#i like the idea of seven finding the letter after the break up

[lyriumsings]

YALL i’m so far in my seven feels i need to get OUT it’s chrissy time get bACK you moody fucking bastard

[c0ld0utside]

Summer Camp Slasher

Shoutout to @foundfamyanderes for the idea in this post here

Keeping this short! Might go more in-detail if I make another part. 

Warnings: Mentions of bullying, Reader almost drowned, Character death, violence, Gore, Chasing, Reader gets injured, Rushed fic

You hated Summer Camp. Hated it since you were ten years old and was finally able to piece together that you were here because Mom and Dad didn't want to bother with you over the summer. Hated it since the girls in your group and the older ones started disliking you for being close with one of the popular boys; Travis. 

Travis was your rock through it all. He was the first person you met when you started going to camp at six years old. He was thirteen then- a fellow camper and one of the favorites. A natural leader. A nice kid who could befriend everyone. Nonjudgmental to the kids who had a rough time. A kid who loved summer camp so much he came back as one of the counselors. A rare find in times like these. Though there was a negative to his charm. 

You’ve seen it enough time at school; girls desperate for attention and popularity. The lows they’d go to over a boy. The shade and rumors that’d be thrown around. “It’s crazy,” you had told him when you were fourteen. “How did you deal with all of it? Or- well, deal with it. That Naomi chick practically froths at the mouth when she sees you.” Travis had snorted then. “To be honest…I don’t know. It makes me just as uncomfortable…remember that one year with that Deseray girl? Don’t get me wrong, I love taking care of kids but I have never been happier to know she wouldn’t be coming back.” He says, fiddling with the bracelet you gifted him when you were seven. You had made it during arts and crafts after learning one of his favorite animals were turtles- letter beads spelling out “U-R-A” with a star and turtle charm. 

Ugh, you remembered her- the girl who watched with her friends as your kayak tipped over and nearly let you drown. You had nightmares for weeks- hearing the muffled laughter under the water. Had it not been for Travis, you would’ve died. It was satisfying watching her burst into tears as he chewed her out (it was the first time you heard him yell, too) and wrap you up in a towel. It was a miracle you came back this year (It wasn’t, your parents made you come back anyway).

This year was the breaking point. Especially when one of your bullies, Layla, was found dead, an axe buried in her back and one of her legs chopped clean off. …The leg was found in her friend Isabella’s bed. All of you found that out when she woke up screaming. Which was joined by the rest of the girls in her cabin. Immediately the blame went to you- but Travis, ever the angel, shut those ideas down. “ [Name]’s group cabin is on the other side of the camp. The tool shed isn’t accessible to someone without a key and that key is kept in the office.” 

At first your torment got worse, the girls calling you a murderer and obviously following you around, trying to “catch you in the act.” They freaked out when you were at least eight feet away from them and left “gifts” on your bed. Landon, Isabella’s boyfriend, was found floating in the water, tied up, gagged, and thrown out into the lake the night after you came back to deer droppings. Arianna was found with the back of a hammer lodged into the side of her head after your clothes were dumped into the same lake. That was the last straw (for some reason. It should’ve been the last straw when Layla died) and the camp leader, Mr. Madden, told the rest of the kids to pack up their things. A bus would be coming to bring them all home. 

At least, that was the plan. Halfway through backing the driver was found with a stab wound and slumped against the driving wheel. The tires had been slashed as well- the loud noise drawing you and the other camper’s attention. The phone line had been cut in the office, so you and Naomi went to grab the mobile phones in the small office safe. 

You stuck the key into the lock, twisting as Naomi stood by the door. “Can you hurry up? This is freaking me out,” she says, a twinge of fear in her tone. “I am also freaking out in case you haven’t noticed,” you shot back. “Look- my hands are shaking.” Naomi scoffed. “So are mine, you’re not specia-” Her words turned into a scream when she was harshly pulled out of the room. 

“NAOMI!” Abandoning the phones and shifting the key around in your hand, you rushed out to the hall. It was all so quick- a masked man in a dark blue hoodie plunging a machete into Naomi’s stomach as she clawed at his shoulders, trying to push him away. Blood splattered onto the wooden floor and in an instant you were moving, stabbing the key into the attacker’s shoulder. 

With a grunt, he shoved you to the ground, masked face staring down at yours. A cartoony, toothy smile was drawn on it, black circles around the small eyeholes. Naomi whimpered and sobbed in pain on the floor, the stranger looking at her over his shoulder. You shoot upward for a messy takedown and instead he grabs you by the collar of your shirt. Your gaze flicks to his wrist and your heart sinks.

He’s wearing Travis’ bracelets. The ones you made for him over the years. All of them. Had he killed him and taken them to taunt you? Why you? What did you do to deserve this?!

“You weren’t supposed to see,” he murmurs softly, voice unrecognizable. Pushing you back, he opens the door to one of the closets and shoves you inside, slamming the door shut afterward. “NO!” You shout rushing over to the door and throwing it open. 

It’s too late. The killer has the blade stabbed through Naomi’s cheek and is kneeling over her. All she can do is scream as he pulls it out. “Quit. Moving.” He growls, stabbing it through her head. Blood flies and splatters everywhere, getting on his mask, clothes, the wall, and the floor. “Good girl…ah- I told you not to look!” The man snaps, voice muffled by the mask. 

…His voice…

“Travis?”  

“See? I told you. You’re smart.” He says sadly, getting up from his kneeling position. He lets the blade fall from his gloved hands- black latex gloves from the kitchen- and begins to walk over to you with his hands to his sides. He tsks when you back away. 

“You don’t need to be scared, [Name]. I’m doing this all for you!” He explains. “...And a little for myself. Whew, she was annoying. It’s okay, though. I’d never hurt you. After all,” He holds up his wrist, holding it out to you. The very first one is the one you made him recently. “B-I-G-B-R-O” in the largest letter beads you could find- a mix of cubes and spheres decorated with green, blue, and yellow beads. “I’m your older brother, am I not?”

“Why?” You choke out, taking another step back. “Oh come on, bud! You and I both know your parents don’t care about you. I do, though! Who kept in touch with you online? Who reminded you to drink water and eat? Who stayed up late with you on a call to help you fall asleep? Who helped you with your homework? I’m not complaining, by the way. I loved doing that with you and I still do because I love you!” Travis rambled, moving closer and closer. You reach the door and grab the handle.

“[Name], don’t do it.” He warns, tone dropping. “I’ll be disappointed if you do.” Travis sighs as you throw the door open and book it into the night. “Alright. We’re doing this, then.”

-

You don’t look back. If you look back you might see him and looking back will slow you down. The path is getting harder to follow, narrowing out as it reaches the end. Maybe you should go off of it? Maybe Travis got tired. You hope that’s the case. …Though it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Heading off of the path, you push your way into the trees and through the greenery. You hiss whenever a thorn or low hanging branch scrapes against your arms, leaving ugly red lines and small dots of blood. It goes on for a while- pushing, pulling snagged clothing free, stumbling on rocks or awkward dips in the ground…the grass is long and it gets harder to see the forest floor. What if you get lost-

CLANG!

You don’t want to look down. You can feel something warm and wet soaking your sock. Don’t look down. Your gaze shifts downward, anyway. A bear trap is snapped shut around your foot, blood already starting to stain your shoe. It clicks in your head and the pain is quick to come.

A choked scream leaves you as you try to kneel down, the pain worsening and flaring. Hot tears fill your eyes as you desperately try to open the trap, wincing and crying out in agony all the while. Your chest feels tight yet it heaves like it’s weightless. Someone’s screaming your name, heavy footsteps getting closer as they force themself through the greenery.

“[Name]?! Oh, shit!”

They hurry over to your front, pulling down their hood and throwing their mask off. “Hey, hey hey shh, shh you’re okay, you’re okay, I’m here now.” They soothe, hands hovering in the air. “Don’t look at it, bud. Look at me, please. Look at me.” You force your gaze up to the person.

Travis gives you a weak smile. “Hey, bud. There you are. What did I tell you about going off the trail?” Sniffling, you speak. “N-not to do it.” He nods. “Mhm. Not to do it. I didn’t mean to scare you so bad. Now look where we���re at, hm?” Travis lets out a sigh.

“I’m gonna pry it open, okay?” Travs says, frowning at the whimper you let out. “I know bud, I know. Hurts bad, doesn’t it? That’s why we gotta do this. Take a deep breath and breathe out on ‘three,’ okay?” You give him a small nod and he grabs the sides of the trap. “Breathe in.”

Travis watches you take in a deep breath. “Good. Ready? …One!” He roughly pulls the trap open, earning a startled cry from you. “Travis-” you sob out. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, pulling your leg out of the trap and setting it aside. Pulling off his sweater, he rips off one of the sleeves and ties it around your bleeding ankle. “You’re lucky it wasn’t one of the bigger traps. We’d have to cut your foot off.” He grumbles, scooting closer to scoop you up into his arms. 

“It’s definitely broken,” Travis announces, “but no worries. We’ll get you all fixed up at home, okay?” Home? Was he seriously bringing you back to your actual home? Your parents would freak out! What was he-

“Not your home. Our home. The one I made for us. Well, I bought it and made some changes. I’m a little hurt you didn’t tell me this would be your last year,” Travis rambled. “I heard you telling Mr. McCarthy in the office when you arrived. Don’t worry, we’ll talk about it later. This is more important right now.”

“Oh- are you falling asleep? Don’t do that [Name], stay with me please…”

…

When you wake up, you’re in a new home, in a clean room with your big brother holding a breakfast tray. 

“Rise and shine,” He croons. “Welcome home.”

Aggh sorry everyone I hoped to get this done sooner and flesh it out better but alas school started and takes up the majority of my day. Maybe I'll rewrite it. Remember to drink water and be kind to yourselves!

[bits-and-babs]

𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐌 — 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

↳ summary: prompt: “That’s so fucking hot.” — Paired with Ghost on a 'drill' mission, you get to witness his sniping prowess first hand.

↳ pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader (Delta)

↳ [1k] content: 18+ MDNI. Utterly self-indulgent. Shy reader (because I fancied something different), firing guns, very vague power play, very light degradation (barely there but it’s there), fingering, cum eating (don’t know if this counts but I’ll put it anyway), Ghost is very skilled with a gun.

ghost masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

Easterly winds trace the curve of your cheek and gently waft your hair across your forehead. The pitch blackness that hangs in the nighttime desert air swallows you whole, your defensive spot illuminated only by the waning crescent moon. It's fucking freezing, you're tired, and you'd been staring down a sniper's scope for over six hours.

You’d already decided that whoever thought a sniper drill was a good idea was going to face your wrath in the morning.

Settled into the sand grains beside you is Ghost's hulking frame. His patience is remarkable, settled on his front with his finger fixed on the hairpin trigger of the HDR. He's not moved once since getting into position, the vaguest sign he was even alive being the blink of his eyelids. He doesn’t even need to practise, and you’re convinced he’s been paired with you simply because he pities you being a shit shot. 

"Do you not have pins and needles?" You grumble, the crosshair in your field of vision blurring into a shapeless mush after gazing at it for so long, "I swear I've got a dead leg."

"No." Simon's answer is definitive. You're unsure if you believe him at first, but he squeezes the trigger without warning. The gun cracks, firing its round, and you almost jump out of your skin at the sudden break of silence. "What the fuck, Simo-"

Disbelief stalls your loud complaint, the image of a body-shaped target with a bullet hole dead centre of the cross in the inner circle's fixed point making your jaw drop. 

Simon settles back, shedding the shell casing from the HDR and effortlessly loading a second round. It's like breathing for him, the sniper rifle like a body part that worked as seamlessly as his arms or legs. 

It slips out, your inner dialogue somehow managing to worm its way out of your lips before you can swallow down the mortifying comment. 

"That's so fucking hot..."

Simon doesn't seem to respond at first, but your cheeks are already heating up in embarrassment as you try to backpedal. "I mean- I mean, I'm sure most girls at home would find that really hot! You must have so many girls asking you out when you go home- Half of Manchester, I bet!" 

You laugh awkwardly, holding your own sniper weapon in a death grip. You wish the sand would sink beneath you, dropping you into the depths below. 

"Not really," Simon's rumbling voice cuts through the desert silence. It makes your humiliation even worse, and you squeeze your eyes shut and plan to request a transfer with Captain Price the moment you return to base. Or even hand in your resignation letter. You'd never have to fear running into Simon on another team that way—

"Delta," Ghost's gruff voice cuts through your downward spiral. You open your eyes and glance over at him apprehensively. He's still staring down the scope of his rifle, mask concealing his expression from you. Undoubtedly he was enjoying making you feel stupid.

A heavy hand settles on the back of your thigh, and you suddenly exhale the oxygen in your lungs as though someone has popped the membrane with a pin. Ghost doesn't look up from the scope; his attention is focused on the target over seven-hundred meters away. 

"G-Ghost-" Your voice tremors, and you wish you could blame it on the chill in the desert air. Instead, it's Simon's palm slowly tracing up your thigh, palm squeezing gently at the globe of your ass. 

"Quiet," he orders, and you nod quickly, falling in line at the sound of his authoritative 'lieutenant voice'. He continues his advance, pushing his fingertips under the waistband of your khaki cargos at the small of your back. 

Simon hesitates. He offers you a chance to wave him off, but you can't think of anything worse— he's touching you, sparking your skin hot beneath his slow, deliberate touches. 

Breaching the waistband of your pants, he ensures that he inches his hand below your panties, too, fingertips tracing the naked curve of your ass as they continue their descent. You whimper softly, impatient, but the sound dies in your throat when you see Ghost's irises flick to you in a warning. 

Quiet, I said. 

Swallowing back any more noises of complaint, you spread your legs ever so slightly for him. A rumble of content sound from his chest, and Simon aims his sight down the scope of his rifle again. 

Simon's fingers sink into your fluttering cunt from behind. The stretch alone has you biting down on your knuckles in an attempt to smother the yelp that threatens to breach your mouth. 

What makes it worse is Simon's blatant nonchalance. He adjusts the positioning of his Sniper to mitigate the desert breeze with one hand. Meanwhile, his fingers sink deeper into you, easing in and out until you hear the slick sounds of your cunt swallowing his digits. 

It's pathetic. Ghost'll probably taunt you relentlessly for it, but you rock back onto his hand as his fingers tease your spasming walls. 

"O-Oh, fuck-" you choke out, breathless, as you lower your head and brace against the rising bliss in your abdomen. Again, Ghost's eyes flick over, cautioning you. 

"I'm tryin'a focus," he scolds you flatly, pushing his thumb into your clit harshly. You yelp at the sudden pressure, the arc of pleasure that whips up your spine. 

"W-What can you possibly be fo-ohh-" you moan out, losing your sentence as he slowly begins to circle your clit with his battle-calloused thumb. 

"On this," Simon hums, and again the crack of his sniper rifle jolts your body in shock. Fuck- but he keeps rubbing at your clit, sinking his fingers deeper into you as he searches for your g-spot. 

Your head whips up as your cunt flutters around his digits, looking down the scope. Again, Ghost has hit the target perfectly— slap bang in the middle of its forehead. 

Honestly, you could have cum from that alone, but Ghost's fingers are retreating just as your orgasm surges. You whine loudly, looking over your shoulder to see him remove his hands from your pants despite your protests and use his thumb to push the bottom of his ski mask over his mouth. 

Sinking his fingers into his mouth, he groans as he tastes you. It's the most sordid sound you've ever heard, the noise settling deep into your abdomen as you watch him lick his fingers clean. 

Simon knows what he's doing, knows he has you on the edge of a mind-shattering orgasm, but ignores your heavy breathing and desperate gaze to nod his head at the target. 

"Your turn. Best stop your hands from shaking, love. Get him between the eyes, and I might let you cum."

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[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Three. Four. Five. || Toxic!Husband!Price

For @glitterypirateduck's “O, Captain!” writing challenge! I used prompts:

30. "I hate you but if anything happened to you I'd burn the world" vibe.;

42. The story spans over a period of 10 or more years;

78. Give us a "That's my Wife!" moment.

Rating: E Words: 3.3K cw: toxic couple, VERY toxic, insults, death wishes, smut fade to black, pregnancy. Tags: f!reader, you/your pronouns but no Y/N, miilitary/court martial inaccuracies, very bad family dynamics?, dark humour??. Summary: John and Reader are in the worst fucking marriage ever. A collection of moments, dialogues and scenes from their terrible relationship. a/n: They are SO fucking toxic and dumb, I cannot- This is also very different from the stuff I usually write. This is ALSO not particularly angsty, more so dark humour.

There was a time when you loved John Price.

With all your heart, all your soul (and all your pussy).

That time was when you were young.

Ages 14 to 21, you loved him. He was your first kiss, your first time. High school sweethearts, you supported him through the academy, he supported you when you went to university. 

You stayed together through his first and second deployments. It was like an old-timey WW2 romance. 

So many letters exchanged back and forth. All lovey-dovey, with faint pen ink and smudged blotches on the pages as you made plans for the future.

Phone calls with spotty service and loads of static, only five minutes per soldier, 5 minutes which he’d spend only ever spend talking to you, asking you to relay any other messages to his mum, dad, siblings so he wouldn’t have to hang up with you. 

Polaroids clipped on the inside of envelopes which he would then slip into the breast pocket of his shirt, keeping you over his heart… one he’d often pull out and look at during transpo, thumbs tracing your eternal smile.

Polaroids of yours, a bit more risqué, which he would keep tucked into a journal under his pillow, for his eyes only.

John would walk around overseas with a smile on his lips after getting a letter or a call from you, brag to his teammates about his “bird back home”, never going out to bars to find one night stands like they did…

But sometime after his second deployment and joining the SAS, the puppy love that had lasted for years started to dwindle. 

Slowly but surely, you found that you were both growing distant.

You assumed you were both growing a bit ‘comfortable’, perhaps complacent… like all relationships tend to get after a while. 

By that time, John and you had already moved in together and you were no longer consistently alone for months at a time waiting for him to return from deployment. You blamed it on that. Plus, you’d been together for years by then!

But it felt different. There was distance, emotional and physical. Whenever he cuddled up to you, you felt cold and so did he. The kisses to your forehead were meaningless, the dinners at home eerily silent.

And between the distance and the inability to make proper plans, proper dates, celebrate milestones together, forgotten anniversaries, overlooked birthdays… It turned into arguments. 

And one argument turned to three, to five, to seven… hundred.

You found yourself growing bitter, angry, hateful.

It wasn’t a sudden shift or anything.

Not like you woke up one day and the one thought in your head was “I hate him”...

But you remember hating him longer than you ever loved him.

You tried breaking up. And failed. 

Some… bastardised feeling of guilt came to the forefront of both your minds at the idea of throwing away 5 6 7 8 9 10 years together, and giving up on your first love… and maybe even fear of having to start anew with someone else.

So, you simply continued going through the motions. You got engaged, big shiny rock on your finger, all big smile, but no tears came when he proposed. Your families were ecstatic, not quite able to see through the thinly veiled deceit.

For the wedding, you pulled out all the stops, stressed yourself out preparing the ceremony and reception with the women in your family (and his! His mother and sister were so happy that John was getting married!), going wedding dress shopping…

You had a beautiful ceremony, John wearing his full dress suit, army green, with the beige SAS beret. You were both 27, and together for 13 years.

Then, came the honeymoon, which was cut short. Not that it was a true honeymoon. Just three days in a coastal town in Northern France, having to be within a day's drive of Hereford lest he get called out for a sudden mission, which he was.

Not that you expected any different from him. So the distance continued growing, as did the arguments.

You hated him. He hated you.

Then came the predictable “So, when can we expect some grandkids?”. You put it off for a couple more years, blaming it on your high-priority careers, the law and the military, so similar and so different; his lack of time at home and how regrettable it’d be for you to be alone through the pregnancy; the want to be ‘more present’ for the future kids, needing to wait for things to settle down a bit more…

You’d been together for so long at that point, 15 years under your belt, starkly aware that neither of you is going anywhere. The world keeps spinning and your relationship hasn't ended. Fuck it, might as well go for it.

And now here you are.

It’s been eighteen years since you met. Aged 32, you no longer have arguments, you have throwdowns. You pull out every weapon in your arsenal. Neither of you plays nice.

Insults are traded often. Death wishes even more so. And, more often than not, they’re delivered with such a deadpan nonchalance that you’re sure people would think you both psychopaths.

“Going on a mission. ‘ll be back in a few days.”

“‘Kay, hope you die.”

“So do I.”

-

“Just had a fender bender with a stupid bloke. The car’s at the shop. Taking an uber to the base to get your car.”

“Okay. Shame you didn’t die a fiery death.”

“Don’t remind me, already cried about it.”

-

"I'm getting discharged."

"Why?"

"Shot."

"And it couldn't have killed you?"

-

“Can you get out of the damn toilet? I’m bleeding.”

“Period, accident, or just part of your satanic rituals?”

“Period.”

“Tough luck. Hope you bleed out.”

It never gets physical, never violent. John would rather die than lay a hand on you and you’d never DARE lay one on him. It’s just a lot of yelling, a lot of insulting, a lot of throwing things around, and, especially, a lot of revenge plans being executed to drive each other crazy.

Like recently. You found out John had gotten a grey-haired wig about the same length and texture as your hair, and has been snipping off a few hairs at a time, planting them around the house to blame you for leaving your hair everywhere, while simultaneously making you feel like you’re going grey. So, you put grey hair box dye in his shampoo and beard oil, to make him think he’s going grey.

Or three months ago, when you replaced all your lightbulbs with dimmer ones and lowered the brightness on all electronics, to make him think his eyesight was starting to go bad. You drove him so mad that he had voluntarily signed up for sniper assessments because he was worried he’d become a liability for the team.

Or eight months ago, when John had to return home in the middle of the day wearing a ruined uniform and just about ready to blow smoke out of his ears, having ripped holes in the uniform midway through a meeting all because 2 or so weeks prior you had painstakingly undone part of the stitching on it after an argument, and that had resulted in him baring his hairy thighs and armpits to a boardroom full of officers.

It’s bad. Very bad. You’ve had your windows and doors insulated to make sure the neighbors don’t hear your screaming matches and call the cops on the “domestic violence” happening next door. 

You probably shouldn’t have kids with this man. And yet-

He drives you insane.

And you’ve TRIED to fix it! You did. Marriage counseling, rage rooms, axe-throwing, paintball matches, yoga, meditation.… Nothing worked! In fact, it only infuriated you more because:

“You’ve got a tactical advantage, you need to play with a handicap!”

“Tough luck, sweetheart. Get good or get shot!”.

-

“You can throw harder than that.”

“Oh, I’ll show ya throwing hard, you gobshite!”

“Okay, when are you planning to start?”

-

“My back hurts-”

“Because you’re getting old.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m just telling you the truth. Face it, John, if the downward dog hurts your back, then you’re old.”

-

“Can you breathe any louder?”

“Yes, I can. Wanna see?”

“Just shut up. I can’t hear myself think.”

“Not much to hear either way, pretty hollow in there.”

“I hate you.”

“Feeling’s mutual, sweetness.”

There are only three occasions when you’re not actively at each other’s throats. Other, then, of course, when John’s working, especially when he’s overseas. You can’t fight if he’s both a) not home and b) unreachable via calls or texts or e-mails.

When you need a favor from the other, something you can’t quite do, or that falls in the other’s ‘jurisdiction’ in house chores.

“The washing machine’s leaking.”

“Turn off the water main, I’ll go check in a sec.”

“Mkay.”

-

“Here. Popped a button.”

“I don’t have any more army green thread.”

“Then use brown or black or whatever.”

-

“Where are your car keys?”

“What for?”

“Going to get it washed and detailed.”

“My purse.”

-

“You’re not gonna wear that, are you?”

“Why?”

“Besides the fact that it’s wrinkly? That’s a ‘house’ shirt, not a ‘going out’ shirt. Wear this one instead.”

2. When you’re both complaining or dealing with an outside force, a 3rd party, together.

"Excuse me, hi, I'm sending this back it's not cooked the way I asked."

"Ma'am that's exactly what you-"

"Are you calling my wife a liar?"

-

“Oh, fuck no. Why the fuck is he winning the Great British Bake Off?"

"Hm? Oh- oh! Yeah, why the fuck is he winning?"

“Bloody hell, he rolled his pastry too thin and had watery pie filling-”

“Wankers. This is not fair.”

-

“John. John!”

“What?”

“Look-”

“Blood hell, he’s back early-”

“Yeah and her boytoy’s car still there. They’re definitely still going at it.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

-

“Excuse me! Hey, excuse me! Pick up after your bloody dog! NO, don’t you start with me, you keep leaving your dog’s shite right by our garden, don’t you see the sign my husband’s posted up?! Pick it up or I’ll do it and then drop it in your garden.”

3. During sex.

Marching into the bedroom after breakfast, you find John combing through his hair in the bathroom mirror. The room is steamy from the hot shower he just took. 

“Take your trousers off. I’m ovulating.” You warn him as you wave your phone in the air, showing off the period tracking app.

“I literally just showered.” John replies as you’re already shrugging off your robe and pajamas.

“Well, believe or not, I don’t control my ovaries, John.” You reply. “Now take your trousers off.”

“Already on it.” He replies as he already starts taking off his shirt and sweatpants, leaving them on a pile on the floor, before his boxer briefs follow suit.

His hand palms his cock as you’re getting comfortable on the bed, tugging on it lightly as he watches your fingers do the same between your legs. 

“Can we try to enjoy it this time?” He asks you in earnest.

“Sure.” You reply simply. “Been a while since we’ve had proper sex and not…”

“Not a breeding session?” He quips as he kneels on the bed between your parted thighs. His hand replaces yours and he starts rubbing your clit for you.

“Shut it…” You quip, while your own hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly. John lowers himself onto you and his lips slowly brush against yours before he kisses you.

No, as it turns out… There are actually four occasions when you’re not actively at each other’s throats:

4. The Kid

In a day like any other, you’re lying in bed, reading a book. It’s a lazy Sunday morning, your big, round belly feeling particularly heavy. You’ve stolen every other pillow in the house to try and find some comfort, which you fail remarkably at.

“I think I’m going grey.” John states to no one in particular.

He’s in the en-suite bathroom, applying beard oil across his mutton chops like he tends to do, about three times a week.

“You are.” You remark in a bored, dismissive tone as you read a book in bed.

“That’s not funny. I’m not that old.”

“You’re getting up there.”

“Look who’s talking, we’re the same age.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Jonathan?”

“It means you’re there yourself, darling.”

Raising your eyes from the book in your hands, the bottom of which rests atop your pregnant belly, you cock a brow at your ‘beloved’ husband.

“And this is coming from Santa Claus?” You retort swiftly.

John peeks his head out of the bathroom door to look at you. “You think you’ve got a leg to stand on, you crone?”

Grunting under your breath, you glare at him, and he glares at you, complete silence in the bedroom. 

There’s something in that face of his, the look in his eyes, those STUPID fucking mutton chops that you’ve told him to shave and he refuses…

Grabbing your book and rolling it into a cylinder, you hurl it at him, putting as much force behind your arm as you possibly can. It misses the mark, but only because he had the presence of mind to duck. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ knobhead!” You insult him, tongue dripping with bitterness.

“Wel, not like I can be anything else, really, when I’m married to such a raging cunt.” He retorts.

“OH FUCK YOU!” You retort.

“ALREADY AM MORE THAN FUCKED, SPENDING THE REST OF MY LIFE WITH YOU.”

“OH, PLEASE, YOU’RE MORE MARRIED TO YOUR BLOODY GUN THAN YOU ARE TO ME!”

“YEAH CAUSE AT LEAST MY GUN DOESN’T DRIVE ME FUCKING MENTAL!”

“OH PISS OFF!” You shout, your face twisting with a scowl.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be stressing yourself out like this. It’s not good for your blood pressure. Or for John Junior.”

“First of all, it’s not gonna be a boy. Secondly, even if it is a boy, we’re not naming him after you. And thirdly, how about you die, then I won’t get stressed.”

“And why would I do that, when I can stay right here, perfectly alive and healthy, and watch you give birth to John Junior, and have the pleasure of rubbing a ‘I told you so’ right in your face?”

“Oh fuck you. It’s not going to happen.” You sulk and cross your arms over your chest, leaning back against your mountain of pillows.

“Someone doesn’t like the idea of having a son that takes after me, hm??” John teases as he comes up to the bed, a brow cocked.

You trail him with your eyes as he sits next to you on the bed. “Absolutely not. I wanna have a child I actually am able to love, and not one that I have to lie to.”

“A mother’s love knows no bounds, huh? What a load of crap.” John quips.

“Oh, that’s 100% true. I love this baby to bits already, but if it takes after you… I’ll probably die.”

“Good.” John remarks, causing you to roll your eyss. “Much better than if our child takes after you. Spawn of Satan, he would be.” John’s hand slides up your leg and slowly cups your swollen stomach.

“I should probably address the fact you just called our child ‘Satan’s spawn’, but I’m more concerned over the fact you keep calling the baby a ‘son’.” You murmur as you uncross your arms and watch him caress your skin.

“I feel like it’s a boy, I don’t know what to tell you.” He replies as his calloused fingers drag over the stretch marks and linea nigra on your stomach.

“What if it’s a girl?”

“What about it?”

“I’ve seen enough men online getting pissy over havin’ a daughter.” You quip and cock a brow up, looking him in the eyes.

John’s eyes lock onto yours. “Not me.” Then they return to the belly as he continues rubbing you. “Would love a little girl too.”

“Hm.” You remark and slowly, your hand rubs over the belly on the opposite side, where John’s hand isn’t. “We’ve gotta promise not to yell or argue in front of the baby.”

“Kind of hard to do that when I’m married to the Devil.” John quips, causing you to look up at him, eyes narrowed.

“You’ve gotta promise. We’ve gotta promise.” You murmur as you look at him.

For a moment, his usually grumpy face softens and he nods. “I promise.”

Nodding as well, you echo the sentiment. “I promise.”

No, wait, five:

5. When you have his back.

“General, that is not what I asked you. I would ask that you stop beating around the bush, feeding me, the jury, and the people watching at home, fabricated information and embellished words in a sorry attempt to save your credibility. Stick to the questions being asked and stop wasting our times.” You warned the man as you paced the space in front of the stand.

“Me and everyone else in this room are looking for nothing but the truth, or must I remind you that you are under oath and also live on television?” You ask outloud as you turn to look at him.

“No, counselor.” The General, a heavy-set, older, mustachioed man replies, through gritted teeth, his face showing a polite expression while the man himself was seething on the inside.

“Very well, then, I’ll repeat the question. Were you or were you not aware of the aforementioned, unsactioned operations being conducted in the Al-Mazarah and Urzikstan border, involving CIA and MI6 operatives?” You asked, eyes glaring into the man’s eyes as you leaned into the stand near him.

“Well, as with most operations...”

“A yes or no is enough, General.” You told him sternly.

“Yes.” The man grits out.

“And did you, or did you not, give permission for these CIA and MI6 operatives, working under the guise of NATO, and I quote, from the transcript: “Authority to use any means necessary” on the enemy forces?” You confronted him.

“Well-”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“And did you do that while being aware that the teams involved would interpret such command as permission to execute an operation in which they’d use ‘extreme physical persuasion’ or, in other words, torture to achieve their goals?”

“I-”

“Did you or did you not, General?”

“Yes, but-”

“And did you, or did you not, not only demand the censoring of the clear and transparent reports received in the aftermath of that operation but also sign off on them yourself, to circumvent the proper channels of evaluation, which would force an internal audit to be conducted?”

“Yes-”

“So, in short, you just confirmed that you authorized your troops to, essentially, wipe their asses with the Geneva convention and comit war crimes on the POWs under their care?”

“Counselor-” One of the judges called out.

“Withdrawn. No further questions, Mr. Chairman.” You told the Chairman and the jury panel that sat above you, as you swiftly turned around and marched up to your table, high heels clacking on the polished floors of the court room.

Your eyes locked onto John’s as he sat in the back of the room, wearing his full regalia, his eyes locked onto yours with a strange shine to them… Almost like he’s proud of you.

As soon as you sit on the chair and the Chairman once again takes over, addressing the room, the General, calling other witnesses, your phone’s screen lights up on the chair next to you.

Picking it up quietly, you spot a message of John’s:

John: that’s my girl. knew you could do it. you: you owe me big time. John: i do. saved my arse there. you: of course. it’s what I’m here for.  John: almost making it sound like you love me. you: no but I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. you: no way in hell you’re leaving me alone with 3 children. John: i see. selfish woman. you: shut up.  you: and try not torturing POWs next time. John: yes, ma’am.

Five occasions seem to be enough to keep a 23-year marriage afloat.

a/n: Big thanks to my beloved @crashtestbunny for helping draft/plot all these interactiions and just the general toxicity! And also @mothymunson your beloved Toxic!Price is here!

[ O, Captain! Masterlist ] || [ My Masterlist ]

[httpswritings]

The Great War — Katie McCabe x Reader

Additional info: Story inspired Taylor Swift’s The Great War. I’m in my Katie era, but I’m also planning on writing about other players, especially Alexia, which I have like four ideas to write about. We’ll see. I also have a draft of Ruesha x Katie inspired in Moth to a flame by The Weeknd, but I’m doubting about posting it or not. Maybe in the future I’ll write a Caitlin x Katie fic, but I don't have a clear vision of them yet to properly write about them.

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, throwing up and therapy, sensitive topics overall, avoid reading if you find them triggering. Angsty Katie.

Word count: 1691

Right after Katie ended her relationship with Caitlin Foord, she met Y/N. After some time, they got into a relationship together. They enjoyed every single second of the magical connection they seemed to have. With the passing of time, Katie became more and more anxious about her relationship with Y/N. She doubted she could be what Y/N deserved, even though her girlfriend took her time every day to remind Katie that she's never been as happy in a relationship as she was with her.

«My knuckles were bruised like violets

Sucker punching walls, cursed you as I sleep-talked»

Two heartbreaks in such a little time, with both her Ireland National Team's member Ruesha and girlfriend of seven years, and her Arsenal's teammate Caitlin Foord, who was her girlfriend during half a year, made the Irishwoman insecure about her ability to love, to trust, to have a happy fairytale ending. Katie knew these thoughts would damage her relationship with Y/N, but she couldn't help but to spend most of her day tracking every single detail that built her relationship to the obsessive point where she felt absolutely sick of herself.

«Spineless in my tomb of silence

Tore your banners down, took the battle underground»

When she reached her limit, she told Y/N about what was going on. Y/N responded well and helped Katie, and it started well. Really well. But after some time, Katie fell back into a cycle of doubt and anxiety, and those sensations kept growing when she noticed any change in Y/N's mood, as she took it too personally. This made her re-experience in her mind those moments of stress while she was with Ruesha or Caitlin.

«And maybe it was ego swinging

Maybe it was her

Flashes of the battle come back to me in a blur»

Y/N tried to understand her, she tried and tried but eventually, she reached her limit.

“I want to help you. I really do. But I can't continue like this. I'm not Ruesha, nor I am Caitlin. I am aware that being in a new relationship it's difficult for you, so maybe we should take things a bit slower. I don't mean to take a break, but maybe I should go back to my flat. We will move on slower than we did before, but I do think it's the only way to work it out.”

«All that bloodshed, crimson clover

Sweet dream was over»

“Yeah, maybe you're right´”, that was Katie's only response. Y/N limited herself to sigh. That night, Katie slept alone in her bed. Her body reacting to the cold sheets and crying herself to sleep.

«My hand was the one you reached for

All throughout the Great War»

Sweet morning messages from Y/N, “Good morning, baby. Do good at training today! Love you ;)”

Surprise visits from Y/N, lovely gifts, usually handmade ones, brought Katie to tears as she felt endlessly loved.

«Always remember

Tears on the letter

I vowed not to cry anymore

If we survived the Great War»

Katie prayed for things to get back as they were during the first months of the relationship. The feeling of her not being a good girlfriend to Y/N haunted her even in her sleep.

«You drew up some good faith treaties

I drew curtains closed, drank my poison all alone»

Y/N suggested going to a therapist together, but Katie was unsure about that. She thought that if she couldn't quite open to her girlfriend about her feelings and thoughts, she wouldn't be able to talk about what was bothering her to a therapist. Such a huge contrast between the two parts of the relationship that drew them even more apart.

«You said I have to trust more freely

But diesel is desire, you were playing with fire

And maybe it's the past that's talkin'

Screamin' from the crypt

Tellin' me to punish you for things you never did

So I justified it»

“No, I'm sorry, but I'm not doing this. I feel uncomfortable talking to a stranger about our issues.”

“I know, baby, I was just suggesting it. Let me explain you why. We are aware of having some problems in our relationship, but we don't really know how to get through it. We've tried and things keep getting worse. Maybe talking to someone who's out of our relationship can make this whole situation clearer for the both of us.”

«All that bloodshed, crimson clover

The bombs were close and

My hand was the one you reached for

All throughout the Great War

Always remember

The burning embers

I vowed not to fight anymore

If we survived the Great War»

Katie took some weeks to meditate Y/N´s idea. She was terrified of being judged by the therapist they would talk to. Even more scared of Y/N realizing she didn't do any good to her. Eventually, she agreed.

“Maybe she's right. People attend therapy sessions. It's normal, Katie. It's normal”, she said to herself.

«It turned into something bigger

Somewhere in the haze, got a sense I'd been betrayed»

Katie was not new to getting help from a therapist. She was very open about her mental health in different areas of her life, whether that included football or not. The first time she attended a therapy session was when she was a teenager. It went well, so did the first sessions with Anna, Katie's and Y/N´s psychologist.

Making progress is not a linear process, and making mistakes is a part of the success. Mistakes are a victory in themselves, it means that you're still trying. One day, Katie had an individual session with Anna. Anna felt it was Katie's time to open about her two past relationships; a young adult romance that lasted for more than half a decade and a short but intense romance of one year after a breakup.

It was a slow conversation filled with many pauses from Katie.

“Are you gonna tell Y/N what I'm telling you?”

“No, Katie. This stays between me and you”, said Anna.

As Katie told her her experiences in love, she broke down.

The wall she had built, in order to avoid being hurt and judged, collapsed in that therapy room.

“Don't be afraid to cry. You have nothing to prove to me nor to Y/N. This is about you and your healing process. Y/N will help you and accompany you, but it's crucial for you to work on yourself, especially being a public figure.”

«Your finger on my hair pin triggers»

As Katie arrived home, she unlocked her phone and asked Y/N to come over.

“I've asked Anna, and she told me it was a good initiative and a great way of gaining some independence in our relationship, leaving her out of it for a while. Don't feel obliged to!”

“I am exhausted, baby. Work was something else today, and I’m a little bit irritated because of it, lol. Maybe another time? Love you.”

As Katie was about to spiral, she remembered Anna's advice. She breathed deeply. Y/N was setting her boundaries. She trusted Katie enough to tell her the truth and not to make any excuses. She felt tired from work. Y/N is not mad at her. She didn't do anything wrong. Everything’s okay.

«Soldier down on that icy ground

Looked up at me with honor and truth

Broken and blue, so I called off the troops»

The next day Katie woke up to a text from Y/N.

“Good morning, princess. I had a great sleep, what about you? How did you sleep? I’m up to seeing you today if you feel like it. Love you.”

Still slightly asleep, she smiled.

“I can't wait to see you today, beautiful girl. I had a good sleep, too. Good to have the bed all to myself ;))”

She frowned after sending the text with that joke at the end.

“Breath, Katie, let these useless thoughts pass. Both you and Y/N feel comfortable teasing each other”, said Katie to herself.

“Ha, ha, really funny. We both know you missed having me snoring next to you.”

“How do you know?!?!”

«That was the night I nearly lost you

I really thought I lost you»

As Katie was preparing herself to go out with Y/N to have lunch, she remembered the night where Y/N left her house.

She doesn't freak out to the thought of it, but instead she does an exercise of introspection. She sees herself in her mind, almost throwing up, completely emotionally depending on her girlfriend while pushing her away and bottling up her feelings.

«We can plant a memory garden

Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair

There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair

And we will never go back

To that bloodshed, crimson clover

The worst was over»

Now she looks at herself in the mirror. She sees herself, Katie, as the woman who knows that she's loved, and she's deserving of being it. The woman who respects her girlfriend’s boundaries and doesn't freak out at the tiniest change that she perceives. The woman who's going to take her girlfriend out to have a good time having lunch, not worrying about anything but what order she's going to have.

«My hand was the one you reached for

All throughout the Great War

Always remember

We're burned for better

I vowed I would always be yours

'Cause we survived the Great War

I would always be yours

'Cause we survived the Great War

I vowed I would always be yours»

As they arrived home back from the restaurant, Y/N walked towards Katie.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. You did this. You are doing it every day. I’m so excited to see where our relationship leads us to.”

As Katie sobbed, she softly laughed, “It’s nice to cry sometimes. God, I feel so relieved. I’m so proud of myself, too, of us! Thank you for being there for me, Y/N, thank you. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life as your girlfriend.”

“Even when you'll wake up to my snoring?”

“Especially when I'll wake up to your snoring.”

[aliaology]

GET HIM BACK!

summary: reader wants to get her ex boyfriend, luke hughes, back in order to get her revenge.

pairings: luke hughes x ex!fem!reader

warnings: jealousy, arguments, mentions of sex

based on ‘get him back’ by olivia rodrigo

THIS IS NOT HOW LUKE HUGHES ACTS. this is just for the plot, i have no idea how he acts outside of hockey and media!

you met luke in the summer of 2021. he was at the michigan lake house, and you were visiting your friends house who lived just next door. the boy accidentally hit a volleyball over to your friends house and from there the two of you blossomed.

though, the relationship was quite toxic, causing you to leave him the next spring, just before you could meet his parents. the two of you argued over everything, him normally starting it.

“are you fucking serious, y/n?” luke groaned, throwing your phone on the bed. you looked confused. “what the fuck did i do?”

“i dont know— maybe snap my fucking brother twenty four-seven?” luke snapped. you rolled your eyes.

“we just send pics to keep a fucking streak going, luke, why is this such a big deal?” you groaned.

“because you’re talking to other guys, what if you’re cheating?”

you scoffed and crossed your arms, “so you don’t trust me?”

not to mention, he had a huge ego, thanks to being the number four pick of the 2021 nhl draft. along with the many, many girls who loved him online. would they love his personality? probably not.

maybe another part of his shitty personality was the wandering eye he had. the way his eyes would drift to look at another girls chest or ass, it was embarrassing.

but, he was fun. fun at parties, fun at sex, fun at it all, and so were his weird friends. you personally favored dylan duke and mark estapa, but no one would find that out.

he took you out to many parties, bars, clubs. and when he said something wrong in front of his friends, he’d buy you something like tickets for a small vacation.

but there are nights where you miss him, until you remember how he would hit on all of your best friends. do you love him or do you hate him? its… up and down.

but right now, you wanted him back. to get him back, to get revenge. he deserved to feel mad, sad and jealous, everything you felt the entire relationship. it should get him back.

so you started to write letters, but after you would just throw them in the trash. all you talked about in the letters was how much you missed his touch and kiss, and how making you laugh was a bonus.

then when you tried texting him, you didn’t have the balls to say anything because you knew how disappointed your friends would be.

he was toxic, and you were not the only girl. you remember the time where you decided to try communicating your feelings.

“baby, can we talk?” you asked, walking behind him, he sat on the couch, eyes fixated on his game.

“what?” he spoke, fingers ferociously clicking his controller.

“recently, the way you’ve been just doesn’t feel fair, luke. i’ve been putting my all into us and i dont get the same treatment back, it hurts.”

luke scoffed, “you’re trippin’ babe”

but maybe you could fix him? scratch that. maybe you could key his car? or break his heart? or punch him?

then again, you could fix him.. with the nice route. instead of breaking his heart, you stitch it right back up. or kiss him. or make him lunch.

how about you meet his mom? but instead of telling her how good he was, you tell her how much her son fucking sucks.

you did. you met up with her— on complete accident. according to her, luke had not told anyone you broke up with him. he made up a fake excuse saying your family needed you for the summer.

you almost laughed in her face.

you almost laughed after she stormed out of the cafe, learning how her you her son was a prick. and you definitely laughed when you got the text from jack telling you how much shit, luke got.

time to work on coach part two xx

[pixydustworld]

Being married, Hermione supposed, was a lot like being dead. Lonely and unending — but the most prominent similarity, inescapable.

The ring on her finger was heavy and ancient, a cluster of emeralds that managed to sparkle under any light, and carved in the center of the band were two letters: DM

Exactly seven weeks before, Hermione had entered her cramped office on the 4th floor of the Ministry of Magic, and found Draco Malfoy sitting at her desk.

“You’re wasting away here,” Malfoy had said as a greeting, “Working to build a future that no one believes in. You’ll never accomplish what you wish.” He’d glanced up at her, eyes “Not without me.”

They certainly weren't friends, not even acquaintances — none of their recent interactions (a tight-lipped smile as they passed each other in the hall, a shared look over the Atrium when Cormac McLaggen had tripped and fell headfirst into the fountain) warranted an unannounced office visit, nor did it explain why Draco Malfoy, of all people, felt comfortable enough to sit in her chair.

Perhaps sensing her annoyance, Malfoy had continued talking, which in turn, only annoyed Hermione further. “I’ve been thinking about this future you speak so passionately of, the one where we all have space to belong. I’d like to help you bring it to life.”

“Why.” Not a question, more comparable to a demand.

“You are the answer, Granger, to all of this. The Ministry doesn’t care about your ideas.”

“And you do?” Hermione hadn’t bothered to keep the incredulousness from her voice. 

He had shrugged.“I care about a better world.”

At the flat look she gave him, Malfoy had amended his statement: “For Teddy,” he’d said with more sincerity than Hermione had originally thought he could ever possess, “I want him to have a better life than I did.”

The war had been terrible, like a rot that spread through the cool earth, it had touched everyone — and after the dust had settled, Hermione had come to the conclusion that she held no authority over how others healed, and in turn, how they grew. 

Harry had settled into something softer, finding solace in gardening and lazy afternoons, Ron chased thrills, tumbling from one danger to the next, but Malfoy had surprised her most of all, with his dedication to Teddy.

Looking back, Hermione supposed that was the start. The beginning of her defenses crumbling, the crack in the glass that quickly splintered out of control, consuming her vision entirely — acknowledging he cared for Teddy was enough to change her original perception of him, knowing that he’d break apart the world to carve a better future for him, was something entirely different.

“So what do you suggest?” 

“Marry me,” He’d said, “And you’ll have everything you’ll need to rebuild.”

Whatever Hermione had expected him to say, it certainly hadn’t been that — “And what do you get?” She had asked after a long moment, eyes narrowed, always on the defense, especially with him, “Forgiveness?”

“I don’t care about forgiveness.” Malfoy had shrugged, still sitting comfortably in her chair, “All I need is an heir.”

Hermione had laughed, too loud for her tiny office, too loud for their quiet conversation — she hadn’t slept more than 12 hours in the past 4 days, weary and overworked, there had been no room in her crowded head to think about suppressing her initial reaction. 

“You want me to become the next Lady Malfoy?”

“While I deeply appreciate the idea of you having my last name, I am a realistic man. It will undoubtedly be Granger hyphen Malfoy.”

Her laughter had still been something she tasted when Hermione stilled. There had been no humor in his eyes, only open sincerity — “You’re serious?” She had asked, for the first time, feeling the full weight of his words, “No! No, I can’t marry you, I don’t even know you.”

Malfoy had scoffed. “We grew up together, Granger.”

“That does not count!” Hermione had snapped, “This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and you’re proposing to me.”

“Five years.” Had been his response.“One child and unfiltered access to my accounts for the rest of your life. We can make an Unbreakable Vow, if you’d like.”

“You are insane.”

“Perhaps. But I know what I want.”

“What you want,” Hermione had argued, “Is not me.” 

“You are exactly what I want.” Malfoy had sounded so sure, so determined, fighting for something, perhaps, for the first time in a long while, “I need you. And as it turns out, you need me.”

“I don’t need anyone.” Hermione had snapped. Which was true, she could rebuild the world herself with her own aching hands, brick by unforgiving brick. “I can do this by myself.” 

At that, Malfoy had grinned, wide and all encompassing. “I have no doubt about that. But just because you can do it by yourself, doesn’t mean you have to.” He’d said, “Just think about it, alright?”

Unfortunately for her, Hermione had thought about his offer, more than she would like to admit — like a dog scratching at the door, like a ghost determined to haunt her, his words trailed after her, weaving their way into her bones.

Perhaps, she had reasoned with herself, the answer wasn’t ripping herself apart to fit into the narrative the Ministry had decided for her, perhaps the true answer was simple, close enough to touch. 

A month later, after being denied funding for the thirteenth time, Hermione had stormed into Malfoy’s office, ignoring his secretary, ignoring the voice in her head that told her to stop. “Five years?”

“Only five.”

And so, that was how her life had unfolded. A rushed ceremony, Malfoy’s hand warm on her waist, Harry as their bewildered witness; the beginning of half a decade together, a fortune to spend, a world to rebuild — and hovering at the back of her mind was a thought, floating softly, like an early September snow: an heir, owed as payment.

In the year that progressed around them, Hermione was met with yet another startling realization: she liked his company, furthermore, she missed Malfoy’s presence when he was away from her side. She wanted to hate him, wanted to be disgusted by the way his fingers always trailed spirals of fire across her skin in public, hands finding their faithful home in the small of her back — but despite Hermione’s best efforts, she didn't hate him.

She liked him.

Loved him, even.

It hadn’t happened overnight, a slow progression of muddled feelings, dripping to pool at the base of her spine, but one thing was for certain — one day she’d looked up, and had been glad to belong to him, if only for a moment. Hermione had not chosen him, and wouldn’t of, given the chance — but, yet, here he was beside her, a rock in the sea, letting her waves crash against him endlessly; she looked at him and saw an impossible future, one that extended past the five years they’d promised to each other.

Her own feelings aside, the two of them were happy together.

And then, on a Tuesday morning in early June, Draco Malfoy ruined everything.

 “I think we should have sex.” He said conversationally, tone even, “Right now.”

Hermione glanced up from her book. “Now?” 

Malfoy nodded, looking too comfortable sitting on her bed, “If you’re free.”

“I am.” She said softly. When faced with the terrifying problems of her youth, Hermione had always turned to reading — so in her best efforts to remain neutral on the subject of conceiving a child with a man whom she loved, who most undoubtedly did not feel the same way about her, Hermione returned to her old habits.“You can just do it, I’ll keep reading.”

Malfoy blinked at her. “You want to keep reading.”

Hermione nodded.

“While I fuck you.”

Hermione nodded again.

“This is what you want?”

“Yes.” She said through her teeth, “Now hurry up, you could've finished already.” Then, because she didn’t want to stare at his stupidly handsome face (nor the incredulous look on it) any longer, Hermione went back to reading about The Goblin Rebellion of 1752.

Warm hands smoothed up her legs, blunt nails scraping across her flesh, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at the page. “It’s my fault.” He said after a moment, “I’ve neglected my husbandly duties.”

“I should’ve never let you wander so far away,” He continued, fingers beginning to trace the crotch of her shorts, while Hermione dutifully re-read the same sentence three times, “Should’ve fucked you the first night, right there on the Ministry floor.”

Reading about Goblins seemed impossible, made even more so, when Malfoy slipped his fingers beneath the fabric of her pajamas, and began to lightly trace her cunt. “I knew you’d be warm.” 

His voice was closer than before — Hermione glanced away from the blurry page, to find her husband inches away, breath warm on the exposed flesh of her stomach. 

“If this is how you think conception works,” Hermione said tightly, hardly able to breathe, the weight of his touch over her cunt sending shivers down her spine, “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”

“Maybe I want to play with my food.”

“Hm.” 

He was silent for a while, tugging her shorts down past her knees, twisting her open with his fingers; he didn’t speak again until he was licking softly at her center, content, Hermione realized with spreading horror, to spend the entire day between her thighs — 

Her fingers, who seemed to have a mind of their own, slipped down her torso, twisting in his hair, tugging at his scalp. Hermione felt him smile against her cunt, felt the scrape of his teeth on her flesh, caught between his jaws like prey. “How is your book?” He asked thickly.

“Fine.” Hermione whimpered, beyond pretending to read now, “I-Informational.”

“Such a smart girl.”

They both felt how she twitched at his words, tightening around his fingers. 

“So clever,” Malfoy continued softly, still so capable of being cruel, “And strong. I see you when I close my eyes, beautiful,  so tight and wet. Only for me, yes? For your husband?”

The book fell on the bed with a thud. “For you.” Hermione agreed, tugging at him, nails scraping across his skin like thorns from a garden, “For my husband.”

Fingers worked her clit, slipping through the wetness; as pleasure curved up her spine, unrelenting in a beautiful way, Hermione twisted away, grasping at the bed sheets — but met resistance when Malfoy tugged her back to his body. “No, no,” he murmured, adopting a patronizing tone, “Pretty girls don’t get to run away.”

She was still twitching, trapped beneath him in endless pleasure, when he brushed his cock across her cunt, pressing inside with aching slowness. It was instinct to remind him of the protection spell — but the words died in her throat when Hermione remembered what he wanted. What they both wanted.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” He rasped against her breast, teeth scraping flesh, “For so long.”

“A year,” Hermione hadn’t been able to keep the whine from her voice, how her breath hitched, painting her words with sweet desperation, “is not that long.”

Malfoy looked up, eyes glistening. “I’ve wanted you for much longer, Hermione.”

His cock was currently inside of her, carving a home, but hearing her name on his lips somehow felt infinitely more intimate. “You have?”

“If sleeping down the hall from you was all I’d ever get,” Malfoy panted, lips wet and red from sucking at her nipples — Hermione had a terrible vision of him doing that to her when she was pregnant with his child, swollen with him, “I’d gladly take it. I’d take whatever you gave me.”

“You love me?” The world was tilting on its axis, he was somehow still moving inside her, thick and swollen, somehow still pressing deeper.

He nodded, opening his mouth to speak, to fill her head with soft words, overflowing from his lips like a river swollen with rain — but before he could, Hermione twisted in their embrace, eyes narrowed in indignation. “And you didn't say anything?” She twitched when he hit the soft part inside her, words breaking off in her throat, voice turning brittle, “This entire time we could have been fucking? You are an idiot — ”

They’d kissed before, at parties, amongst twinkling lights and spilled champagne — but he’d never kissed her like this. Hungry and desperate, as if Malfoy wanted to consume her, bones and all, to etch a permanent place for himself along her spine. Hermione whimpered, pressing him closer, deeper inside, tightening around his cock; her hands slipped down to the mess of their fucking, squeezing his balls.

“Your poor little cunt,” Malfoy groaned, “Having to stretch around my cock. When we’re done, I’ll kiss it better, I promise, I’ll do whatever you want, stay on my knees for you forever, just let me cum, please, please — ” 

Hermione had barely finished nodding when she felt warmth of his cum inside her, felt as he kept fucking her — desperate thrusts, sloppy and uneven, felt as he pushed himself deeper inside.

It was alarming, the idea that this could grow to something more, blossom, like a late spring flower — to become something beyond what they’d originally agreed upon. That perhaps, she could be guided gently down this path, hand in his own, towards a destination she’d never intended.

To love and to be loved in return.

“Do you think it took?”

Malfoy’s laugh vibrated against the skin of her ribcage, the echo of him inside her bones. “I tried my best.” His fingers slipped through the mess of her cunt, slowly pushing his cum back inside. “Come here, little wife. Let me fuck it deeper.”

All soft limbs and warmth, Hermione opened her legs further, making a home for him between her legs. “I’m not that little.”

Sliding his cock back in, Draco hissed between his teeth at the feel of her, “Not for long,” he agreed. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A Writer on Writing: Italo Calvino

Italo Calvino:

A fine thing it is to have a distant friend who writes long letters full of drivel and to be able to reply to him with equally lengthy letters full of drivel.

The poet turns in on himself, tries to pin down what he has seen and felt, then pulls it out so that others can understand it. But I can’t understand these things: these discourses about the ego and the non-ego I leave to you. Yes, I understand, there’s the struggle to express the inexpressible, typical of modern art, and these are all fine things, but I …

I’m a regular guy, I like well-defined outlines, I’m old-fashioned, bourgeois. My stories are full of facts, they have a beginning and an end. For that reason they will never be able to find success with the critics, nor occupy a place in contemporary literature. I write poetry when I have a thought that I absolutely have to bring out, I write to give vent to my feelings and I write using rhyme because I like it, tum-tetum tumtetum tum te-tum, because I’ve got no ear, and poetry without rhyme or meter seems like soup without salt, and I write (mock me, you crowds! Make me a figure of public scorn!) I write … sonnets … and writing sonnets is boring, you have to find rhymes, you have to write hendecasyllables so after a while I get bored and my drawer is overflowing with unfinished short poems.

I’m still too ignorant to write articles and as for my output of short stories, a famous summer of overproduction has been followed by years of crisis. … All the ideas currently in my head are subject to a strange phenomenon: while I work on them and perfect them continuously from the philosophical point of view, they stay rudimentary and barely sketched on the dramatic and artistic side. In my creativity thought has the upper hand over imagination.

When you’re working you get buried, drowned under things. You’ve no more friends nor art. Only when you’ve an evening or afternoon free can you roam the streets or court a girl. That’s all. In short, working is pointless. I mean, from the point of view of education. But it’s essential. I cannot — and I don’t want to — live the writer’s life, that is to say write for a living. The novel I was writing, which for months and months had sucked all my blood (because, stubborn as I am, I was determined to finish it even though I no longer felt it was going anywhere), is dead, awful, full of wonderful clever things but desperately bad, forced, it’ll never work and I must not finish it. And I must not write for some time now otherwise I’d make more mistakes. I hope that Einaudi will publish my short stories eventually, they’re the only thing I believe in and which I believe are useful.

For seven or eight months now I’ve been mucking about with a novel that I began in a moment of weakness and it’s turning out to be very bad, causing me to waste lots of my time. But at least it’ll get rid of my desire to write novels for four or five years, which is what I dream of doing, and will allow me to study kind of seriously and learn to write decently.

To write well about the elegant world you have to know it and experience it to the depths of your being just as Proust, Radiguet and Fitzgerald did: what matters is not whether you love it or hate it, but only to be quite clear about your position regarding it.

My problem today is how to escape from the limits of these books, from this definition of me as a writer of adventures, fairy-tales, and fun, in which I can’t express myself or realize myself to the full.

The fact is that I already feel I am a prisoner of a kind of style and it is essential that I escape from it at all costs: I’m now trying to write a totally different book, but it’s damned difficult; I’m trying to break up the rhythms, the echoes which I feel the sentences I write eventually slide into, as into pre-existing molds, I try to see facts and things and people in the round instead of being drawn in colors that have no shading. For that reason the book I’m going to write interests me infinitely more than the other one.

One should never have taboos about the tools we use, that as long as the thought or images or style one wants to put forward do not become deformed by the medium, one must on the contrary try to make use of the most powerful and most efficient of those tools.

You can imagine how slowly my fictional output has been going this summer, you who know how much labor, dissatisfaction, irritability, uncertainty this work costs … However — and this is the point — it is worth it. Or rather: one does not ask if it’s worth it.

We are people, there is no doubt, who exist solely insofar as we write, otherwise we don’t exist at all. Even if we did not have a single reader any more, we would have to write; and this not because ours can be a solitary job, on the contrary it is a dialog we take part in when we write, a common discourse, but this dialog can still always be supposed to be taking place with authors of the past, with authors we love and whose discourse we are forcing ourselves to develop, or else with those still to come, those we want through our writing to configure in one particular way rather than another. I am exaggerating: heaven help those who write without being read; for that reason there are too many people writing today and one cannot ask for indulgence for someone who has little to say, and one cannot allow trade-union or corporate sympathies.

Even more annoying are those who theorize that the novel has to be like this or like that, that one must write the novel, etc. Let them go to hell! How much energy is wasted in Italy in trying to write the novel that obeys all the rules. The energy might have been useful to provide us with more modest, more genuine things, that had less pretensions: short stories, memoirs, notes, testimonials, or at any rate books that are open, without a preconceived plan.

Personally, I believe in fiction because the stories I like are those with a beginning and an end. I try to write them as they best come to me, depending on what I have to say. We are in a period when in literature and especially in fiction one can do anything, absolutely anything, and all styles and methods coexist. What the public (and also the critics) require are books (“open” novels) that are rich in substance, density, tension.

As a young man my aspiration was to become a “minor writer.” (Because it was always those that are called “minor” that I liked most and to whom I felt closest.) But this was already a flawed criterion because it presupposes that “major” writers exist. Basically, I am convinced that not only are there no “major” or “minor” writers, but writers themselves do not exist — or at least they do not count for much.

I found this letter that I had started to write yesterday evening and I reread it with interest. Dammit, what a lot of drivel I managed to write! In the end it’s impossible to understand anything in it. But better that way: the less one understands the more posterity will appreciate my profundity of thought. In fact, let me say: POSTERITY IS STUPID Think how annoyed they’ll be when they read that!

[dotster001]

A Pisces Confusing Throuple

Summary: Sebek x Azul x Reader. What a polyamorous relationship looks like for NRC's hottest Pisces'.

Sagittarius Capricorn Aquarius Aries Taurus Gemini Cancer-coming soon

How it happens

Sevens, this is a weird trio. Perhaps Sebek fell for you first. Or perhaps it was Azul. No one knows for sure, and neither will admit it.

Sebek came to Azul, asking for his help to win your heart. Azul, having also fallen for you, slipped a clause into the contract about winning your heart together. Therefore, having to share your heart. There were also a bunch of mini clauses in there, where if Sebek failed to complete certain tasks, he forfeited all rights to winning your love.

In the midst of fulfilling this contract, Sebek found Azul to be a (mostly) honorable man, as well as charming, beautiful, and awe inspiring. Meanwhile, Azul became charmed by Sebek's tenacity, loyalty, and hardworking nature.

By the time they have both won your love, the two of them are more than willing to share…because they now like each other as well.

What these Pisces' get up to

The three of you are generally calm and collected…until you aren't. Whether it's Azul suddenly breaking down from stress, you sobbing after a test, or Sebek going off on literally anyone because they disrespected his lord, it's never expected, and always out of nowhere. Then an hour later you'll be calm again, like it never happened. Luckily, in the midst of it all, your partners are understanding, and do their darndest to be a shoulder to cry on, provide advice, or help cover up a murder. True love.

No one is expecting you all to be hopeless romantics…and yet… You have Azul, putting together late night candlelit dinners, where he cooked the food himself, set the table himself, recorded himself singing love songs as ambience. Or Sebek, taking you all on night time walks, pointing out the wildlife, the stars, and plants that he has learned about in his training, or that reminds him of his partners. Leaving each other love letters in your lunches, cheek kisses as you pass each other in the hallways, holding hands when together. So sweet! And everyone around you is confused.

"I can fix them" -all three of you, privately, to your friends. That's it. That's the end of this point. You know what I'm talking about.

Field trips to the ocean! Azul leads frequent tours around his home for the three of you.  He also ensures plenty of time for the three of you to "play" together, and live out your ocean/mer fantasies. Sebek finds himself less yelly after one of these trips, Azul feels more confident (courtesy of you and Sebek complimenting his mer form) and you are less stressed. Azul promises both of you he will get you potions to turn you into mers, someday.

Azul loves when the three of you work together to plan an event or a theme night for the lounge. It's when he comes up with his best ideas. The three of you spend hours bouncing ideas around, and coming up with bigger and bigger plans. Unfortunately, Jade usually steps in to stop your brilliant ideas at some point. (Aka y'all were getting out of hand, and he wants to still have a paycheck)

In summary…idk man, this is really an odd trio. But pisces in general is just odd and chaotic, so as long as you three are willing to put up with each other's unique traits, then I guess you'll be fine.

[matttgirlies]

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - small mention of drug use

y/nn = your nickname in case your confused🩷

Chapter 6

It was after three o’clock the next afternoon when Matt called. “Alan’s on his way to pick you up,” he said. Alan Smith was another of his employees.

When we arrived at Matt’s house, I found him upstairs dressing. As soon as he saw me, he kissed me and asked, “How would you like to go to Las Vegas? We could really have fun and I could show you around my favorite places.” Not understanding his contradiction regarding my staying with the Barrises the night before, and feeling uneasy asking any questions, I answered, “I’d love to. When?”

“Tonight. We’ll load up the bus and head out about midnight, arrive in the morning, sleep all day, and see the shows and party all night.”

Excitement was in the air—Las Vegas. I’d never dreamed of going there and I really didn’t know what to expect. Actually, I really didn’t care where we went as long as I was with him.

I had two immediate concerns. One, I didn’t know if I could afford—or at my age should even wear—the glamorous clothes suitable for Vegas, but Matt said not to worry, Alan would take me shopping that afternoon.

It was a strange experience, shopping with someone I barely knew, particularly a man. He seemed as uncomfortable as I but assured me we would find something. He was familiar with all of the boutiques and took me to Saks Fifth Avenue as well.

As I selected a couple of outfits I worried about my other concern: the promised daily letter to my parents. How would I explain Las Vegas postmarks? I couldn’t. But I could prewrite letters for the time we were gone, number them one through seven, and have Arnold mail them from Los Angeles daily. My problems were solved. On to Las Vegas!

That evening Matt’s front lawn was alive with activity. There seemed to be people everywhere. The huge bus that George Barris had custom-designed for Matt stood in the driveway. The guys streamed in and out of it, loading suitcases, records, a stereo system, and cases of Pepsi-Cola. All the preparations and excitement made it look as if Matt were moving out, but in fact he always traveled this way. He was still uneasy about flying—a fear he later conquered—and felt much more relaxed driving. Because we didn’t know how long we’d stay, Alan and Gene Smith brought along whatever Matt enjoyed, so he would feel as comfortable as if he were at home. I was happy. It was the first time we’d be together without restrictions or curfews.

Just before midnight, they all gathered around the big bus; it was time to say goodbye to any visitors the regulars were leaving behind.

Matt was dressed in a white shirt, black pants, black racing gloves, and his everpresent yachting cap. As we pulled away, he yelled out the window, “We shall return,” and we hit the highway for Las Vegas, Nevada. I didn’t know what I was headed for, but I loved the idea of adventure.

And I felt proud; there was Gene to my right, me in the center, and Matt driving. I learned that Matt always preferred driving at night; it was cooler and there was less traffic. He came alive at night. There was a big difference between the daytime Matt and the nocturnal Matt. When the sun went down another personality took over, and on this particular night he was in great form. On a break between films, away from Colonel William, free of pressures and responsibilities, he could relax and play.

On the way to Vegas we all listened to music, nibbled on snacks, and drank Pepsis. In the front seat, Matt and Gene joked in their own language. Matt would say something and Gene would reply with completely made up words. When conversation lagged, they engaged in surprise attacks, punching each other. If Gene thought he’d landed a good one, he’d take off running toward the back of the bus, aware that Matt could always pull over and chase him.

These antics continued throughout most of the exhausting drive across the desert. I felt out of sync with the private jokes and crazy high jinks. It was quite obvious that the boys picked up on Matt’s every mood. I did not yet fit in.

Las Vegas

We arrived in Las Vegas around seven in the morning. I was tired and falling asleep when Matt called out, “We’re comin’ into Vegas. Look around—all you see is hotels. It’s called Sin City. Isn’t that right, Smiff?” Gene mumbled one of his silly replies and Matt laughed as usual.

The Strip looked quiet. There were a lot of taxis, some cars, and a few tired people strolling along the streets. I noticed it was extremely hot for 7 a.m., especially since it was only June.

We checked into the Sahara Hotel and to my amazement, despite the early hour, people were everywhere. Matt pointed to the casino, noisy with the rhythmic sounds of the slot machines, the sporadic ringing of bells, and an occasional yell from the craps tables.

“Is this normal?” I asked Matt.

“Honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Wait till tonight,” he replied.

That wouldn’t be easy. Despite being tired, I stood fascinated, watching the gamblers clustered at the various tables and the slot machines. Matt took my arm. “Come on, Baby. Let’s go up to the room. There’ll be plenty of time for this later. We better get some rest.”

We followed the bellboy to the suite, and the entourage efficiently began arranging the rooms to Matt’s liking. They unpacked his clothes, placing them neatly in his closet, lining up his shoes by color, and setting out his toiletries in the bathroom. In the living room, they set up his record player and speakers, lowered the lights to create the right atmosphere, and turned on all the television sets.

“Why do you always have the TV on?” I asked Matt.

“It keeps me company,” he said. “When it’s on, I feel like there are people around.”

He despised entering a quiet room, and soon I too adopted the habit of automatically turning on the TV whenever I walked into a room.

An hour later the assistants had the suite looking lived in, with everything in its proper place. Matt said good night to the boys and cautioned them not to wake us too early. He locked the bedroom door and got undressed and into bed. As I climbed in beside him, I noticed that he was taking a number of prescribed sleeping pills, but I didn’t pay much attention to them. I wasn’t knowledgeable enough even to suspect any potential threat.

I lay there blissfully happy: Finally we were able to spend an entire night sleeping together.

Matt was looking at me. “Do you believe this, Baby? After all this time, here you are. Who’d ever have thought we’d pull this off? Let’s not even think about you going back. We’ll have a good time. We’ll think about the other when the time comes.”

His words were starting to slur. His reactions slowed down. He pulled me closer and told me, again and again, “I’m glad you’re here  . . .” And then—silence. I looked over at the bottles of pills near the bed and realized I still had competition.

When I awoke the next afternoon, I looked over at Matt and snuggled against him as closely as I could. He put his arms around me, holding me as he slept. I studied his eyebrows, his long black eyelashes, his perfect nose, and his beautiful, full mouth. After a while I ached from lying in the same position but I didn’t move; it might wake him.

I thought about the pills he had taken earlier. They mystified me but I felt Matt must know what was best for him and I decided to put the matter out of my mind.

He must have sensed that I was staring at him; he suddenly opened his eyes and started to laugh. “What are you doing? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were putting a hex on me.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, embarrassed that he’d caught me studying him. “I guess I’m too excited.”

Sitting up, he said, “Well, Little Girl, the first thing I need is a cup of black coffee. Press number four on the intercom and tell Billy to order us some breakfast. He knows what I like and just tell him what you want. Tell him to have it here in half an hour and to make sure the coffee’s hot.”

Getting out of bed, he flipped on the TV and walked into the bathroom. A moment later he stuck out his head and grinned. “Get dressed, Little One, I want to show you off a little.”

That was all I needed to hear. I jumped out of bed and ran into my bathroom to get ready. As I dressed in a casual summer outfit I could hear music coming from the living room. I cracked open the adjoining door and was surprised to see all the boys up and dressed, with breakfast set up on the dining-room table.

I finished combing my hair and walked out to the living room, where the guys greeted me with friendly smiles and hellos. Matt wasn’t there yet, so no one had begun eating. Everyone was pretty quiet. Although it was after four in the afternoon, it seemed like early morning.

About fifteen minutes later, Matt came into the room, all dressed up in a three-piece suit, and I realized that nothing in my wardrobe was suitable. He walked over to the stereo and put on his latest record, saying he’d just finished a recording session and wanted me to hear the songs. Then we all sat down for breakfast.

It was fun hearing his recordings before they were released to the public. He asked me what I thought of each song, and since I knew what the kids back in Europe were listening to, I felt my comments might be helpful. At least I wanted to believe they were. “I really like the fast-paced ones,” I said, “like ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ Why don’t you record more songs like that? These don’t seem as much like rock and roll as your earlier records.”

Matt shot me a look of such pure disgust that I was petrified. “Goddamn it,” he snapped. “I didn’t ask for your opinion on what style I should sing. I asked if you like the songs, that’s all—yes or no. I get enough amateur opinions as it is. I don’t need another one.” He got up and stalked into the bedroom and slammed the door. Trying to regain my composure, I fought back tears. I was embarrassed and confused. What was wrong with what I’d said? How could that upset him so?

Luckily, the boys had already left the table and were all doing odd jobs or were in another room. I didn’t know if any of them had heard Matt’s tirade, but I didn’t want to face them. I knew Matt had a temper—I had witnessed it in Germany—but never before had he directed it at me.

Slowly I rose from the table, wondering where to go. Matt’s bedroom door was still tightly shut and, although I was sharing his room, I hesitated to go in for fear he’d start yelling. Not knowing what else to do, I sat down next to the albums and started going through them, pretending to look interested. Soon I heard the bedroom door open and saw Matt standing in the doorway. He motioned to me to come over. Reluctantly, I put back the records and walked into the room, fearful of what he was going to say. He closed the door, sat me down on the edge of the bed, and—to my surprise—began to apologize: “I’m sorry, Baby. What happened before really had nothing to do with you. I just finished that recording session and it’s pretty damn good compared to what they usually want me to do for these movies.”

He talked more about his last film, the story line, the songs, the dialogue, all of which he thought were inane. _ I was beginning to understand some of his frustrations and dissatisfaction. I remembered our talks in Germany. Matt had been proud of his film accomplishments before entering the Army. He had talked hopefully about doing movies with more substance and fewer songs.

“y/nn, from now on I plan to keep my singing career and my acting career strictly separate.” He believed he was capable of performing more demanding roles than he was getting, and to prepare himself, he still studied certain actors whom he admired, such as James Dean in Giant and Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront and The Wild One.

“But I keep getting offered the same musicals, same story lines,” he complained, “and they’re getting worse and worse.”

His biggest problem was that these films and their soundtrack albums were always huge hits.

Shaking off his serious mood, he grabbed my hand and said, “Come on, Baby, we’re goin’ shopping.” This was Matt’s way of making up for his outburst, but it took me a little while to get over it. Forcing an enthusiastic smile, I went along. I was beginning to understand how everyone’s mood played off Matt.

Taking Gene and Alan with us, we jumped into a waiting limo and rode around until Matt spotted a boutique where glamorous gowns made of sequins, lace, and frills graced the beautiful mannequins in the window. He called out to the driver, “Let’s stop here.”

Taking my hand, he led me inside, followed by the entire entourage, surely the most unlikely band of characters ever to invade an elegant dress shop. The salesgirl was speechless.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Matt Sturniolo and we’re just looking around. Maybe you could show us something that might interest my little friend over there.”

They both looked over at me. The look on the clerk’s face told me we were thinking the same thing: These clothes were far too sophisticated for such a young girl. But when Matt saw something he liked, he didn’t think in terms of age. While the saleswoman went to the back to rummage around for whatever she had in sizes six and four, Matt was rifling through the racks, pulling out a number of dazzling creations, asking me which ones I liked.

“They’re all beautiful,” I said. “I just don’t know how I’d look in them.”

“You let me be the judge of that,” he said, winking at Gene, who mumbled one of his made up words. We all dissolved into fits of laughter that brought the shopgirl rushing back with a huge selection of dresses. Matt designated his preferences and said, “Try them on. And pick out any others you like.”

Thrilled, I chose a half-dozen gowns with matching shoes and headed for the dressing room. The salesgirl followed. Away from Matt’s eyes she treated me like a little kid, but I was so enchanted with the clothes that I didn’t care.

As I posed in front of the mirror in a long black jersey gown and a pair of gold highheeled sandals, I hardly recognized myself. I definitely appeared older, very sexy and very sophisticated.

As I stepped out of the dressing room, the salesgirl mumbled, “Not bad for a kid.” Matt took one look and said, “Hot damn, we’ll take it.”

We stayed for over two hours, while Matt bought me not only the black sheath, but also a midnight blue satin, several lovely silks and chiffons, and a beautiful baby-blue brocade gown, all accented by matching capes and bags and shoes.

When we left the shop we found a crowd had gathered. Matt glanced at Alan, who immediately disappeared. Then he gave a number of people his autograph, said goodbye, and Gene quickly led us through the back of the shop and out the door, where Alan was waiting with the car ready to take us to the hotel.

Back at our suite, Matt said, “I’m hungry. Nate, order me a steak, but make sure you tell them well done. What do you want, Honey?”

“Hell, M,” Matt said, “I always tell them well done.”

“Well, tell them again,” Matt shot back. “I’ll be goddamned if it doesn’t always come back half raw.”

To Matt, raw was slightly pink. Everyone specified “burnt” when ordering for him.

Matt turned to Alan and said, “Hog Ears” (he had pet names for all his employees), “make arrangements for Red Skelton’s midnight show, and see if there’s anyone in the hotel who can do y/nn hair and makeup.”

“Hair and makeup?” I said. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

It was long and y/hc, casually combed. But beyond feeling he didn’t like my hair, now I began to think he didn’t like my looks.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, honey. It’s just that this is Las Vegas. Everyone has their hair done. You need to apply more makeup around your eyes. Make them stand out more. They’re too plain naturally. I like a lot of makeup. It defines your features.”

Defines your features? At that time it made a lot of sense—and Matt knew best.

While we waited for dinner, Matt put one of his records on the stereo and sat next to me, singing along with his own voice on the record. In that moment I fell in love all over again. When he sang about lost love or a life lived out in grief and pain, he delivered the lyrics with such conviction that I’d feel the hurt. He’d been a fan of country music since long before it became popular and was always impressed by the raw emotion in those recordings.

After dinner we got ready for the evening. At Matt’s request, Armond, a hairdresser at the hotel, came in and spent nearly two hours creating my new look. He teased and twisted up my hair with one long curl falling in front of my left shoulder. Then he applied my makeup so heavily that you couldn’t tell if my eyes were black, blue, or black and blue. It was that look of the sixties, only more extreme. That was what Matt wanted.

When I put on my brand-new brocade gown, my transformation from an innocent sixteen-year-old to a sophisticated siren was complete. I looked like one of the lead dancers in the Folies-Bergère.

“Goddamn, what happened to Little y/nn,” Matt said when he saw me. “You look beautiful. Nate, come here. Look what I found.”

Nate walked in and did a double take.

“Sure doesn’t look like the same girl we met in Germany, wearing a sailor dress,” Nate said.

Everyone laughed, and we left to see Red Skelton’s midnight show.

We arrived just after the lights went down, and the maître d’, using a flashlight, quickly led us to our table. Matt always tried to arrive unnoticed so he wouldn’t distract attention from the headlining star. But word always spread throughout the audience that he was there and within a few seconds, the whispering would start and heads would turn.

At the end of a show Matt would try to exit just before the house lights went up, but on that night we didn’t make it. The lights came on and suddenly we were surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of people pushing and shoving, hoping to get an autograph.

Being just under five foot five, I was engulfed in the crush and I began to feel faint. I reached out for Matt as I started to panic and said, “I can’t breathe. I have to get out.”

At first he grinned, then his look turned to concern as he saw my desperation. Still smiling and signing autographs, he said to Alan, “Get y/nn out quick. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

Alan took one look at me, grabbed my hand, and pushed his way through the crowd, out of the hotel. Once in the fresh air, I regained my composure. From that experience I learned to scout out the exits whenever Matt and I entered a crowded room.

When we came out a few minutes later, like clockwork, the limo was waiting. We jumped in and sped off to the Sahara Hotel for my first adventure in gambling. Matt wasn’t a serious player—it didn’t matter if he won or lost. He played for the fun of it. A cigar jutting impressively from his mouth, a drink in one hand, and his eyes squinting suspiciously at the cards, he gave a flawless impersonation of Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. I sat proudly beside him, his very own Scarlett O’Hara.

I’d never played blackjack before, but after a few hands, Matt thought I had the hang of it. He handed me five hundred dollars and jokingly said, “You’re on your own, kid. What you win is yours, and what you lose  . . . well, we’ll have to discuss that later.”

I smiled and called for the dealer to include me in the game. I looked at my hand, counting on my fingers under the table. Nine plus eight is seventeen, then a five makes  . . .

“Twenty-one!” I shouted. Throwing down my cards, I looked over to Matt for his approval.

“Let’s see,” he said, slowly scooping up the cards. Squinting one eye, he counted them. Then, leaning over to me, he grinned and whispered, “Sorry, Baby. It’s twenty-two.”

I was so embarrassed that I excused myself and took refuge in the ladies’ room. When I gathered up the courage to return, I tried again, and luckily ended up winning two hundred dollars.

For the next two weeks, we slept during the day and played at night. If there was a show, we saw it; if there was a casino, we played it. To help me adapt to this fast-paced life-style and unusual hours I would join Matt and the others in taking amphetamines and sleeping pills. Despite whatever misgivings I had about pills, I took them. In order for me to keep up, they became essential.

I was adapting. My inhibitions were dropping away and I became more assertive, especially after taking the pills. I liked the feeling. Even though it was an escape from reality, we were in sync and to me I was fitting more into his world. We were learning all about each other and using this trip to make up for the two years we had been apart. Both of us were falling more in love—and avoiding any thought of the moment when we’d have to part again.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - long long chapter todayyy🎀

[aru-xx]

I'm here now. // Detroit Become Human x Heavy Rain

A/N: yooo! I really hope that whoever might be reading this, will enjoy the short story about this alternative universe! it actually took me a little time to make, but in the end i'm pretty happy how it turned out. any kind of feedback is always appreciated and if you liked this fanfic, then make sure to check out my account for more stories or leave me some requests for stories with your own ideas. have a great day/night! // Word Count: 3295 // not revised // ――――――――――――― 6th October 2034, 5:37pm, DPD I just sat there staring at the files and reports in front of me, not taking up anymore information I was getting. Suddenly a hand gently touched my shoulder, bringing me back to reality. "Mister Anderson, I think it'd be a good idea for you to go home and catch a break. This case will be in good hands and will have top priority, I can promise that." The man next to me spoke in a calm yet serious voice, making me slowly stand up from the chair I was sitting on. "We will be quick to inform you about anything new. Good evening." That was the last thing he said to me, before I heard his footsteps getting quieter as he was walking away to presumably do something of more importance. I took a sharp breath in while my eyes were still sticking to all of the reports I saw on the table. -nine year old boy found dead near the freeway! will the origami killer be back again this year?- -seven year old boy gone missing on his way home from school!- I felt myself feeling sicker with every second that passed just looking at all of this. Needing to get some fresh air and to clear my mind, I quickly stepped out of the building before feeling the cold weather outside instantly. I slowly started walking home in trance and silence. My mind was empty, I couldn't think straight anymore after the hours of sitting in the police station and explaining the officers what happened. I scoffed in frustration. I was the one who was supposed to take care of him. I am an Officer myself, so I should've been the one searching for him now. I should've looked out for him more and be a better father to him. My Cole. My sweet little boy. He's just 5 years old. How was he supposed to be out here all alone?

6th October 2034, 5:56pm, Michigan Drive 115 Opening the door to my House I felt like I was abandoning everything I have ever cared for if I only dared to close that door again. I stepped inside the warm home, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling before locking the door behind me. Hearing sumo walking out of the living room he was probably sleeping in before, i kneel down to his height waiting for him to approach me. "Hey there boy", I said almost in a whisper as I petted him before taking off my jacket and shoes. As sumo went back into the living room I saw some mails on the shelf, I grabbed them before walking into the kitchen and tossing them onto the table, not caring much about it. I then opened the fridge to get myself a beer, opening it and sitting down on a chair at the kitchen table. I took a big sip of the alcoholic drink, already feeling the sad comfort in my throat, before I roughly ripped open the mails. "Uninteresting, uninteresting, uninteresting.." I kept looking through them without much interest, before stopping at one specific mail that i was finding rather odd. I looked at the weird letter which had no sender address on it. Just a tiny bit more interested now, I opened this one with more care before pulling out the sheet of paper that was in it. When the parents came home from church, all their children were gone. They searched and called for them, they cried and begged, but it was all to no avail. The children have never been seen again. I swallowed at the sight of the kind of disturbing text, not knowing what that was supposed to mean nor why I got this mail. My mind was racing again and all I could think about was Cole. I heard a loud thunder rumble, which made me look at the window that was covered in thousands of rain drops. It was raining heavily again. I stared outside the window for a moment, seeing the dark clouds covering the sky and making the whole place look more depressed than it already was. Cole. He had to be out there. He would get sick. I felt my mood take a drastical twist as i looked inside the envelope now and found a ticket for a luggage locker inside. Again not knowing what this was, I still knew that something was off about this, so I kept the ticket before pushing everything else from the table in frustration, anger, unsteadiness and most of all sadness. I laid down my head on the table putting my hands over my head, not caring about the now shattered glass on the floor or the instant noodles that sumo would probably eat soon. I was at helpless and I knew it. I failed him and even myself, I knew it. I knew it but I just couldn't accept the fact that this was my fault. That him being scared out there all alone now.. was only me failing as a father.

7th October 2034, 2:18pm, Lexington Station The police hasn't reported anything new to me yet so they had most likely no trace of my son so far, but that would only be true if they were actually keeping their word on letting me know every new information about his well being and the investigation. I wasn't stupid though. I was a cop myself so I knew how things had to go. But the only difference here was, that i wasn't doing this as my job. I was doing this because I was his father and threfore I was on a different level than them. I did have a possible traceand I wasn't willing to give that up. Walking into the Train Station I almost feltlike a criminal even if what I was doing wasn't anything illegal. Getting some luggage from a letter that I received wasn't a crime, was it? But no matter what, in order to succeeded I had to keep my cool while walking past thesecurity and trying to find the right locker. Getting past the man that was apparently checking for any suspicous behaviour, was in fact just sitting in his chair and letting everyone pass with less than half care about it. "Row 18, locker 3", I whispered tomyself, checking the ticket and all the lockers in front of me, until I had found the right one. I carefully opened it before taking out the shoe box that was insidewith a rather confused look. I quickly checked the area for any civilians before not even hesitating to open the box and seewhat was inside of it, but what I saw made me feel sick. There were little origamifigures, an old phone with a memory card and .. a gun. My stomach began to churn, alarming me thatthis was nothing a normal person had to do with. It was more than clear that not only the gun was a hint to the killer but also the origami figures that were his kind of signature that he left right before every missing child was found, together with an orchid on the dead bodies. I just stood there for a longtime, thinking about how this would be my son if I didn't act fast enough. How this would happen to a lot more fathers and mothers. Thinking about all possible things. But in the end I came to the conclusion that I was only sure about the fact that I wanted to save my little boy. Iwanted to be a good protector to him again. A good father. But I knew. I knew. If I wanted to really save him, I had to give this to thepolice and let them handle it. I could do nothing for him. Again.

7th October 2034, 3:12pm, DPD I walked into the Police Department, having already informed the FBI Profiler Norman Jayden who was working together with Lieutenant Carter Blake in the origami killer case, about my findings. I didn't quite like the FBI because of their way of handling things, but I had a good feeling about this particularly man so I trusted him enough to let him try to save my son, which already should mean the world. Getting closer to all of the officer's desks I heard Agent Jayden and Officer Blake talk to a man who was sitting on a chair in front of a table that had different files on it. He reminded me of myself, sitting in that same chair yesterday. Reminded me of how i felt at that moment. I looked down at the box I was holding, feeling the sadness and guilt catch up to me again. Being lost in my thoughts for a second made me not realize how they almost finished their talk. That was until the man stood up trying to walk a little after the lieutenant, making me also look up at them. "Hey, do you think the origami killer..", he wasn't able to finish his sentence which led to an uneasy silence in the conversation. "Listen, your sons probably just run off and will turn up in a couple hours", the officer replied rather annoyed. "But what if it is the origami killer?", while the father was sounding more than just worried. "Well then we have about 4 days to find him alive". As soon as Carter Blake spat his words out and left, I instantly regretted listening in on their conversation and looked back down to avoid having to look into the mans eyes who has just recently had a traumatic experience. It made me realize. He was also a father. A father who lost his son. Like me. Like everyone else before. I was sure now. I was sure about that this was the right thing to do. To put a stop to this never-ending nightmare for all people out there who lost their lovely children. After I looked up again I saw the man leaving into the waiting area and talking to a woman which seemed to be his wife .. or ex-wife. At least the mother ofthe young boy. I decided that this was no longer something of my business, even if it wasn't in the first place either. I walked over to the FBI Agent who seemed rather stressed but not surprised to see me once he noticed me. "Mr. Anderson." He looked at the box I was holding before standing up straight again, after he was bending over the table for I was guessing the whole questioning from the father. "Please follow me into my office." He forced a calm voice out of him while I stayed silent. We walked into his office, and he closed the door behind us as I simply put the box on his desk. I gave a heavy sigh, not even daring to look into the mans eyes due to me being ashamed of myself that I was much older than this FBI Profiler and yet I couldn't even bring myself to even try or believe in myself that I could find and rescue my son myself but instead put it on other peoples backs. It was pathetic. "Save my son. Please. You have to. Not only for me but for everyone. For the father that also lost his little boy." I paused, opening my mouth to speak again but only shook my head and put my hands on the table for some grip while staring down at it. "Ethan Mars. I know i'm not supposed to share this information with you but that was the fathers name, and his son is named Shaun Mars. He also felt guilty about losing his son just like that even if he was supposed to take care of him. But if I can promise you one thing Mister Anderson .. then that would be that I WILL find your and Mister Mars sons and put a stop to this." I turned around, looking surprised for a moment that the Agent was sympathising with me and giving me personal informations about this man only for me to be able to get in touch with him. I quickly put a thankful smile on my face which not only showed and expressed my sadness and helplessness but also my gratitude and relief I felt at the moment. Without another word having to be spoken, I left the office and with that also the DPD.

11th October 2034, 7:22pm, The Old Warehouse A normal Friday evening, standing outside an old warehouse together with the police and just waiting for something to happen. Someone to come out of the building. My nerves were completely shot, and I haven't really slept for the past few days because of the fact that I was not knowing anything about how close or far away the police were to catching the origami killer and finding my son. But now. Now it was finally time, so when I got a call from Norman Jayden that he knows who and where the origami killer is I couldn't help but feel a little bit of hope grow inside me. And now I would either see my son come out of this building .. or not. Everything would be finished tonight and there was no other way. But I already knew that if my little boy wouldn't be here anymore, I would break. I would never be the same ever again. "Hank?" A man next to me spoke up and I quickly turned my head in the direction of the voice, seeing Ethan giving me an even more worried expression than he already had all the time, if that was even possible. "I couldn't bear to never see him again. I love him too much for something so brutally." I spoke truthfully, sharing what was going through my mind with him. Over the painful time I was kept in the dark, I decided to take the chance Agent Jayden gave me and get in touch with Ethan Mars. And now I would never regret doing that, because hearing his story and knowing there was someone who was going through the same as me right now made me feel much more understood with my own feelings, thoughts and the situation. "Movement on the front doors! Keep in position! On my call!" I heard and saw the whole situation getting heated up faster than I could blink and Ethan and I were both pushed a little further away by some of the cops to avoid us getting in the way or hurt. My eyes were fixated on the door, no thoughts were crossing my mind anymore. I couldn't think anymore. I just wanted to see my boy. I wanted to know he was fine. I wanted to see him smile as he was calling out for me. For his father. I wanted to hold him again. My .. One of the doors got pushed opened fully now as we saw the injured FBI profiler walking out of the building with his hands raised to avoid getting mistaken by the killer and shot. "Person verified. Agent Norman Jayden." My heart dropped seeing the man come out of the building alone. I froze up. Feeling sick again all of a sudden. Not being able to look at the scene anymore I put my hands on my knees to keep myself steady as i bend down in utter despair. "Two more persons verified. Shaun Mars and .." I flipped my head back up within a second, seeing two little boys walk slowly and terrified out of the building, being visibly overwhelmed by the scenery infront of them. "COLE!" I screamed as I ignored the instructions of the Officers and instead ran towards my son, earning his full attention. "Cole Anderson." The police officer finished his sentence before Cole came running towards me, closely followed by Shaun running up to his own dad. "DAD!", Cole screamed with tears in his eyes before just a few moments later I fell to my knees right before him and hugged him tightly. Keeping him close to me again. Holding him in my arms again. "Dad.." he sobbed in relief and sorrow, as tears started to fall from his face and almost instantly soaked into my clothing due to his face being buried in my chest. "Cole..", I cooed softly. The sight of my son clinging onto me like this while crying made my own tears, that were swelling up for the whole past days now, come out of my eyes. The happiness I felt of seeing my loved son again and keeping him close to me again after so long was more than just a wonderful feeling to me. Blending out everything around us, I memorized everything carefully. In that moment all I cared about was him. Even though I knew it wouldn't always be like this, I could only feel the comfort in keeping my boy close.

But as it is, not everything was supposed to have a happy ending. The luck is not always on your side. It runs out. I just would have never guessed that my luck would run out so soon again. Only one year later. One fucking year after this nightmare. A car crash. Just one mistake from a stranger. One second. Just one moment. And it should all be over in the blink of an eye, sending me back into the darkest places of my mind. That's what the future had planned for me. And there was nothing I could do about it. ➥ 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚎𝚗𝚍. 7th November 2038, 1:19am, Riverside Park I breathed out heavily feeling somewhat relieved of getting this off my chest. As soon as I finished speaking, the cold winter air hit me once again, leaving me unfazed. "That's how my son was saved the first time but he.." I stopped talking due to the discomfort I felt when speaking about it, so I just stared at the view in front of me - Detroit glowing bright at night while the water reflected the lights on its surface. I took another sip from my beer before looking down at the bench I was sitting on, replaying everything that has happened back then in my head yet again. "I'm here now, hank." I was quick to look up at the sudden but calm voice talking to me, seeing Connor standing next to me with what seemed to be sympathy in his eyes as the wind hit my face more lightly once more. I looked at him for a while, only now noticing the similarities he had to Cole in his presence. I carefully started memorizing everything about him, like I did with Cole back at the old Warehouse and as if it was the last time I'd ever see his face again. But in reality I was actually finding a little bit of my own peace in him. Now replaying all of the moments I had with the detective android instead of the horrible events from the past years. We both stayed silent before I sighed out again, this time more relieved and with a slight smile on my face. We then turned our attention back at the beautiful view of Detroit, but now something was different than just a moment ago. It was much fuller with life and the silence wasn't as heavy as it was before. Maybe Connor was right after all. Maybe it was actually worth living for others. Maybe there's more to life than just what you've lost. Maybe I can believe in myself again and maybe he was the one who was able to change my way of seeing things in life. The first time for years now my thoughts were calm again, as I kept replaying the soothing words from the android in my mind. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰.

[pen-observing]

even in this state, love persists.

synopsis: nightbringer has turned Solomon into what he is but he used you, Solomon's lover, to achieve his goals. this curse that he has placed upon you is his largest sin.

pairing: Solomon x gn!reader word count: 1k

Sometimes you think it is utter spite and perseverance that lies at the center of your being. Yes, there is an overwhelming amount of love but sometimes it makes you feel pitiful. It reminds you of the way kids stand around on the beach and play in the sand; those of them that do not have enough talent to make a castle pretty, end up making it larger than the rest to cover up the obvious flaws it has.  

Is the love Solomon gives you similar to that?  No. It is not.   And you shouldn’t even think that way but...were it not for the curse, you think, maybe the huge displays of love and their occurrence would lessen down.  

The curse it to blame for everything really. He is to blame for everything. 

But, on the other side of the coin, there is the fact that you never would have known what you were capable of if this didn’t happen. How many years has it been now? A hundred perhaps? Looking and marking the passage of time is something humans do and while you use that spite of yours to prove your humanity; you also admit that Solomon and you are far removed from what the regular human is.  

There is this consistent battle of keeping your humanity. Keeping it in front of one another is easy – all of those flaws and virtues are cradled together and there is no curse that could break the bond the two of you have..but... out there?  In the human world? You are far too special to ever create friendships and connections with others.   In the realm above? You are deemed far too interesting to be something truly real.   And in the realm below? Far too dangerous and cunning.  

Everything that Solomon is you are by extension. What makes it worse is that nobody else really sees you. The seven brothers he talks about have no idea who you are, but you are aware of their actions and secrets.  

Solomon has always been good at keeping those and...did they cause your current state? Yes, absolutely but..you can’t find it in yourself to ever hate him.  

There is a specific sense of guilt that Solomon carries for what has happened to you because of his own foolishness inside that youth he wanted to share with you. He has learned some lessons and he continues to.  

Solomon was far too arrogant when he spoke with Nightbringer all those years ago. He initially refused his offer but Nightbringer’s chess bord was not something Solomon could ever knock down. In his own foolishness, Solomon is destined to carry this guilt for the fate you have been forces to live all this time. 

Nightbringer knew that getting to Solomon by normal means would perhaps be impossible but he also knew that using you in his eons long scheme would prove more efficient.   Nightbringer told you he regrets nothing, he only wished he had a chance to get to know you more or perhaps drink delicious tea.  

He said that to you after manifesting next to your bed in the middle of the night before engulfing you in a glow unlike any other. Your fate was sealed then. With his curse of turning you into an enchanted brooch – Nightbringer got Solomon on his side.  

You hated him. You didn’t only hate him for what he had turned you into, but you hated how far his cruelty sometimes stretched. He was a savior to some other people but all you remember is how cold his hand was while holding your new form while he was writing a letter to your lover.  

‘Solomon,  

join my side and I will tell you where your lover is hidden. Would you still love them like this I wonder?   You are free to try and find them on your own, but I advise against it.   Even if you do, my curse can only be reversed once I get what I wish. We both know how serious I am about these matters. 

Make a choice that benefits us both. Or, at the very least, make one that benefits you.’ 

Perhaps the reason why you stopped keeping time is because Solomon did not immediately come to you. All you remember is darkness before someone finally opened the lid.   You were hoping it would be Solomon but instead it was the culprit.  

It broke your heart to see Solomon with a defeated look and a shattered heart in front of you. In the end, he agreed to Nightbringer’s blackmail.   You were the cursed prize that ensured Solomon’s collaboration.  

Solomon held you in his hands and cried that night. He cried for his own foolishness and for the fact that your love would prove to have no limits in the worst way possible. Your words of comfort seemed pointless back then but they’ve been meeting up more and more recently. You know because the only time Solomon does not carry you with him is when he has to talk to Nightbringer.  

Nightbringer said your presence once reminded him of his own pitiful ways and Solomon loved nothing more than to remind him by which means he obtained a partner in crime.   Both of these men somehow refused to budge out of their own incompetencies so Nightbringer told Solomon not to bring you around anymore.  

Maybe the end of your curse is close by now? You have every right to harbor that hope now as you did at the very start!   And you love Solomon in the exact same way as before. How could you not when he teleports back into the room and kneels down next to the table to look at you.  

“I am home. Did you miss me?”  “Hmm? Sometimes it is nice not to hear your voice or to be smushed into your inside pocket you know. Peaceful even.”  

You obviously don’t mean that.  

“I’ve missed you too, my love.”  “Solomon, it has been approximately seven minutes.”  “An eternity I know.”  

Before you had the chance to retort, Solomon continues.  

“I think your curse will be lifted soon.” 

Your breath hitches. Suddenly everything is still. Solomon lifts you up in the palm of his hand and places a gentle kiss on you. 

“We have been over this, your kiss to the centre of this diamond brooch – I mean me, I guess – is not what will lift this curse.”  “And yet, I will continue to try. Nightbringer said that time is just upon us and I vow to kiss you then for real.” 

a/n: HELLO OBEY ME FANDOM!! DID YOU MISS ME??? Solomon in chapter 11 am i right??

[romaine2424]

Daily Blog June 21, 2023

Hi! Welcome to my first day of fandom blogging! I'm very excited about doing this and hope you'll join in on the conversation and really hope that you might start one of your own!!! So on that note, lets get going.

What I'm reading:

I'm currently re-reading The Changeling by @annerbhp. It's a canon rewrite of sort, with a big twist. Here's the summary: Ginny is sorted into Slytherin. It takes her seven years to figure out why. It's 182K from Ginny's POV. It does follow canon to a point. I read this about 6 months ago and I still think about it when writing Drarry. I now have to give Ginny a positive break-up with Harry. LOL No dissing her because she's such a badass in this story. While it's listed as Harry/Ginny, it really is mostly a Ginny story for the main story. There's follow on stories after this one that are fab too.

It starts with Year 1 and the house sorting. Ginny is surprisingly sorted into Slytherin. She at first thinks its a joke done by her twin brothers, but then reality sets in. Most of her family is devastated and she feels completely isolated. This is a Ginny you'll recognize from canon and then so much more. If you longed for more Slytherin background and lore than canon gave us, this you will love. And if you think Slytherin is dominated by the males...well this will give you a headcanon that you won't forget.

What I'm writing:

The Azkaban Letters, which I'm so far behind on I want to cry. It's a 2007 WIP I started right before HPDH came out. So it's canon divergent after HBP. I did edit the first 7 to be more in line with canon and post canon. My issue is I have too much in my head and too many ideas to get down on paper...er on the computer. When I stopped writing it in 2007, I had posted the first 7 chapters on The Hex Files. It came over to AO3 during the transfer and has been staring at me in the face since then. I'm now up to 16 chapters, which sounds like a lot, but there's 4 sections to the story and I'm in the middle of section 2. sigh.

Tumblr Posts of Interest:

@xanthippe74 on her blog has reposted her 2020 fic, Follow the Water in honor of summer solstice. If you have not read this fic, you are in for such a treat. Perfect summer fic. Give her post a reblog and fic some love!

@julcheninred posted on her blog yesterday that it was the 5th anniversary of Draw Drarry badly. I so love her block H/D art, and so happy we've had five years of her sharing them with us. Make sure to reblog to share the Drarry fun!

3. HDMpreg2023 has posted the reveals on A03. TWENTY fics in all. I only got to read about 1/3 of them, but whoa there are some serious gems. (If I find the Tumblr post for this, I'll add it.)

4. @lcdrarry has also posted their reveals! My apologies to the fest and authors/artists. I've only read a few this round but plan on diving into the treasure trove of Drarry. This was a new fest for me to watch when I came back to fandom. While I don't watch many movies or watch tv much anymore, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to follow/understand the stories as well as I should. I was wrong. Most I have found I could enjoy without knowing the source.

Tumblr Drarry Fic/Art Resource:

I'm guessing most of you follow @drarryspecificrecsdaily, but in case not, you should definitely follow! They post Drarry completed fics which have been posted on AO3 for the current day. I have found some amazing gems from this resource. Fics I haven't seen discussed or recced anywhere else and authors I haven't been blessed reading before.

Okay, that's it for Day 1! Hope you found something interesting. I'll be switching around the categories on a daily basis. Tomorrow, I'll be adding in Fic Rec from the way past. Feel free to comment. :)

[wyrd-syster]

FANFIC ROUNDUP: 2023

LIST OF FANWORKS

POSTED

lend me some sugar (I am your neighbor) | Haladriel neighbors AU | E | 2/2

tell me something true (or tell me nothing at all) | Haladriel "This is How You Lose the Time War" AU | E | one-shot

it's a dangerous game | Haladriel Venetian-style "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" AU | E | one-shot | dead dove

dig up the bones (but leave the soul alone) | Haladriel canon divergence | E | 9/? (wip)

living la dolce vita (I’ve been saving all my summers for you) | Haladriel "Stepford Wives" cult AU | E | one-shot

take a chance and roll the dice (say it once, say it twice) | Haladriel Halloween-themed drabble collection | M | 8/8

there is a light (and it never goes out) | Haladriel Hanukkah-themed canon divergence | T | 1/2 (wip)

sugar and spice (and everything...) | Haladriel neighbors AU | E | sequel to lend me some sugar | one-shot

Total words: 127,458, almost triple my output from last year. I am flabbergasted.

UNPOSTED WIPS

oh boy. Not including wips noted above:

we were angels, once (don't you remember?) | Haladriel immortal soulmates au | M (probably?) | one-shot

break the lock if it don't fit (love sticks, sweat drips) | Haladriel "Ocean's Eleven" AU | E | one-shot (title subject to change)

and on the creature scratches (it doesn't know how to get out) | Haladriel mob AU | E| multi-chapter sequel to oh, can’t you hear that scratching? (there’s something at the door) 

Untitled third installment of the Haladriel like a good neighbor series

Untitled Haladriel Rumpelstiltskin AU

TOTAL # OF COMPLETED WORKS/FANDOMS WRITTEN IN

Six completed works written for the Sauron (Halbrand)/Galadriel (Haladriel) fandom, The Rings of Power

OVERALL THOUGHTS

it's like I can't consume media anymore without being like "*leonardo dicaprio meme* this could be a Haladriel AU!"

PERSONAL FAVORITE?

I'm going to say living la dolce vita (I’ve been saving all my summers for you), mostly because of the amount of work I put into it. Honestly, I never thought I'd finish it! I restarted this story six or seven times — I just could not find the voice. But I am so pleased with the outcome. I think of everything I've written this year, this story really underscored to me that, beyond "flashes of inspiration," writing is a lot of hard work that needs consistent attention and practice!

MOST UNDERAPPRECIATED?

I definitely think this one is it's a dangerous game, my Dr. Jekyll and Hyde AU. I initially started writing this for a Gothic-themed challenge, abandoned for a bit, then finished in a flurry for Haladriel Week. This fic is also a close second for my favorite of the year. I love a Gothic aesthetic and I made sure this story was chock full of it. I was also so purposeful with my writing voice for this story and, to me, it doesn't sound like anything else I've written.

MOST POPULAR?

Oh without a doubt, lend me some sugar (I am your neighbor)! 

STORY WITH THE SEXIEST MOMENT?

I mean, this is so subjective, but I think the somnophilia scene from it's a dangerous game takes the cake for me! I wrote it in one sitting during my lunch break and my god was it hard to go back to work after this...

An excerpt from the end of the scene: Instead, he adjusts her skirts and melts into the darkness, leaving her as he found her; boneless and wet, flushed with heat and ripe for the taking. 

MOST FUN STORY TO WRITE?

Fun is a strong word, but I was the story I felt was most fulfilling to write was tell me something true (or tell me nothing at all). I already had some of the template letter concepts in my notes from a twitter conversation much earlier in the year, and expanding on them, while building the scenes around them, was a really fun exercise.

HARDEST?

I'm not going to lie, most of them! I used to be the type of writer who would have one flash of inspiration, write it up at a mad sprint, then quit writing until I was struck with another mad idea. I wrote for so many prompt and themed challenges this year that I was required to be more intentional about story building and more consistent with my writing — even when it was hard, even when I hated everything I wrote down. Felt a lot like muscle training at the gym!

BIGGEST SURPRISE?

My output really surprised me!! I complain to my therapist all the time that I'm shit at finishing things, but it's hard to deny the truth when it's staring me in the face: six complete stories, two wips that I will complete! And not just the quantity of my output, but the quality too. I am proud of, and really like, everything I published!

I mean, don't ask me how my social life is going lol, but at least my writing life is going well!

DID YOU TAKE ANY RISKS IN WRITING THIS YEAR?

Dipping my toe into Dark Fics for sure, which is new for me. But beyond that, just engaging with the fandom as a whole! I firmly believe that writing/story-telling is a communal activity and I am beyond grateful to have found that community. It's the first real fan-space I've been a real part of, and it's definitely improved my writing.

MOST UNINTENTIONALLY TELLING STORY?

My life is too boring to translate to fic lol. But I did not have to dig very deep to write the depression beats in living la dolce vita (I’ve been saving all my summers for you). A lot of what Galadriel goes through — the listlessness, the anger, the selfishness — is stuff I also struggle with during depressive episodes.

FAVORITE LINES/SCENES?

I like them all lol but these are a few that I know others, including my fiancé, have really liked:

dig up the bones (but leave the soul alone): “My lady, if I had a dragon’s tooth for every time you told me not to worry while you went careening off into peril, I’d have a smiling crown for my troubles.”

lend me some sugar (I am your neighbor): And she shatters, then, like glass; a thousand glittering pieces sailing off into the light. Irreparably damaged, ground to dust — edges sharpening as they fall into a mosaic of destruction. There is no end and no beginning. A lifetime of little deaths folding in on themselves, one on top of the other.

tell me something true (or tell me nothing at all): I am drowning in this ocean of blood. And you — you are not here to pull me to the surface as you once did. How could you, when you are wave and anchor both?

there is a light (and it never goes out): She can offer him no words of comfort, no platitudes to ease his sorrows. But she can offer this. The soft touch of her lips to his, the gentle stroke of her fingers across his cheek. She cannot mend a broken heart, but she can hold it for a while, cup it in her palms and keep it safe. She can pour her light into his darkened soul, weave together a dream where they are bound and they are whole. If only just this once.

MY FAVE PART OF FANDOM IN 2023

Literally just having this fandom. Having this community of wonderful, kind, incredibly talented people I can talk to, get advice from, brainstorm with!! I have made so many wonderful friends and I will be forever grateful.

2024 WRITING AMBITIONS

I want to continue developing a consistent writing habit, preferably once a day. Ideally, I'll become to type of girlie who wakes up at 5am and writes for two hours before work, but let's be real, I'm way to sleepy for that!

I also want to focus on two specific things: writing faster and writing less. First, I am, in my eyes, a slow writer — without that "flash of inspiration," it can take me a few days to write a single scene. Mostly because I do not follow my own advice and have to get everything perfect in the first draft. Second — as you can see from this post!!! — I have always been the type of writer who goes "why use one word when you can use ten?" I want to be able to write shorter stories without feeling like I'm compromising on my vision.

2024 FICS ON THE IMMEDIATE HORIZON

chapter two of there is a light (and it never goes out) 

the immortal soulmates AU

dig up the bones (but leave the soul alone)*  (which I think will be on hiatus until I can get a few chapters ahead before posting).

Thanks to @liminal-zone for the format, @conundrumoftime and @thecoziestbean inspiration!

[verecunda]

Sooooo, for the Tolkien fandom, 8, 13 and 19, and for Aegnor/Andreth, 15, please! :D :D :D

Wooo, thank you! <3

Tolkien fandom:

8. ...a quote from it that means a lot to me.

SO MANY. But I'll go with this one:

And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn. And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.

This is one of those moments of the reviving of hope that Tolkien does so well (and boy howdy, are we all needing some hope right now): the dawn breaking and heralding the coming of the Riders to Gondor's aid. Rohan had come at last. *screams*

But the bit with the cockerel hits me deepest. I know most people quote the bit with Sam seeing Gil-Estel and thinking "that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach." And I love that, but even more, I love this bit about the cockerel: how, even down here on Earth, even amidst the chaos, the natural rhythms of life still go on. It's one I hold onto.

13. ...which canon or popular fanon relationship I can't stand or feel 'meh' about and why.

Russingon. My eyes virtually glazed over just typing the damn name. X'D I'm sorry, Russingon friends, but it must be the most boring ship in the whole fandom.

19. ...one behind-the-scenes trivia fact I've learned somewhere and my thoughts on it.

Hey!! Did you know that when Aragorn screams after kicking that helmet, it's really Viggo screaming because he *gunshot*

XDD

Okay, apart from that one, I'm going to choose Tolkien's own remarks from that letter to W. H. Auden on the development of LOTR:

But I met a lot of things on the way that astonished me. Tom Bombadil I knew already; but I had never been to Bree. Strider sitting in the corner at the inn was a shock, and I had no more idea who he was than had Frodo. The Mines of Moria had been a mere name; and of Lothlórien no word had reached my mortal ears till I came there. Far away I knew there were the Horse-lords on the confines of an ancient Kingdom of Men, but Fangorn forest was an unforeseen adventure. I had never heard of the House of Eorl nor of the Stewards of Gondor. Most disquieting of all, Saruman had never been revealed to me, and I was as mystified as Frodo at Gandalf’s failure to appear on September 22. I knew nothing of the Palantíri, though the moment the Orthanc-stone was cast from the window I recognized it, and knew the meaning of the 'rhyme of lore' that had been running in my mind: seven stars and seven stones and one white tree.

As a writer, I always find this incredibly heartening. Middle-earth feels like such a complete, convincing world, you could almost believe he had worked out the whole tapestry before he ever put pen to paper - but no! Tolkien discovered much of it as he went along, just as we all do. I like to remember this when I feel I'm just flailing around in the dark. :D

Aegnor/Andreth:

15. ...how I wish their story would go/would have gone.

Ha! Well, I love a good tragedy, so on that level, I'm quite happy with their canon story. It's perfectly heartbreaking: the unfulfilled love, the might-have-beens, the only too understandable motives that led to their parting, Aegnor's refusal to leave Mandos because he just won't have any interest in rejoining a world without Andreth... *sobbing*

Plus, once you're aware of their story, you can trace its resonances in the wider story of the First Age, too. Like, is it even possible that Finrod didn't think of them when Beren arrived in Nargothrond? Yes, he read the signs of his own doom coming up on him, but it's impossible to believe he didn't think, "I couldn't/wouldn't give my blessing to Aegnor and Andreth, but I can, I will, do this for Andreth's kinsman." They're part of that great tapestry of fate.

But on a purely soppy level, NO. NO IT'S NOT FAIR. THEY DESERVED BETTER. THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN TOGETHER. SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH YOUR HIGHER PURPOSES OF DOOM, FINROD!!!!

Personally, I'm choosing to stick with the fixit I wrote. Or the one where Caranthir is their unlikely saviour. XD

Fandom ask meme

[bobbinalong]

Your “Steph keeps the kid” au is incredible! Do you have ideas about the relationships between little Allie and the batfamily? Does she call them Aunts and Uncles? What about Young Justice? Are they the uncles and aunts as well? Sorry I am having a lot of emotions.

I'm so happy people are liking that AU, honestly. I've been meaning to draw some more of it, so I think that I will be doing tomorrow. As for your questions: I hadn't invested too much thought in it, but this is a perfect excuse to do that. So! We're doing this from youngest to oldest. (This is gonna be way too long.)

Damian, when he comes along, is faced with a rambunctious three-year-old who wants to be his very best friend. He's not used to other children, he's not used to the idea of a big family, he just pushed her step-dad off a dinosaur. She does not care. And he gets used to that eventually. I don't think she'd ever necessarily call him uncle (they're only like seven years apart), but they are close. Having another kid around does him some good.

Sorta skipping Duke because I haven't read enough of his comics, BUT I know he's cool with Cassandra and Damian, who are both more than cool with Steph and Allie, so they'd hang out eventually. He's a bit of a daredevil, I know that much, and a bit of a nerd, and I think Allie would like him. If he wants to be Uncle Duke (it's not like Bruce ever officially adopted him, his mom's still around, but he IS part of the Batfam), he'd absolutely get to be.

Young Justice don't find out for a while. Mostly because they don't even know exactly who Robin is. I think they'd just ... as a collective be very surprised by their sixteen-year-old teammate having a (step)child, but they took Anita having to raise her re-incarnated infant parents so well, I frankly don't think anything would throw them for long. They're some of Tim's best friends, they'll grow into being this kid's aunts and uncles. (Bart's her favourite.) (Because he's mine.)

Cass absolutely adores this kid. They first meet when Cass breaks into Steph's room (the only time Steph ever gets the jump on her), and she's not letting go. Steph brings her around the clock tower sometimes. Practicing to read is easier when you do it for a curious little girl. The baby doesn't expect long conversations. Cass has no experience with babies but she knows exactly what not to do, so what can go wrong, right? And she absolutely insists on being Aunt Cass.

I'm skipping Jason because frankly, I don't know enough about him to talk about him in any capacity. I know even less about him than Duke.

Dick is Tim's big brother. He almost fell off a roof when Tim told him his girlfriend was pregnant. He is not ready for his baby bro to have a baby of any kind, step or otherwise. But Tim's a good kid and Steph seems to be one, too, even if Bruce doesn't always seem to think so, and they're gonna need all the help they can get, and he's not immediately gonna take off his mask, but fuck it, he's Uncle Nightwing now. And Uncle Dick eventually.

Babs is ... not too keen on a baby in the clocktower at first. Or on Steph, even, when she's vigilanty-ing. But Tim's her bud and it's not like he's gonna change his mind on any of this, and Steph's stubborn as hell, too, and at least Cassandra is practicing her letters when Allie's around, so. O well. She comes around to her eventually. And probably doesn't want to be Aunt Barbara at first but ends up being exactly that, anyway.

Bruce is. Tricky? He's very hot and cold on Steph. He doesn't want Tim to reveal his identity to her until he does (and then does it himself), so he's not happy when Tim takes that step without consulting him in this AU. Allie's also born during No Man's Land, so at that time, he has bigger fish to fry. Jack and Dana are still around, too, so he's not yet Tim's (adoptive) father. He's not terribly involved in Allie's life, I think. And he still dies soon after Damian comes along and I'm not yet sure if I'm resurrecting him. So. I think they're getting closer before he dies, but no Grandpa Bruce in this AU, unfortunately.

Alfred seems to be very protective of Tim. He's angry with both Bruce and Steph when Bruce tell her who Tim his. (Which doesn't happen here, but. Just as a baseline.) I think he wouldn't be too excited about Steph at first. He's an old man. Maybe a little old-fashioned, too. But I think once he's sure that Tim is safe and happy and that this is what he wants, he'd get right to making cucumber sandwiches for Steph, too. His boys are just always his first priority.

And ... that's the main fam, right? I think. I hope. All the people I can say anything about in any case. This isn't the absolute happiest of AUs, but it is happy-ish. And it does end in relative harmony.

Thank for the ask. Hope I answered it properly. Feel always free to send more, if you read all that, haha.