#clutches imaginary pearls on her neck

[elilelibeli]

ugh, pretty boy is so pretty. but he is so so dumb.

[quillthrillswriting]

sooo.... anyone else ever wondered how different ATLA would have been if aang had been frozen at age 16 instead of age 12?

yeah... me too 😌 my new fanfic "the teenager in the iceberg" follows the events of the show, but with only aang aged up, while everyone else remains their canon age.

also...cmon....how funny is it to switch zuko and aang's iconic dialogue to "you're just a teenager!" "...so are you?"

this idea was originally inspired by the talented @allgremlinart's aged up aang drawings, so please go show them some love!!:)<3

enjoy the excerpts from chapters one and two!

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

Aang chuckled, pushing himself up with his hands on his knees. He was… taller than Katara had realised, taller than Sokka. He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, turning to look over his shoulder at the remains of the boulder-sized chunk of ice he had just been blasted out of.  “Aang. My name’s Aang.” He hesitated, momentarily seeming to puzzle something over. “And honestly? No clue. Don’t remember how me and…Appa!” He yelped, suddenly scrambling back over the hill of ice and snow. Katara followed him without thinking, and Sokka, grumbling under his breath, followed moments later. 

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

“So, you’ve brought a monster to invade the village, then? You’re some incognito Fire Nation soldier sent in as an undercover scout? Well, I’ll have you know that I’m the village’s strongest warrior, a-”

“The only warrior,” Katara chimed in, lightly elbowing Sokka’s side, earning herself a responding glare. 

“The strongest warrior.” Sokka reiterated. “And I don’t much like firebenders.” He added the words pointedly.

“Ah.” Aang titled his head. “That’s a shame. Some of my closest friends are Fire Nation.”

“Of course they are,” Sokka glared, hunching over into a defensive position and adjusting his fishing spear until it pointed directly at Aang.

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

Katara still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Aang. The Water Tribe boys had always been all flashy muscles, seal-jerky breath, and overconfidence, so Katara had never seen someone move, carry themself, the way Aang did. 

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

Katara had admittedly forgotten how much fun penguin sledding was. “Spirits, I haven’t done this since I was a kid!” she called to Aang as he raced past her, surprisingly skilled considering that he’d never even seen a penguin until half an hour before. 

“You still are a kid!” He called back over his shoulder. “A kid who’s losing this race, badly !”

Katara’s competitive streak reared its head, her eyes narrowing as Aang stuck out his tongue. She sat up slightly, no longer gripping the penguin’s fur as tightly. “You wish!” She shouted back the words as she raised her hands, breathing deeply. Her hands moved through the positions she had practised from the few bending scrolls the tribe still held on to, and before Aang knew it, the snow in front of Katara turned to ice, and she shot past him as his own ice trail suddenly became dry snow with too much friction to slide on. 

She made it to the bottom of the hill, beaming, breathing heavily. The wind had whipped her hair out of her bun, and she knew without checking that her hair must have looked like a lion-turtle’s mane. She watched as Aang made a show of drying himself off with a gust of wind that he then redirected at her, messing up her curls even more. 

“You’re a cheater !” Aang gasped, mockingly clutching imaginary pearls at his throat. “I demand a rematch.”

Katara strode past him, only turning her head to cast him a smug smirk. “Maybe you’re just not as good of a penguin sledder as you thought .”

“Oh, not so fast!” Aang grabbed her wrist, tugging her back towards him, and she internally questioned why the momentary brush of their skin made her heart flip. He tried to trip her, she tried to flip him, and they both ended up on their backs in the snow, giggling, cheeks and noses bright pink from the cold. 

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

“Trouble sleeping too, huh?” Aang cocked a grin, tilting his head to Katara. She kept her eyes fixed upwards, trained on the moon and the stars, worried that if she looked away, she’d end up staring into his eyes like a weirdo. 

“I always feel so awake with the moon’s light on me. Sleeping under the stars has never really been a thing that works. It’s too energising, too… too much. It’s hard to explain.”

“No, no… I get it. I feel the same way in a windstorm, all those breezes and gusts of wind, it feels… exhilarating.” She watched through her peripheral vision as he looked up at the moon. “In times of war, I think we all tend to forget how spiritual bending is at its core. I’d say it’s a good thing that you’re in touch enough with the origins of your abilities to feel the moon’s pull tug at you just as much as it does on the ocean.” 

⁎⁺˳ ✧༚ ˎˊ˗ ♡ ˗ˏˋയ ✩

Aang smiled back. “Now is our time to try to make up for that. I can’t bring back everyone who was hurt in this war, and you can’t bring back your mother, but together, the two-, three of us can make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

“I’d like that,” Katara exhaled, her breath calming down and tears dissipating. The two spent hours talking back and forth, exchanging the stories of their respective childhoods. Katara learned that Aang had invented several new bending moves and had been a big fan of fruit pies, while Aang learned that Katara had always been the bossier one between her and Sokka and that she had almost chipped a tooth on seal jerky when she was six. They continued talking back and forth in increasingly hushed tones until the world faded away under the cover of clouds and sleep.

Katara awoke to the loud shout of her brother. 

“Wakey wakey, lovebirds!” he yelped, chucking a rock-hard stick of seal jerky at both of them. 

“Ouch, Sokka !” Katara snapped at him, rubbing her head at the spot where she had been hit, before realising that she was leaning against Aang and immediately jumping away, blushing furiously. 

♥ check out the two chapters of this (ongoing) fic & my ao3 here! ->

[b0ng05]

being a t.o. and hanging out with with your detective wife angela while she finishes working. she even lets you sit on her lap while she finishes work? please write something along these lines. i NEED

Word Count: 747

Master list/Request List

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

I was walking down the hall of the precinct to Angela’s office. My backpack strung over my shoulder as I knocked on the wooden door three times. I smiled when I heard her voice echo from behind the door, a quiet muffled ‘Come in,’.

I open the door quietly as I enter, closing the door behind me softly so as to not disrupt her. I set my backpack on the floor near her desk.

“Hey honey,” I say softly with a smile, snaking my arms around her shoulders from behind her desk chair.

“Hey gorgeous, how has your day been?” She asks with a small smile as she continues to fill out paperwork on her computer.

“Same shit, different day,” I say with a small smile, leaning down to kiss her cheek, “But, I did miss you a lot,” I say sheepishly.

At my words, Angela’s hands move from the keyboard, taking one of my hands to bring me to the side of the chair as she pushes it back to gently guide me onto her lap. A loving smile on her face as she rubs my outer thigh with her hand.

“I missed you too, pretty girl,” She says, guiding my chin down with her thumb and finger for a small kiss.

I grin and adjust myself so I straddle her lap, and kiss her cheek, my hand caressing her jaw.

“How much more paperwork do you have left?” I ask softly as I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“A few more papers and then we can go home, but with you on my lap like this, I’m thinkin’ I can get done in 30 minutes tops,” She smirks and caresses my hips softly as she pushes the chair closer to the desk to continue working.

“So I’m your motivation here?” I giggle as I rest my head on her shoulder, kissing the underside of her jaw sweetly.

“When are you not~?” She teases, kissing my forehead, her fingers dancing around the keyboard as she works, “But also the fact that I really want to watch Criminal Minds tonight,” She says with a playful sigh.

“Oh how charming.” I say sarcastically with a small laugh, softly running my hand through her hair.

“God I know, I’m just your knight in shining armor, huh? I’d fight a dragon for you and everything,” She plays along, that smirk along her lips.

“I’m a strong independent woman, thank you very much,” I say mocking playful offense, my hand clutching my imaginary pearls.

“Uhuh, you say that as you’re sitting on my lap, waiting for me to get done working,” She teases, her eyebrow quirking up playfully.

“If I remember correctly, you are the one who pulled me into her lap.” I smirk and kiss her cheek.

Her cheeks blush slightly, she playfully and lightly slaps my butt, making me let out a quiet yelp and a giggle.

“Hush, don’t act like you don’t love it~” She teases, as her hands return to her keyboard.

“Never said I didn’t love it~” I tease back and kiss her cheek.

She smirks and kisses my cheek in return before turning her focus back to her work. I smile and rest my head in the crook of her neck as she continues to work. The scent of her cardamom, sandalwood and lavender perfume fills my senses.

The sound of her fingers tapping against her keyboard and the click of her mouse fill the room. The exhaustion of the day started to weigh down on me now that I had the comfort of Angela’s presence. She swayed the chair slowly as she continued to work, making my eyes feel even heavier.

Soon enough, Angela feels my weight slump against her as she works, a soft smile lifting her lips as she glances down at me. She leans down and kisses my forehead softly, moving one of her hands off the keyboard to softly rub my back as she uses her other hand to continue working. She knew it would make her work slower, but she couldn’t help herself.

30 minutes later, Angela softly strokes my cheek.

“Hey… Hey honey, wake up, it’s time to go,” She says softly as she kisses my forehead.

I stir awake, my eyes fluttering open. I let out a muted yawn as I stretch in Angela’s lap.

“Criminal Minds time?” I ask, my voice still filled with sleep.

Angela lets out a chuckle, “Criminal Minds time.”

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Author's Note/ I'm gonna be working on the things in my inbox, feel free to send more requests :)

[angel-of-the-moons]

A Rose Under The Moon

Moon Knight System (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: None, mostly some angst.

A/N: Whaaaat? Another chapter already? Sorry if this one is a hot mess, but it was bound to happen eventually!

Taglist: @bad4amficideas @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @shirukitsune @lokisremainingsanity @mundivagantsoul @furblrwurblr @zoleea-exultant @latenightcravingz @daygirl26 @thelastemzy @leahnicole1219 @marsmallow433 @crazyunsexycool

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Chapter 9:

A House Divided

“Seriously, Jake.” Layla scoffed as they walked down the sidewalk, careful to keep her voice low so nobody eavesdropped easily on their conversation. “You didn’t have to kill that guy the other night.”

“It was either break his neck or let him shoot you.” He quirked a brow. “Would you rather I let him shoot you and you deal with a healing gunshot wound?”

“Well, my armor’s magic, same as yours, so…” She held up her hand in a “duh” like manner.

Jake rolled his eyes at her and adjusted his cap. “Ay, just shut it. And besides, Marc and Steven would never shut the fuck up if I let you get hurt. Even in your Scarab armor.”

“Oh, I could chew them out whenever one of them fronted, just chill out you damn edgelord.” Layla grunted.

“You could just say “thank you” and not be a pendeja?”

Layla clasped her hands at him and batted her eyelashes, “Oh! But of course! Jake, my hero. The man who turned a guy’s neck into bone fragments because he pointed a puny revolver at me.”

“Pendeja.”

“And no offense, but your mustache makes you look like you’re a 1970’s porn actor.” She huffed, shoving her hands in her pockets.

Now that finally got Jake to emote, as he actually dropped his jaw, furrowed his brows, and clutched his imaginary pearls. “It does not! It makes me look distinguished!”

Layla gave him a “do you honestly believe that?” look. Apparently, he’d convinced Marc and Steven to let him front long enough to grow a mustache and the beginnings of a beard. Marc, as long as she’d known him, had always miraculous facial hair growth. Where it’d take almost a month for someone to grow a thick beard, it merely took him maybe two weeks. She often wondered if maybe it was a side-effect of the Moon Knight suit, that the magic had changed that physical aspect.

But, apparently, Jake did believe it. He seriously believed his ridiculous ‘stache made him look cool.

“Ay, ay!” Jake hissed. “Don’t give me that look! It does! Plenty of people consider facial hair distinguished.”

“Maybe if you’re sporting a full beard and not some weird porno ‘stache with scruff on your face.” Layla smirked.

He jabbed a gloved finger at her, and narrowed his eyes, “You listen, cabróna, do not insult my mustache. And you will change your tune when the beard comes in! It will–”

“Oh, look!” Layla said, sweeping her arm upwards, gesturing to the sign of the shop.

Your shop.

“You little–!” Jake sputtered as Layla dragged him through the door, the little bell above the frame chiming loudly.

“Hellooooo!” Layla says cheerfully.

“Layla!” Your voice calls from deeper in the store. “Be there a minute!”

Layla grinned, but both she and Jake freeze when they see Taweret awkwardly standing off to the side, giving them a little wave with her fingers.

“What are… oh, I’ll ask later.” Layla said to her softly, shaking her head with a smile.

Jake tipped his hat to Taweret. He liked her. She was a sweetheart, and he remembered what happened when…

He shook his head free of those thoughts as he took his place in one of the reading nooks, Layla going on ahead and skittering to her usual romance section of the shop.

“You poor thing!” Taweret said to Jake. “You boys need more rest. Layla and I agreed to help in exchange for you getting your rest!”

Jake couldn’t help but smirk as she wagged her finger at him, a small frown creasing her snout. “Layla isn't suited to all of our work, Taweret. And I don’t want her to carry the burden by herself.” He said softly, keeping his voice low.

“Oh, I have half a mind to swaddle you like an infant, Jake Lockley!” She huffed, her little ears wiggling indignantly, planting her large hands on her hips as she looked down at him. “You need to stop shouldering the world’s burdens on your own! I know you’re a protector by nature, but you will seriously burn out at this rate!”

“I know, vieja.” He sighed.

“And what have Steven and Marc had to say about this?”

“They’ve been letting me front solo for a bit. Like today.” He grinned. “So, I’d say they might give me a lecture, but otherwise they’d be pretty understanding.

“You boys are so…!” Taweret threw her hands up in exasperation. “Oooh! If my hair could gray, it’d be white as snow because of how much you worry me!” Ah, her motherly nature. Both a blessing and a curse…

Jake opened his mouth to say something, but he jumped back when a furry black blob jumped onto the table in front of him, and he held his hands up as big green orbs blinked at him, the green mere slivers around the inky black of the pupils.

A cat. Wait, when did you have a cat? Did you adopt one recently?

The cat mewed softly, followed by an inquisitive “prrbt” as it looked up at him.

“She won’t hurt you, Jake.” Taweret giggled, her demeanor softening. “She wants you to pet her!”

“...Right.” He said hesitantly, tugging one of his gloves off before scritching the cat on her chin. He relaxed as she leaned into his touch, turning to run her whole body along his hand, the tip of her tail curling different ways as she happily purred.

“Well, aren’t you a friendly little lady.” Jake smiled at her, gently twisting the tip of her tail around his finger before doing another head-to-tail stroke.

The cat made a soft chirping noise as she looked at him, shaking her head as she sneezed.

“It’s getting cold out there, isn’t it, chiquita? You’re lucky the nice lady here took you in, you know? I’d take you, but our landlord would have a fit if we did that without permission.”

The cat seemed to understand, and meowed up at him. He smiled, the bushy mustache he now sported quirking upwards and twitching as she leaned in to sniff at his nose.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table while he allowed her to investigate him.

“Oh! I see Puck’s went on ahead and introduced herself.” He heard your voice chuckle.

Jake lifted his gaze and frankly, the outfit you were wearing suited you. Maybe a tad… old-fashioned, but cute. You wore a knitted half-sleeve burgundy sweater with some faded, black-denim overalls buttoned in the front. Taweret giggled and wandered off to go find Layla.

The two you stared at each other for a minute, your eyes squinting ever so slightly, and your eyebrow raised as you smirked. “Jake?”

Okay, he was impressed. Most people couldn’t tell when he was fronting. And when he had to, he was good at impersonating Steven or Marc if someone confused him for one or the other. You, apparently, were not such a case.

“Yeah. How could you tell?” He said, smirking at you.

You put your hand on your hip, your other arm was currently preoccupied with a stack of books you had tucked against you. “Well, Steven usually keeps his hair a bit messy, and he likes to sit at almost an angle, slightly hunched over the table, he also likes to drum his fingers on it, or bounce his leg as he sits. He’s also partial to weirdly-patterned flannels. Marc is a bit stiffer, and prefers to sit with his back against a wall, palms flat on his thighs or knees.” You tap your nose with a wink as you walk over to the counter to prep the books for your pick-up order. “You sit openly with your back to everyone else, and tend to look out the window. You’re almost relaxed in posture, but seem like you’re still on-guard.”

“And besides. You have worn that cap every single time I’ve seen you. Plus, y’know. You got that teeny accent.”

Jake chuckled and shook his head. Okay, those last ones were some obvious points. But you on the other hand, recognized their physical tells as well.

Puck mewed loudly, putting her paw on Jake’s other hand that still sported his glove. He smiled down at her and humored her voiceless request, pulling his offending leather off to pet her unobstructed. Puck purred loudly and happily while she curled around his hand as he petted her.

“Aw, she really likes you.” You say, walking over to them. "Yeah, that’s my little vagrant.”

“Ah… she’s yours?” Jake said.

“Technically? She vanishes now and again, but I keep my door open for when she comes by. I keep stocked on kibble, her favorite dreamies–”

“Dreamies?” Jake smirks up at you.

You flush slightly and you rub at the back of your neck awkwardly. “Oh, her treats. That’s just what I call ‘em.”

“Got it.” He chuckles.

“But yeah, she’s kind of a stray, kind of not a stray. I like to let her have her freedom.” You cringe slightly. “Even though letting a domestic cat outside isn’t necessarily good for the environment, but she doesn’t like to stay indoors for very long…”

“Ah, a free spirit, I can relate.” Jake smiles, scratching Puck’s little cheek.

You reach out and give Puck a hefty stroke down to the tip of her tail. “Just wait til she shows you her belly. She loves tummy rubs.”

You didn’t notice how Jake’s eyes narrow in on something, staring with his brows furrowed in shock.

“Yeah, she’s a weird one, but she’s a cutie.” You lean and pull your hand back. “But I–”

You were cut off when Jake reflexively reached out and gripped your forearm, turning it until he could see the inside of your wrist clearly.

Three moons. Three crescent moons.

The bottom left moon was full.

He felt his heart thud in his chest as he stared at it, his mind running a mile a minute as he willed himself to calm before Steven or Marc accidentally fronted in front of you. Your mark could mean anything, but him knowing what the moon meant to him, Marc, and Steven’s daily lives had his mouth go dry.

“Uh… Jake?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. You didn’t try to pull away from him, merely stared down in concern. You knew that he was upset about something, and that he wouldn’t hurt you. Like his brothers, you never got a feeling of unease around Jake; even now.

Jake shook his head suddenly and released your arm. “Ah, sorry, señorita, I… agh. I’m not sure what came over me.”

Thank the gods that Steven and Marc weren’t currently co-fronting. He would have to…

You turned your wrist up and looked at your mark. “Ohhh, this? Yeah, people tend to ask what it means because it changes. I don’t blame you for being curious.”

You hold out your wrist for him to examine, as if it were the most casual thing on the planet.

“What do you mean, it moves?” Jake asked you, not looking up from your skin.

“Well, not as in it moves to somewhere else on my body, but it… changes.” You shrug.

“Changes.” He repeated flatly.

“Yeah, sometimes one moon is full and the other two aren’t, stuff like that. Sometimes, if one is full, one or both of the others will sometimes turn into half-moons, but not always.”

Jake swallowed at the lump in his throat. “I… see.”

“Well, it’s kinda neat, but sometimes I just wish that my–what–Puck!” You sputter after the fluffy little terror bites into one of Jake’s gloves, secures it firmly in between her little teeth, and darts off somewhere into the store.

“Oh, god, I just–” You whine. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her, lately. I’ll–I’ll go get her.”

You huff and stomp off to try and locate your furry little terrorist, hoping she didn’t gnaw Jake’s glove too harshly.

Jake shoved his spare glove into his pocket and pushed himself out of his seat, rushing to go find Layla.

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“Are you sure?” Layla asked Jake as he paced on the rooftop, hands clasped behind his back as the moon shined down on them.

Both their faces were bare, but they were both wearing their divine armor that they were bestowed as Avatars.

“Yes, what else could three fucking moons mean? She said sometimes that one will get full while the others don’t, Layla. I saw it.” He growled, turning to fix her with a glare.

It wasn’t one laden with malice, but of frustration, concern, and… fear.

“What do Steven and Marc have to say?” Layla replied calmly.

Jake pinched the bridge of his nose as he resumed pacing, keeping his breathing level so his panic wouldn’t rise and alert the other two within their headspace.

“They don’t know.” He hissed through gritted teeth. “I…I don’t want them to know. Not… not yet.”

“Jake, they have a right to know!” Layla gasped. "If she really is your soulmate--"

“No!” Jake snapped at her. “She’s not… she can’t…”

He gripped his usually immaculate hair in his fingers and bunched the raven curls between them.

“She’s innocent. We can’t just... I can’t bring her into this world on a hunch that she might be…”

Layla fixed him with a soft, sympathetic look as she took a step closer to him. “Jake…”

She slowly put a hand on his shoulder, feeling him stiffen beneath the dark trappings of his suit.

“...Remember when Marc was hurting and said his hand felt like it was burning? And that he had a headache?”

“Yes…” He slowly lifted his eyes to look at her suspiciously.

“Well…” She said awkwardly. “Um.”

“Layla.” Jake said sternly, feeling a bit of anger start to rise. “Did you know?”

“I’m just saying!” Layla continued, taking her hand off of him to raise both in a placating gesture.

“But, when I went into her shop after I got here… her hand was burned. And then she mentioned she tripped and hit her head…”

“LAYLA!” Jake shouted.

When she winced, he snorted out a hot puff of air from his nostrils, rubbing his temples. “Sorry. But we had a right to know.”

“But you’re being a hypocrite by not telling Steven or Marc.” She said softly, looking at him from beneath her lashes.

“...Layla. She’s an innocent person. I don’t want to expose her to Khonshu and his schemes, I don’t want him to use her like a weapon against us like he did to you!” Jake said, waving his arms at her.

“I don’t want her to be put in danger! She’s the one normal spot we have in our fucking lives, and it would be nice to just have one normal friend!”

“But she might be more than that.” She narrowed her eyes sharply at him. “What are you planning to do, keep it a secret from the other two and reject her for them?”

“No!” Jake said, his eyes widening in shock.

No, no, no. He would never dare to do that to you. He knew what rejecting a soulmate did to the other party. He couldn’t live with the guilt knowing his rejection of you might curse you to some sort of half-life, living in a gray, colorless world.

And… god. Everything they've been through, every injury they’d gotten… you felt it, too. Even when Marc’s mother would beat them, even when he was hurt out in Egypt, when they wore the armor… everything bounced back to you.

Either way, you would suffer no matter the choice. It was unfair and cruel to you, cruel to them.

Why the fuck couldn’t fate have given you a less complicated partner?

Just this once, why couldn’t they live their lives without causing somebody else’s suffering?

And no doubt if Layla figured it out, that means Taweret and maybe Khonshu knew, as well.

He looked over the rooftop and down through your window, seeing you curled in on yourself on your couch as Puck snuggled into you, sitting like a cute little black loaf in your lap.

You were so blissfully unaware of the evils and supernatural surrounding you. Surrounding them. You… you deserved peace.

Jake felt his heart tear in two, one part indecision and the other telling him to damn the consequences and tell you.

Why… why was fate so cruel?

Above all else, he knew… god, Jake knew that whatever he–or they--did, they couldn’t let Khonshu get his bony hands on you.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, biting down the surge of anxiety to keep from alerting his headmates. He felt tears of frustration burn at the edges of his vision when he opened them again to look down at you.

You were still sitting innocently, laughing at something on your television. But Puck was looking up.

Right at him and Layla.

The pain of knowing that you were possibly their soulmate, and you had been so tantalizingly close this entire time ate him up inside; it was like dangling a loaf of bread in front of a starving man, but he knew if he reached out for it, he could face his limbs being lopped off, or the bread snatched away from him at the last possible second.

Either way.

Suffering was assured.

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Chapter 10: Link

[aaron-m-geist-ff]

NOT EVEN GONNA LIE ZODIAC ASKS ARE SUCH A COOL IDEA!!! 😭 AFTER STALKING YOUR PROF- AHEM SORRY- READING YOUR WORK- couldn't resist the irresistible energy to toss my hat into the ring *wink wonk*. A-KNEE-WAYZ we're twinning- I'm a gemini tooo 🤭🔫 and honestly I would love something fluffy (tho I wouldn't say no to some smut either teeheee) life's been stressful lately :(( I'm pretty new to the fandom so I'm rather curious to see what you'll give me 👀...OH and I use she/they pronouns :))

PS: May I ask you what your favorite flower is?

PPS: Your writing is phenomenal, imma go stalk your ao3 later

Signed,

Your newest supporter.

Omg your ask made me smile so much because of how absolutely unhinged it is 😂you can stalk me all you want! And I could already tell you were a Gemini just from the first sentence 🤣A-KNEE-WAYZ, I will give you what you want now!

Ps: I like white daisies and any red flower ☺️

Pps: thank you for supporting me so strongly, twin!🩷💅🏻

_______________________________________________

You got…🥁🥁🥁

Satoru Gojo!

“Oh my god!! And then, you will never believe what happened next, my co-worker actually told me that her step daughter got cheated on! Isn’t that crazy?! I was so shocked, clutching my pearls and everything!” You continued to ramble on and on about one of your crazy stories.

Gojo sat there with his blindfold on, taking a sip of his soda as he listened patiently.

“Satoru, are you even listening to me?” You stopped telling your story all of a sudden to ask the question.

“Am I talking too much?” You asked. You were beginning to feel insecure. In the past, people used to straight up start ignoring you because of how much you talked. You really valued your boyfriend’s opinion of you and didn’t want him to end up disliking you for some reason. You couldn’t hide the concerned look on your face.

Gojo chuckled.

“Nah, baby. Talk all you want. I’m listening~”

He sounded so fucking dominant when he said that. It actually made your cheeks start to heat up. You weren’t one to get flustered easily, but having Gojo order you to talk more did stupid things to your Gemini brain.

Gojo smirked when he saw your blush. He rested his chin on his hand, leaning back on the couch.

“In fact…Come sit on my lap while you continue that story of yours.”

Gojo’s voice was so attractive to you. It made you nervous. And the idea of sitting on his lap made your heart do a flip in your chest. As a Gemini, you have a tendency to be a little too flighty. Your mind is often all over the place. Gojo enjoys being your anchor.

You sat on his lap, facing him as you straddled him. Your cheeks were flushing so much out of embarrassment. You swallowed thickly, wrapping your arms around Gojo’s neck.

“Right…So, anyway…W-where was I in the story? I think I lost my train of thought-“ you stuttered.

Gojo’s large hands moved to grip your ass. He squeezed it casually.

“Your co-worker’s step daughter got cheated on and you clutched your imaginary pearls,” he said with a short laugh.

You giggled, trying to ignore the arousal flowing through you.

“Y-yeah! Sounds about right!” You chirped cheerfully. It made you really happy that Gojo remembered those little details. He seemed to pay attention to you just like he promised. It made your heart feel warm to be appreciated in such a way.

_____

“Ha…Y-yes…Right there, Satoru-“

You moaned quietly, your face pressed into Gojo’s neck as you rode his cock. You could feel the tip pressing into your special spot, sending little shocks of pleasure through you.

“And what happened next in the story?” Gojo teased lowly, uttering the words right beside your ear.

You whined. “Satoruuu! I can’t….ha, fuck… I can’t talk-“

You were always quite vocal during sex, and how could you not be?? Gojo fucked you too well. He chuckled at your pathetic response.

“Oh? My little Gemini can’t talk anymore? Must feel really intense, babe.”

Gojo gripped your hips as he began to fuck you from below, pushing his cock up into your tight entrance. He moaned under his breath, getting lost in the feeling as he thrusted roughly without any hesitation.

“Fuck…Gonna fill you up, princess.”

[iamgonnagetyouback]

james potter x reader where the others scheme a date

navigation┆ james potter masterlist┆request here 𝜗𝜚

Hogsmeade weekends were supposed to be chill. Stroll around, grab some Butterbeer, have an actual good time. But no, not when you had this group of friends.

The day had started innocently enough. You, James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, and Peter were wandering through the cobbled streets of the village, the chilly air nipping at your cheeks. James, as always, walked a little too close, his shoulder bumping into yours every so often. Sirius was laughing loudly at something ridiculous, while Peter was fumbling with a packet of chocolate frogs.

“Honestly,” you said, smirking at Remus, “You’re absolutely wrong, Lupin,”

“I’m not,” Remus raised an eyebrow, adjusting the scarf around his neck. “The book clearly states—”

“Oh, here we go. The book states,” you interrupted, waving your hand in the air mockingly. “I didn’t realize we were hanging out with Hogwarts: A History today.”

Sirius snorted. “Shots fired, Moony.”

“You can’t win against her,” James said with a grin, adjusting his glasses. “Just give in now, mate.”

“Never,” Remus replied, clutching his imaginary pearls. “Unlike some people, I don’t concede to chaos.”

“You concede to chocolate,” you countered, smirking.

The banter continued until Sirius abruptly stopped, spinning around with a dramatic flourish that made his cloak billow like he thought he was some kind of medieval prince. “Actually, as riveting as this has been” he began, his tone suspiciously casual, “I think I’m gonna pop into Honeydukes. Anyone want to join?”

“Sure!” Lily chirped, adjusting her hat.

“I could do with some sweets,” Remus said, eyeing Sirius skeptically but playing along.

“Count me in,” Peter added, already salivating at the thought of fudge.

You blinked, slightly caught off guard. “Wait, are we all going? James, you coming?”

James opened his mouth, likely to say yes, but Sirius slapped a hand against his chest, stopping him. “Oh, no. Nope. Negative. Not happening.”

You frowned, looking between Sirius and James. “Uh, why not?”

“Yeah, why not?” James echoed, shoving Sirius’ hand away.

Lily chimed in smoothly, her expression far too innocent. “Because the car only fits four people, love.”

James squinted at her. “Lils, we walked here. Together. On foot. As a group.”

“Exactly,” Remus cut in, a suspicious glint in his eye. “And now we’re heading back... by foot. But separately. To balance out the symmetry.”

“Symmetry?” you repeated, your eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes,” Peter said, nodding vigorously. “It’s... the rules of the village. Hogsmeade law. Very strict. Four people max per... Honeydukes visit. And symmetry.”

The four of them shuffled off, muttering a chorus of nonsensical excuses. “Very strict rules... totally official... you’ll understand when you’re older...”

You and James stood frozen in the middle of the street, watching them disappear into the distance.

“What just happened?” you asked after a moment, turning to James, bewildered.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, his expression caught between amusement and disbelief. “I think we’ve been abandoned.”

You squinted toward Honeydukes, where your friends were very obviously not adhering to any “symmetry laws” and instead stuffing their faces with sweets through the window.

“Well,” James said, his voice suddenly hopeful, “I guess it’s just us then.” He grinned at you, his cheeks pink from the cold. “Wanna make it a date?”

Your heart flipped at the word date, but you played it cool, tilting your head dramatically. “Hmm. I don’t know, Potter. What’s in it for me?”

He leaned in just slightly, his grin turning cheeky. “A lifetime of my charming company, of course.”

You laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. “Oh, well, in that case... lead the way.”

As the two of you wandered off toward The Three Broomsticks, your laughter echoing through the chilly air, you couldn’t help but glance back toward Honeydukes. Sirius caught your eye through the window, winking as he shoved a licorice wand into his mouth.

“Idiots,” you muttered fondly, shaking your head.

James didn’t seem to mind one bit.

[arcielee]

I really love the dynamic between them and the eerie intimacy of this moment shared:

When she kissed his neck, he shivered, and she pressed her teeth against his skin.  “What does it feel like?” He opened his eyes, “biting someone is power.  Cruelty if you hate them, possession if you love them, and when the blood flows, it’s the heat of them becoming part of you.” “Show me.”

Like, I am just clutching my imaginary pearls reading through this. 💜

In the Red of Night, part 5

Aemond’s loft was on the top floor - of course - of the building across the street from the coffee shop.  When he opened the front door, your determination to not be impressed by his wealth went right out the window.

“Oh wow.”

The door opened to a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, with the colors of sunset filling the expanse of glass.  There were large light fixtures hovering over the large living area, and your first impression was of a refuge, a welcoming space for someone who had most likely seen much of just about every style of living and wanted peace and quiet.

The wall across from the wall of windows was filled with books, and you smiled, shaking your head.  “Have you read of all those?”

You turned to Aemond and realized he’d been watching you.  “Yes.  Do you approve?”

You let out a breath.  “Of course I approve.  This is amazing.”

“Let me show you around.”

Keep reading

[vukovich]

Peculiar Prompt: Harry and Ginny tell their kids that they’re getting divorced at Fortescue’s and Draco is thirsty AF. Include stickiness for extra points.

Cream Your Jeans

"Triple vanilla. Two scoops. Waffle cone."

A teenage boy in a pinstripe Fortescue's uniform smashes ice cream in a waffle cone and hands it to me, his eyes on the door. A strand of bells jangles discordantly as I ease myself onto a wobbly iron chair. My focus is all on the tower of creamy, frozen confection.

Two things people get wrong are: ice cream isn't dinner, and vanilla is boring. Vanilla requires subtlety and care to be good, but when given attention to detail, it's excellent. Rocky Road is a cheap thrill in an alley.

And ice cream is a perfectly acceptable dinner when one is going to spend the next four hours in a pick-up Quidditch game. It is also acceptable when one is turning 45 and avoiding celebrating the milestone. Milestones and millstones don't feel so different.

The amount of chatter picks up in the small parlor as I watch the edges of the scoops begin to melt. They aren't quite ready yet. Ice cream with this high a butterfat content needs to warm up just a bit more.

Several chairs scrape at a nearby table, then screech as their occupants scoot in.

The Potters. The whole lot of them.

James and Albus salute me with cones of strawberry and mint chip. I'm not sure if Scorpius turned Albus onto mint chip ice cream or the other way around, but Astoria was appalled when the two of them ate an entire quart of it out of her freezer in a single sitting.

I don't remember the girl's name, but she chose vanilla, so she's probably the smartest of the lot. Ginevra skipped ice cream in favor of clutching a manila folder to her chest. Potter has his back to me, but the bowl in his hand looks like it may have Rocky Road.

"So, kids, I don't-"

"I'm not a kid, mum," the girl announces. "I'm 20."

Ginevra rolls her eyes. "Fine. Beloved offspring, we have called you here today-"

"To destroy the family!" Albus says in a bad falsetto. James elbows him and initiates a short shoving contest.

"Boys," Harry says. His spoon is standing upright in his bowl, and the handle begins to tilt as it melts.

Soft, cool droplets run down my fingers, but stop on their own.

Albus picks up the falsetto again. "To officially disband the family!"

James snorts and joins in, clutching imaginary pearls. "The horror!"

Rivulets run down my wrist, but I'm riveted. There had been rumors, of course, in the gay wizard gossip chain. Whispers of a certain Auror's disinterest in the fairer sex, though I resent that description. I'm exceptionally fair.

Potter runs his left hand through his hair, down the back of his head, and clasps the back of his neck for a moment. No ring. Not even a tan line from a wedding ring. No wonder his boys are so blasé about it all. They must have been separated for years already.

Ice cream drips from the point of my cone onto the upper thigh of my jeans, but standing to fetch a napkin would draw too much attention.

"Right," Potter says, flattening what's definitely Rocky Road into a smooth puck inside his dish. "James, the deed to the old property at Godric's Hollow is in there, if you still-"

"Yes! I'm gonna dig a pond!"

"That's... great... Lil and Alb, the deed to Grimmauld is in there, too. Just play fair."

The girl, Lily, nods and nips at the edge of her cone. "Sure, Dad." She shoots James a playful sneer. "We're going to add expansion charms and an indoor pool. Enjoy your leeches."

"I will!" James yells.

Ginevra sets a pile of paperwork in the middle of the table, and a content smile crinkles the corners of her eyes as she turns to Harry. "You really do need a better Floo name for your flat."

"Never," Potter says. "Dadcave is cool."

The boys groan in unison. Ginevra flinches, and a buzzing ringtone comes from her pocket. She takes a moment to read her mobile screen.

"Shit. Guys, we're going to be late."

They all stand in a rustle of clothing and scraping of chairs.

Potter stuffs his hands in his pockets and bites at the inside of his lip. "Is it really alright that I'm not going?"

Ginevra watches their children file out the door and turns back to Potter. She tugs his jacket lapels smooth and smiles up at him. "Harry. You are single on a Friday night for the first time this millennium. Go cause some trouble."

She gently shakes him until he returns her smile. "Fine, fine. Hug your mum for me."

"Consider it done." She gives him a long hug and meets their children outside.

Ice cream runs down my bare forearm in a determined streak, and I snap out of my Potter-watching stupor. Bloody fucking hell, there's a puddle of melted ice cream in the crotch of my jeans, and my left hand is utterly covered.

Potter watches his family through the window as they walk away. He sighs and starts to turn toward me, so I do what any panicked sane man would do, and Vanish my ice cream cone. Two blobs of ice cream splat on my inner thighs and run between my legs to drip on the floor.

"Malfoy, do you still..." He trails off as his eyes rove over me.

I am a goddamn one-man ice cream bukkake scene. Obscene white streaks run down my arm. Thick droplets plop from my fingers onto my sodden jeans.

"...play Friday night... uhm... Quidditch?"

Licking my fingers clean would be a spectacle, so I rub them together, but the tacky-slick rubbing sound is identical to pre-cum slick foreskin.

I drop my hands over my lap, but the pose feels incriminating. Potter swallows audibly and steps closer.

"I do. Seven o'clock at the Brockwell pitch. You'd need a black shirt and a white shirt." He blinks at me for a moment. "For team designation."

He bites at a thumbnail and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "You look fucking good in white."

He must have delicious thumbnails, because he works at it for a good while before he speaks again.

"Have you, uhm... had dinner?"

I lick my teeth and realize I never took a single bite of that ice cream cone. "No, I suppose I haven't."

"I know a good Thai place near there." He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. "My treat? For your birthday?"

It takes me a second for the offer to register, and a nervous, giddy thrill flutters in my chest and settles as a warm ache in my groin.

"I accept. And dessert after the match? For your... milestone?"

Harry grins and tosses his melted cup of Rocky Road in the bin next the door as we leave.

"You're on."

[avamhollis]

ofmdeaguila​:

status: open when: late evening where: the cancun

One drink. Just one little drink before calling it a night was what MAgda was looking for. What she was not looking for was to enjoy the drink in the company of anyone else. As soon as she felt the presence of another person take the stool next to her, Magda was locked and loaded to get them to move along. “I’m gonna let you know right now whatever line you practiced in the mirror before showing up here, it’s not a good line and you’re not that smooth.”

.

    She nontheless claims the stool next to the other woman, hand coming up to her neck to clutch her imaginary pearls. “But I practiced so hard,” she feigns disappointment with a momentary pout before her expression fades into a characteristic small smile and she’s waving the bartender over. “She’s buying be a drink, isn’t that sweet?” Ava informs them, without so much as a glance to Magda. “Gin tonic, please. Easy on the tonic.”

status: open when: late evening where: the cancun

One drink. Just one little drink before calling it a night was what MAgda was looking for. What she was not looking for was to enjoy the drink in the company of anyone else. As soon as she felt the presence of another person take the stool next to her, Magda was locked and loaded to get them to move along. "I'm gonna let you know right now whatever line you practiced in the mirror before showing up here, it's not a good line and you're not that smooth."

[thesassenachswiftie]

An introduction and what I’m working on

Hi Outlander fandom.  My name’s Mandy and I’ve been creeping around reading some amazing fanfic on here and I’ve been inspired to write my own eventhough I probably havent written fan fiction in 15 years.  I was inspired by Taylor Swift’s album lover and I’m trying to craft a story that weaves lyrics from the album into a modern AU.  I’ve actually mapped out an arc for prequels with Reputation and 1989 as well (though that would have to be a Claire/Frank story 😬). Maybe I’ll tackle Folklore someday but that will be a unique challenge.  Anyway.  If youre still reading this, I was inspired to start writing chapter 7 today and here’s a small excerpt.  I’d love any feedback from the fandom or just a welcome.  I honestly have been such a lurker I feel like an outsider. I have no idea when I’ll be ready to “premiere” my fic. I wrote chapter 7 today and will probably start Chapter 1 tomorrow. It might be bad timing as I am a teacher and I start school tomorrow.  This will either get put on the backburner or become a catharsis during what I’m sure will prove to be a stressful school year.

Chapter 7: Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince

“Sassenach, you ken what I’ve heard about American teenagers” he spoke softly, close to her ear so only she could hear him.  It made the fine hairs on her neck stand and gave her the sensation of something stirring deep within her.

“What American stories have you been hearing?” she giggled, trying to imagine the insight she was about to gain.

“I heard... that they go underneath these bleachers and make out.” he rasped, his voice feigning concern.

“Shocking. What is this world coming to.” she gestured as if she were clutching an imaginary string of pearls.  Flirting with him came so effortlessly, she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

“See those bleachers o’er there, Sassenach?” she nodded as he gestured to the opposing team’s bleachers across the field.  “If I were an American teen, I would bring a lassie underneath those bleachers, much quieter you see than with these wee monkeys crawling about.”

“I see” she smirked and raised an eyebrow, daring herself to get lost in those blue eyes.

“You know, as a member of the faculty of this school, isna it your responsibility to check to see the teens aren’t doing anything… unsavory?”

“I suppose it might be part of my job description.” she was wondering where this flirty banter was headed.  She felt alive again for the first time in a month since she had seen him last.

“I must admit I have to use the facilities, perhaps you should do that while I’m gone.” He was sure to catch her eye as she said it, blinking like an owl in an attempt to wink at her.

He arose and announced to his family he had to use the toilet and he might leave from there and meet them at home.  The team was losing disastrously, the other team was full of brutes and the wildcats were left battered and bruising, the cheerleaders were a collection of depressed damsels, and the crowd was already starting to thin, so this came as no surprise to anyone as Jamie took his leave.

[but-master]

[🥀 for guin?]

Tales of Love II No Longer Accepting II So this is uh... really long slkdfj so sorry! No warnings apply except for brief mentions of show-typical violence and so much pining it hurts lol II Words: 2571 II  Prompt: 🥀 - disappointed love

--

When Guinevere was born, she was graced with a name that meant “fair one.” It was auspicious, hopeful, promising her to good things as she grew—good things like a good marriage. One of royal importance and grandeur; it meant she would never want for anything, and she would be blessed by the heavens above.

As she grew into the name, her hair light and long, shining like gold in the sun, the promises only grew more tantalizing. Her father could see increasingly higher-stationed names lining up by the day, as she was reared strong, brave, kind, and just. She was sharp and quick-witted, and though she was no knight, she was brought up with a bow in her hands; no queen of Cameliard would ever find herself defenseless.

At least… not again.

Guinevere had been too young to hear the thunder of horses as they approached, or to know what that meant. She had been just able to open her eyes, just able to cry, when her father was left to pick up the pieces of Cameliard alone, after days of siege. As soon as she’d been old enough to understand what sharp things were, and what they could do to a creature, she’d been fitted for a shortbow, with the assurance that she’d graduate to longbows as she came of age. They would not lose a second queen.

She was only seven summers old when her father interrupted her shooting practice, though, and gently took the bow from her hands, replacing it with a small, wooden box, inside of which rested her mother’s childhood tiara. It was gold, polished to gleaming, and along the metal were set tiny, white pearls. Obligation had caught her at last, and the time for tricks and play had ended.

Days later, when Guinevere turned it over in her hands before she entered the halls of Camelot—for which she’d been given the thing in the first place—she noticed a small dent in the band, about the size of her thumb pad. It made her giggle.

Even her own mother had been a… what was the world her father used sometimes? A “spitfire.”

She’d dented her own crown.

Or perhaps that was what Guinevere chose to imagine. The thought that anything else could have caused the blemish did not once occur to her, even as she grew older, and learned to think deeply about everything, down to the smallest sound or littlest loose thread.

There was something comforting about being like the mother she couldn’t remember, but had always heard good things of.

When she’d entered the halls of Camelot’s court, she’d stood straight, chin up, the combs of the tiara digging into her scalp. She wondered distantly if her mother had complained about the sensation.

She wondered if she was doing as well as she had at her age.

The thought was abandoned, however, as she concentrated hard when she granted Uther Pendragon her best curtsey, and then a second to the beautiful, famed Queen Igraine. Something in her chest swelled when the lady presented her with a private smile for her troubles. It felt like she was being let in on some secret sisterhood. From queen to princess, encouragement passed.

Guinevere practically floated through the dance steps the rest of the night.

Even when Arthur, the boy her age—the Camelot prince—tripped over her feet, she hardly felt it, and did not stumble, despite the way his grip on her hand tightened in his panic, threatening to topple her with him.

Instead, she helped correct his footfalls from the corner of her mouth, and as she did so, he looked at her with huge eyes, blue as the seas in her picture books. He mumbled a “thank you” as soft as kitten fur, as sweet as the honey she put in her milk, when her baroness said she was allowed to—fine, but you can’t do it too often; it’s no good for children to become spoiled.

She didn’t think Arthur was spoiled.

He’d said “thank you,” after all.

His demeanor remained soft as they grew, and she continued to believe in his virtue, but the shy sweetness he’d shown her when he was young began to only occur around her, when they were alone for only flashes of moments, before someone came looking for the pair of them, who weren’t supposed to be alone together outside of the view of chaperones and guards alike. Even when Morgana was around—her dearest friend, and closest companion—Arthur took on the behaviour of a knight, a strong and cold defender, from behind imaginary armor, painted with the colors of Camelot’s flags.

It was not hard to watch, Guinevere was fairly sure. She didn’t think it hurt so bad to see him that way. He was being strong for her.

He was being strong for her, so she started leaving her bow at home when she came to visit Camelot— often for months at a time, much to her father’s delight.

Without her bow, and without regular training, her skills plateaued in her late teenage years, but she was always assured that this was alright.

Especially after Arthur, who’d grown tall and broad, pulled Caliburn from stone, and later, by the candlelight in his chambers, he’d sworn into her hand that she’d never feel endangered again. He’d keep her safe as long as he lived, as long as she allowed him so, as he pressed kisses to her fingers and the tiny bones in her wrists.

Her chest had been fluttery when she’d agreed. She’d let herself be protected, for as long as he would swear to protect her, and she’d leaned over to seal it with a kiss.

The promise that had passed that day had been timed well; Cameliard was inching ever closer to war, as the city tensed for oncoming marauders. To have someone swear to keep her safe, as her thoughts dwelled near always on her father and his kingdom… how could she possibly say no?

Even as she wished for not only her own safety, but the safety of her people, as well, she could not find it in herself to say no. It was selfish, she thought, but, then, she’d never pretended that she wasn’t.

So, truthfully, it was no shock when Leodegrance met with Merlin, Camelot’s court wizard, and Arthur’s official advisor, not a few weeks later, to discuss her dowry.

Merlin was the closest thing to a royal ambassador that Camelot had, for their prince was still so young, not yet married, not yet having achieved victory in war.

Meanwhile, as the invaders pressed harder at Cameliard’s borders, the people were crying out louder and louder by the day for hope, for some good news.

In the end, the decision was easy.

Leodegrance met with Merlin, and the conversation was brief.

One turn of the moon later, she and Arthur were wedded. Her father sent her to live in Camelot full-time, and with her, she brought a grand round table made of sturdy oak—it had been Uther’s before he’d died, had been passed to her father for safekeeping, until Arthur could inherit it.

As Arthur was granted a golden crown and declared king of all Camelot—which now included Cameliard— it was deemed time. So, he was given the round table, and began to seek out those who would fill its chairs.

Guinevere was passed over entirely.

It didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected it would.

When she was younger, her father had told her stories of her mother. He’d pointed at the stars from where Guinevere craned her neck out her window to see, and he’d described to her which ones her mother loved; he’d told her the stories she’d told him, the ones she’d make up on the spot to describe why she saw shapes in them. She was creative, her father said. She was creative and bold, and her humor could have made a sailor’s toes curl. She’d had hair like gold as well, and when Guinevere was old enough to understand how to do her own, she’d asked her father how her mother wore it.

Every morning from then on, she’d tied it into a bun, securing a braid over the crown of her head, and smiled at her reflection.

But there was no place at the Round Table for braids and star stories.

Besides, she had a place to sit already. She’d gained it upon her wedding day, achieved it when she married Arthur.

At the ceremony, she’d worn her hair that same way, deft fingers flying through the steps, as gracefully as when she carefully selected each arrow in her quiver when she was home.

But she was not running her thumb over fletches that day. Instead, she was brushing her hair, length by length, treating it with gentle oils, until it shone as brilliantly as Caliburn itself. She’d strung flowers throughout it all, and had nestled a pretty gold crown behind the braid.

In the mirror, she’d squared her shoulders, and had not smiled.

Arthur looked beautiful, when she strode in to lay eyes on him, standing in the church beside Merlin, who wore his typical armor, though it was polished and cleaned. A blue and gold cape had been draped over his shoulders, and the wizard regarded the affair down his nose, as he seemed always to do, no matter what situation he was in.

Guinevere couldn’t say she blamed him this time, though.

There was gold and pearl and sapphire everywhere, and it was suffocatingly bright. Guinevere clutched the rope in her hands as if it would whisk her away from all of this.

How could she celebrate now? Her kingdom was being ransacked, surely, as she stood in a gown of opulence, to wrap a cord around her wrist and swear fealty to a different king.

The words of love were not heavy or bitter. She would not pretend they were.

She cared for Arthur, truly. As surely as she cared for him, she spoke the words, and they felt like cream on her tongue. Not sour or difficult to swallow, but they coated her mouth, made her throat feel dry.

She resisted clearing it, and instead, let Arthur kiss her lips gently. It was not the first time they’d kissed, nor would ever be their last, but as he swept her into it in front of the enormous crowd, she wondered if he felt as dispassionate about it as she did.

Kissing him like this was a show, a signal that their marriage would be consummated, a signal that they’d be bound together forever, even after the rope fell to the plush, velvet carpet of the church’s altar, having served its purpose.

Guinevere was now, and forever more, Queen, not of Cameliard, but of Camelot, somewhere which she did not despise, but equally, somewhere that was not her home.

Perhaps having no place at the Table was the better fate, after all.

The closest thing to home that she felt anymore was when she was with Morgana. A knight who felt so dispassionately about her kingdom would do no good.

Still… she relearned her bow skills anyway, when Arthur was off on quests, or when he didn’t ask where she was going when she left the castle, too wrapped up in duty to even notice her absence.

Morgana didn’t mind when she brought her bow, though, when the two of them left together, every so often.

In fact, Morgana would try to hit her arrows, arced high into the air, with bursts of magic and sparks, which lit Guinevere’s eyes up, as she watched. Yellow as the pretty flowers in the meadows of the Wild Wood, Morgana’s magic was adept, powerful, stunning. It stole Guinevere’s breath almost as often as seeing Morgana’s hair on fire when sunlight hit it did.

Guinevere wanted to touch it.

She wasn’t sure if anyone else had ever dared touch a candle flame, but sometimes when she was alone, she stared at the black, chalky wicks, as they curled beneath the orange fire which perched so carefully upon them, and thought of reaching over, quick and sly, to see if the flames really were soft as they looked, as soft as Morgana’s hair looked.

Sometimes, she’d get close. She’d reach one finger near enough for it to sting in the heat that surrounded the candle at her bedside; she’d flex her fingers and almost reach out a hand to brush stray hairs back into place, when they fell across Morgana’s eyes or nose. But she’d always hiss and pull her finger away before she could burn it; she’d always clasp her hands in front of herself demurely, if only to keep from extending her wanton hand.

She was married. She’d sworn loyalty to Arthur.

She could not jeopardize that for wanting something she had no place wanting, to begin with.

Despite her best efforts, though, it burned all the same, entirely unresponsive to even her strongest resistances, her tensest moments of please no’s. It burned deep in the pit of her stomach, unshakeable, unyielding, at its worst during nights when she couldn’t fall asleep. When she stirred through fitful dozing, in and out, under the grey light of the moon.

Those were the nights when her nightgown tangled with the bedsheets because she’d rolled one way and back again so much that she couldn’t remember which way she favored for sleep, and when her restlessness would wake even her heavy sleeper of a husband, whose blue eyes were bright in the dark, when he slipped them open with worry. Try as he might to insist that his sister got all of the magic in the family, Guinevere had never once believed him, seeing the way he practically glowed in the pitch of their room, even when their curtains were drawn.

“Guinevere, why are you still awake?” He would ask.

She’d never know what to say. He would ask her something to that effect every time, and she would never know what to say, no matter how often it happened.

“Oh… merely thinking, Arthur. It’s nothing.” She’d reassure him, brushing her fingers over his brow, in an attempt to placate him, silence his questions.

It never worked. Instead, his eyes would pierce her through, and he’d level her with a look, disbelieving and evermore concerned. “If it were nothing,” he’d say quietly, “You wouldn’t be in fits over it.”

And she’d huff a soft laugh, murmur, “guilty,” and pretend to smile back as he’d break into a tiny chuckle, before pulling her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, thinking this a merciful comfort.

He’d go on to kiss her cheek and tell her that whatever it was, he would keep it from harming her for now and forever, and she would come up just shy of believing him.

Then, he’d slip back into sleep, and she’d lie awake, feigning it, resisting movement, even if she had an itch on her nose, so as not to awaken him again, and Guinevere would close her eyes and pretend that someone else was holding her, instead.

And sometimes, if she was lucky, then maybe she would eventually drift into a nap of sorts, only minutes long, and dream pleasantly of touching candles, and a long, red braid.

[madquerade]

In Questo Paradiso ne Scopra il Nuovo Dì (7/10)

Rating: m Ineffable Wives (female Crowley x Aziraphale) Major Character Death, tw: illness, blood Human AU, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, just a lil fluff but like… You can read it on Ao3 @ sherwhotreksings Chapter:one two three four five six seven eight nine ten

Paris. 1851. She’s not sure if she’s real or imaginary, the girl sitting on a chair across from her bed. She sees her though: dark hair, golden brown eyes, dressed in white, Azira’s sister. She can’t be sure anything is real at this point. The only thing she knows for sure is that she’s home now and she’s dying. ~ This is just La Traviata but with the wives. I’m sorry. Antonia is a Parisian courtesan caught up in the intricacies of French society until a young madame, Azira, disrupts her whole world.

Chapter 3

A single sharp knock at her door jolts Antonia from her thoughts as she sits at her vanity, idly arranging her intricate updo. Her long red hair is twisted into a loose chignon, secured in place with pins adored with pearls. Baronne Beelze must be here to escort her to Flora’s party. Quickly, she dips her finger into her rouge, tapping it lightly onto her lips and cheeks. She can’t ease her coughing anymore and her illness is taking a toll. Her skin is so pale that her lips are lighter now too, much paler than natural and off putting. She picks up a modest strand of pearls to go along with her dark red ballgown and slips it around her neck, but before she can clasp it, the Baronne enters and stops her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I prefer gold on you.” They pick up the intricate gold necklace from her jewelry box and clasp it around her neck, fingers brushing her collarbone as they go.

A cold shiver runs down Antonia’s spine and she closes her eyes against it, heart constricting. The Baronne’s fingers tangle in the loose hair at the nape of Antonia’s neck. She gasps as the memory of Azira doing the same the last time they slept together, floods her senses. It’s almost as if she’s back in that night, clutching Azira’s muscular forearm as her hand cradled the back of Antonia’s head and neck.

The Baronne smirks and lets their hand fall to Antonia’s shoulder while Antonia blinks up at them, dazed and trying to forget the life she left behind. “Now you’re presentable.” They back up and offer Antonia a hand.

She smiles subduedly and takes the offering. She’s not sure she could’ve stood on her own in this state. They walk her to the door, and she swipes a newly dyed red handkerchief on her way out, tucking it into its usual place. The party is within walking distance, although perhaps not walking distance for Antonia anymore. They go slow, which she’s thankful for, but either way they’ll be arriving late.

The party is in full swing when they walk in. Flora has gone all out for this one, and Antonia likes to humor herself thinking it was for her, but really she knows it’s because Carnival is coming up soon, less than a month now, she thinks. Performers mill around in fanciful costumes, entertaining the crowds with juggling, exotic dances, tales of far off lands, and other more explicit activities. And of course there’s as much drinking and gambling as one could want, it wouldn’t be a Flora party without gambling.

The Baronne leads them through the main room unnoticed and into one of the smaller rooms where cards are taking place. As soon as they step into the room a hush falls over the crowd. Something in Antonia’s gut feels wrong and it’s sinking lower and lower. Everyone in the room turns to look at them, everyone except…

Azira…

She stands with her back to the pair, a few banknotes on the table in front of her. Antonia can tell from her posture that she’s quite aware the two of them just stepped into the room.

Flora flutters up to them and takes Antonia’s hands in hers, turning her slightly away from Azira. “It’s so good to see you, Antonia! I thought you wouldn’t come.”

Antonia smiles at her old friend. “How could I pass up your kind invitation?” Silently she chastises herself over ending up here again, in her old life. But there was nothing she could do about it. She’s destined to be this woman.

“Azira is here, that gouine!” Baronne Beelze spits.

Both Flora and Antonia cringe, but Flora speaks through her displeasure. “I’m grateful to you, Baronne, for coming as well.”

The Baronne nods, lips pressed together, and gestures for Flora to go back to the party before turning to Antonia. “You will not say one word to this Azira.” They grip Antonia’s arm tight, shaking her slightly. “Do you hear me? Not one word.”

Antonia curses under her breath, “Oh Dieu, why did I come back here?” but nods her acceptance.

“A four! Madame Azira wins again!” a partygoer cheers.

“Lucky at cards and unlucky in love! I’ll win a fortune here and return to the country.” Azira turns around and looks Antonia dead in the eyes. She’s not sure what to make of her anymore. There’s a fire in Azira’s eyes that she’s never seen before.

“Have mercy on me-” Antonia begs whoever is listening. Her breath is coming in shallow bursts, heart pumping blood faster than oxygen can be delivered. It makes her lightheaded and unsteady. She covers it up by holding onto the Baronne’s arm.

“Will you return alone?” Flora questions Azira, loud enough so Antonia can hear.

“No,” Azira holds up her winnings as if a challenge, “with the woman who just left me!”

“Ah dieu!” Antonia says at the same time the Baronne lunges forward shouting, “Madame!”

Antonia’s heart squeezes and she manages to stave off a coughing fit. “Baronne, restrain yourself or I’ll leave you,” she hisses. It all is happening so fast. It’s impossible for Antonia to keep up with it all, barely able to process her own words.

Flora gently pushes Azira’s hands down towards the table. “Have pity on her!”

“Did you call me? All I heard was the buzzing of a fly.” Azira taunts Baronne Beelze.

It’s one too many jabs for them because they push Antonia’s arm off and stalk over to the card table, placing a bet against Azira and calling for a card. Antonia stumbles over to the nearest object she can use to keep on her feet, which happens to be the sofa in the middle of the chaos.

Azira is here to win her back, or at least says she is. However, her unbridled rage speaks volumes. She’s not sure whether she has become an item to win and own and this is all a game, or if her rage is because she knows Antonia is lying.

Several hands go by as Antonia is lost in thought. The cheers of the onlookers blend into white noise, fueling her panic.

If Azira is truly here to get her back, would she go with? Her resolve isn’t that strong. She wants more than anything to go back to Azira and to fall into her arms. She wants more than anything to kiss every inch of her body.

Flora calls out, “Antonia, the Baronne has paid for your holiday with just this round alone!”

The rest of the party cheers, shouting affirmations towards both Azira and the Baronne. Antonia hears the Baronne curse followed by a crash as something is tipped over. She clutches her chest and silently pleads again for mercy. It feels like she’s dying. Well… she is, but this is a different sort of death. She’ll certainly die if this aggressive match continues any further. There’s only two ways this will end, and one will certainly be the death of her.

The parlour doors are thrown open, revealing a waiter and behind him a long table stretching out. “Dinner is served!”

The gambling freezes momentarily and Antonia can hear the Baronne threaten over the low chattering of the other guests. “We’ll continue after we dine.”

Azira holds her ground, determination settling like a rock in her voice. “Any game you’d like.”

The two opponents walk without thought of Antonia into the dining hall. Flora notices Antonia left alone and goes to her side, helping her up.

This may be Antonia’s chance to speak to Azira and beg her to go. Antonia whispers into Flora’s ear, “Tell Azira to meet me in the main receiving room. I must speak to her.”

Flora nods and floats off to find Azira in the group at the table.

Antonia hurries to the main room, hands clutched as she worries her fingers. Hopefully the bitterness held in Azira’s heart will bring her to Antonia if not for the sound of her voice. Antonia paces the length of the room while what feels like minutes go by before Azira joins her.

Antonia’s back is to Azira when Azira speaks from the other side of the room, “You called for me?”

It’s not bitterness Antonia hears in Azira’s voice, but sorrow. She spins around to see her, too fast for her lungs to keep up with, which throws her into a coughing fit. She doubles over, handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Worry flashes in Azira’s eyes, but then it’s gone and Antonia can only see the residual anger and exhaustion. Dieu, Azira is exhausted. They’re both so exhausted.

“Please leave. Azira, you’re in danger-” Antonia doesn’t have the energy to plead. She doesn’t have the energy to be here, doing this, seeing Azira again.

“-Enough.” Azira cuts her short, “You think I’m a coward?” Azira steps further into the room.

Antonia puts a hand to her head. “No, never, I-”

“Then what are you afraid of!” Azira cuts her off again.

“I’m afraid of the Baronne!” Her shouting prompts another coughing fit, which Azira barrels straight through.

“I see. You’re afraid if they fall into my hands that one swift blow will take away your protector and lover.” Azira throws her arms open wide. “Would such a misfortune scare you?”

“I swear that isn’t it! The only misfortune I fear is if they killed you… It would kill me too…”

Azira crosses her arms and leans away from Antonia. “What do you care about my death?”

Antonia isn’t sure how to get it through to Azira. Nothing she can say will change her mind. Nothing, that is, except one thing. Still she can’t say it. How could she tell her one love that she vowed to leave her? Much less that it was her own father who made her promise. It would be devastating.

Antonia steps closer, lungs aching and begging her to stop this. “Please… leave…” she says barely above a whisper.

Azira’s eyes flash again and she rushes over to her, only a pristine white chaise between them. “Only if you follow.” She holds out her hands to Antonia. “Swear it!”

It’s getting harder and harder to stay on her feet, her illness rearing its ugly head. She shakes her head no, unable to get out any words and sinks onto the chaise, kneeling before Azira. Azira’s hands slowly lower and Antonia avoids eye contact. She reminds herself that this is what has to be done. She can’t be the person who loves and gets to be loved anymore. She’s fallen too far into the sulfur of hell.

Antonia finds her words after Azira is silent. “Forget those who are dishonored and stained.”

Azira offers her her hands again. Antonia can feel the tenderness radiating from them. Isn’t there anything Azira will leave her for? She’ll drag her down too if she’s not careful.

The words are being torn out of her throat, ripped from her lungs without permission, and she can feel the shrapnel bleeding into her. “Leave me! I made a sacred oath to leave you!”

Azira has the opposite reaction than what Antonia expected, she reaches over and caresses her cheek, fingers edging their way into her hairline. “Who could ask such a thing of you, mon amour?”

Antonia lets herself linger in the moment, linger at the familiar touch, before she pulls back. “Only one could convince me.”

“The Baronne?”

A beat, and then Antonia nods. She has to minimize the damage. Control the bleeding.

“Do you love them?”

Time freezes. Here’s her chance to undo everything she’s done. She can take back everything she’s said and live with Azira once again. They’ll get their paradise in the country, and she’ll die loved and in love… but can she doom Azira’s sister to the same fate? Antonia breathes deeply, or at least as deep as her lungs allow without spasming.

“Yes. I love them.” Antonia forces herself to meet Azira’s eyes.

As if bitten, Azira retracts her hand, the spark of hope completely extinguished, and hurries out of the main receiving room, beyond Antonia’s line of sight. Antonia falls forward onto her hands, sobbing. It was what had to be done in order to protect the innocent.

“Everyone! Come here!” Antonia can hear Azira call out to the other guests, leading them back to her and their scene of conflict.

They filter into the receiving room. Antonia wishes she could leave and be done with this, or better yet, that God herself would come down and smite Antonia where she kneels. Fitting that she should start this life on her knees and end it doing the same.

“Do you know this woman?” Azira races back to Antonia’s side, blind with rage, grasping at her arm and pulling her back to sitting.

Some of the crowd mumbles their concern, but Flora pushes her way to the front followed swiftly by the Baronne. “Who? Antonia?”

Azira continues, “Do you know what she’s done?”

“Please,” Antonia begs, “don’t do this.” Her tears run down her face and mix with the rouge. She’s sure it’s revealing how ill she actually is. Her sobs wrack her body and her lungs are protesting how deeply she’s inhaling.

“I blindly accepted this woman’s love, like a fool! But there’s still time! I wish to cleanse myself of this stain.” Azira tosses Antonia’s arm from her hand.

Antonia shrieks, which turns into a violent cough. She’s not fast enough to catch it with her handkerchief, so droplets of blood mixed with tears and rouge go flying.

Azira reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a stack of banknotes, her winnings from the night, and continues with her speech of knives. Her voice is tinged with the dark tone of dismissal. “You are all witnesses.” She throws the notes at Antonia. “I’ve paid her what I owe.”

The notes go flying. Some hit her in the face, and one slices her arm. The guests are outraged. Someone calls for Azira’s swift removal from the party, another faints into her escort’s arms.

Antonia thinks Flora has moved to her side, judging by how close her voice sounds as she says, “What a horrible insult! Do you want to kill her?” but her vision has tunneled down to her and Azira alone.

This is what Antonia deserves. She’s acted like a harlequin and a folle[1]. There’s something so serene about sitting in the middle of her dismissal and humiliation, like being in the eye of a storm centered on her and Azira. Activity and chaos wip around them while they are still, eyes glued only to each other. Antonia tips her chin up and pushes her shoulders back. This may be her ultimate punishment for living like she has, but she won’t lash out. She’ll remain poised and resolute through her disgrace. She refuses to let her actions take Azira down with her. Then hopefully Azira can look back at this moment and realize how much Antonia loved her.

Antonia vaguely recognizes Flora speaking again. “Azira, what have you done? I don’t recognize you anymore.” She puts her hand on Antonia’s shoulder, and dabs at Antonia’s bleeding arm with her own handkerchief.

Azira deflates, eyes locked on the floor, realizing just what she’s done to Antonia. “I am horrified. Tortured by jealousy and disillusioned by love, I’ve lost my reason! I can’t ask her to forgive me now. Dieu!” She runs a hand through her hair, disturbing the slicked back curls.

Flora prompts Antonia to stand, which she does, but struggles from the strain on her heart and lungs. Still, she doesn’t remove her eyes from Azira.

Eyes casting to the ceiling, Azira shouts, “I couldn’t run from her, so I came here spurred by anger! Now that I’ve vented my fury I am sick with remorse!” She balls her fists up, arm muscles bulging.

Flora leads Antonia away from Azira and just as she’s about to leave the center of the hurricane, she stops. She can feel the pull of the stormy tide behind her, but she has one last thing to say to Azira. Things may have been disastrous for them, a cruel fate bestowed on them by whoever is watching, but she cannot leave Azira thinking Antonia hates her.

“Azira,” Antonia calls, barely loud enough to be heard above the fury of the crowd, “Not even your contempt has put my love for you to the test. The day will come when you realize and admit how much I loved you.” Antonia, overcome but still frighteningly calm, lets her betrayal show in her words. “May God only then save you from remorse. I shall be dead, but I will love you still.”

The Baronne edges over to them, stalking Antonia and Azira like a cat. Flora wraps her free arm around Antonia’s shoulder.

The Baronne leans into Azira, face inches away., “Your insult has shocked only some of us, but this outrage will not go unavenged.”

Antonia struggles against Flora, realizing the Baronne means to duel her love, but even in her good health she was unable to escape her hold. It’s not much work for Flora to hold her back.

“I will show you that I am well and able to break your pride!” The Baronne Beelze removes themself from Azira’s space and agonizingly slowly pulls at the fingers of their glove.

Antonia shrieks and pushes harder against Flora, ignoring her lungs’ stabbing protest.

The Baronne slips their glove off and tosses it to the floor at Azira’s feet.

Azira picks it up.

Antonia falls into Flora’s arms, sobbing again. Someone emerges from the crowd to help Flora move Antonia away from the scene. As she’s consumed by the mob, Antonia tries to get a final look at Azira, but the guests fill in around her to shelter her from any more harm.

[1] A madwoman, crazed

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Dead Things || Morgan & Kaden

@chasseurdeloup

Just two friends having a walk in the woods. Guest-starring Ashley the Zombie!

It surprised Morgan that Kaden would choose her to walk in the woods with to let off steam and vent safely. It seemed like the sort of thing to do with a girlfriend, but maybe Regan and her denial blinders were a little much for him just now. And for all the times Morgan had been driven to sign off on him with a ‘fuck you’ on her lips, she did consider them to be friends of a certain kind. He was kind at heart, kinder than he let on even to himself. He had his anger, which Morgan still couldn’t quite fit her head around, but if his life had been anything like Deirdre’s, he had plenty of reason to be. She’d wished he had suggested a place a little less spooky than the woods, but it wasn’t like she could enjoy anything from the counter at Coffee Plus. Morgan reached out with what senses she had and tried to remember the comfort they’d once given her. The sanctity of nature. Never judging, always open to her. The soft earth, ready to take her body back some day. Did it welcome them now? Did either of them know how to fit in a space as simple and open as this?

“Shucks, Kaden,” Morgan teased, “I didn’t think you’d ever ask me to meet you like this. If you’d given me more time I’d have made us BFF bracelets.” She elbowed him gently as they walked. “What’s been up with you?”

There had been a few moments of calm in Kaden’s life the past week. But something about it felt more ominous than comforting. Even though it was a new moon and it should be the calmest time of the month, something felt off. He couldn’t say what. Maybe he just wasn’t used to peace and quiet. Hell even most of his assignments had been normal. It was possible that was why he felt the need to lean into the weird of hanging out with a supernatural friend. Though, to be honest, he was short on non-supernatural friends at the moment. And no matter how many times him and Morgan went head to head over things, there was something, enough easy rhythm, especially when sharing the realities of having banshee girlfriends; a strange commonality and bond he never expected to have or share with anyone else. Leave it to White Crest.

The mention of friendship bracelets pierced through him as he thought of the stupid leather braclet on his wrist. His nose scrunched a little even though he tried to hide it. He hadn’t planned on bringing up Celeste. Or having to dwell on death for a moment. Hopefully she didn’t catch it, assumed it was an overreaction to her elbow. “Well I’d say a friendship bracelet with me is a death sentence but I guess that’s not a problem is it?” Putain. Fine. Just fucking lean into it. Why not? “I figured we could both use a non-carcass walk every now and then.” He gave a small shrug. “And nothing much. No clue what the fuck I’m doing with my life but I guess that’s just what White Crest does to you.”

“Wow. I was kidding, but I didn’t think you’d give me literal stink-eye,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “What, are you afraid the big bad world isn’t ready for us? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” She pretended to be scandalized, gasping and clutching her imaginary pearls, but she could feel herself skirting close to a kind of truth that lay between them. They couldn’t exactly gather round a foosball table with his hunter friends anymore than she could bring him to a movie night with Remmy and Skylar. Granted, her friends wouldn’t ever try to kill him, but that wasn’t a path she should be going down when they were supposed to be enjoying each other’s company critter-free. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she huffed. “Every walk I take is a carcass walk.” She turned to face him, tilting her head so far to one side it threatened to dislocate her neck. “If you have beef with the dead, you really came to the wrong zombie.” She smirked, her smile growing wider as she kept their pace along the path, backwards now. She righted her head and rolled her shoulders. That had helped with muscle strain before, right? “You’re too easy to mess with sometimes. But, I can be serious if you need to talk about big things. Life isn’t for having all the answers, though. It’s not a performance, you know? We learn things. We try. We--”

An animal roared in the distance. It didn’t sound like any creature Morgan knew, but what else could it be? She looked over at Kaden. Did he hear that too? She turned in the direction of the sound. Something was lumbering through the underbrush, something big.

Kaden let out a sigh through his throat. “Very funny. I’m just saying my quota of friendship bracelets from dead girls is officially one. Spot’s taken, you’re too late,” he said, elbowing her back. “So quit your dramatics.” If anyone was going to be okay joking about death, it was Morgan. He knew that much. Honestly, it was nice to have second that he wasn’t just fucking sad about it all. And it was only a second because he looked over to see her fucking head turned around like some kind of horror movie. “Putain de merde, do you have to do that?” His face scrunched in disgust as he turned it away from her. It definitely didn’t turn like that, thank god, but it wasn’t quite enough to avoid the fucking scene of her putitng her head right. His mind flashed to Bea’s head in a jar and if he didn’t feel sick before, he sure did now. “At least warn me before you do.” Yeah he knew that wasn't going to happen.

Unsurprisingly, she had a deep answer to his dumb question. Or he was pretty sure she would have it hadn’t stopped paying attention as soon as he heard a wail. Inhuman, for sure. His stomach dropped. Again. She wasn’t going to like this. At least not if his suspicions were correct. Without thinking, his hand reached back to the knife in his pocket and he positioned himself between her and the rustling in the foliage. Another roar and the creature broke through the bush. A decaying, hungry zombie, shambling towards them. He leapt to act. There was only one thing to do with a monster.

“I didn’t even break anything,” Morgan grumbled, pouting. “And isn’t it good for me to have a positive relationship with my new body? Don’t you want the best for me, Kaden?” But, honestly, it was probably a good thing he hadn’t become completely inured to how dead dead-bodies could be, especially hers. Positioning herself in proximity to human existence was a losing game, but for Kaden...maybe it was the best he could do right now. “I want the best for you too, obviously,” she added, more sincerely.

But the moment was shattered by the figure that leapt out from the underbrush. Morgan recognized her at once. She had only seen her ruined face a few days ago in the cemetery with Rio. “A-ashley--?” She moved forward, but Ashley’s face was too rotted and glazed with hunger to give any intelligible response. She groaned from somewhere deep in her hungry belly and shambled forward, one arm half raised with want. Animals didn’t last long on a dead stomach, even the feast they’d given her, but Stars, she’d hoped Ashley would have at least lasted longer once she was herself again. Her path was clear, but Morgan wasn’t going to go any easier on her now. “Ashley don’t--!” She jumped into her path, holding her by the shoulders and digging in her heels. But Morgan had fed too recently since the last time they’d met, and her muscles were quickly meeting their limit. “Kaden! Help me!” She cried.

There was no doubt in Kaden’s mind what was headed towards him was a monster. The decaying hungry zombie was nothing more than undead bones and decay searching for flesh and organs to tear into. His knife was ready and he was prepared to run in and take care of the situation before this became a problem when Morgan put herself in front of him and started speaking. Did she just say a name? “Wait, do you know that thing?” His stomach fell watching the shambling gaunt body. He wanted to pull Morgan away and just get this over with but she ran towards it and  put herself right in harm’s way. Sure, she was a zombie, too, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t get hurt ever. Putain.

He ran over and wanted to tear her from the threat but it was clear she was fighting her hardest to keep it at bay. Which didn’t exactly bode well. Kaden ran around behind the monster and grabbed its shoulders, pulling back. He’d have to find a way to cut off its head, a knife seemed impractical but it would have to d-- Before he could even consider that, the zombie rounded on him and lunged for his neck. Fuck. He raised his hand and threw a punch in its decaying face, trying to get it away from him. But it was fucking determined. His eyes went wide as he watched the teeth come closer and braced his arm to try and keep it away. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Her name is Ashley!” Morgan snapped. What had she been doing this whole time? Sure, the animal food she’d been given wasn’t going to last long, but she’d had time to hunt or buy or even steal something. Did she not know how? Did she not feel like she could? Morgan gripped the zombie tighter, wrestling against her brute force-- and then she whirled on Kaden, teeth bared.

“Don’t hurt him!” It was the stupidest thing she could’ve said. Ashley didn’t even have enough brain cells to string together who she was. There was no way anything like pleading was going to work right now. Morgan barreled into her from the side, sending them both sprawling to the ground. She pinned her to the forest floor by the shoulder, but Ashley roared and wrenched herself up before she could make her position any more secure. The flesh from Ashley’s arm came straight off and Morgan stared helplessly as the dead limb lay in her grasp. “Shit,” she hissed, scrambling back to her feet to follow the hungry zombie. She was making a beeline right for the hunter and Morgan wasn’t sure if she’d be able to tackle her in time if he didn’t move. “Kaden, get back!” she cried.

“Her what?!” Kaden yelled as he pushed his forearm into the monster’s neck. Putain, it didn’t matter what flesh the teeth connected with, just that they did. His stomach flipped furiously. The thought of being undead was far worse than the threat of death. He may be immune to werewolf bites, but zombies and vampires were still on the table. He could feel his pulse pounding in his chest. And fuck, he’d like it to keep fucking doing so. Desperately, Kaden took his knife and rammed it into the monster’s guts over and over, intestines and rotting flesh tumbling out of its side. It was barely holding itself together anymore but all the same, he was fucking panicking just a bit.

Before he knew it, the monster was thrown away from him by Morgan’s body. Okay. Alright, He had to find something to behead it with. Something more effective than a knife. Shoe lace? No, that would take too long. Morgan could only keep it at bay so long and he had a feeling she wasn’t about to try and kill her “friend.” “I thought you said not all zombies fucking knew each other,” he grumbled as he pulled his belt from his pants. Not great, but it would fucking do.”Mo--” Kaden was about to yell at her to get out of the way but he didn’t have to, the monster was lunging at him all the same. He didn’t listen to his friend and kicked out at the zombie and went to wrap the belt around its neck.

“I just fucking asked her!” Morgan was running as fast as her legs would take her. She could do this. Kaden was bound to have something to restrain Ashley with until they could get her food again. He could hunt her as many deer as she needed. She just needed to get the two of them apart long enough for him to understand what the plan was. She grabbed Ashley from behind, tugging her back as hard as she could by her shirt and wrestling an arm around her neck. “What part of ‘get back’ was hard for you?” She grunted at Kaden. “She’s just starving!” She dragged Ashley back several paces, grimacing as she wriggled and bit at her skin. Her grip loosened as Ashley took a deep chunk out of her arm, and it was all she could do to push the zombie off her feet as she stumbled free. “Give me that,” she said, pulling on the belt in his hands. “You need to run for some fresh deer, or brains, or--fuck!” She hit the ground hard. Ashely’s hand was around her leg, pulling her down with a strength Morgan couldn’t compete against with her humanity intact. “Kaden, what are you doing?”

Kaden really didn’t give a shit if this zombie was hungry or not, but Morgan sure did. And it was hindering him from doing his job. She seemed to insist that she knew this monster and it was very hard for him to care when all he saw were teeth coming towards him, hell bent on tearing into his flesh. “Deer?! You think deer are going to solve this?!” He was just about to solve this his way when Morgan yanked the belt away and he was once again without a way to take care of the problem quickly or easily. Putain. Morgan was down and while deep down he knew that the other zombie couldn’t really hurt her, he didn’t want to risk it. But he had no confidence that Morgan could keep the zombie contained on her own. Kaden reached over and pulled the zombie away from his friend. Or tried to. All he got was a fist full of flesh that had pulled off the bones. “She’s too far gone, Morgan.” The monster turned and hands wrapped around his arm as it pulled at him, teeth coming dangerously close once again. This time he was ready and had his knife braced against its neck. The closer it came to him, the more of its head he hoped he’d sever. It was hungry alright. Hopefully starving to death.

“I don’t know, maybe two of them?” Morgan wrestled with Ashley on the ground. It shouldn’t have been this hard to overpower a woman who was falling apart, but she was still fierce enough to knock Morgan’s bones out of place every time she thought she had the upper hand. And Kaden wasn’t running. Morgan didn’t know how to get it through his thick skull that what she needed wasn’t a rescue, but zombie tofu. “You’re too far gone,” she said through gritted teeth. “Just get her something--no!” Kaden’s knife glared in the twilight around them, slicing deep into Ashley’s neck. Morgan reached out for them from the ground with her broken arms. “Stop! She doesn’t know what she’s doing!” She popped them back into place and scrambled up. Ashley’s neck had been sawed away down to the bone, so fragile and bare for all her thrashing. No one should look like that, she thought. No one’s bones were meant to be bared that way, with rotten flesh staining the surface brown and dripping over the rounded ends. The body protected the bones. All of this was wrong… “Kaden, don’t!”

The knife cut deep into her neck and the stench that came from the rotting severed neck was enough to make him gag. Kaden held it back and kept pushing the knife through. It slid and slipped through what was left of the muscle and then the bone. The monster backed off and started to crumple away. One last whack with the knife and there would be no way for it to regenerate. He was about to do it when Morgan spoke up. All of the fear he felt before was burning away with anger. “No.” It was all he said before taking that final chop to her head, the tenuous connection between the body and it finally removed. All that was left was two piles of disgusting decay. It smelled like the reverse garden in the back of Regan’s apartment, maybe worse. Even before the head was gone, there wasn’t much keeping this together.

“We should burn what’s left.” He frankly didn’t give a shit if she was okay with that or not. Now that he had a moment, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Morgan had said earlier. All of it. “Just get her something, huh? Something to eat?” He could feel the impression of the knife handle pushing into his palm as he gripped it tighter. “Like what? Me?!” He was so close to getting bitten so many times and here she was concerned about a fucking monster. “You knew her, didn’t you? Met her before? You knew her name.” His voice raised louder every fucking sentence. He kicked a lump of decayed flesh away from his shoe. He wanted to kick the fucking corpse but he didn’t feel like trying his luck. “You knew she was like this and you let her--” There was so much he wanted to scream about that he couldn’t even pick where to fucking start. He threw the knife blad first into the ground, making sure it fucking sank in instead. “Morgan what the fuck?!”

“No!” The cry was barely a sound in Morgan’s dead throat as Kaden lobbed off the woman’s head. She stared, mute and trembling, at the remains of her body. All the magic that had been holding her together was gone. There were only masses of green and purple rot and the poor bones that couldn’t hold themselves together anymore. Kaden was yelling, but Morgan couldn’t hold on to any of his words for more than a few moments. “I--I met her once,” she said faintly. “I got her some food. I fed her. It was just...a stupid faun, and the butcher’s whole stock of brains and organs. She...she was scared. I think she was scared. But I don’t know why she didn’t…” Take care of herself. Feed herself. Come up with something better than roaming the woods. Morgan shuddered, thinking of how deep her pit had to be for her to choose living this way, to run away from people who wanted to help. “She ran away before I could do anything more.” Her eyes filled with tears as she finally looked at Kaden, teeming with his hunter rage. “I wasn’t going to let her hurt you. She wasn’t even trying to hurt you, she was just...I don’t know. She was lost, Kaden. Haven’t you ever been lost and stupid?”

“You could barely hold on to her! And your fucking help before led to this!” Kaden said, pointing that the pile of decomposed flesh and bones. “She wasn’t trying to hurt me, she was trying to eat me. I was fucking two seconds from getting bit. A couple of times.” A chill ran through him. There were few fates he could imagine that were worse than being undead. Morgan had adjusted or what-fucking-ever she wanted to call it, but it was the last thing he wanted for himself. And he wasn’t immune. He rolled the muscles of his shoulder blades back, trying to ground himself, pull back. “Lost and stupid was going to fucking kill me, Morgan. If I didn’t-- She was going to eat me. You fucking saw that, right? Putain, if I didn’t have hunter strength--” He gave a small shake of his head. He was so fucking sure she didn’t see it or didn’t care. “What if she came across someone who wasn’t us? What if-- She would have killed them. That’s not some ‘lost stupid’ mistake,” he spat out. “That would be murder. Fucking murder, Morgan. You fail at rehab with monsters and it ends in murder.” He took a deep breath and reached donw for his fucking knife. He wanted to just leave. “This isn’t some fucking game you get to play at.”  

“She is not a monster!” Morgan cried, her voice cracking in her stiff throat. “She was a person, Kaden. Not a ‘this’ or a thing or a--whatever else someone told you she is! She is like me, Kaden! She’s just as much of a person as me! It’s not her fault what her brain does to her when she’s starving, we don’t even know how much of a choice she had! And now we’re never going to because you couldn’t see past the end of your knife long enough to think of a better solution!” She pointed at the body, shaking her head furiously. He couldn’t even feel bad for her. He couldn’t even mourn what he’d taken away from the world. He couldn’t even see her. “That’s murder, Kaden. Not your hypothetical hunter crap. That.”

“That. Wasn’t a person. Not anymore. And it was going to kill me. I’m really glad to know a pile of rotten flesh is worth more to you than--” Kaden couldn’t even finish his sentence. It hurt too much to hear out loud. And he knew the fucking answer already. How often had he seen supernaturals value each other’s lives over human’s? It made him sick. Potential zombie life valued more than a living, breathing human. “There was no time for a better fucking solution. And your attempt at a better fucking solution however long ago your little intervention was clearly didn’t work. She ended up like this.” He was ready to walk away and be done. He was so fucking tired of being told he was wrong for fighting for human life.

“Yes, she was! Ashley was sick, Kaden! People get sick and say and do hurtful things when they’re sick all the time. And we don’t murder them for it, we put them in hospitals! And plenty of your people, your fucking humans do them stone cold sober!” Morgan backed away from Kaden, her insides crawling with disgust. He seemed to come so far and when they were joking around or having their heart to hearts everything between them could feel so nice. She always forgot that to him she was just an exception to a rule about creatures, worse than the dogs he wrangled up for his day job. “But, you know, good job. I’m sure it’ll make a great story to tell all the guys over a beer someday. You showed that starving girl who’s boss all by yourself. If you don’t mind, though, I’m gonna pass on whatever you have lined up next.”

“Sick? What the fuck, Morgan? Sick?!” Kaden was walking away when he heard that, but he turned on his heel to walk back to her. Were they even talking about the same fucking event anymore? Had she even been there just now? “A starving girl? Is that how you think of that?” he shouted pointing once again at the pile of decomp between them. “That was a zombie. Who was very fucking hellbent on eating me.” The more she spoke the clearer it was to him that she didn’t get it. That she saw no value to him or what he did, what had to happen, the reality of things. She had some rose colored zombie glasses or something, he couldn’t figure it out. “You know what, have fun on your walk with your friend there. Because it’s apparently not me. Hope she’s better fucking company. Considering she was higher on your fucking priority list.”

[rayroute-clear-saeran-text-sound]

Saeyoung’s Girl (707 x MC x Saeran)

I really wanted to participate in Choi Sandwich Week! So, I guess this is my contribution. This is from Saeran’s POV by the way. It’s a bit short, but I hope you still appreciate it anyway :)

@choisandwichweek

Day 2: Nostalgia/Jealousy

My lips tugged slightly upward, painting a slight smile onto my face. Giggles spilled from MC’s lips, her hand almost useless in muffling her laughter. I felt a small warmth spread evenly through my chest, sprouting from the pride I felt at being able to make her laugh like that. I did that. Sure, she was amused by Saeyoung’s jokes as well, but there was a hopeful voice in the back of my mind that told me she laughs with just a smidge of a higher intensity at mine. Some cheesy romcom was droning on in the background, which happened to be the subject of my apparently hilarious mockery. Saeyoung was out for whatever reason, which I was okay with. The truth is, I prefer being alone with MC. She helps me relax and become comfortable, because she treats me like I’m normal, not some broken doll being pieced back together, which is how everyone else seems to see me.

“God, Saeran...you’re going to kill me one of these days.” MC spoke as she clutched her sides, trying to regain her breath. Her arm shot out as she aggressively ruffled my newly ginger locks, which I pretended to hate. 

“Oh, you’re asking for it now.” I made my voice as gruff as possible, coaxing pearls of laughter from her mouth again. Whatever random movie forgotten, I initiated an all out assault of pokes, tickles, and hair tussles. 

“Okay, okay! Truce!” MC’s words drifted out between gasping breaths as she halfheartedly shoved me away from her. A soft smile still brightened my face as I slumped back against the couch, training my eyes back on the TV screen. “Geez, you know that Saeyoung doesn’t believe me when I tell him what you’re like when he’s not home?” Without thinking, the smile was wiped from my face at the mention of my brother. “You don’t have to answer, but why are you so different when he’s home?” I shrugged nonchalantly, trying to look uninterested.

“Past trauma, I guess.” She nodded, honey brown eyes moving back to the television as well. Deep down, I knew that wasn’t the true explanation anymore. It might have been at a time, but not now. Not that I knew the reason, because I really didn’t. It was something I just couldn’t quite put my finger on. Not that it mattered. We sat in silence for a moment, the romcom still weaving its way to our ears, albeit in vain, since the only thing we were listening to was our respective thoughts.

“I’m proud of you, you know.” My gaze found hers, and as it did, I saw that she meant every word. Just like that, that warm feeling spread again. This time, it covered more than just my chest, and it seemed to flood all the way from my ears to my toes. It was a strange feeling that was uncomfortable at first, but as it happened more often, it morphed into something pleasant that I began to cherish. The feeling was similar to the one I used to get whenever Saeyoung would sneak me outside as a kid, but that still wasn’t quite right. I was wrenched out of my thoughts by the door swinging open and Saeyoung’s loud greeting.

“I’m home! And guess what, I brought a surprise!” I rolled my eyes at his stupid over excitement, cynical about whatever was in the plastic bag he was holding. He trotted jollily over to the couch, diving in between me and MC, squishing me against the arm of the couch.

“Hey, watch it!” I spat, feeling animosity seep into me again, which made me more angry. I didn’t want to be spiteful to him, I wanted to love him again. It was why everything was so frustrating. 

“Anyways, what have you got there?” MC asked, voice so sweet it almost made me sick. Grinning wildly, Saeyoung brought out a box of frozen treats. Ripping open the box, Saeyoung pulled three out, passing them around to us. I stared at it, memories seeming to dance in the dessert in my hand. The blue double popsicle would mean nothing to MC, but it meant everything to my brother and I. 

“I was out getting gas, and while I was doing that, I got to thinking...I promised you that we would get to have another ice cream together, but it was something that I didn’t fulfil.”

There were a lot of promises you didn’t fulfil... I thought, knowing he was thinking the same thing. This was his way of making things right, one step at a time. 

“So, naturally, I decided to pick some up on my way home!” He had a goofy grin plastered on his face, although there was something else there. Through twin telepathy, or whatever you want to call it, I could tell he was nervous about if I would accept his way of mending fences. I continued to stare at the sweet treat in my hand, ice crystals melting away from the smooth surface. 

“You’re an idiot.” Despite the attitude, my grumble soon gave way to a chuckle as I bit into the dessert.

“Dear god, I got a laugh out of him! MC, it’s a miracle!” He looked as if he was genuinely about to tear up. I tuned him out as I let the taste wash over my tongue, memories bubbling up to the surface. The most prominent one was the pinky promise that we would escape our mother and be together forever. I suppose in some roundabout way, we did end up together, and we most likely will stay that way. “I’m so happy, you know that?” Saeyoung seemed to be addressing both of us, but I knew better. Now he was talking directly to MC, snaking his free arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him. My skin prickled as he did so, intensifying when he leaned in for a kiss. Getting caught up in the moment, he moved his hand to her hair, tangling it in her long brown strands while deepening the kiss. I turned away, biting deep into the frozen treat with my sensitive teeth when MC sighed in delight against him. 

“Gross, guys. I’m right here...” My voice trembled, and I cursed the tightening sensation in my chest. If they heard me, they didn’t care. MC giggled as he blew raspberries onto her neck and collar bone, and instead of its usual musical quality, it sounded shrill to my ears. Suddenly, the half-eaten ice cream I was holding didn’t taste very good. I stood up as MC began to slip his jacket off, heading to my room in long, fluid strides. As I passed the kitchen, I dropped the unfinished treat unceremoniously into the trash can. 

Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me? I dragged my hands down my face as I flopped back onto my bed. The door was shut tightly, but choruses of laughter drifted in regardless. My breath caught in my throat as I was finally able to put a name to this feeling.

“Jealousy...” I mumbled aloud, trying the word on for size. I was jealous of my brother. I had never been interested in women, or men for that matter, so my harbored feelings for MC caught me off guard. Of course, the one girl I had ever wanted was unavailable. This envy was only pushing me further back in my efforts to forgive my brother.

She’s happy with him...you want her to be happy, don’t you?  For once, my inner voice was being rational and reasonable rather than self-deprecating.

“Tch…” It was painfully ironic how it all worked out. I brought her to the RFA, and she went and fell in love with my twin. I’m not a child, though. If she is truly happy, then fine. I’ll support them as much as my heart allows, because MC deserves it. I would give her the world if I could, and I know for a fact that Saeyoung would do the same. A bittersweet smile worked its way onto my face, and I felt myself relaxing against the mattress. She may be Saeyoung’s girl, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t dream about her. As far as I’m concerned, diving into a dreamland where she could be mine was a better alternative to painful and twisted nightmares. I would take the imaginary relationship any day. 

Why do I have to love you this way?  Tracing circles onto my chest to comfort myself, I felt surprisingly contented. 

“God, what I wouldn’t give for you to be Saeran’s girl...” I chuckled lowly, glad no one was there to hear my sappy mumbling. My breathing fell into a slow and easy rhythm as I began to doze off into a happy slumber, a world where anything was possible, including having the girl of my dreams.

[mr5-5-5]

By Lark Dolan

**just a quick tease during these times of social distancing**

Beth grabbed some towels and an old comforter before heading out the back door. Her husband Connor was there, laying out a tarp and some old bedding on the back lawn.

"Did I miss anything?" She asked excitedly.

Connor shook his head, then looked at his watch. "I think we have another ten or fifteen minutes before anything starts."

Beth gave Connor her comforter before looking up into the night sky. "I've never seen a meteor shower before."

"Me neither," he said. "Let's hope it's not a disappointment." Connor ran inside for some pillows to complete their makeshift bed. When it was ready, Beth squealed with excitement. "This is gonna' be great." She bent down to get in but shot back up in surprise when Connor grab her ass.

"Hey," she said and swatted his hand away playfully. "You watch yourself, mister. I'm married."

Connor only shrugged. "I know your husband. He said it's fine."

Beth let out a shocked gasp before putting a hand to her throat, clutching imaginary pearls before sighing. "I figured he'd say something like that. He's such a bastard."

Connor's mouth dropped open in mock offense, and Beth laughed. "Didn't see that coming, did you?" She asked as she bent and got into their makeshift bed. Connor repeated back her words in a high mocking tone, before sticking his tongue out at her. Then there was a warm laugh between them before he got in next to her.

A good part of their relationship was rooted in silliness. They made faces at each other, stuck their tongues out, pinched each other's butts, and just general goofy behavior. Beth loved it.

Before she married Connor, she dated a handful of buttoned-up stiffs with either no sense of humor or worse, a cruel sense of humor. Beth remembered every joke and snide remark were always at someone else's expense, and all too often, she was the someone else.

True, Beth and Connor teased each other, but their words were soft and playful. Connor never spoke to her with a sharp tongue, and he never aimed to cut her deep. It was just how they were with each other. Two people who learned to grow up without losing the kids inside of them.

They both lay there looking up into the heavens. It was a clear night, and the stars seemed to twinkle. Then Beth felt her husband's hand on her thigh. He rubbed gently, and she turned to face him, with a smile playing over her lips.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" She asked in a huff.

"Just warming you up," he answered.

Beth blew raspberries at him. "Yeah, right. Don't be trying to get into my jeans now."

"Oh, I want what's in your jeans. I want your…" He trailed off as he searched for a word, but Beth already knew what was coming. Lately, Connor has been using an array of odds for the word pussy. He had a laundry list of awful nouns, and some made her laugh, some made her roll her eyes, but most made her cringe. He had been replacing a lot of words lately and even making up some of his own.

"Hmmm. What about…" He tapped his chin as he thought, then his eyes lit up. "What about your maw?"

"Maw?" She scoffed. "Ew, no." But Beth was already laughing. "Don't ever call my pussy a maw. That's so unsexy."

"Well, you know what is sexy?" Connor sat upon his knees, upsetting the comforter. He began thrusting his hips into the air, and Beth knew he was about to say the one word she dreaded the most.

"Don't say it." She warned. But Connor acted as if he didn't hear her. He began thrusting harder and faster, his body spasming while his breathing roughened. "Don't say it," she repeated, this time raising a finger to him like a teacher speaking to a naughty student.

At last, he looked at her while his hips pumped quickly and comically and said, "Baby, I'm about to conclude."

And there it was, conclude. It was the single weirdest word Connor used that was both unsexy, and hysterical. It was unsexy because it made cumming seem so formal, and it was funny because it sounded so out of place in context.

As if to emphasize this, Beth rolled away from him and burst into sweet cherry laughter. Connor grunted once, then spasmed one last time, mimicking his climax. When he was done making a show of it, he rolled over next to Beth in mock exhaustion.

"I hate when you say that." But her hand was poised over her mouth, trying to contain her laughter. "Don't ever say that to me while we are having sex, or I'll slap you."

"Oh Yeah?" On the heels of this little question, Connor made a curious noise low in the back of his throat before kissing her neck. "Don't threaten me with a good time," he whispered.

Beth kept laughing but felt herself slide into a smooth cobalt of arousal. The brush of his lips against her neck and the bulge against the small of her back made her squirm against him. Then, she remembered they were outside.

"Connor, what if the neighbors see us."

"Well, if you don't want to give them a show, let's get under the comforters."

A moment later, Beth was inching her jeans down her thighs while Connor slid down her body and spread her legs. She felt him nuzzling her pussy through her panties like an affectionate puppy and moaned.

"Does your husband make you wet like I do?" His voice drifted up through the comforter while Beth ran a hand through the dark bramble of Connor's hair.

"No," Beth answered in a low, lusty voice. Her eyes searched the sky as he teased her through the damp fabric of her panties. "You're the only one who gets me this wet."

Her words seemed to usher him on, and Connor began to eat her pussy through her panties. Beth loved how Connor went down on her without any preamble. She didn't have to beg or drop subtle hints, he just did it. She thought it was sweet, but it also excited her just thinking about it. She was already wet from before, but now, thanks to Connor, there was a mess down there.

"Are you going to take your frumple-diddle off, or do I have too?"

"What? Oh, you mean my panties?"

Connor nibbled on the inside of her thigh for a moment. "I'm not gonna' do it unless you ask."

Beth sighed. "Fine. Will you take off my diddle-frumpler, or whatever."

"Frumple-diddle." He corrected and gave a little laugh as he pulled her panties down her thighs.

"Whatever, just keep going, Mr wordsmith."

He kept going. Hands holding her thighs open as his mouth and her pussy shared the dialogue of lovers. She felt so open out in the back yard, so naughty that her toes curled, or maybe that was just Connor's effect on her.

His tongue danced over her clit, and Beth arched her back against him, unable to control her body. "Oh God," she moaned, both in admiration of the clear night sky and Connor's ceaseless tongue. "This is amazing."

Beth rubbed at her breast through her tee-shirt and felt her nipples grow taught. Thanks to Connor, she was galloping towards an orgasm at the speed of a falling comet. Then, on the cusp of her climax, something streaked across the sky.

"Connor," she called in a high whisper. "It's happening."

"Keep watching baby. Keep watching." And so Beth kept her eyes to the night sky. It wasn't just one or maybe two, but a thousand meteors, all showering down. Somehow, the streaks were starting to change colors while impossibly staying a luminous white at the core. Beth didn't understand how that could be, but the spectacle was beautiful.

She opened her mouth but was struck speechless by both the intensity of her sable climax and the beauty of the meteor shower. She admired it a moment longer before her chest hitched, and her orgasm erupted.

She found her voice and called his name. "Connor, Connor, Connor." beth spoke it like a mantra before she clenched, and let out a hot gush of her nectar into Connor's face. He didn't falter and kept eating her pussy until she was finished. Finally, as his name trickled down into something inaudible, Beth closed her eyes and let the dull and delicious aftershock pulse through her body.  

Connor emerged from under the covers and lay next to her, looking satisfied. His face was glossy, and His smile was wide. Looking at him, Beth felt her love for him well up, and she could help but kiss him. It was something she didn't usually do because she didn't like the taste of herself, but this was a special occasion.

"That was amazing," Beth said between kisses.

"Yeah," he agreed, before adopting a roguish grin. "Especially when you concluded on my face."

Beth slapped him.

                                The End

Thank you for reading. Please tell me what you thought of this teasing little story.

[petersboyfriendsonofthor]

Safe

Mob!Tom x Male Reader AU

Written for @starksparker‘s summer writing challenge. 

Warnings: language, ethnic slurs (antagonist is a real asshole), violence, graphic injuries, mob/gang violence. (If I forgot to add any please lmk!!) (there’s some fluff at the end don’t worry)

Word Count: ~ 3.2k

Safe

“So tell us, mate, how are things with you and Tom?” Your friend Alfie asks as he slides you a pint from down the bar.

You smile, taking a sip.

“It’s been great,” you say, your smile growing wider. “He’s simply amazing. Such a gentleman, always polite, incredibly supportive, funny, charming. Honestly, it would be easier to list the things I don’t like about him.”  

“Alright then,” Alfie says, leaning into the bar with a grin. “What don’t you like about him?”

“Easy. Nothing,” you say. The boys laugh. “He’s the best there is. The past eight months have been the best time of my life. I honestly don’t know what I would do without him.”

“Aww look!” Lorenzo hoots. “He’s blushing!” Your friends had their laugh while you look down into your glass, cheeks red and warm.

“So tell us,” Alfie says once they settle down. “You getting it good in the sack?”

You cough on your drink, nearly spitting all over the bartender. Lorenzo whistles and claps you on the back.

“Our boy has got to be getting it good, right?”

“I… I uh,” you stammer. “I hardly think that's any of your business!”

“Oh come on, mate!” Lorenzo groans. “We tell you about our girlfriends, it’s time you paid us back with some riveting sexploits of your own!”

“I never ask to hear about your sex life, Lorenzo,” you say, swatting him on the shoulder. “You just never shut up about it. ‘Oh Lorenzo, oh oh oh’ Jesus mate, I’ve seen what you’re packing, and it can’t be enough to make her sound like that every night.”

Alife doubles over in laughter while Lorenzo tries to hide his rosy cheeks. He waves over the bartender and orders more beers.

“Why do I have to take all the heat for this?” Lorenzo asks, taking a pint from the bartender. “Alife boasts just as much as I do.”

“Alfie though,” you say, “Alfie’s got quite the member. Must be from his dad’s side.” You and Lorenzo laugh while Alfie feigns offense.

“Y/n, are you insinuating that I have a big dick just cause I’m half black?” Alfie gasps and clutches at an imaginary pearl necklace. “Could that be racism I sense from my dear old friend?”

“Well, you didn’t get it from your mother!” you fire back. “Also, I’ve seen it first hand. Remember when I walked in on you and Sophie last year? I reckon yours is damn near twice as long soft as Lorenzo’s is standing up!”

Alfie burst again into laughter while Lorenzo hangs his head in defeat. You rub his shoulder to let him know you’re just taking the piss, and offer to buy his next drink. Over Lorenzo’s shoulder, you catch the eye of a large man in a wife beater and leather pants at a nearby table. He and his friends are staring at you, and have been for the past few minutes. You peel your eyes away and throw a smile back on your face.

“But really though,” Alfie says, refocusing your attention. “Is he good to you? Doesn’t hurt you, does he? I’ve heard stories about his temper...”

You were touched that Alfie cared so much. You have been friends for years, having met back in middle school. A rumor had spread that you were the son of Al “the Ray”, a notorious Italian mobster who controlled a nice portion of London and had properties all over Central and Southern England. His name comes from the Italian word “re,” which means king. He inherited the many landed properties in England through some old dynastic claims that connected those old families to your ancestors in the Italian nobility. His grandfather, your great-grandfather, started a street gang in London after the First World War. His brother inherited the family lands and fortunes in Italy, so your great-grandfather decided to strike out on his own. Through blood and sweat he carved out a territory for himself in London and called himself “Il Re,” The King. His sons and grandsons expanded, and the kingdom reached its height under your father, Alonzo.

With a family such as that, it was hardly surprising that you did not have many friends growing up. People were too afraid of your father to get close to you, until Alfie. He started sitting with you at lunch, and from then on you were the best of friends. Your father, who had softened somewhat with age, was so delighted to hear you had made a friend that he saw to it that Alfie’s family had protection and money. Alfie was always looking out for you, as you were just as important to him as he was to you.

“No, I think I’ve actually tamed his temper,” you shake your head. “He would never hurt me.  He is so tender and caring, especially the first few times. You know that I’ve never done it before him, so he was sure to be extra careful with me.”

Alfie smiles. “Glad to hear it, mate. Glad to--”

“Oi!” The man at the other table shouts, startling you and your friends. “If you three fags don’t shut up about your cocks, I’ll cut ‘em off and stick ‘em in your mouths.”

The bar falls silent. Everyone shifts their eyes to you three, awaiting your response. The bartender steps in to buy you some time.

“Easy now, friends, I won’t be having a scene in my pub,” he declares. “These young lads are doing no harm, and I won’t have you threatening them.” He gives you a nod.

“Stay out of this, old man,” growls Biker Dude. “Or have you forgotten who runs the place ‘ere?”

A chill runs down your spine. You turn to Lorenzo, who looks equally as terrified. The bikers rise from their table, six in all, and receive some reinforcements from the pool tables, increasing their count to ten. They advance on the bar, taking their time and sizing the three of you up.

“Alfie, you didn’t tell me this pub was in--”

“I didn’t fuckin know it was in Johnny Rast’s territory,” Alfie panics. “I thought his turf started three blocks west. Thought we were still in Holland’s. Shit, I’m sorry mate.”

“Shut up!” Johnny Rast barks. He is only a few feet away now. The rest of the gang stops, but Johnny keeps walking. He leans in a few inches from your face. You can smell the whiskey on his breath. He flips out a switchblade.

“Now, in my pub, we have certain rules about who can and cannot enter,” he explains, sliding the point of the blade up your shirt. “We don’t allow Degos like you and your friend ‘ere. It's hard to get grease stains out of these leather seats.”

You gulp as his men laugh. Lorenzo’s face is as pale as a ghost. 

“We also don’t like fags,” Johnny continues. He brings the point of the blade up to your neck, lightly dragging it over your soft throat and over your jawline. It finally settles in your eye socket, just under the bone. Your eye is closed and he applies light pressure, making you wince. Your heart is thumping so fast you’re sure he can hear it. He gives the knife a twist, threatening to stab out your eye. All it would take is a little more pressure and out it would come.

“Let him go!” Alfie shouts. Loyal, brave, stupid Alfie. Two men near him seize his arms and drag him before Johnny, who pulls the knife away from your eye. You rub it and let out a breath you weren’t aware you’d been holding.

Johnny punches Alfie in the stomach, doubling him over. One of his captors jerks his head back so that he can meet Johnny’s eye.

“You know,” Johnny says, running his thumb along the edge of his knife. “If there’s one thing I hate more than degos and fags, it’s gotta be stinking, half-breed ni--”

Alfie’s head connects with Johnny’s mouth, stopping him from finishing his slur. He slips out of his captors’ grasp and shoves each of them away. He punches Johnny hard across the face and keeps at him. Lorenzo turns and punches the biker nearest him, but is met with a flurry of blows from the other bikers.

You grab your beer mug and toss its contents in the face of a biker in front of you. You shove it into another’s face and smash in some of his teeth. He screams and grabs his mouth, blood and broken glass slipping between his fingers. You kick the dazed and wet biker into the bleeding one, but that is when your element of surprise wears off. The next two bikers block your punch and one shoves his knee into your groin. You shout and fall to the ground, where they rain fists and steel-toed boots onto your writhing body. You can barely make out Alfie get slashed with Johnny’s knife before being thrown to the ground. Kicks came in from every angle. A steel toe hits the bone above your eye, and another shatters a rib. Someone kicks your kidney and you arch your back out of instinct, opening up your balls and belly to more abuse. Every attempt to rise is met with more punishment, and you feel yourself starting to slip from consciousness.

The blows stop at the pump of a shotgun. The bikers look up behind the bar to see the old bartender holding a pump-action 22-gauge bird hunting shotgun. From far away, this wouldn’t do much damage, but up close it’s enough to tear a man’s head from his shoulders.

“I’ll remember this, old man!” Johnny screams. “You don’t have enough shot in there for all of us. You pull that trigger and you’re dead. Leave us to our business.”

“You idiots really don’t know who that is your kicking?”

The bikers look puzzled.

“That’s the Ray’s son you’re beating, and he’s dating Tom Holland. The Tom Holland. Have you not been listening all evening?! Do you have a fucking deathwish?”

The bikers’ eyes widen in shock. They are a small time gang and can in no way challenge Al the Ray and his Italians, and certainly not if the Ray joined forces with the Hollands.

“I--I--I didn’t know,” Johnny stammers, backing away. “Bloody fuck, I’m sorry sirs I didn’t know I didn’t--”

The doors fly open with a crash as a dozen armed men rush into the pub led by a blond haired man a few years older than you. You manage a weak smile at the sight of your friend Harrison Osterfield, Tom’s right-hand man.

“Take the bikers,” he orders. “And bring in petrol. We need to send a message to anyone who thinks they can get away with jumping a Holland, honorary or otherwise.”

“Haz,” you rasp. “Don’t. Bartender...helped us…” you hack up blood, covering yourself and the floor. Haz rushes to your side.

“Y/n, mate, what did they do to you?” He cradles your head in his lap. “Tom’s gonna go ape shit when he sees you like this.”

You snort. “Do whatever to the bikers...leave the pub...bartender...” you throw up “...saved my life…”

“I’m also the one who phoned you lads,” the bartender says.

You hear a groan from your right and see Lorenzo clutching his arm, which is all mangled from his beating. His hair is messed up and his face bruised, but he is well enough to stand with some help. Alfie, on the other hand…

He is lying in a pool of his own blood with a gash across his face. He’s bleeding from multiple head wounds and his hair is matted down with blood.

“Alfie…” you croak. “Alfie get up.”

One of Haz’s men checks on him. “He’s got a pulse, but we need to get him to the Doc ASAP.”

“Get him in a car,” Haz orders. “Gently. Follow us to the manor and get him stitched up. Ryan, help me with Y/n, and Mark, get Lorenzo here to a car. He’s coming with as well.”

Haz and Ryan lift you up and you throw your arms around their shoulders. You can only drag your feet behind you as they move you to one of the black SUV’s parked outside. Haz’s men stuff as many bikers into the trunks of the cars as they can. They’ll receive a different kind of attention where they’re going.

The ride back to the manor was quick, as the Holland gang’s vehicles were escorted by police officers that take bribes from Tom. You rest your head on Harrison's lap, which was now stained with blood and bile.

“Sorry,” you croaked. “I ruined your pants.”

“Hey hey,” he said, gently brushing your hair with his fingers. “It’s not a problem.”

The car is silent for the next few minutes until Haz speaks again.

“Ryan called Harry, who by now has told Tom,” he says. “He’s waiting for you. I’m sure he’ll have your bed all made up for you and Doc will see you as soon as he’s done with your friend.”

You start to cry at the mention of Tom and Alfie.

“Shh shh,” Harrison coos. “Its alright mate, you’re safe now. I got a text from Dan, he says they’ve slowed Alfie’s bleeding. He should be fine once Doc gets to him. You’re safe now. You all are.”

You sniffle and shake your head. “Not that. Tom. I don’t want him t-to see m-me like th-th-this. I’m all battered and weak and I just…”

“Mate, you know Tom loves you. He’ll take care of you. Just hold tight, we’re almost there.”

Holland Manor is a large estate outside the city, fenced in from the road so that unwelcome guests could not enter. The fleet of cars drive past some hills and follow the drive up to the front doors of the manor. An elaborate fountain stands in the green in the center of the driveway loop, and wide stone steps lead to the large double doors of the manor’s entrance. Men hurriedly take Alfie inside to see the Doc, and you’re helped up the stairs.

Tom arrives at the doors just as you reach the last step of the staircase. His face morphs from worried to concerned to angry and back to concerned all in a moment.  He rushes over to you and gently cups your face with his hands, careful to avoid cuts and bruises.

He examines your face. Your left eye is swollen shut. You have a gash on your cheek and forehead that are still oozing blood. Your nose is bent awkwardly and swollen black and blue. Most of your face is bruised or cut, and both of your lips are busted. Your hair is matted with coagulating blood, and your clothes are all torn and dirty. A trickle of blood runs from your right ear down your neck and is slowly coloring your white shirt collar red.

“Tommy…” your hoarse voice cracks and your eyes yet again brim with tears. He takes you in his arms and holds you, muttering “y/n, y/n, y/n.”

He takes Ryan’s place and takes you to his room with Haz’s help. He sets you down on the bed and props your back up with pillows. You’re still crying as he pulls you in for another embrace.

“I got you, love, I got you,” he murmured and kissed your head.

“Erm, Tom,” Harrison says, standing in the doorway. “What should be done about the biker gang?”

Tom turns to his friend, his blood boiling. “I’ll come down there and sort them out.” His hands ball into fists.

You touch his wrist and he softens. “Stay, Tommy. Please. I need you.” You sniffle, tears leaving clean streaks down your bruised and bloody face. Tom returns his attention to you.

“Do what you want,” he says, never taking his eyes off of you. “But leave Rast to me. Also, have Lorenzo identify the ones who did this to my baby. I want them too.”

Haz nods and shuts the door behind him. Tom reaches over to the side table and takes a damp cloth to your face, gently wiping off the dirt and dried blood. He gives a kiss to each area he cleans, and he gently places a kiss to your busted lips. It hurts but you need him, and you deepen the kiss. Tom can taste the blood in your mouth, and he nearly breaks when he runs his tongue over yours, feeling the spot where you had bitten a chunk out of after one of the bikers had kicked your jaw. He breaks the kiss to change into sweats and no shirt, and he carefully removes your shirt as well.

He gasps at the bruises all over your stomach and chest. It was an ugly rainbow of red, blue, purple, yellow, and brown. There was an especially nasty mark left over the bruised and possibly broken rib. “My god, y/n, what did they do to you?”

You recount the whole story, sobbing half the time. Tom pulls you in for a comforting hug, his bare chest warm against your cheek. He kisses the top of your head.

“I’m here now, love,” he coos, letting you sob into his chest. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Please don’t leave me,” you sob. He only holds you tighter.

“I’m not going anywhere, little Prince,” he says, kissing your forehead. You smiled through your tears at his little nickname for you. “I’ve got you.”

“It feels so emasculating,” you sob. “I tried to fight back but I could barely do anything and they just kept kicking me and kicking me an--”

“Shh shh shh. Don’t worry about that now,” Tom said. “I’m with you now, no one is going to hurt you anymore. Listen to me.” He pulled away and gently brushed your tears away with his thumbs. “I’ve got you. I love you, y/n.”

You stared into his caring brown eyes through your own watery ones. You pull him in for a kiss, your body shaking with aftershocks from your previous hysterics.

“Hold me,” you say, burying your head into his chest. He falls back onto the bed, and you cuddle in close to him. He wraps his bare, muscular arms around your battered frame and pulls you close. You can feel his heartbeat through his chest. You place a kiss of gratitude under his collarbone. “Don’t let go. I don’t want to leave.”

“You never have to, love,” he says. “I want you to move in with me. I want to keep you safe, and I need to have you close. Would you like that?”

Your arms squeeze tighter around Tom’s back, soaking in the warmth of his skin. “Yes, Tom. Want you to keep me safe.” You feel yourself starting to cry again, and Tom kisses your head.

“I will. I promise.” The determination and love in his voice were enough to send you to tears once more. Tom starts to hum a soothing tune, and you find yourself drifting off to sleep. The last words you hear before drifting off are a soft “I’ve got you. I love you.”

Tomorrow, Tom would bring hell to the bikers that nearly killed you, starting with the ones who beat you. But tonight, right now, all Tom has on his mind is how much love he has for you and how much he wants to keep you safe. Your father is the feared Il Re, but you are just Tom’s little Principe, and he will do everything in his power to keep you safe.