gold geometric chandelier. What the chandelier does illuminate are high walls lined with books. A mahogany desk stands to my right, piled high with papers and more books. I shut the door behind me to get a good look at this new and wonderous place, not wanting the Wizard to sneak up on me.

I roll my eyes thinking about how slinking about like a snake and scaring maids on his staff seemed to be his preferred method of arrival. “Maid”. There is a sadness that I feel as if a chip is carved out of me, the splinter of wood that could be labeled as "maid". I hadn't done anything today to help earn my keep here, and the memory of Emily dirty and sore from a day's work had only deepened this feeling of being lost. The best I could offer up in equal was that my legs and everywhere else still stung slightly from the wax strips that they had ripped off of me. I go to the disorganized papers and books on the desk, glad to have found at least some distraction.

There are red leather-bound account books and papers that have been folded in thirds. Looking around the room, I find no home for them, no filing system readily apparent. I open the drawers and find nowhere to put them in the desk either, just cold and sharp green pens, an inkpot, sealing wax, and paper. What I don't expect to find is a golden locket. I hold the small trinket in the palm of my hand, letting my skin warm the cold metal. Inside, there are incredibly realistic paintings of a woman and a man, washed of any colors. I stare at it trying to place why they look familiar when I hear a door opening.

"They are not due for payment for another 50 days," the Wizard says.

I quickly shut the locket, dropping it back in the drawer and shutting it closed, just in time for him to come through the door. Esmet and a man in a sharp suit that was too short in the waistcoat with his satin top hat in hand are close behind. I flatten myself against the wall of books behind the desk but realize I stick out like a sore thumb with my overexposed skin in the provocative dress. Despite this, none of them seem to pay me any attention, the Wizard sitting down at the desk, shuffling through papers, the two other men taking seats in emerald leather chairs that are dimpled with golden buttons.

"Sir," the man in the suit says, "you have to understand, the Emerald City has been late on their payments for lumber for the past three quarters."

"This… this is not part of the agreement," he says. There is a tone of irritation in his voice that makes me want to run for the door and back into the safety of the boring and already kempt rooms. "Matter of fact, there was no agreement. What more do they need besides money? It gets there when it gets there. I can't help it if the damned country is covered in mountains."

"Undoubtedly, the city would pay them, sir," the strange man says, tugging down his waistcoat, "but as ambassador, I am telling you that the chieftain has ordered no shipments to enter the Emerald City unless payment is made upon arrival."

"This shouldn't be a problem," Esmet says, shifting in his chair. "The Emerald City has more than enough money. We could pay for the shipment fifty times over if they wanted it."

"Oh, we have more than enough money," the Wizard says, waving off the notion. "It just seems to me that I am being strong-armed at my own front door. I don't like being strong-armed at my own front door, do you Mr. Ambassador?"

The man's words tumble out as if they had tied themselves into knots in his mouth. His hands are busy mangling the brim of his hat: flattening it, curling it back up, outright folding it in toward the lining.

The Wizard rises, hands gripping the edge of his desk as he stares the ambassador in the eye. He laughs, and it’s the unnerving one that is a warning before the pounce from the grass. "If I didn't know any better, this distrust... it's like... like the warning sign of a rebellion. It would be an overture to war."

"The chieftain has no want for war, sir," the man laughs nervously. Perhaps he was always sweating, but the chandelier hanging directly over him has illuminated the top of his head that only offers a barren combover in protection. He bears a striking resemblance to an ice sculpture in the market square under the hot sun.

"Oh... Oh no, of course not," the Wizard says. "No, that would be foolish, wouldn't it?" There is that smile on his face, the same one from last night that he had aimed at me. I feel suddenly naked again and look down to see my hands gripping fistfuls of my tulle skirt so tight that I could see the bones of my knuckles. Quickly, I drop the fabric, worrying about damaging it, only to find that my hands have been using it to steady a shake that coursed through them.

"Maybe it would be best if I could go back to the chieftain and explain how things look?" the man said. "We have no want for war."

The Wizard let go of the desk, stalking over to where I stood against the wall. I know the others must hear how my heart pounds against my bare breast out of the fear that somehow he will involve me in this awful conflict. My brain concocts a horrible image of me bound and gagged in exchange for the lumber for the city, shipped off on the back of some dirty horse, never to see my sister again. Instead of seizing me, he winds a finger through a tendril of hair that had come loose from my braids. I force myself to look up at him, hoping that if he can see my eyes he might remember that I am human and spare me.

"I think that would be best," he says, not taking his eyes off of me. Here in the intimacy of our own shadows, his eyes have become so dark and deep that they are almost black. Any fear that had existed moments ago has now vanished as I let myself surrender whatever truths he might supernaturally find in my soul through my own eyes. "But we don't need to do that when we can send a letter by flight." He slowly unwinds his finger from the strand until it kisses the skin of my temple. When he turns from me to address the two men, I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. There is such a storm of emotions within me that I couldn't merely pick one, no more than one could stand outside and pick a singular raindrop in a hurricane. All I know is that I want his eyes back on me.

"You'll be our special guest, Mr. Ambassador," he says. "Please, please, take advantage of our wonderful city. There's so much to do that you could never see all of it." He pulls a golden cord that I hadn't noticed in the corner of the room. The door the Wizard had come through opens and the man I had met last night, the head officer, walks in. "Glafly, would you please take care of our dear ambassador here? He'll be needing a room and help getting around the city. It's been so long since he's visited us and we wouldn't want him getting lost." The way he says "lost" is aimed with precision at Glafly.

Glafly nods, stepping closer to the ambassador's chair. The ambassador rises, the brim of his top hat now fully mangled out of shape. He never takes his nervous eyes off the Wizard but follows after Glafly. The Wizard repays him in kind, watching them leave until the door closes. When it does, he opens the top drawer of his desk and withdraws a gilded green pen, inkpot, and piece of paper. He scrawls something quickly on it and doesn't wait for the ink to dry before creasing it in half. Holding the paper between his middle and index fingers, he says "Esmet, get this to the secretaries, quickly. I want this delivered as soon as possible."

Esmet takes the paper with a quick bow. "Yes, Your Wonderfulness." He leaves through the door that they came in.

Standing alone in the room with him, the silence is unbearable. I ask him, "Is he a prisoner?"

He turns to look at me. "Do you think he is?" he asks.

I pull myself off of the bookshelf, approaching the desk. "He can't leave the city, can he?"

The Wizard offers me the crook of his elbow, and I take it. My heart is leaping trying not to think too much about the similarities between the ambassador's situation and mine. He walks with me to the door that leads back to his bedroom. "I want you to attend dinner tonight with the ambassador. I really think you could… liven up his depressed presence."

"I," I stutter, "I have chores to do." It's a poor excuse given the spotless state of the apartment.

He doesn't say anything, rather humming some strange tune. I think that maybe it sounds like some Lurlinemas carol that I may have sung a long time ago, off-key in the voice of a child, but the lyrics never click. I look up at him – sweet Oz is he tall, I barely come up to his shoulders, my eyes level with his golden eye tie tack – and he seems lost in some pleasant thought as he guides me into the bedroom.

"Your Wonderfulness?" I ask.

He opens the jeweled box on the dresser, the one with the beetles on it, and produces a golden hair comb decorated with pointed emeralds fashioned into delicate flowers. "There is more to be done than just scrubbing floors and washing windows," he says leaning against the dresser. With how tall he is, it's more like sitting. He holds the comb in his lap, a gentle smirk on his face. "Do you know your place?"

My place could be anywhere, but I wish it was next to my sister. It's been more than a week since I last saw her, and I worry that she thinks that I have forgotten her. My place had been sharing a bed with Emily only yesterday. And yet today, in the study... When he stood over me, looking me fully in the eyes... Didn't I want that to be my place too? I pick at the fine tulle of my skirt because the safest thing that I can think to say is what I answer. "No."

He pushes off the dresser, watching me with those dark eyes as he approaches. I watch as the shadows on his face flicker in the light of the fireplace. Holding the golden comb, he removes the pins from my braids and I can hear them carelessly dropping to the floor with soft pings. He unwinds the locks of hair from the ribbon and drops the piece of satin as well, too focused on smoothing out the now loose strands. The comb is cold as he drags the fine metal tines against the side of my scalp, gathering up just enough hair before turning the comb back over, and fastening the hair away from my face.

"Do you know my place?" he asks lowly, admiring his handiwork. He grabs the mirror off the dresser, holding it up to me.

"Why was the ambassador allowed to see you?" I ask, casting my eyes to the floor. I can’t tell if it’s my own promiscuous image or his eyes that I’m avoiding.

He lowers the mirror, tracing the raised golden design on the back of it. "I don't tell everyone who I am. He thinks I'm just some statesman deputized for the Great and Mighty Oz."

"Most people don't know who you are," I say. He stops his tracing of the design, raising his eyes to me.

"The most well-known man in Oz, unknown? You really think so?" he asks.

I take the mirror from his hands, trying to get a good look at myself in the dying sunlight. Dinner would probably be served soon, and one shouldn't refuse an invitation from the master of the house. My reflection is dim, but I can see how my brows have been reshaped at the hands of the stylists, the way my skin seems to glow as if they had dusted off the top layer like an old bookshelf. All thanks to him. "Is this dress suitable for dinner?" I ask.

"Do you want to change?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

"Not unless you want me to," I say.

He takes the mirror from me, sets it back down, and offers me his arm again. "Maybe later," he says. I hook my arm in his and his deep hum picks up the familiar tune from earlier as we walk down to the dining hall.

#wicked fanfiction #wicked 2024 #the wizard x reader #the wizard fanfiction #wicked 2024 fanfic #jeff goldblum

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gentil-minou · 4 months ago

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Gentians on Doorways

Written for the @mdzsrbb and inspired by the beautiful artwork made by @wrecklwj !

“How were you and my mother…acquainted?” “Acquaintances? She was my best friend!" ~ After a decade of living abroad, Lan Zhan returns to China to sort through his mother's affairs after her death. There, he meets Wei Ying, his mother’s friend who she'd commissioned to illustrate a book of nursery rhymes. But Lan Zhan is out of his depth in a land that was once his home. After all, there's no step-by-step guide for when your mother dies.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Wakes & Funerals, Falling In Love, parental loss, Expat Lan Zhan, Artist Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, writing a funeral scene and trying to not make it accidentally horny aka the wangxian curse, just lots of feelings about moving away from your parents, and the fickleness of memories

Lan Zhan & Madam Lan + Wangxian | Complete | 33.7K | Rated T

Preview under the cut

The hallway seems to stretch into infinity, each click of the head teacher’s heels echoing through the vastness of space. A preposterous exaggeration, given that the feet that tread these walls belong primarily to small humans with smaller legs, and such a length would be impractical.

To Lan Zhan, in this moment, it’s the longest hallway in the world.

The head teacher gestures for him to follow her around the corner, as if Lan Zhan was like her young disciples and prone to getting lost in a singular hallway with no intersections. She’s younger than Lan Zhan had expected for a head teacher of an elementary school. She can’t be more than a few years older than him.

"Her classroom is just this way, south facing,” Haung-laoshi rambles, sending him another overly kind, pitying glance. “She loved that room. Lots of natural sunlight."

Lan Zhan nods absently, more out of politeness than true agreement. The light streaming in from the windows that line this hallway grates on his jetlagged state. His head is absent of most thoughts, only the inane recognition that south-facing windows must have meant her classroom would be sweltering and excruciating during a heatwave. Even now, the sun beats down on Lan Zhan, stifling in the late afternoon.

The windows face an inner courtyard. Distantly, Lan Zhan can hear the children laughing and playing, but much of it is drowned out by clicking heels on tiled floor.

He turns his head away from the glaring sun to the interior wall displaying a gallery of crudely drawn blocks and splotches of paint arranged unintelligibly on colored paper. A tiny placard next to each denotes the name of a kindergartener and the vision. Family pets, the playground, a favorite toy, a doting sibling.

A mother, her stick figure arms just out of reach of her stick figure child.

Hastily, Lan Zhan turns back to the endless hallway, where a wooden door seems to grow smaller and smaller as the walls expand outward impossibly so, like the distance is growing wider, not smaller, and clicking heels and laughing children run circles in his pounding head. Everything, from the rhythmic thumping of Lan Zhan’s shoes against tiled floors to the distant ringing in his ears, from the chipped paint along the baseboards to the glaring sunlight arcing overhead, pounds against Lan Zhan’s head like a stampede of charging elephants.

He should be running. Running and running, far and away before the stampede barrels over him leaving his body cracked and bruised in its wake. He shouldn’t be here. He should be anywhere but here.

Then, abruptly, the clicking of the heels ceases when Huang-laoshi stops in front of that wooden door, now a normal size and directly in front of Lan Zhan. A tiny frosted glass window rests above the doorknob in a vertical pane, with leftover pieces of tape missing the accoutrements they once secured. A row of neatly painted purple flowers blooms through the wood on the bottom of the door, caught in motion as they dance in an unseen wind.

There is no wind to suggest this. He knows simply by looking at the brushstrokes, familiar swirls like the ones that once adorned the wooden doors of his childhood home. He can see it clearly in his mind’s eye, each stroke of a well-worn paintbrush and the subtle sighs of contentment when the artist in question lifted her brush and beamed back at him with pride.

“What do you think, ZhanZhan?”

This far away, the children’s roughhousing fades into the din leaving behind empty space.

Somehow, silence is worse.

“You must be so shocked. It was all so sudden…” Huang-laoshi remarks kindly as she retrieves a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabs at the corners of her eyes. “I know I already said this, but I am so sorry for your loss.” She lifts a hand as if to pat his shoulder, but Lan Zhan takes a measured step to the side and her hand falls to rest by her side.

Outside, sunshine cascades through flowering trees and leaves speckled shadows dancing in the grass. A breeze slips in through the windows and winds through strands of Lan Zhan’s hair. The subtle scents of a summer on the rise, lying in wait for season’s change.

The breeze does little to soothe his heated skin. “Thank you,” Lan Zhan says politely with little inflection.

Huang-laoshi pauses, waiting for Lan Zhan to continue. But Lan Zhan has little more to say.

Ever since he’d arrived here, everyone seems to think Lan Zhan has something more to say.

What is there to say about his mother dying?

Read more on Ao3

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #cql #wangxian #mdzs fanfiction #the untamed fanfic #lan wangji #lan zhan #wei wuxian #wei ying #mama lan #mxtxnet #mdzs ouat au #bushy writing #mdzs reverse big bang #had a lot of feelings with this one so please be extra extra extra nice

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darkpurpledawn · 1 year ago

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For the AU-gust prompt "Sculptor AU"

“But as your realtor, Mr. Crowley, I do insist that a different piece would be more-ah, welcoming for the foyer.”

Aziraphale’s hands twisted around his briefcase. They were oddly sweaty, although it was a cool day and the Mayfair residence was well-shaded by a mature hawthorn.

“But you do like it?” Crowley asked. His expression was unreadable beneath the everpresent sunglasses, but Aziraphale thought his gaze flicked to the statue of the two angels.

Aziraphale did, in fact, like it. It was large and dramatic, and sculpted with a vigor that made it look as though the winged beings might topple from their pedestal. But it had been dashed difficult to get Crowley to make any of his living space more approachable-looking before he put this hulking thing in the entry, and Aziraphale suspected the average homebuyer might find it all a bit much.

“Oh I’m no great art appreciator, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale demurred. “Certainly I think you’ve evident talent, and it’s quite--compelling.”

Crowley tapped his nose thoughtfully with one finger. Aziraphale imagined him running those long fingers over the marble flanks of the angels, bringing forth flesh from stone. He mentally chastised the capillaries in his face for blushing in front of a client.

“It’s Good and Evil, you know, can’t get more classic than that,” Crowley drawled. “Thought I’d make evil win this time though.”

He lowered the sunglasses and gave Aziraphale a wink.

Oh, now that was unfair.

“Mr. Crowley, did you have a look at the paint samples I suggested for the upstairs bath?” Aziraphale said faintly.

“Erm, yeah,” said Crowley, “I didn’t know there were that many kinds of beige, being honest.”

Aziraphale exhaled. They were back on firmer footing now. It was impossible to be erotically excited by comparing shades of ecru.

“Let’s take a quick look at the baseboards and see which of the suggested colors best matches the tile,” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley nodded, and headed for the stairway. Aziraphale cast his eyes around at the projects in Crowley’s studio on the ascent to the second floor. There was a monstrous-looking dog, snakes that seemed about to wriggle free from their stone skin, and a number of angels that seemed to be in various states of psychological distress.

“Whoa!”

Aziraphale moved before he could think, before he could really see what had happened--Crowley tripped and fell back a stair and Aziraphale braced himself against the railing and stopped the two of them from falling further.

“For heaven’s sake, my own sodding flat--thanks Mr. Fell, sorry about that,” Crowley said, and stood upright again. Aziraphale was relieved--Crowley’s back was no longer pressing into him--until Crowley turned around to look at his rescuer, and he was forced to bear the pressure of an even more hazardous side of Crowley.

Think of beige, he instructed himself. Think of baseboards, think of bifold doors. Think of renovations to historic buildings that remove all the ornamental stonework. Think of smart home devices, and those horrid bookshelves that barely have any books on them at all. Think of all the dreadful, palatable things you tell people to put in their homes.

Think of Crowley moving away from London. Think of how you’ll never have to think of this again.

#good omens #good omens ficlet #au gust #au gust 2023 #good omens au #my fics

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thesightstoshowyou · 1 year ago

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Go — Stay

Blue Jones (Sucker Punch) x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: He was on orderly. She was a mental patient in the 1960s. Can I make it anymore obvious?

~ I had a super spicy dream starring Oscar Isaac last night so now I’m making it your problem ~

Warnings: Noncon, drugging with LSD, a little bit of blood, hallucinations, bad trip (thanks Blue), synesthesia, out of body experience, mild descriptions of gore, possessiveness, praise, creampie

🔞 18+ my loves. You know the drill 🔞

The wall is melting.

Dingy beige oozes, drips off studs and rotten framing. There should be something beneath, but you see only darkness, a yawing maw of black stretching and twisting—

You look away, chest heaving. It’s not real. The rippling floorboards, the bright red insects skittering along the baseboards aren’t real, the clicking of their tiny legs isn’t—

Clenching your eyes shut only makes it worse when fiery rainbows explode behind your eyelids. Pulsing colors you couldn’t name if you tried match the beat of your fluttering pulse until you’re dizzy, overwhelmed by the intensity. Your eyes fly open and you do your best not to blink.

This isn’t new, this experience. The nurses force you to take something, some medication a few times a week that makes you feel like you’re losing your mind.

But that’s why you’re here isn’t it?

Your doctor had prescribed it, they said. You’re part of some study, something that will help people one day. It’s bigger than you.

What people, you wonder? This sure as hell isn’t helping anyone here at Lennox House.

It was almost pleasant, at first; enlightening even. There were moments of euphoria and beauty. Once upon a time, you’d looked forward to your next dose.

But now there is only dread. Beauty and awe turn to panic and paranoia the longer you’re kept here in this cell, the longer you’re drugged against your will, the longer you’re visited by—

As if on cue, the heavy lock thunks. Jingling of keys, the squeak of the metal door heralds the appearance of Blue. Your heart knocks into your throat, your nails curling into your palms until all you can see is the red of your eyelids.

‘Keep them open!’ something, someone hisses in your ear. You jolt, your head whipping around, but there’s no one here but you and Blue.

“Hey, listen to me,” Blue snaps. He’d been talking, you realize. Your breath shakes as you try to focus, but his leer is curling across his face unnaturally. Your saliva is so thick, nearly choking when you swallow and look back to the bugs clicking on the floor.

“Jesus, these higher doses make you girls crazier than normal, huh?”

“B-Blue…” you squeak, the color of his namesake painting the air in vivid streaks.

“Shhh,” he whispers. It’s a sound that should be comforting, but instead you feel it worming into your ears. You shrug your shoulders in attempt to rid yourself of the sensation.

The mattress dips and warm fingers caress your wrists. Blue tenderly uncurls your digits from your palms, clicking his tongue in disappointment when your fingernails come away bloody. From his pocket, he produces a wad of gauze. Dabbing it along the little grooves in your palm, he murmurs, “Look at me.” You obey immediately. You’d rather see his fucked up face than risk Blue’s ire.

Meeting his dark, hooded gaze makes you flinch. He’s closer than you thought, inches away. He’s not smiling, and for that you are thankful. Nothing for the drug to warp. However, there are fingers—shadowy tendrils wrapping around his shoulders, smoothing across the white frock. You don’t look away from his eyes.

“Relax, okay? I’m gonna take care of you.” You don’t miss the hidden meaning, as much as you’d like to. Blue’s words always mean something else. Yet, you can’t keep your shoulders from slumping, the muscles in your jaw from going slack. It’s so easy to do what he says when you’re like this.

The warmth of his fingers moves to your throat. They trace bright lines down your skin, lines you can see carving through the space above his head. His lips are next, hot and pink on your jaw, breath like fire puffing against your ear.

“You’re gonna be a good girl for me.”

“Y-yes.” Your voice feels like buzzing on your tongue. You’re going to be good. He’s right.

His teeth on your neck make you squirm as hands on your hips pull, drag you down the bed until your head spins. You keen, high pitched, when sensation overwhelmes you, even the gentlest touch making you afraid your skin will split open so all this color can come pouring out.

“Quieter,” Blue warns tersely, his eyes darting to the door, back to your face. You shake your head, whimper apologies as he hikes the tattered hospital gown up to your waist. Suddenly, the ceiling above is cerulean sky, bright sun peeking behind clouds, blinding and beautiful. It distracts you as Blue rips open his pants, parts your quivering thighs, settles between them.

His palm slaps over your mouth as he pushes into your heat. It’s so, so slick and easy for him. Why are you leaking?

The sudden intrusion brings you back to earth, back to rotting, blackened drywall. A strained cry crawls up and out of your throat and leaks around his hand, brilliant orange smoke.

“Fuck yes, sweetheart,” Blue grunts, his lips finding your ear again as his hips snap up, up, up. A hot palm smooths over your rear, tilts your hips up to meet the feverish thrusts. His pounding heart you can feel against your own chest, purple pulsing between your bodies.

Your fingers find his shoulders, nails digging in and drawing a low groan from Blue’s throat. You stare in awe when white light explodes around your fingertips. Blue moans and nods when you push harder. Will your digits break through, plunging into the gleaming expanse of his shoulders—

You’re not sure when it happens, or how. It might have been slow; you might have melted out of your physical form and dripped upward. Or maybe it was instantaneous, like a flash of lightening. It doesn’t matter, not when you’re looking down at your bed from above, at Blue using your empty body, at your vacant expression.

You don’t feel anything he’s doing to you, you realize. You don’t feel the fingers pressing divots into the flesh of your ass, the teeth set against your throat, the thick length popping in and out of your slick slit. All you feel is weightlessness. You’re floating, hovering in midair, like gravity forgot you. It’s almost like freedom—

Your eyes snap open. The worn bedsheets grate against your back, rustle loudly in your ears. Around you is your skin, caging you in. A prison within a prison. Above is the water-stained ceiling, the panel in the left corner missing as always. Through the dark opening drips murky water and something thick, oozing, sticky viscera….

“There you are,” Blue purrs. His nose brushes yours. Sweat beads along his brow like dew, wetting his hair. You blink and meet his heated gaze with your own wide eyes. “You stay here with me,” he orders and you nod, unable to respond with the hand pressed against your lips. Frenzied breaths pour from your nose and your eyelids flutter when he pumps his hips, the wet slap of skin echoing off the melting walls.

Now you feel it.

Blue sinks his teeth into his bottom lip at the sound of your muffled cries. He speaks through gritted teeth, “I know, sweetheart. I wanna hear all those noises you make for me. I wanna hear you scream for me. But I can’t take my hand off, right? They would try and take you away if they knew our secret. They’d try and take you, but I wouldn’t let ‘em. You’re mine. All mine.” You respond by gripping his shoulders tighter, by squeezing your thighs against his hips.

He huffs, his eyes rolling back and closing, brows pulling together in a frown as he concentrates on fucking into your suckling cunt. You’re screaming now, like he wants. You can’t help it, the intense pressure in your belly as hot as the surface of the sun. There’s only him now and the place where you’re connected. So bright, so hot, so full, so, so, so, so….

“Christ, I’m close, cum on my cock, sweetheart. Fucking give it to me!”

It’s his. You’re his, he said so.

You explode, pleasure wracking your core until you’re shaking, every color in existence zinging up your spine, skin tingling like static, tears streaking down your cheeks. Blue chokes on a shout, buries himself deep as your twitching muscles milk him of liquid heat, molten gold.

“Ah, f-fuck,” Blue gasps through haggard breaths. The palm on your mouth is replaced by his lips. His kisses are soft, feather light. Your panting breaths mingle with his before his mouth moves to your cheek. Slowly, almost reverently, he drags his tongue through the tears staining your skin. “You were such a good girl. So good. My fucking good girl.”

Finally, he moves away, a little sigh leaving you at the lessening of sensation. It’s too much when he’s so close. Wetness drips from between your spread thighs and you must tell yourself it’s cum and not whatever was leaking from the ceiling. It’s him, it’s his. Blue’s.

Not as comforting a thought as you’d hoped. Emptiness settles in your gut and gnaws at the anxiety seeping back into your chest.

Clothes righted, Blue wipes his damp forehead on his sleeve. He presses a kiss to your hair as he tugs your gown back in place. Keys rattle.

In the doorway, Blue pauses. “Don’t go anywhere.” That twisting, eerie grin returns to his face and you must avert your gaze, but there’s nowhere to look where reality isn’t challenged. The door clangs shut behind him.

You are alone with your melting walls and chittering insects once more.

#blue jones #blue jones x reader #blue jones x you #sucker punch #snuck my MKUltra knowledge in there #this was fun to write #thesightstoshowyou

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alix-is-o-a-k · 1 year ago

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alix!! fluff fics are always a nice start, and I’ve had painting my room on my mind. you could get the nark boys painting nick’s earth-apartment? lark started painting when mercedes got him into art therapy (henry suggested it to merc, but yk how lark is) and does little flowers on the baseboards, maybe?

anywho, best of luck with posting fics!! I’ll be sure to hype you up :)

ASBSINSOA THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! This was soooo fun to write! (Went a little longer than I meant it to lol)

“Lark? What’re you doing here?”

Nick’s standing in the open doorway of his new apartment. He’s wearing black shorts and a loose grey tank, both splattered with dark red paint that could be mistaken for blood from some distance.

“Uh.. sparrow told me you were painting your apartment and I figured- do you want some help?”

“Yes.”

Nick opens the door wider and steps back to let Lark in. Splattered on the walls in uneven brush strokes are streaks of the same red paint on his clothing. The color’s dripping from the walls onto the floor.

“Nicky, what the hell is this?”

Nick’s face goes red and he scratches at the back of his head. “I… can’t paint. You know that.”

“Nick, this is an absolute disaster- were you seriously not planning to get anyone to help you?” Lark looks at him incredulously.

“I thought I could do it! And you’re here anyway!”

“Luckily for you,” Lark grumbles, picking up one of the abandoned paint brushes on the floor “let’s get started.”

Nick picks up the second brush and follows Lark’s lead, bringing the brush down in even strokes along the walls. They’re finished with the first in half the time it would have taken Nick, and Lark puts his brush down with a sigh, running a paint-covered hand through his hair and smearing the color into the brown strands. Nick laughs and Lark looks at him questioningly.

“What?”

“Nothing- just, your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“You’ve got paint in it, see?” The demon brushes his hand through Lark’s hair and purposefully smudges the paint even more. Lark lets out an outraged noise and picks up his brush, flinging the droplets of paint at Nick, who raises his arms in front of his face to protect himself.

“Oh you are so on.”

The two begin to wrestle, the paint staining their skin and clothes until, panting, Lark collapses on the floor. Nick pins him down with one hand, sitting on his legs to keep him from moving.

“So you admit I win?”

“Fine, you little shit,” Lark pushes Nick’s hand off of his chest and leans up to kiss him. Nick happily melts into the kiss and lowers the two of them down until they’re parallel with the floor, Nick’s arm wrapped around Lark’s waist.

“Got you,” Lark whispers into Nick’s ear and his pulls his hand from the demon’s face. Nick touches his cheek and grins when his hand comes away red.

“How dare you,” he says playfully, and stands up. Lark makes a noise of protest, but Nick just sticks his tongue out and heads towards the bathroom to wash the paint off. When he gets back, Lark’s doodling something in pink on the base of the wall, and Nick crouches next to him to watch. The moment Lark sees him he turns bright red and smudges the paint.

“No I wanna see! What were you drawing?”

“Nothing!” Lark says hurriedly. Nick narrows his eyes but changes the topic.

“Where’d you learn to paint anyway?” Nick asks, sitting against the wall to look at Lark.

“Art therapy. Mercedes signed me up for it a few years ago.”

Nick lets out a noise of contentment and the two sit in silence for a little longer until Lark leans over and presses his lips to Nick’s again, and then Nick’s up against the wall as the paint from Lark’s hand bleeds into his shirt.

Below them, just barely visible is a couple of doodled flowers, with N+L written in pink.

—————————

hope you enjoyed it! I haven’t written in a while, sorry if it’s bad lol

#Alixwrites #dndads #dndads season 2 #dungeons and daddies #dndads s2 #Writing ask #fanafiction #Nark #nark nation

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dreaminghour · 2 years ago

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obikin crèche teacher AU - volunteering

Event: @domaystic Fandom: Star Wars Rating: General Audiences Prompt: 11 Volunteering Ship: Obi-Wan/Anakin Context: AU. Five years ago Anakin was grounded at the Temple and has been a trainee in the Crèche with all the youngest Jedi children ever since. A direct continuation of "painting the walls" from last year. You don't have to read that one but it's only 150 words. Words: 525

"Ani-Ani-Ani!"

Anakin was pulled from his reverie by the high pitched call of a little mon calamari, running into the room at top speed. Once he reached the ladder Anakin was on, he began to tug on his trousers.

"Zooz, how many times do I have to ask you to not pull on my pants," Anakin said wearily. "And not to run in the crèche! Save that for recess."

"Sorry, Ani." The mon calamari pulled back his hands and folded them contritely in front of his tummy. "There's a Jedi Master here looking for you!"

There was only one Master who usually came looking for him and it flipped Anakin's stomach to think he was back.

"Alright," Anakin said, climbing down the ladder and gesturing to the boy painting the baseboard. "Come on, Sifa."

Both children took Anakin's paint splattered hands and walked with him out to the main common area of the crèche. There, standing amidst a gaggle of younglings all clamoring to speak with him, was the best Jedi of his generation, hair like burnished gold, smiling and trying to listen to all of them.

Obi-Wan was Anakin's master in name only. Ever since he'd been grounded at the Temple five years ago, not dismissed but not allowed to move on, Anakin had gone from weekly missions with the man to only seeing him every few weeks or months even. He still came to instruct Anakin, but despite his own reticence to leave the Temple — to leave Anakin apparently — his skills were in high demand, and they saw less and less of one another.

It surprised Anakin how much it still made him ache to see Obi-Wan, that sad sort of happiness to know he wasn't forgotten here, more than just recieving letters from his teacher. It made him feel cared about, more than his lessons with the other masters did.

But Obi-Wan was not alone.

A young togruta woman was with him, Anakin seemed to remember her from the younglings when he'd been a freshly shaved padawan. Her name was Ahsoka Tano. She had blue and white striped skin on her montrals and was orange faced. She looked nervous. And when Anakin glanced to Obi-Wan, so did he.

"What is this?" Anakin asked, voice hoarse.

"Anakin, I—"

"They want volunteers to go to Illum with them!" spoke up little Simo, head wrapped in the black scarf of a mirialan, grin toothy. "For people to make their first lightsabers!"

Anakin felt cold all over. Escorting a trip to Illum, or to another kyber source, was often a first mission for a new padawan and master pair.

"I came to—" Obi-Wan tried again.

"You have my blessing," Anakin said, throat tight. He picked up Sifa and quickly marched over to the bathrooms with him. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Faintly, through the bond which still lingered between them, he felt pain, but he didn't know if it was Obi-Wan's or just an echo of his own.

"It's okay," little Sifa said, kissing the tears from Anakin's cheeks. "We can go to Illum someday if you want a lightsaber."

Anakin didn't trust himself to speak.

#domaystic2023 #dreamy does fic #2023day11 #angst and fluff #crèche bound anakin au #star wars #dreamy does domaystic #writing this made me cry #all up in my feels #obikin #obikin fic

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theyjustloveval · 5 months ago

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dedicated to him , fuck you for ruining my life .

Life Of The Party poems , Olivia Gatwood

My Grandmother Asks Why I Don't Trust Men

if you have a son , how will you love him ? she is pacing the living room , while the Thanksgiving Day Parade plays behind her , a montage of inflated cartoon bodies , floating slow down 6th Avenue , smiles painted onto their faces . i consider not responding . i consider explaining that i can love him and not trust him . i consider saying that i won't love him at all . just to scare her . instead , i say , if i am ever murdered , like , body found in a ditch , mouth stuffed with dirt , stocking around my neck , identified by my toenails , please don't go looking for a guilty woman . when my father and i go for a job on the arroyo and he runs ahead , leaving me alone with my breath and an empty trail , i keep running - but now , from something . when i cross a coyote drinking from the ditch , i am relieved it is an animal . when i see him , my father , stretching against a tree , i scream at him for leaving me alone . he grabs my shoulders as if to shake my loose parts into place what are you afraid of ? he asks . why are you so afraid ? i don't know why i'm doing this - playing sho and tell with the times i've walked fast in the dark . maybe i see myself in the worst of it . maybe if i can imagine myself in the shallow water , you should too . maybe i am tired of hearing people talk about the murder of girls like it is both beautiful and out of the ordinary . i ask the hotel attendant to put me in a room near the elevator . i listen to my best friend breathe on the line while she walks home . sometimes i search "woman's body found in" when i visit a new city . then , i learn her name . her age . where they found her - under a baseboard , limbs folded into a closet . i learn her hobbies - that she loved to sing . i watch the security footage they discovered of her last moments , i watch her move and breathe like the rest of us . i watch her look over her shoulder three times before walking out of view . i know my fear better than i know my own body .

#poems and poetry #poems on tumblr #poet #poetry #girls #sa awareness #tw sa implied #womens safety #life of the party

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justarandomsloth · 2 years ago

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FAKE FIC TITLE IVE GOTCHU

Waterfalls of Sorrows

In between Living and Lies

In Paintings so divine

To be the Glory and thine Power

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO DO THEM ALL! JUST HQVE FUN WOTH THEM ❤️❤️❤️

AYUP THANKS FOR THE AMAZING PROMPTS!!!! (They’re just so good and I hope I can do them justice!!!)

In Between Living and Lies

—Phil, Wilbur, and Techno are heroes (or villains I can’t decide) that work for their own private organization. Recently they’ve been developing a new technology that can infuse with liquid to give the user special abilities (potions).

Wilbur gets his hands on a shrinking potion and decides to test it out. He is AMAZED at just how big everything is and takes the opportunity to explore. After a bit he finds a small hole in the baseboard and he decides to explore the walls and try to find out what’s been making scratching noises for the past few weeks.

He doesn’t worry about rats because he’s confident in his powers but what he doesn’t expect to find is a trio of tiny teens.

—At first things are hostile as Wilbur is suspicious and honestly, a little freaked out by the tiny people living in his walls. He quickly warms up to them however as he gets to know them. Now in his free time he steals potions and visits the teens whenever he can.

—It all goes well for about a month until the Sbi’s shared house gets attacked. They were all preparing to attack their rivals when Wilbur suddenly remembered the teens and ran back into the house (despite the shouts from Techno and Phil)

He hates it but he has to use his powers to lure the borrowers out because he just doesn’t have time.

He hopes they will understand.

—

In Paintings So Divine

—Tommy’s hobby is painting and honestly, he’s gotten pretty good at using dollar store paints. Sure they absolutely SUCK and only come in a few colors but he’s learned to use them artfully.

One night he decided to work on something abstract so he drew a HUGE forest with a small man standing in the middle of it.

The teen was almost done but he had used up all of his yellow and blue on the man’s clothes. Begrudgingly he ran to the dollar store to pick up more paints.

—Wilbur didn’t know how he got here, or where he came from. All he knew is that he liked to play guitar and his name was Wilbur. He remembered having a brother and a father and he remembered the special bond the three of them shared. Speaking of Phil and Techno, where were they?!! He jumped off of the easel and began to pace around on the table below.

—Tommy comes back only to find that the man from his painting is missing and instead he seems to be pacing around on the table in front of him?! Also he’s only a few inches tall!?!! WHAT THE HELL!?

—

To Be the Glory and Thine Power

—Tommy doesn’t want to live this life anymore. He is a sizeshifter that had been captured at a young age by the tyrant Dream and he’s tired.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been used as the secret weapon of the king but he doesn’t want to be that way anymore.

Maybe that’s why one day when the castle is under siege he takes his opportunity and he runs. Along the way he meets Phil and the others. What he doesn’t know is that Phil is the opposing king of the neighboring country.

-He follows them back and starts to adjust to his new life. Tommy tries his best to hide his powers but one day he has no choice but to shift large to protect them.

Little does the teen know that instead of being terrified of him they are empathetic and truly care about him.

—Cue comfort as they try to make him realize that he IS more then what Dream trained him to be and that he’s like part of the family.

—

I hope these are good and that you like them!! Hopefully they’re not too similar! (sorry if these are weird, I wanted to experiment and have fun with them!)

(Also yes I hope you don’t mind but I took inspiration from your au for my last fake fic because it’s so good and I love your writing so much!!)

#mcyt g/t #g/t fake fic titles #dsmp g/t #i hope you enjoy #t!tommy #t!wilbur #t!philza #t!tubbo #t!ranboo #t!techno #g!wilbur #g!tommy #g!philza #g!techno #Sloth Q’s

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murdersinthemaking · 1 year ago

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Day 7 Future, Part 1!

(First we have our favourite immortal lady, then we’ll have our favourite immortal guy!) @merrick-of-violet

The scent of salt water stains the wooden entrance, curling around through the floorboards and into the tiny cottage. Murdock kneels on the floor, paintbrush in hand as he paints overtop the splintering plaster of the walls. While flecks of paint give his hair wild colours, the grey hairs starting to grow through are all his own. Most of the house has received this treatment, covering up every bare wall they couldn’t cover in photos and paintings. As he finishes up the last few petals of the roses, Vivi wanders in from his nap time and lies down in front of the wall. On time as always. Dipping the beans of his paw into the paint, he presses the print against the baseboard. “Good boy..your best one yet.” Quickly wiping off the remaining paint, he scoops his silly boy up off the floor.

Vivi climbs up Murdock like a tree, draped across a shoulder and watching the world around him. A few canvases rest across the floor, wrapped for tomorrow’s market sale. All stamped with a tiny paw print, Vivis seal of approval.

“Petal? I’ve got most of the living room done now. Did you want dinner? I’ve picked up some pollock, thought we could have some with Vivi tonight.” As he wanders through to the kitchen, he hears the quiet tinkling of bells as she opens the back door. While he had gray hairs and aching joints, she was as radiant as the day they meant. Unchanging, painfully beautiful while he slowly aged. Though far slower than it ever should have been.

“I love your new scarf darling,” she laughs, bright as the sun as she pats both of their heads. “It sounds wonderful.” The sun sets behind her, the sound of the sea echoing from the cliffs the cottage sits upon.

#a stab at it #a fellow artist

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writtenonreceipts · 2 years ago

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@jilymicrofics prompt #12 for january: wild

decided I wanted some best friends causing problems, hopefully I’ll end up building on this little thing with other prompts throughout the month/year and turn it into a best friend to lovers kinda deal! It’s pretty simply and basic though, lol.

~940 words

Let’s Cause Chaos

“Well, this is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

Lily rested her hands on her hips and stared at the empty wall before her. Beside her, her best friend looked utterly delighted at the impending chaos.

James. With his wild black hair and warm tan skin. His glasses, as always, were askew.

He looked between the buckets of paint on the floor and the wall before them, his grin widening further. James. Who looked for any excuse to throw caution to the wind and have a bit of fun if hedged the line of anarchy.

“Skeeter is going to kill you.”

“Most likely,” she agreed.

Her landlord, Rita Skeeter was a strange woman who generally preferred things a certain way, in perfect cookie cutter conditions. And while Lily’s lease agreement did say she could paint and decorate within means, she was beginning to wonder if the loud and bright yellow Lily had picked out would fit into Skeeter’s visions.

“She could kick you out,” James added.

“Then I guess I’ll become Mary’s problem again,” Lily said. She and Mary had lived together throughout college and while they were still close to this day, Lily was certain she’d found a ways to make lily disappear list on Mary’s computer. Mary denied any and all claims.

“Petunia’s gonna write you a strongly worded letter about this too.” James’ warning might have held more bite to it if his eyes didn’t spark with amusement.

“Pet doesn’t like going to other people’s houses,” Lily said. Her sister, who she really did love most of the time, had a whole slew of issues that Lily didn’t even want to think about. But…Pet and Skeeter were fairly similar in that area. They were both opinionated and hard-headed. Even with Petunia’s continued insistence that she liked to try new things. “Oh, hell, what if I do get evicted James?”

Lily spun to him, already talking herself out of this ridiculous plan to paint her apartment.

He, however, chose not to listen. Instead, James grabbed his paintbrush and dunked it in the bucket of yellow paint then promptly flung a thick splatter against the wall.

Yellow splashed in a perfect arc with splotches bleeding down to the tarp that protected the floor.

Lily gasped and smacked James across the chest. “What did you do?”

“You were talking yourself out of it!” James exclaimed. “New Year, new Evans, you made a list and everything.”

She gaped at him. “I was drunk and it was three in the morning.”

The New Year’s Eve party she’d thrown with Mary, Marlene, and Dorcas had been a bit wild and rambunctious, but also the most fun Lily had enjoyed in a while. Unfortunately, it also led to an excess of drinking which also made Lily start to think about life and her future and the general state of things which hardly turned out well. So, she’d drunk more which led to list making and drunken declarations of motivation that James was now not going to let her forget.

“Still counts,” James said. He then flung another bout of paint on the wall. “C’mon, Evans. You’ve talked about this for ages.”

Indeed, she’d wanted to paint her apartment ever since she’d moved in. She’d wanted it to be her space. Because she was officially living alone. Mary was doing a doctorate program and needed to live close to campus, Marlene was traveling Europe, and Dorcas was living with her girlfriend already. Lily was on her own.

James pointed his paint brush at her and a glob fell on the tarp. “You know you want to. You love painting perfect lines and finishing a project. Think about it. Lining up against the baseboards with one perfect swipe, knocking something off your resolutions list. You’re dying to do this, Evans, I can see it in your eyes.”

He was infectious in that way he grinned at her. His confidence was something she envied honestly, and Lily knew he was right. They’d been friends for years now and sometimes he knew her better than she knew herself. Even if he did on occasion drive her insane.

So, Lily grabbed the other paintbrush waiting for her and dipped it in the paint. She turned to the wall and flicked the dripping paint. It splashed over James’ arc with a satisfying splat.

Next to her, James laughed loudly when she gasped and stared at the wall then back at him.

“Is it wrong that that was oddly satisfying?” she asked.

“Hell, no.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon flinging paint at the wall until it was evident they actually had to try to make sure everything was even and well coated. And while it was only one accent wall in her apartment, Lily had to admit, the change felt good. Even better that James had helped her through the entire process. Not just in the painting, but encouraging her to actually go through with it.

That was the thing about James Potter--he may be entirely composed of caffeine and a wild nature, but he was also fiercely devoted to helping his friends.

Hours later when they ordered pizza and they were watching old reruns on her crummy tv, Lily decided that there were only a few people who would bother spending the entire day with her and she was grateful James was one of them.

#jily #jilymicrofics #james potter #lily evans #jily fic #jily fanfiction #prompt based #cute and fun

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nichenarratives · 1 year ago

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Hurricane Heller 6

Entire work available on AO3 here.

6. Avoidant Behaviour

While he has great affection for his family, Mordecai would describe them as chaotic, the most recent year of his life an easy testimony to why. Immediately after their shared bar mitzvah, Esther actively bypassed her father's gentle nature, catapulting straight into her adolescence with the fire and brimstone expected of young, undisciplined men. Not a day passed without their mother's shouts reverberating off the thin walls, often returned just as violently by the teen, their arguments legendary three houses abreast either side.

Already intending to rent his own space since he took the managerial job, Esther's continually heightening hostilities only expedited the process. An entire apartment was more than he'd initially budgeted for, but it became increasingly obvious with every viewing that for his own sanitation needs - and to comply with kosher practice in the kitchen - he would need a private bathroom and kitchenette.

But no single room offered both, so he'd had to upscale.

With a few tweaks to the budget, within two weeks of taking the management job and - with a promise he would attend Sabbath shul - a cosignature from his mother, for the first time in his life, Mordecai had an empty canvas to paint with his own brush. He'd spent a day thoroughly cleaning every surface, scrubbing the floors and walls, tiles and even the baseboards. He'd then made a cup of Earl Grey and sat on the windowsill to watch the world go by below, his empty apartment immeasurably, impeccably silent.

Mordecai would come to find silence was a valuable asset, almost as valuable as time; he rarely had time to himself beforehand, a house full of sisters had made sure of that, and what he did have was often interrupted by an innocuous question or request that always led to having yet another thing requiring attention. He loves his sisters - just recalling Rose's smile brought a quirk to fine lips - but until he had it, he never realised how peaceful silence is.

Silence permitting his mind to work at optimal capacity, he turns his attention to streamlining lengthy processes at work he loathes. Unsurprisingly, that turns out to be jobs involving numbers but no mathematics, such as stocktakes - reams of digits that bring no joy - and orders, which tend to be done on the basis of low stock. Despite this obvious connection, neither process is linked through paperwork, an oversight of intense idiocy, but easily corrected with a combined ledger.

Each week brought forward new improvements: systems to prevent perishables going to waste; storehouse door logs to keep live updates on usage; overarching ledgers for usage, waste and damaged goods; profit margins and predictions based on prior years; noting favoured horses and increasing their odds to bait bigger bets. There was always something to improve, something to optimise, and his newfound oasis of peace made it almost laughably easy.

What isn't so easy is Sabbath services.

Every so often, he wakes bathed in cold sweat, a deafening bang echoing in his ears as he frantically paws the phantom brain splatter from his face, chest so tight he's sure he'll keel over and die on the spot. After each episode, he showers in freezing water until his skin is numb, scrubbing at blood that isn't on his hands, face and body, desperate to wash away an irremovable stain from his very soul.

Mordecai does his best to keep his promise, attending each Sabbath service for six weeks after moving out, but he's not comfortable within those holy walls anymore. His presence is an affront to Judaism, reading from the ailyah a sacrilege of which only he and HaShem are privy. He can never leave fast enough, leaving his mother to cover his haste with tales of his hard work and dedication, even if it will earn him a hit around the ear for poor manners later.

Haunted by a dead man's gaze and the sins he carries, his dedication to the congregation slowly wanes in the coming months, until he attends shul only for holiday celebrations. Even his mother stops threatening to retract her cosignature after a while; it was an empty threat from the beginning, one of desperation with her eldest drifting from HaShem, but his refusal to explain creates tension whenever he visits home.

Despite his sins and mother's disappointments, Sabbath is still Mordecai's favourite day of the week. As the only day the tracks close for business, he has an entire day to do as he pleases, a commodity Mordecai hasn't ever had before. At home, he would attend shul, entertain Esther and Rose while their mother prepared the evening meal, set the table and oftentimes, help clean up while Rose was put to bed.

By the time all was said and done, it was his turn to bathe, then straight to bed for an early rise on Monday. He had no free time and as such, it's confusing at first. The day seems to extend onwards for an eternity, the minutes crawling past as he awaits five o'clock, when he would return home to see his siblings and endure his mother's veiled criticisms, clean up as before, then bid them goodnight and leave.

As the Sundays passed, it slowly dawned on Mordecai that he didn't have to sit and wait for the evening meals, and so began his adventures into hobbies.

Hobbies that interest him aren't easy to identify. Most of his coworkers tend towards gambling or drinking away their hard earned wage, oftentimes both. Neither activity interests Mordecai, who actively squirrels away every spare penny. He first defects to reading, borrowing his father's old botany books and without disruption, devouring them from cover to cover within a few days. He learns a great deal on a number of species, some of which he invests in for decoration, then moves on to something more engaging; stocks.

The stock market is a veritable mathematical goldmine, the rise and fall of most of the market predictable to a point. Not willing to gamble large amounts of money - for that would be just as fruitless as betting on races - on fickle financiers, he instead plays with pocket change for the mental exercise, making small returns to bolster saving, or used to add to his growing miniature menagerie of botanicals.

Life was good, for the most part. He grew comfortable in his new routines, complacent even, and perhaps that's how the usually observant young man was easily blindsided by his mother's final attempt to get him back to the synagogue.

As was usual, Mordecai had foregone the discomfort of the Sabbath service for relaxation. His apartment was becoming comfortable, filled with second-hand yet fine furniture, soft fabrics and a litany of volumes on numerous subjects that piqued his curiosity. A simple breakfast, some fine tea and a tome on the inevitable development of crop rotation strategy alongside establishing towns had left him in a good mood as he donned his hat and headed for home that evening, ready to spend time with his family.

He'd entered the house with an uncustomary call of greeting and turned to remove his outdoor attire, turning his back to the living room for seconds at most. Hat and coat on allotted pegs, he'd just begun on his loafers when a misplaced voice greeted him; heavily accented and soft spoken, Mordecai knew who it was before he turned around, but it didn't make it any less confusing to see her in his childhood home.

His brows knit, a common response to most stimuli since he began dealing with crooks and grifters; it hides his emotions from view, a key component of a professional persona that's leaked into everyday life. "Nataliya," he greets in a flat tone, then realises how rude he must have sounded, apologizing even as his tone persists. "Forgive me, I didn't know we were expecting company-"

"You'd know if you attended shul," his mother pipes up from the kitchen. Dark ears fold back, but he doesn't reply, giving her plenty of time to elaborate. "Her parents are dining with work friends tonight. I offered to host young Nataliya for our evening meal, as it's been so long since you've seen each other. How many weeks is it now, bechur?"

Nataliya looks uncomfortable; she clasps fine fingers in front of her dress and looks away, head slightly bowed and eyes cast to the floor, obviously not realising dinner at the Heller household would be this tense when she accepted an invite. Removing his pince-nez, Mordecai pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh, massaging the corners of his eyes deeply. He doesn't want to argue with her; not again, not today, not in front of a guest.

"Eleven," he responds flatly, replacing his glasses with care. Mordecai sometimes wonders if making the effort to see his family on Sunday is worth the harassment, but he's always brought back to the same conclusion; everything he's done, from fixing races to taking a man's life and livelihood, was to ensure their futures. It'll be for naught if he loses them too. "Finding time has been difficult as of late. I apologise-"

His mother bustles out of the kitchen, her braid beginning to fray as the day passes, and ushers them towards the kitchen. "You can apologise to HaShem next Sabbath," she informs her son simply, leaving no room for refusals as he's sat at the head of the table, his designated place. All of her bluster burned out, she affectionately strokes his hair as she returns to the stove. "But you can apologise to our guest for ruining dinner now, can't you?"

Mordecai waits until she's not looking to return his hair to its prior state, then looks at Nataliya across the table. She toys with her braid, running her hands over the thick rope of dark hair repetitively until their eyes meet. Glancing up in time to see Mordecai readjusting his hair and offers a little smile, a tiny quirk of pink lips that still somehow reaches her eyes as a spark of humour plays in yellow sclera.

Reassured she isn't angry, he manages one back, hoping it makes her feel more comfortable. "I apologise for… ruining dinner," he forces out, even though he believes his mother is the guilty party for causing a scene. "Please forgive me."

"There's my little mensch," his mother praises with a peck to the top of his head, oven-mitt hands holding a steaming hot kugel. Mordecai tries his best not to physically react to the affection as across the table, Nataliya presses her lips into a fine line, chest heaving in suppressed laughter as mother sets the hot casserole dish. "I'll get the girls while you prepare for hamotzi."

Despite his best efforts, he feels his cheeks burning red hot with embarrassment as his mother leaves, sinking into his seat as Nataliya finally giggles aloud at his mother's antics. If only HaShem would let the ground swallow me whole…

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pbandjesse · 11 months ago

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I am so ridiculously sore today it's a risky shocking. If I move carefully it doesn't hurt so bad but if I move to fast it startles me I hurt so bad. I desperately want to go lay down now. We are on our way home and I'm hoping to finish writing fast so I can go to sleep. I am exhausted.

Today was actually pretty good even if I was hurting. I didn't sleep amazing but a lot of that was the soreness I'm sure. James had already left for work and I stayed in bed for a long time. I was both tired and sore and unhappy about it. But I thought I just had to push through it so I could go work on the house.

I'm getting spoiled with how nice and warm and comfortable the house is. I don't want to be in the apartment because it's a mess and it's freezing. When I leave our bedroom I just feel really stressed because everything is is disarray from packing.

So to get over there quicker I just focused I'm getting dressed. I would wear layers so I could just paint in my leggings and tank top. I pet Sweetp and grabbed a few bags from the studio and I headed out.

When I got to the house first thing I did was get the snow and ice off of the stairs. I fell once, I don't want to call again. It took some muscle but I got it done and started bringing things inside.

James had put a few totesbags of books in the car and it is always really surprising how heavy books are. But I did my best to just power through and for eveything inside.

Doing all that heavy lifting made me really hot and I stripped off the layers and got to work.

First thing I did was go through my beanie babies to figure out what months I was missing. April, October, November. So close to the complete set. After I finished that I headed upstairs.

It was good to see how the paint dries in the bathroom. And I jumped right in doing touchups and then rolling out over my brushwork so the texture carries through. And it was great. I had a podcast going and I was having a great time.

And once I was done I still had energy and decided to start taping out the bedroom. Going all around the windows and the baseboards. I was really pleased with myself. But then right before I finished I ran out of tape!! Rude! I ended up just stealing some tape from where I had mapped out the bed.

But then I got really disappointed with the blue I got. It came out way more teal in that room then I expected and I really didn't like it. I wanted a darker blue.

I thought I would still edge everything thought. The thought being that when I get the right paint it'll make the edges quicker be ause you won't have to go over white? I am not sure that actually makes sense but I didn't and it was fun. It made me feel productive.

Around 1230 I finished all the edges and cleaned up. And realized I had not eaten. I was going to target to get cat food and I thought it would be nice to go to value village so i decided on Glen Burnie.

It's only about 4 minutes longer to get there from the new place. I have discovered I have to drive downtown a lot more to get to the highway but it's fine. I'll get used to not using MLK for eveything. It will just take time.

I had to run back in the house when I forgot my cup but that was just fine. And then I was off. Starving but knowing food was no far away.

When I got to Taco Bell I got to hear all the drama around the ice in the parking lot. Apparently upper management didn't pay for the person who was supposed to cover the whole shopping center and so everywhere else was done but not their lot and they couldn't bring anyone else over and it was a whole thing. But they made my tacos good so we were fine and it took a while for the food to make me feel better but eventually I didn't feel so weak anymore.

I went over to value village next. As I was getting there mom called me by accident and we ended up having a really nice chat about the paint colors in the house and it was just nice hearing her voice. I looked at the books while we chatted and found another Dear America that I didn't have. It seems thicker then the others? Strange but I'm happy to have found one I didn't have. The only other one I found I already own. It was a good one too. About a girl who is kidnapped and writes the journal while kidnapped. But I do not need two of the same book.

After I got off the phone I had a few more good finds. A screen for the window. A little shelf shaped like a stair case. A self healing cutting board. Love those for the studio and my one is getting really warped. It will be lovely to have a new one.

I paid and headed down the street to target. This was where my body aches really made me suffer. I was only there for a few things. Cat food. Lemonade. Lotion. I used the last of the vanilla shea butter I have been using this month. But carrying the case of cat food without a cart (there were no carts at all??) Was really really hard on me. I held it but it really hurt my arms.

I was basically ready to be done but I realized I was really close to Home Depot. And I would want to get back into painting tomorrow without having to venture out into the world. So I sucked it up and went and got my paint. And this much darker navy blue is much closer to the original vision. The girl at the counter was nice and I liked that I got to see it shake the paint this time. The paint did spill on her though and I was very apologetic but she said it was just fine. I got a different brand this time too. So it will be interesting to compare.

One very last stop at the pet store for the dechlorination liquid I use for my fishtanks and this was when my tiredness but me so hard I didn't even go look at anh of the animals. I needed to go home.

I was about 20 minutes from home and I just kept telling myself in 30 minutes you will be in bed. And I swear that's all that got me home. I was feeling miserable. All my body pain hit me at once. My eyes were so tired. I was struggling.

But I made it home and got comfortable. I put some stuff away. And refilled my lotions for Disney. And then I laid down with sweetp. Who wouldn't stop licking my hands and face. Goofy. I did not sleep though. Instead just watching videos. Until James came home.

James was also exhausted. They had shoveled the parking lot at the museum and got blisters on their hands. And it was just a really long day for them. They looked so tired. But they washed their face and came and laid with me. We talked about our days and the evening plans. Which were for them to go get quarters for laundry and then we would go have dinner with the Fulwilers at 7.

And that's just what we did. While James was gone I got redressed and cut my cuticles. And when they got back we got ready to go.

And dinner was lovely. We went to a fancy Indian restaurant inside the Ambassador Hotel. James accidently took us in the apartment side and we had to get buzzed in which was pretty funny. But this place was absolutely beautiful. Great architecture and details and I had a lovely time.

Charlotte and Callie were there too and it was a really fun evening. Telling stories about travel. Talking about the house. Anne and Tucker are going to come by tomorrow afternoon to see it. I'm happy they are showing some amount of excitement because I didn't think they were excited at all and it made me a little sad. But they were more happy for us today and that felt good.

And it was just how to celebrate Anne's birthday. I gave her a January birthday bear and she said it was so cute and I'm glad I picked the hat one because she said she liked it better then the clown one so I did good. Amazing.

The food was nice and I ate a lot of naan. And I just really enjoyed the company. And they even brought Anne a little chocolate cake for her birthday at the end. Which we all shared.

Because once we got back to their house we had grasshopper pie. Which was much more cream jello consistency but I actually really liked that. There was a lot of sports talk and southern housewife in the 1950s discussion about the history of the chiffon pie. And it was fun even if I was still so tired.

We would leave there after 9. James told me I looked so cute but I swear I was waddling because moving my arms was hurting me. I will take an aspirin or something ASAP.

We are home now though and I am ready to take a shower and go to bed. I hope I can fall asleep quick. Tomorrow is a busy day.

The plan is to move more and paint and just continue the moving process. And I'm thrilled I am but I really need a good night's sleep.

So fi gets crossed. I love you all. Goodnight!!

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maytheoddshq · 11 months ago

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Mack Montresor (she/her). District Six Tribute. Twenty. Lizeth Selene.

Third boxcar, midnight train

Destination Bangor, Maine

I know every engineer on every train

All of their children, and all of their names

And every handout in every town

Every lock that ain't locked, when no one's around

Mack didn’t like to stay in one place for too long. It wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t smart, and, frankly, it just wasn’t habit. There’s no telling if her sense of adventure led her to freighthopping, or if that was something she picked up along the way, but either way, Mack needed the rush, the surge of adrenaline that came with living on the edge. The fringe. Of society, of the map, of anyone’s memory.

As a kid, Mack grew up in a turbulent home. She doesn’t think about it much. It wasn’t important. Her life didn’t really start until she ran away. It was after the first Reaping she was eligible for. Her rabbit heart was racing, fleeing her chest, and she thought to herself I can’t live like this. If at any point, she could be plucked from her life, forced to fight for it, then she didn’t want to waste it anymore working at the scrap yard. She packed a bag and left that night.

It was an easy enough thing to pull off. The trains stopped at designated depots in scheduled intervals to switch cargo and crew. You’d pick your mark, or you’d catch one on the fly, jumping into boxcars as trains pulled away from their stops or slowed at bends in the track. You’d fight for your claim if you had to, and then ride it to the next depot. All of Panem was connected that way. And even though she had no family, she too was connected, just like the railways, to everyone else living this life.

There were scrimmages for territory or resources, sure, but there were also companions made along the way. People with whom Mack didn’t mind sharing. After all, they might fight internally, but they were a collective. A whole community of trainhoppers, small but mighty. They used an adaptation of pre-Dark Days hobo signs and signals to communicate, leaving behind information for the next traveler. Markings left carved onto fences of homes near the depots, scratched into the metal sides of the freights, painted on the baseboards of depot bathrooms. These let the freighthoppers know where was safe to stay, where to find food, who to avoid – all essential to survival. They also worked together to evade arrest, as the practice of freighthopping was illegal. Word of mouth and symbols denoted where to hide on trains, the best routes for escape. Even which doors were locked or unlocked.

And for Mack, every door in the world felt unlocked. The trains from Six ran through every district, and Mack – who rode those trains – saw the country. Through the endless fields of Eleven and the towering industrial cities of Three, along the coast of Four and through the mountains of One. It was a harsh existence, but a free one. A brave one. An exciting one, above all.

But Six collected blood samples, and Mack was still registered within the system there, so she’d return like an animal migrating home for the annual Reaping. When it was over, she’d bide her time retracing her old footsteps before catching the midnight train. Always looking ahead. On to the next place. Of course, it was too good to last. At the 135th Reaping Ceremony, Mack’s name was pulled, and she was stunned. Her first thought, strange as it was, was that she hadn’t been sure anyone actually remembered her there anymore. After almost ten years of Reapings and no tesserae, she’d lulled herself into a false sense of security. Surely, if she could survive the rail, she could survive a bougie-ass Capitolite pulling names out of a fishbowl.

But now? Now Mack must board another train – this one luxurious, heading for the Capitol – to find out.

Token: A Coin

+ brave, adventurous, independent, clever - harsh, isolated, distrusting, adrenaline-seeking

PENNED BY: LENA

#lsrp #lsrpg #oc rpg #oc rp #hunger games rpg #accepted #mack

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circusgoth-dotcom · 2 years ago

Text

Hooky/First Kiss

Ship: Jack Torrance x Keaton Diamond (Childhood Friends AU)

Word Count: 1054

Summary: Keaton & Jack are around 15 in this story. When Keaton isn't seen at school, Jack skips part of school to check up on him. As a result, he gets his first kiss. Attempted to use some fun fifties slang since that would be when Jack was a teenager if we put the events of The Shining in 1980. CWs for mentions of abusive parents, Jack (kind of) breaking into Keaton's house (granted, he was given a key), and self-image issues.

Tag List: @canongf @futurewife @rexscanonwife

When Jack didn’t see Keaton at school that day, he knew he had the perfect excuse to play hooky. Yeah, maybe his best friend was just sick, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant to go through the school day without him, either. At lunch, he slipped past the uncaring school secretary and began walking through the autumn-coloured neighbourhood and out to Keaton Diamond’s house. Jack and Keaton had been close friends ever since Keaton’s family had moved him out to Garden City, Long Island, and ever since the two confided in each other about their oppressive home lives.

Jack had to deal with his both verbally and physically aggressive father and his devoutly Catholic mother, while Keaton dealt with an emotionally unavailable father and a physically unavailable mother, along with the incessant calling from his overbearing grandparents… needless to say, confiding in each other was quite cathartic and came easily.

Rounding the corner, Jack scrambled over his neighbours’ fences until he ended up in Keaton’s backyard, gold and red leaves crunching beneath his worn boots as he approached the window that would open into Keaton’s bedroom. He knocked on the glass first in an attempt to be polite, but when the blackout curtains didn’t shift, he dug around in his coat pocket until he retrieved the key Keaton had snuck him so that they might be able to see each other without any adults noticing. Glancing over his shoulder, Jack unlocked Keaton’s window and pulled it open as quietly as physically possible before launching himself over the sill and struggling past the thick curtains. The room was completely dark, but Jack could hear Keaton scrambling to sit up in his bed.

The bedside lamp flicked on. “Jack! You can’t be here right now!” Keaton hissed. Jack looked toward him, still halfway through the window, but he was hiding beneath his sheet.

“Whaddya mean I can’t be here, Keats, your dad isn’t home, is he?” Jack asked, beginning to swing his legs into the room.

“You can’t be here because you’re supposed to be in school-- for Christ’s sake, at least take your boots off, I don’t need my dad asking about mud on the carpet…!”

Jack took off his boots and dropped them outside the window before planting his grey socks on the carpeted floor. “Fine, fine. Seeing you was more important than listening to Mr. Inbody drone on about algebra… so what’re you doing in bed, anyway, you don’t sound sick to me.”

Keaton’s form folded his arms subconsciously under his sheet. “I-it’s something you wouldn’t understand…”

Jack scoffed. “Oh yeah? Try me, Diamond.” He leaned over the baseboard of Keaton’s bed and snatched at the sheet, making Keaton bury himself further under his blankets.

“Jack, no! You can’t look at me…”

“Why not?” Still leaning over the baseboard, Jack looked around Keaton’s room. He had been there before, of course, but he always liked it much better than his own. At least Keaton got to have posters from his favourite sci-fi and horror flicks. The walls were painted a soothing navy blue while the carpet was an unoffensive cream colour. A cluttered desk sat in the corner opposite to the bed, where the duvet was a white background patterned with varying shades of blue birds.

“I’m all… broke-out…” Keaton murmured against his blankets.

“Broke-out??”

“Y’know. Red and spotty.”

Jack slowly wandered to the side of the bed and finally sunk down onto the mattress. “Why do you care that your face is red and spotty??”

“I told you you wouldn’t understand, it’s absolutely bogus! I scrubbed my face with soap and water until it bled and I think it just made it worse…”

Jack’s brow furrowed at this. “Keaton…” He felt around on top of the blankets in search of his friend’s hand, making him squirm and squeak when he accidentally grabbed at his side- “Sorry, sorry!” -before finally squeezing Keaton’s hand. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“It’s disgusting! And it hurts like a bitch on my nose…”

“Didn’t your daddy tell you anything about not having a dirty mouth, you little shit?” Jack grinned as Keaton feebly laughed. “C’mon, I wanna see that smile… spots and all.”

Slowly, Keaton’s dark hair appeared at the top of the sheets, followed by his forehead and bespectacled eyes.

“Well, it’s not looking too shabby so far,” Jack observed, playfully ruffling his hair.

“Oh, trust me, it gets worse…” The sheet slipped down to reveal his nose and cheeks, inflamed, shining, and pimply, followed by his lips and chin. He squeezed his eyes shut as he sat up, drawing his knees to his chest. “I feel like the surface of Mars.”

“Oh, Keaton… can I…?” Jack raised his hand, letting it hover over his cheek. Keaton opened one of his eyes to see what he was doing and hesitantly nodded. Willingly, Jack placed his hand on Keaton’s cheek. “I don’t think you’re disgusting.”

Keaton shuddered slightly, still with his eyes closed. “You don’t?”

“‘Course not. When have I ever cared about appearances?”

Keaton opened his eyes, glancing down at Jack’s outfit. “You can say that again.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Hey, I’m trying to make you feel better, could you do less ragging on my sense of fashion?”

“I don’t know, I think that is making me feel better,” Keaton hid his smile behind his hand. “No, no, I quite like the way you dress, actually… flannel looks real bad on you.”

Jack grinned. “Thanks.” He stroked Keaton’s cheek with his thumb, unbothered by the slick yet bumpy feeling of his skin. He cleared his throat as he admired Keaton, he was cute whether he was sporting clear skin or the worst acne flare-up of the year. “Would it be wrong for me to want to kiss you? Right now?”

Now Keaton’s face was flushed for a different reason. He bat his eyelashes. “I…” He found his hand trailing up Jack’s arm, past his neck, and up into his hair, almost of its own accord… “you… kiss me?”

“Yeah, caveman. I kiss you. Because you big cute. And Jack big handsome, so, only suitable, yeah?”

“Oh my God.”

And suddenly they were leaning in and kissing deeply, sweetly, eyes closed, hands on each other's bodies, and an autumn breeze flicking the curtains behind Jack’s back…

#self shipping #self shipping community #self insert #self insert oc #self insert x canon #self x canon #self insert oc x canon #oc x canon #the shining #jack torrance #circus scripts #🪓Darling - Light of My Life🪓#🌳🥃.s/i [Childhood Friends AU]

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