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briaroftheroses · 11 months ago

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Request Rules

I’m finally getting around to writing out my request rules! If you would like to request a fic, hc set, drabble, etc. please read over these rules before submitting. Please also check this post regularly as I will add things as I go.

Things I Will Write For

Fem/GN reader, smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, dark themes/fics, praise, degradation, use of strap ons, p in v, creampies, throat fucking, both m and f receiving oral, multiple characters in one fic, choking, impact play, dacryphilia, pain play, bondage (nothing with legs specifically being restrained though), blood play (mostly only for AHS fics), d/s dynamics, BDSM, dub-con/non-con, piss, boot play/worship - feel free to ask about kinks not listed here because there is no way i named them all

Things I Will Not Write For

Male reader, character x character with no reader, beastiality, pedophilia, scat, underage characters (except platonically), gore and non-canon character death (except for in the case of things like murder house and hotel in which they would become a ghost), real-life people (such as actors), even though I might write for dom reader please do not request it.

If there’s anything not mentioned here, feel free to ask before making a request.

Specify the general length of the fic you want.

Please keep in mind that requests can take a while and I may switch between writing them and my own personal projects.

Keep in mind that if you’re vague with the description then I am less likely to write what you imagine and it will take me longer.

When asking about unlisted characters, please include the type of fic you would like to request with them.

Characters I Write For

Evan Peters

Tate Langdon, Kit Walker, Kyle Spencer, Jimmy Darling, James Patrick March, Kai Anderson, Austin Sommers (please no spoilers in the requests for any characters after Hotel), Peter Maximoff, Warren Lipka, Luke Cooper - feel free to ask about any others that aren’t here

AHS

Vivien Harmon, Violet Harmon (platonically), Billie Dean Howard, Alma Walker, Lana Winters, Sister Mary Eunice McKee, Zoe Benson, Marie Laveau, Madison Montgomery (depending on the request), Cordelia Foxx/Goode, Misty Day, Fiona Goode, young!Fiona Goode, Amazon Eve, Desiree Dupree, Edward Mordrake, Dandy Mott, The Countess, Sally McKenna, Ramona Royale, Winter Anderson (please no spoilers in the requests for any characters after Hotel) - feel free to ask about any others that aren’t here

Matthew Gray Gubler

Spencer Reid, Chip Taylor, Thorn (King Knight), Raymond (Suburban Gothic), Wes (Dollface), Paul ((500) Days of Summer) - feel free to ask about any others that aren’t here

Criminal Minds

Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner, Penelope Garcia, Jennifer Jareau, Elle Greenaway, Cat Adams, Megan Kane - feel free to ask about any others that aren’t here

WWE

Rhea Ripley, Dominik Mysterio, TJD (only if including Rhea), Liv Morgan, Becky Lynch

this list will be updated regularly as i watch more shows/movies/seasons of ahs, so feel free to check regularly :) also feel free to ask about characters not listed, but there is no guarantee i will write for them.

#briars navigation #request rules

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novoaa1writes · 4 years ago

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sugar fixes everything (... hopefully)

pairing(s): marie laveau x reader

summary:

while out running errands one muggy afternoon in the baywater district, you come across a less-than-welcome face.

you’re loath to tell marie about it, as you know it’ll make her absolutely furious.

you figure that maybe if you butter her up first with treats and kisses, she won’t take it quite so poorly. (you figure wrong.)

contains: fluff, angst & light (hinted at) smut

word count: ~2,300

rating: mature

warnings: fiona being kind of an asshole, passing mention of men being creeps, swearing, light (hinted at) smut, a bit of possessive!marie

notes: bro why aren’t there any marie x reader fics

— —

It was a day like any other in the Crescent City—hot and muggy beneath a sweltering sun in cloudless skies above.

You’d been running errands all around the Bywater District for the better part of the afternoon—depositing money in the bank, refilling your prescriptions at the CVS, stopping by for some sweet tea and easy conversation over at Old Missy’s.

You’d just been taking a detour through the French Quarter before heading back to the 9th Ward—because sure, maybe you’d been living in New Orleans for just over seven years now, but even still, the city’s contagious spirit never failed to galvanize your mood.

Even now, you couldn’t help frequenting little trips over to Jackson Square. You’d gape up at the St. Louis Cathedral in awe, listen to jazz players on the streets, pop into quaint little shops to browse their awe-inspiring wares along the way.

Hell, sometimes you'd even cough up the insane $20 charge (tourist culture is no joke) for a Tarot reading.

Marie always scoffs when you rush back to tell her your newest readings—because of course, she could conjure a bona fide fortune-telling to put the rest of them to shame if you asked it of her. And it was precisely for that reason that you never did.

Regardless. Tarot readings are fun, and they make you smile. (Well, most of them, anyhow.)

This time, though, you make your trip through the Quarter fairly short.

You promised you’d meet Marie this afternoon even if only for coffee, as she was too caught up in witch business to do much else.

That was more than fine with you. Sure, you’d have preferred to see her for longer, but you’d take what you could get.

With her in mind, you allow yourself a small pit-stop at Café du Monde—an immensely popular eatery bordering Jackson Square that sells the best beignets you’ve ever had.

You don’t order many—just four in a neat little to-go box. You know that the moment you show up with them in tow, Marie will groan and chastise you. She’ll go on about how she needs to watch her figure, insisting that “all these sweets are gonna make me fat, ma chérie.”

She always eats them with you anyhow.

(And, if she’s in a particularly good mood, she’ll let you lick the remaining powdered sugar off her pretty lips.)

With two bags and a warm to-go box in hand, you make your way along Decatur Street.

Despite the heat, it really is quite a beautiful day out.

The streets are alive with a jazzy tune; there’s an adorable family taking a selfie on the street corner… the city’s natural charisma spreads its way into your very bones like a contagion—the best kind of infirmity.

The sun falls warmly across your skin as a slight breeze ruffles the hem of your uniform skirt—a little black thing that barely reaches mid-thigh.

It’s not your typical dress—a tiny skirt and black tank (no logo, thankfully); but you’ve been wearing it to work over at Eddie’s enough over the past few years that you don’t really mind it.

Besides, despite the color, it’s perfect for days like this—hot, sunny, damp.

Sure, some men are pigs about it, and you get enough misogynistic comments at work to make even the patience of a saint run dry, but you manage just fine. The money’s good, your boss is nice enough (if not a tad behind on the times), and at the end of the day, you get to go home to the most beautiful woman in the entire city.

God, even just the thought of her has your face breaking out into a blinding grin and a warm, giddy feeling exploding in your chest.

It’s her you’re daydreaming of when it happens.

You’ve just passed by the French Market, and are nearing the edge of the Quarter Proper, when a woman dressed all in black approaches you.

She’s got shoulder-length blonde hair, a sweeping cloak that looks hotter than hell (especially on a day like today), and big black shades covering her eyes.

And the way she’s moving… slowly but surely, like a predator stalking its prey. Like she knows you can’t run from her no matter how hard you try.

It’s something of a bland ensemble on its own—really, anyone from Miss Robichaux’s Academy might be seen donning it on any given day—and her large sunglasses do a solid job of concealing her identity, as they cover at least a third of her face.

It doesn’t matter. You know who she is.

You’ve never met her before (an intentional happenstance on Marie’s part), but her reputation far precedes her.

“Why, hello there, Y/N,” the woman greets, coming up to you and tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear like you’re old friends.

You tighten your grip on the bags and your takeout box, but otherwise don’t make a move. You know better than to run. “Fiona Goode.”

The woman chuckles, baring a toothy grin. “That’s my name,” she confirms in a tone that’s as much chiding as it is teasing. “Don’t wear it out.”

You swallow thickly, looking her straight in those big, stupid glasses. You’re irked to note that your reflection in them looks a hell of a lot less intimidating than you’d like.

“What do you want?” you ask. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Fiona raises a single brow. If she’s at all put off by your impudence, she does well not to show it. “On your way back to the 9th Ward, I presume?”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

Fiona chuckles again. “I like you. You’ve got spirit.”

“I don’t care,” you tell her firmly, making as if to bypass her and continue on. “I’m leaving now.”

She shifts to block you, boring down on you with a shark-toothed grin. “I’ll walk with you,” she says. It’s not really an offer so much as it is a command. “After all, it’s so terribly dangerous to be out on these streets alone—pretty girl like yourself. I’m sure I’m not the first to tell you that.”

You grit your teeth, fix her with a glare. “I don’t suppose I have a choice, do I?”

Fiona throws her head back and laughs, curling an arm around your shoulders.

It’s all the confirmation you need as she tugs you close and begins to walk down the sidewalk, forcibly dragging you along with her.

— —

You maintain the charade for a block… maybe two.

But the moment you’re in a less crowded locale, you jerk out of her grip and turn to face her with a snarl. “What do you want, Ms. Goode?”

“Ooh.” Fiona takes off her sunglasses, folding and tucking them into the purse on the crook of her arm. Her eyes are a gentle shade of brown, lids shaded in expensive-looking black powder. “Feisty. I can see why Marie Laveau is so taken with you.”

“So, that’s what this is about?” You shake your head, glaring off to the side where two children kick a tattered soccer ball in a grimy back alley.

“What are you to her, exactly?” she questions loftily.

You turn back to look her in the eye when you say, “None of your business.”

Fiona appraises you for a beat or two, then advances closer. It takes everything within you not to retreat a step, even if it’ll land you directly in the street. “Everything is my business.”

“Why? ‘Cause you’re the Supreme?”

Fiona raises a single brow. “So, she has told you everything.”

You shrug. “Not everything, I’m sure. She has her secrets, and I have mine.”

Fiona doesn’t even seem to hear you; what’s more, the way she’s looking at you… intent and probing, a morbid fascination in her beady-eyed gaze. “She must really care for you.”

Despite the way your chest flutters at her statement, you remain impassive. “Are we done here?”

Fiona’s lips twitch, threatening a smile—but she retreats a step and brandishes her sunglasses once more, sliding them onto her nose. “Yes, darling,” she coos. “I think we’re quite finished.”

Dismissed, you turn and speed-walk down to the street corner and take your first right—though, not before Fiona can call after you, “I’ll be seeing you again very soon, sweet girl.”

The moment she’s out of sight, you break into a jog. Your pills rattle in the tote, the beignets thunder around inside their little box, but you really don’t care.

You need to get as far away from her as possible.

— —

“She did what ?!” Marie hisses, fury alight in her gaze as she tosses a half-eaten beignet down onto her plate. There’s a bit of powdered sugar smeared above the Cupid’s bow of her top lip. Under any other circumstance, you might find that quite adorable. You still kind of do, honestly.

As it is, you have to fight the instinctive urge to wince. “Marie, it’s fine—”

“It’s not fine.” She practically spits out the last word before getting to her feet and beginning to pace—a bad sign.

You’d decided to try slipping the whole ‘your archnemesis came to see me’ thing into the conversation as smoothly as possible when you showed up at the salon—buttering her up first with kisses and light conversation and a fresh (if not a little banged-up) beignet, then tactfully broaching the topic.

Then again, the rage splayed across Marie’s regal features is evidence enough that it probably wouldn’t have made a difference either way.

“That fuckin’ bitch,” she growls. “She’s got no idea who she’s messin’ with—”

“Marie, please,” you try, setting aside your beignet and getting to your feet. “You’re gonna wear a hole through the carpet.”

Marie stops briefly, glances down at said carpet—a beautiful, Persian-style rug—and promptly continues her pacing with a growl.

“Fuck the carpet,” she snaps, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. You can’t help but lose focus for a moment at the definition of her arms… the way her muscles jump and flex with every slight moveme—Ahem.

Focus, you scold yourself.

“Baby, she didn’t even hurt me—”

“Yet,” Marie reviles, finally stopping her pacing to bore down on you. It’s of little consequence. You’re not scared of her. You know she’d never do anything to harm you. “She has no right to even look at you, much less—”

She stops herself there before her temper can get the best of her, inhaling deeply.

Seeing an opportunity, you step into her space, gently tucking the stiff braids back over her shoulder until you can loop your arms around her neck.

She looks down at you with conflict in her eyes, and you don’t dare look away. It takes a beat or two, but finally, her strong arms come to curl around your waist—pulling you flush against her body even as her arms tremble around you like you’re spun from glass, like she’s scared she’ll break you if she holds you even a little bit tighter.

No matter. You’ll take what you can get.

“I’m fine, Marie,” you tell her earnestly, tilting your jaw up to let her look you in the eye so she knows you mean it. “She didn’t harm me. I promise.”

Marie purses her lips, but nods. You don’t think she quite believes you.

“I was a little scared, sure,” you admit, keeping your body lax as her arms tighten around you—holding you impossibly closer as if to remind herself that what you’re saying is true: that you’re here, and you’re okay. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle, okay?”

You decide to save the part where Fiona said she’d be seeing you again ‘very soon’ for later—not too much later, but maybe tonight, at least. Marie’s got more than enough to worry about, and besides—there’s nothing to be done about it right now.

If Fiona Goode wants to see you, she’ll find a way—come hell or high water.

Marie still looks torn, but eventually she nods, lowering her forehead to press against yours. “Anything like this happens again, you call me,” she says, voice trembling with emotion. “Got it?”

You lean in to place a feather-light kiss upon her lips, lingering just a little to lap up the bit of powdered sugar over her mouth.

“Okay,” you agree once you pull away, licking any remnants of powder off your own lips with a self-satisfied grin.

Marie huffs out a laugh even as the solemn—almost contemplative—look in her eye remains. “You’re mine, okay?” she murmurs after a quiet moment, her eyes searching yours. “Just mine.”

Immediately, you nod, lunging up for another kiss that’s wet and open-mouthed and desperate—just the way you like it. Her hands slip beneath the hem of your tank, creeping up your back until you whimper in her mouth—and fuck her, but she knows exactly what she’s doing to you, if the smirk pressing into your parted lips is any indication.

“Yours,” you pull away to whisper breathlessly before crashing your lips back into hers, suckling the tip of her tongue just the way she likes until she lets out a groan that reverberates through your bones—setting your very body alight with desire and want.

There’s something ferocious—almost wild—about her as she backs you up against the nearest wall, assaulting your lips with kisses hard enough to bruise, and tearing at your clothes until they’re nothing but tattered bits of fabric littering the floor.

(Whatever. You can go shopping before dinner.)

And you… well. You think that your feelings on the matter are perfectly clear—what with the way you’re whining and mewling and grinding against her thigh, smearing her tawny skin with your copious slick, begging her to let you touch her back because you need it so fucking bad.

Hm. Maybe you should piss her off more often.

— —

end notes: CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW DEFINED ANGELA BASSETT’S UPPER BODY IS??? HER ARMS ????

anyway, if you’ve ever been to café du monde, you know their beignets are fye. if you haven’t, you GOTTA go dude. they slap. also the french quarter (jackson square particularly) is lit at all hours of the night, especially during NOLA

also did anyone else find themselves lowkey attracted to papa legba and his super deep voice? asking for a friend

link to masterlist

#muST I DO EVERYTHING MYSELF??#kidding. (mostly)#might cross-post this on ao3 eventually #stuff i wrote #marie laveau x reader #marie laveau #ahs fic #ahs: coven fic #american horror story: coven fic #american horror story fic #reader-insert #f!reader #marie laveau x f!reader

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