#rolled sod tips

[marisolmlemay]

Knowing how long sod can stay rolled up is crucial for maintaining its health and ensuring a thriving lawn. This article explains the ideal timeframe to lay sod after it’s rolled, along with essential lawn care tips to prevent soil damage and promote root growth. Learn how to handle sod correctly to achieve a lush, green landscape.

[moonstruckme]

HII I LOVE YOUR WORK SM!! I literally can't stop reading them 😭 I love you so much for making all of them !!

May I ask if we could get more of shy Remus?? As soon as I read the first one I immediately fell in love !

Thank you so much!! 🫶🏽

Hi lovely, thank you! Sorry this took me so long, I've wanted to write it ever since it came into my inbox but it took me forever to come up with an idea </3

cw: very vague implication of smut

shy!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Remus looks surprised when he opens the door, and immediately after that embarrassed. For what, you never know. 

“Hi,” he says, lips curving into a smile as if of their own volition. “Um, I haven’t missed anything, have I?” 

You laugh. “No, you’re fine. I was just nearby and thought I might return your jumper.” 

It’s a half-truth. You’re ambushing him and you know it, but Remus’ reticent disposition means you know next to nothing about his life and after weeks of dating you’re really itching for a peek behind the curtain. You’ve brought chocolate muffins to make up for it. 

“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you.” Remus’ voice is soft as always, that adorable smile still playing on his lips until you both hear footsteps bounding down the stairs inside. He glances behind him, moving a bit more in front of the door. “While you’re here, maybe we could go have coffee or—” 

“Who’s that?” 

The voice seems like a sound of much dread for Remus, if his expression is anything to go off of. He ignores it, speaking only to you. 

“Or there’s a park just down the way—”

“Remus.” It’s a different voice this time, yet the effect upon Remus’ countenance is the same. “Who do you have there?” 

“Hi!” you say over his head, mutinous. 

“A girl?” Remus’ entire body seems to sag in resignation. “Remus Lupin, stop hiding her from us immediately.” 

“Sod off.” He says over his shoulder, as brash as you’ve ever heard him. It’s a bit thrilling. 

“I will not. Reveal your secrets, you dirty dog.” 

You actually do feel quite bad for Remus, a blush spreading all the way up to the tips of his ears, but he lets go of the doorframe, letting himself be wrestled out of the way. 

“Hello.” A dark-haired boy weasels his way into Remus’ place, giving you a salacious up-down. You raise your eyebrows at him, delighted. So this is who Remus associates with when he’s not with you. “My, you’re a pretty thing. And you’re here to see Remus?” 

“I am,” you confirm. “I’m here to bring back his jumper.” 

“Which would lead one to believe, “a second boy appears behind the first, both of them keeping Remus from reclaiming his spot at the door, “that you’ve seen him before.” 

You laugh. “I have. We’ve been dating a few weeks now.” 

“Remus!” The second bellows, eyes blowing comically wide behind his glasses. “Weeks? Weeks, and you haven’t said a word. How could you?” 

“I don’t suppose you have a bit of time on your hands,” the first boy says smoothly. 

“I’ve…” You check the time. “I do, actually.” 

He grins, wolflike. You’re not sure who the prey is. You worry it’s your date. 

“Yes!” The one with the glasses is effervescent, brimming with eagerness. It’s contagious, you find; you’re smiling too. “You have to come in, please.” 

You’re dying to, but you peer past them, locking eyes with Remus. He looks to be wishing for a swift and painless death, but he gives you a soft smile anyways. Nods. 

“Sure,” you say, “I could join you for a bit.” 

Some of the boisterous energy settles as they usher you inside, the need for urgency vanquished now that they’ve got you in their clutches. Begrudgingly, Remus introduces you, and the other two hassle him about taking off your coat and showing you where to put your shoes before he gets a chance to do either. Soon you’re settled comfortably in the armchair they tell you is Remus’ favorite. 

“Can I make you a cuppa?” Remus asks, and James and Sirius both oooh as he rolls his eyes. You nod at him, eyeing the other two amusedly. 

“He must really like you,” James says, “if he’s offering to make you tea.” 

“Hence why you’re not getting any,” Remus says over his shoulder as he stalks for the kitchen. 

“Prick,” Sirius calls after him. “We didn’t want any anyways.” But he crosses his arms, sulking back against the couch cushions. James, on the other hand, leans towards you. 

“So,” he says severely, “what are your intentions with our Remus?” 

A quiet sound of distress comes from the kitchen, but you all ignore it. “Your Remus?” you ask. 

James nods self-assuredly. “We’ve known him since primary school. If you two get married, I’ll be the one giving him away.” 

You raise your eyebrows. Remus’ head pops out of the kitchen, glaring daggers in a way you didn’t know he knew how. “You will not.” 

“What?” James looks gutted. 

“That’s not the point.” Sirius waves both of his friends off, though James looks like he would very much like to continue on the topic. “Tell us about you two, gorgeous. Where did you meet, how long have you been dating, has Remus told you where he hides his chocolates?” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Remus says, coming back with your tea. He passes it to you carefully, handle out, and both you and James hiss at him for holding the hot part. 

“We haven’t even gotten her to answer anything yet,” Sirius complains. 

“It’s not her fault you haven’t given her the chance.” Remus perches on the armrest of the chair. It's probably so he can avoid sitting next to his nosy friends, but pride swells in your chest anyway at being chosen. You take his hand, and he squeezes your fingers in response. 

Sirius coos. “Only a few weeks of dating and he’s already holding her hand. I’m so proud.” 

You grin up at Remus, knowing what you could say to really shock his friends but not wanting to embarrass him further. He’s already flustered enough that his scars stand out in stark contrast against his flushed skin, but his look softens as he meets your eyes. Something about him eases, a small smile curving his lips. 

You decide it’s permission enough. 

“You’ve been a bit bolder than that, haven’t you, handsome?” 

James and Sirius erupt in hoots and hollers. Remus looks like he might well fall off the edge of the chair for how stiff he’s gotten. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. It’s burning. “I’m not trying to torment you. We can go be alone in your room, if you like.” 

“No-o.” James waggles a finger at you. “Now that we know what you’re up to, you won’t be getting him alone in our house. You’re set on corrupting him!”

[thegnomelord]

Imagine Intoxicated Sex With Ghost

CW:NSFW, MDNI, intoxicated sex (weed) Subbot Ghost, domtop Mreader, safe/sane/consensual, smoking, playing with hands, anal, recreational drug use.

Ghost doesn't like being inebriated. Even when out drinking with the lads at the nearest pub he'll never reach the point of intoxication where he can't drive a car or punch a man's lights out if he needs to. He saw what booze did to his pa, saw what the drugs did to Tommy, he doesn't want the Riley 'legacy' to dig it's roots into him — just the thought of it makes his stomach churn and his lungs feel like they're infested with black mold.

But sometimes when both of you are on leave, the battlefield miles away yet the lingering ache of it all filling his bones with static, he'll indulge in the weed his doc prescribed. It took him a while to be comfortable to use it, both with himself and you. But he trusts you, knows you won't do anything to him that you two hadn't agreed to prior; you're good for him like that.

Too good.

Making the blunt feels intimate in a way Ghost can't describe. The way you sit right next to him on the couch, both of you on even level, works to relax some of the usual tenseness in his spine. It's the careful glide of your knife along the cheap cigar to create a clean cut so you can empty the dried leaves into the trash that has his heart beating a little faster — then again, he's always liked the look of a knife in your hands and how precise you could be with it.

He'd die before he told you his thoughts, so he takes the empty cigar paper without a word and carefully measures how much of the weed he puts in, just a little shy of the recommended dose. He feels your nonjudgmental gaze on his fingers as he rolls the makeshift blunt, yours might be the only one that doesn't make his skin prickle with discomfort.

"You're getting better at that." You note. Ghost's blunt making skill isn't such a slop-job as it used to be when he first started doing this, but it's by no means pretty. "Practice some more and they might start looking half-assed."

"Sod off." The edge in his tone would cut deeper if he didn't bump his shoulder against yours. "At least I don't make 'em look like logs of shite."

"Mean." You tut but shoulder his weight without complaint and wrap an arm around his waist. He leans further on you until he ends up laying across your lap, his back pinning your legs down and his head resting on the couch arm, making himself comfortable like a cat in a sunning spot.

"What? Can't handle the truth?" He says, staring at the blunt in his hand. You don't rush him, sitting in comfortable silence with your hand loosely carding through his disheveled hair, fingers scratching his scalp and the soft blond strands curling at his nape for a few minutes while Simon prepares himself. You know he's ready when he pulls the face mask off his face, biting the end of the blunt between his teeth and turning his head towards you.

You reach to hold his jaw, the sensation of your fingers scraping against his stubble both electric and calming for him. With a small 'click' an equally small flame sparks at the tip of the lighter, the fire dances in his dark eyes as you hold it at the other end of the blunt until it's tip is ignited.

Simon holds the blunt with his fingers, eyes closing as he takes a deep and controlled breath. The smoke lazily crawls down his trachea to settle in his lungs, he holds his breath until there's a small tightness in his chest before breathing out just as slowly. It takes a couple more puffs before he can feel the vestiges of that lazy high begin to nibble on his nerves, eyes cracking open to look at your visage through the dancing smoke.

Weed takes the edge off life for him; the constant ache of his body is easy to forget when the pleasant buzz fills his skull, chest full of feathers and a deep floaty calmness settling in his bones. Only his spine feels weird, like his lower back is made of kinetic sand, muscles tensing and relaxing but even that works to calm him down, ground him to the sensation of your fingers carding through his hair.

When a low grunt escapes him you lean down, plucking the blunt from his lips to kiss him. This kiss isn't rushed like most of your intimacy needs to be — you have all the time in the world. Ghost opens his mouth and hums into the kiss, the taste of weed on his tongue as he lazily licks into your mouth and along your teeth, lingering whisps of smoke escaping through the crack of both of your lips.

You part so he can take another drag of the blunt, your warm lips leaving chaste kisses on his forehead, nose, eyebrows, cheeks, eyelids when he flutters them shut, and anywhere where you can reach. From the corner of his eye he sees you turn the Tv on, setting some cartoon on a low volume to further ease him into the mental space of calmness. Then your free hand reaches to loosely hold his own free hand, your thumb tracing the scars on the back of his hand.

Your hands don't wander any lower, letting him feel your warmth while he lazily finishes his blunt until it's gone. "You alright Si?" You ask.

"Like a hog in shite." He manages, tilting his head to further lean into your hand that's scratching his scalp. It's something he loves about you — the slow approach you like to take with him. Not just jumping straight to sex, though that's fun too, but sitting there with him, letting him ramble about who knows what while you two watch some shite cartoon, giving him sweet kisses when his hand tugs on your shirt.

It makes Simon's heart feel like it could leap from his chest if his ribs weren't in the way. Fuck, at times like these he could probably spill his heart out to you if the weed didn't line his tongue with lead. He still tries in his own way, taking your hand that's holding his and starting to play with your fingers. Following the lines of your palm with his thumb, curling your fingers and laying sloppy kisses along your knuckles, humming contently when you hold his jaw loosely and scrape your thumb against his stubble.

Simon doesn't know when he gets aroused. Only that one moment he's not, and by the time you two part from another lazy kiss he's tenting his sweatpants.

"Hey," Simon grunts, holding your hand by the wrist as he nibbles on your finger. "Want you."

"You already have me." You snort.

Even high as a kite Simon's not all too pleased with your humor, nipping your finger just at the edge of pain. "Smart arse." His lips follow his teeth to soothe the bite with a small kiss. "Want your cock."

Straight to the point, that one.

A small laugh escapes you, "Alright, alright." He grumbles like a bear roused from hibernation when you have him sit up. He grips your shirt to demand one more kiss from you, your lips distracting him so he doesn't notice when you pick him up. The face he makes is hilarious, like a dog that thinks he's too heavy to be picked up.

But he gets over it quickly, large arms wrapping around your neck to hold onto you as you stumble to the bedroom. A breath escapes him when you lay him down on the bed and he doesn't let go, resulting in you tumbling into bed on top of him. The curse you let out when you fall on him makes him giggle like a school boy.

He's absolutely no help when you try to take his clothes off, laying there like a sack of potatoes and only occasionally wriggling in place. Simon gives you an annoyed look and a chiding "Why'r you so slow?" when you have him lift his hips so you can slide his sweatpants and boxers down his legs. His cock bobs against his belly, a tiny drop of precum smearing against his skin.

"Because you're no help." You grunt, quickly taking your own clothes off. "Seriously Si, you're like trying to move a mountain."

But you don't mind him being like this. You love it, and you love him when he just huffs something under his breath and flops over on his front. He spreads his legs, his hard cock laying between his thighs and his hole just peeking out from between his cheeks. "Mhm," Humming Simon hugs the pillow, nuzzling his cheek into it as he gives you a lazy look, his pupils blown wide and eyes puffy. "Sounds like an excuse t'me."

Even with you it took him a while before he could turn his back to you like this, trust you like this.

"Fuck Simon, look at you." Gently you push another pillow under his hips to hike them up and the way he arches his back to grind his cock against it has your breath stuttering in your chest. You can't keep your hands off him, gingerly massaging the back of his thighs as you slowly trail up, purposely skipping over his ass to dig your thumbs into his lower back. "Gorgeous."

Simon lets out a slow breath as your fingers make the muscles relax, eyes closing and his back rippling as he melts into the sheets. "Well aren't you a charmer." His voice is mumbled into the pillow and the small wiggle of his ass he does to entice you is cute as hell. "C'mon." He nags, throwing the harshest glare he can at you. "Fuck me already." He demands, but he doesn't try to get up from his position, content to just lay and have you listen to his commands.

That's another thing side of Ghost you only see when he's high as a kite — he likes being a pillow prince, to give you orders and rest easy knowing you won't do anything he doesn't want. If it doesn't make your heart melt, that he trusts you like that, you don't know what will.

"Alright, alright," You placate him by finally groping his ass while you grab the lube on the nightstand with your other hand. You squirt a generous amount on your hand and warm it up between your fingers, settling between his legs in a way you can lay kisses along his spine while you slowly circle your fingers around his hole. You reach around with your other hand to lazily stroke him, the lube making the glide of your hand smooth and pleasant.

He's more vocal like this, a low half moan leaving him as Simon closes his eyes. Usually the feeling of a body looming over his back would have him tensing and bearing his teeth, but all he does now is breathe in and relax, muscles tensing for a fraction of a moment when your fingers breach him before he relaxes again. Simon's arms tense to hug the pillow tighter, the soft material muffling the soft moans and deeper grunts you pull from his chest with every small movement of your finger.

It's impossible for you not to tease him. "You like that, sweet prince?" But your tone is light and loving, pushing your finger deeper and distracting him from the small hints of pain the stretching of his muscles brings by stroking his cock more firmly, thumbing his cumhole.

Simon moans unabashedly and nods, biting the pillow and worrying it between his teeth when you push another finger inside him. "Mhm," He doesn't deny it. He can't deny it when the weed in his system makes the pleasure 10 times stronger, the usual electric pleasure now slowly replacing the marrow in his bones as your fingers twist and curl against his slick walls. "So good fer me." He mumbles.

Simon feels like he's floating on a cloud; Each kiss along his spine makes small shivers race down his limbs, the coldness of you pouring more lube over his hole complementing the heat of your hand around his cock, his drool soaking into the pillow and the sweetest sounds escaping him as you stretch him out. His cock leaks a constant stream of precum, his hips occasionally giving minute twitches to fuck into your hand but he's too relaxed to do more than that.

"Ready?" You ask when you think he's stretched enough, slowly pulling your fingers out of him. His hole clenches around nothing, dollops of slick lube escaping past his rim and running down his heavy balls; neither him nor his body is happy about the sudden lack of stimulation.

"Hurry." He orders, cracking an eye to watch you from the corner of his eye as you trail kisses up his spine until you're draped over him, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss while you lube your cock and line yourself up.

He moans into your mouth when the tip of your cock pops into him. "Fuck, yes lovie- just like that. . ." Your name sounds like honey on his tongue as you slide in deeper. His muscles contract and relax with each inch you push into him until he's left panting against the pillow when your balls finally rest against him. He's so hot around you, slick and pliant and trusting, blindly seeking you out for another kiss as you both adjust to the new position.

"Good?" You lazily stroke his cock again, feeling his back muscles ripple against your front as the pleasure washes over his system.

"Perfect." He moans and rolls his hips into your hand, simultaneously fucking himself onto your cock. "Move."

"Yes sir." You grin. You keep the pace slow and loving, a continuous and slow roll of your hips making your cock drag against his prostate. Reaching out to hold his free hand you rock your hips to meet his own movements. Each slow scrape of your cock against his walls has him whimpering, an occasional sharp thrust earning you a pleased moan, the pillow muffling the little breathy 'ah- hah-hm- ah' he makes when you grind your cock as deep as it'll go while rubbing his shaft.

Pleasure continues to build in his body, muscles tensing and relaxing, every single thought melting out of his skull save for your name that he moans like a prayer, your loving movements slowly and steadily turning Simon into a pile of goo. He doesn't even notice when he cums, it rushes through him like lightning striking a tree, pearly cum spurting over your hand as he shouts a loud "Fuck!".

You slow down only for a few seconds, long enough for him to come down from his high and begin grumbling and whining, showing you that he's nowhere near reaches his limit despite his cock softening in your hand. So you indulge his gluttonous side, starting to slowly thrust into him as you stroke his soft shaft. You cum eventually, his hole greedily clenching around you as you shoot your cum inside him and then keep going on fucking him until his voice becomes hoarse from screaming your name.

By the time you two are well and truly done you're both wrung dry, a sizable puddle of cum formed beneath his cock and his hole loose and lax, trying to clench around your cock and the cum you fucked deep inside him.

You use what sense you have in your skull that hadn't melted through your cock to roll you to over on the side so he's not laying in his own cum. Simon grunts when you attempt to pull out, gripping your hand as tightly as his relaxed muscles can until you get the message and lay back down, spooning him with your cock still deep inside him.

And fuck, the buzz of weed and pleasure from sex has him so loose and relaxed you could do anything to him and he wouldn't object. But you don't, simply cuddling up against his back and kissing his sweaty nape.

He loves you for that. He loves that he can trust you. He doesn't know when the last time was when he was this relaxed. A small giggle escapes him and he tilts his head back so you can lay kisses on his neck.

"Love you too Si." He hears you mutter against his ear before he falls asleep. And for the first time since the last time you two did this, does he sleep without the nightmares of a cold grave and a burning home haunting his dreams.

Tag list: @dead-end-stuff

[cougheemedicine]

You

Blade x GN!Reader

Word count: 2465

Warnings: Reader works at a brothel as an escort, drinking, blood, Blade is injured, Blade gets half naked, Reader gets threatened for money, Reader gets called “pretty thing” and "bastard", Blade cuts a guy’s throat open, spoilers for Blade's story, ooc? Skimmed over it but not proof read

Contents: Slight(?) angst but mostly fluff, Reader is the stellaron hunter’s informant, Reader calls Blade “Bladie”, mutual pining, “I didn’t know where else to go”, Bladie gets protective, Kafka mentioned

Summary: In your line of work, trust was not something easily given. You could only really trust someone as far as you could throw them. You could never trust who you gave information to, even if they paid good. Maybe a certain someone can allow you to drop the facade very so often.

A/n: A little something to tide over the hsr fans while I work on my hsr au as well as my twst au

˜”*°•.•°*”˜

       “Hey, you,” You grinned, swirling your drink in its’ glass, the ice cubes clinking against the rim. You needn’t look back to know who walked into your private room unannounced, even if the air suddenly going cold and the smell of copper assaulting your nostrils weren’t already hints. Only one person could make it to the top floor of your building without being stopped.

       Blade knelt down next to you, minding the flowing silks of your robe that cascaded past your form and onto the wooden balcony. You offered him a glass, ice already prepared, that he completely ignored. You huffed but poured him a drink anyway, setting it next to his hand.

       “You’re early, you know,” You hummed, scrunching your nose at the flavour of the liquor. Bitter. “I had to rush my last client out when I smelled the blood. You lost me a good tip, Bladie.”

       Your tone is light, teasing, even as you narrow your eyes at him, looking at him through your lashes. There’s blood matted in his hair, and staining his clothes. You’d almost feel bad, if it wasn’t for the good chunk of money he cost you. That sorry old sod had was basically throwing credits at your feet. Blade meets your eye, devoid of any emotion, except the smallest spark of remorse, a spark so small even you can barely see it. He huffs.

       “I’ll pay you double for what you know,” Monotone as ever, he’s still honest with you. More or less. You let your brow ease, simply looking him in the eye instead of glaring at him. You huff out a laugh, though it’s not particularly humorous. 

       “Straight to business with you, as always,” You roll your eyes, scooting back to lean against the brick of the building. Fancy, fur-trimmed robe be damned. Blade follows, picking up both glasses and making his way next to you. He’s so much closer to you now, you can feel his shoulder brush against yours, and his hair tickled your finger tips as he sits next to you.

       You tell him what you know, whispers you’ve heard from the walls of your brother's and sister's rooms, things told to you in confidence by people who paid you to spend time with them, even some of the most devastating secrets you had been privy to while working your magic.

       Blade stares at you all the while, every ounce of his attention raptly captured by you. An icy shiver claws up your back, you’re suddenly glad the robe you're clad in is made of a thick material. You lean over, away from him, to refill your glass. After the night you've had, you need it. Once you turn back, fully intent on continuing your gossip session about some official Blade and his little group needed dead, you voice catches in your throat.

        He's still staring at you, as if he hasn't even blinked. His shoulder brushes yours again, and you almost stiffen. Swallowing the lump in your throat, and willing the heat in your face to cease, you snap your fingers in front of his face. "Hey you, still with me?"

        You tack your most dazzling grin onto your face, normally you'd tease him to hell and back for blinking dumbly, his stone-faced demeanor cracked, if only slightly. But you can't bring yourself to form the words, not when your heart is in your ears and you're barely reigning in the urge to giggle like a school girl.

        He huffs, leaning back against the wall and taking a long sip of his drink. His entire face scrunches, and he glares sharply at the contents of his glass. "Bitter. What is this?"

        "Gift from my last client, apparently I'm his favorite play thing," you down your drink with a groan, the ice having long melted. You could care less how it tasted, you just wanted something that could make your forget the entire night. You tilt your head back, letting your smile drop again as you lull your head against the brick. You can sense his eyes on you again, gazing at you in his peripherals, through his bangs. You hear him set his glass back down on the wood floor, and he leans over you, picking up the crystal bottle. He scans the label, and grimaces, but he pours more into his glass, then empties the rest into yours.

        Blade picks up his glass again, and you clink yours against his. He eyes you, you only raise your glass. He quirks a brow, pulling his knee up to rest his arm on his knee, before mirroring you. 

        "I'll bring you something better next time," He says with a sigh. 

        "I still expect the full price for my services," you reply, not as coyly as you could've hours ago.

        Blade hums, laying his free hand next to yours. Maybe the alcohol is clouding your sense, but you swear you can feel his hand against yours, your pinkies brushing. Neither of you acknowledge it, when you lay you lay your pinkie finger over his. Blade doesn't even pull away. For as gruff and rough around the edges as he may be, he's one of the many who just can't refuse you.

˜”*°•.•°*”˜

        Someone knocks on your door, almost making you drop your book in surprise. You spare a glance at the clock above your door. It's past 2am.

        The person knocks again, and you drag yourself from your bed to answer. Irritation growing with every step. "Look, I'm only open till midnight on week nights. If you want to be entertained, I suggest going back to the lower floors-"

        By the time you open your door, you actually drop the book.

        Blade leans on your doorframe. From the gap the chain lock provides, you can see his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, and his eyes scrunched from what you can only assume is pain. The hand you can see is gripping his side, red blooming from under his gloved fingers.

        "Aeons, Blade! You-" You all but rip the door of its' hinges in your haste, hands ghosting over his side.

        "I," He rasps, "I didn't know where else to go..."

        His knees give out, and he slumps onto you. His head on your shoulder, and you can hear his ragged breathing. You can feel him trying to stifle it, the hiss he lets out when you kick the door closed and drag him into your room, and the groan he barely bites back as you drop him (rather clumsily) onto your chaise lounge.

        You hover over him, not really knowing what to do. You knew the basics of his curse, knitting his flash together as you spoke, but you didn’t know much past that.

        "Kafka's... done what she must," Blade heaves, trying to sit up, you push him down, "We were ambushed while we were recovering, and we had to split up,"

        You're quiet as you listen, making a mess of your drawers as you look for your first aide kit. When you turn back, he's sat up again, already shucking his coat off. His undershirt is stained dark red, and you can see his face twist as he grimaces in pain from moving too much.

        You kneel before him, a roll of bandages in your hand, a damp cloth in the other. A silent plea.

        Blade narrows his eyes at you, but he nods. You can touch him.

        The silence in the room is heavy as you ease closer to him. You shuffle between his legs, resting your arms on his knees, and you can't help but look him in the eyes. Blade almost looks sad, with his nose is wrinkled, and his brow furrowed. He brushes his hair from his face, and he tilts his head at you. You shift your gaze from his eyes down to his stained shirt, and back up to his eyes. Blade rolls his eyes, but he complies to your silent request.

        Slowly, Blade unbuttons his shirt, and he slowly tugs it off. Leaving him more bare than he's ever been around you. Tentatively, you reach out to wipe some of the blood with the cloth and, before you can even touch him, Blade jerks away. Breathing harshly as if you had just touched him with a red-hot pole.

        You almost retreat, to give him the space he clearly needs, to let him do it himself. You're clearly not doing him much good. But he catches your wrist before you can go too far. Ever so slowly, as if he'd lash out if you reacted too suddenly, you return to your place. You meet his gaze once more. His weary, exhausted gaze, hidden behind that hardness you've grown so accustomed to. He nods once, a sharp jerk of his chin, and lets you go.

        Tearing your eyes from Blade's is harder than you'd imagine it to be, even as you gently wipe the blood from his side. You tap his leg with your free hand, and he passes you the role of bandages.

       You can see his stomach dip and hitch with his every breath and hiss of pain. His hand, the one not holding the end of the bandage in place, moves from either hovering over your shoulder or gripping the edge of the chaise.

       You finish silently, staring at your sloppy handiwork. You knew the basics of his curse, but it didn’t make you feel any better about his suffering. Blade goes to stand as you put the first aide kit away, steadying himself on the arm of the furniture. The creaking of the wood as he shifts his weight is enough for you to whip around, kit still in your hands.

       “No, sit down,” You jab a finger at the chaise lounge, glaring daggers at him as he stretches, testing the flexibility of the fraying bandages.

       “I’ll be fine in the morning,” He grunts as you stride across the room, poking him on his -still very bare- chest. “You’re not fine now, are you? Lay down and rest for once or Aeons help me-“

       You place a firm hand on his chest, all but shoving back down onto the chaise. Blade narrows his eyes at you, you flash him your famous smile. You mentally cheer when he crosses his arms, averting his eyes as he finally leans back and relaxes against the many pillows you had arranged. You always win.

˜”*°•.•°*”˜

       The silver blade of the knife glinted in the low light of your room. Over the game table, the man across from you smirks. His one golden tooth peeking out from his lips, clashing against his greasy skin and complexion. He kept the knife pressed pretty against your neck. Just hard enough for a single drop of blood to slide down your neck, and over your collar bone.

       “Aw, come on, pretty thing. You scammed a buddy of mine out of quite a bit of credits a few weeks back. I think it’s only fair if you give us back a portion of what you owe,” he runs a hand over his greying beard. As if that would convince you.

       You feel a smile stretch over your lips, more vexed than anything else if you were to be honest. "Sir, I was simply doing my job. I don’t even keep the money,"

        The slimy man rolled his eyes, an ugly scowl forming on his face. "Oh please, like I'd believe that. I know your kind, pretty bastards. Think you can flash a smile and everyone will drop onto their knees before you,"

        The knife at your neck digs deeper, and you can feel sweat beading down the back of your neck. His eyes narrow, "Can't get out of this. Now give me what I want,"

       You rack your brain for anything, even the smallest thing that could somehow get you out of this situation. You have half a mind to take the bottle of expensive wine from the table in front of you and smash the sucker over his head. But it would be a race that you aren’t the most confident in winning, and a waste of good wine.

       You’re stuck. Wholly and uselessly stuck. 

       You open your mouth again. Your silver tongue has gotten you out of many tough calls, maybe you can work your magic like you’ve done so many times.

       “One more word out of you-“ Your captor interrupts, before you can even get a word in, “And I’ll cut that silver tongue of yours right out. You understand me-“

       The sound he makes is guttural, and just as ugly as the  man who’s making it. Crimson rains from him, splattering your table and getting on your face and clothes. He chokes, lurching forward in the way a hog does when scrounging in the dirt for food, and drops his head into your table. Dead.

       You look up gradually, taking in the sight, before making eye contact with your hero. “Hey, you,”

       Blade looms over your little scene, eyes pricing your own, blood still dripping from his broken sword. He makes no move to acknowledge your greeting, only flicking the blood off his sword and sheathing it. You huff, standing up to dust off your clothes. 

       “This was a nice table you know,” You hum, flicking a drop of blood from your cheek. Blade ignores your complaints still, side-stepping the table all together and standing in front of you. With his every inhale you can feel his chest brush yours, and you’re sure you can feel electric shocks rippling under your skin as Blade raises a hand, wiping the blood from your neck. 

       You can rarely read the man, the odd time you can is when he’s irate or some other synonym of the word ‘annoyed’, but you can read his eyes better than you’ve ever been able to. Maybe it’s the proximity, and you’re drunk on the air that is suddenly becoming much heavier than it was before, or maybe you’re more intoxicated than you thought you were, but you can see the sheer fury in his eyes.

       Blade lays his hand lightly on your neck, the other ghosting over the fingers of your hand down lax at your side. He leans forward, just slightly, and you can feel his chest against yours.

       But then it’s all over. Blade tears himself away, completely turning around to swipe your first aide kit from your desk. A feeling of smugness washes over you, the very tips of his ears are pink, and you can’t help the gentle smile on your face. Only you have seen him like this. Only you can pull such emotion from him. Only you.

˜”*°•.•°*”˜

work belongs to @cougheemedicine, all forms of plagiarism, modifying, translating, reposting are not allowed

[marlsswrites]

Summer camp AU, part 6!!

July 6th <3

Limb - @jegulus-microfic - words: 826

First part Previous part

Regulus felt his eyes flicker open, the golden morning sunlight cast bright rays on his pale freckled skin and lit up flecks of blue in his dark eyes.

That’s strange, he pondered. He never woke up to the sun on his face, his bed wasn’t in line with it in cabin.

He opened his drowsy tired eyes and let them flick around the room.

First, he spotted an open laptop paused on the ending credits of call me by your name. Next, he noticed a pair of round glasses placed on the nightstand.

He swallowed, turning around hesitantly to see exactly what he was expecting. James Potter was curled up, his tan limbs falling half off the bed while he snored lightly in his sleep.

The older boy was in a deep sleep, his chest rising and falling and his dark brown hair sticking up and falling over his face.

Waking up in an instant, Regulus felt his eyes widen and his heart drop to his stomach.

That is… so embarrassing. He chewed on the inside of his cheek nervously.

Carefully, he went to stand up. That’s when he noticed the blanket that had clearly been draped over him and the way he fell asleep leant against a wall, a pillow behind his head. Blood rushed to his cheeks, flushing his face as he looked down at the sleeping man.

James had his legs tucked under the same blanket and no pillow behind his head.

A smile snuck its way up onto Regulus’ chapped lips, he let it stay there though, no one was there to see it.

Releasing a breath, he lifted the velvety blanket from his lap and softly draped it over James’ surely cold body. He moved the pillow, gently lifting the brunettes head up and being sure not to wake him while he placed the pillow behind his head.

The smile still on his face, he gazed at James’ beauty for a moment. The early morning light landing half on his face and his lips slightly parted tilted upwards.

Slowly grabbing the door handle, it opened with a quiet click before he shut it again.

As soon as he got outside he grinned like an idiot, closing his eyes, shaking his head and walking through the sun dappled forest floor.

-

“Why are you… smiling?” Sirius asked with a sceptical look on his face, sitting down next to Regulus under a tree during the kids lunch break.

Regulus was absentmindedly scrolling his phone, by that it means that he’s stalking James’ instagram account.

He shut his phone quickly, gazing up at his brother and adjusting his face back into his usual. “And nevermind, resting bitch face is back!” Sirius spoke with a fake tone of joy.

“Sod off Sirius.” He grumbled, hiding his phone in his pocket and praying that he didn’t accidentally like any posts in the process.

“What were you smiling at?” His brother teased.

“Your downfall.” Regulus deadpanned, ignoring it when Sirius sat next to him and swatted the back of his head, his black curls falling around his face loosely.

Giving him an unimpressed look, Sirius huffed and rolled his eyes. “How’s the cabin situation going?” His eye visibly twitched.

“Eh.” Regulus tilted his head, purposely not sharing anymore information because he really doesn’t have a clue how he feels about it either.

“Eh?” Sirius mimicked, lifting an eyebrow.

Regulus nodded. “Exactly.” He waved his hands around in the air to prove a point before slouching back up against the tree, staring at the stars sketched into his emerald converse. “How about you?” He changed the topic swiftly.

Sirius’ face lit up, his eyes glowing with adoration and his cheeks the same colour as the maroon of his sweater. “I’m so glad you asked Reggie.” He beamed, Regulus groaned. “We watch movies, we cuddle, we talk-“ He went on and on about it, received multiple snarky comments from his little brother.

Giving a fake gag, Regulus elbowed Sirius. “Okay- Jesus, I get it.”

“What?” Sirius pouted. “Don’t you and James cuddle?” He joked with a loud barking laugh.

Regulus cheeks glowed red, he could feel it, from his shoulders to the tips of his ears. He never blushes, but when he does it’s obvious on his pale skin, and really bad.

He attempted to hide it with a snarl and looked away, Sirius seemed too busy carving something into the tree behind them to even notice. “Don’t be a prick.” Regulus lectured.

“Aw, you’re so cute when you get red and angry.” Sirius cooed, clearly mistaking the blush for anger - in this instance, that was a god send. The older booped his nose, getting a pile of leaves thrown at him in return.

“Take it back.” Regulus glared as he held up a pile of leaves to Sirius’ hair. “I swear to god Sirius-“

“Okay, okay! You’re not cute.” A beat. “You’re ugly-“

A whack in the face. “Fuck!”

Next part

[myarmsaretoolong]

Out of Context Quotes

Share some out-of-context quotes from a work of your choosing! Funny, badass, witty, quippy, sexy, romantic, etc.

thanks for the tag @sarah-sandwich! gunna do a couple of random short moments from each of my Big Three wips atm

torchwood fix it

1.

Stood here, in the shelled-out hull of a TARDIS-turned machine of war, Owen didn’t feel all that saved at all. Simply thrust sideways into a different kind of hell.

2.

A chill settled over Owen. “Parallel Earths?” he asked slowly as yet more appeared. Twenty now, thirty. Coming to terms with the infiniteness of an ever-expanding universe and all the potential within it across all of time was difficult enough, but he’d managed it after joining Torchwood. An infinite number of infinites, however? What was some twat from the East End meant to do with that? The Doctor tipped his head this way and that, tongue poked in his cheek. “Not quite.” Phew. “Not this time, at least.” Oh.

band au

1.

Ianto’s nineteenth birthday slipped by in a heady haze of sweat and boredom. He’d long since tired of the novelty of it all, finding the temperature did little more than drive him inside in an attempt to cool down. Even now, as September rolled around, the sun continued to blare its fiery heat. It frizzed up hair and melted all those ice creams before you could eat even half of one, it turned skin red and taught them all an important lesson about sun cream. The local weather man kept going on about unusual pressure systems, but Ianto didn’t care enough to understand. He knew perfectly enough that hot meant hot.

2.

“‘Cos someone’s gotta serve the coffee, lad. Everyone wants coffee, but no one wants to make it. If no one did, imagine the uproar! Just like music.” “But they’ll always be someone to make music,” Ianto shot back. He couldn’t imagine a world without it. “And coffee. Some poor sod like me who’s got no other option.” “Always options, now. Some are easy and some are hard.” “Can you stop speaking in riddles?” Glyn laughed, eyes twinkling. “One day you’ll know what I mean.”

parkner hunger games au

1.

“Don’t look now,” Ned said out the side of his mouth, eyes fixed somewhere over Peter’s shoulder in a manner that made Peter want to spin around immediately, “but Harley and his lot are here.” Of course, Peter couldn’t help but whirl around on his heel, eyes immediately latching onto Harley’s ridiculous blonde curls even through the busy marketplace. His heart did a little flutter, which he mentally berated it for. Speaking from experience, it wouldn’t stop it from happening again next time. Harley’s ‘lot’ consisted of his friends from Midtown: Flash Thompson, Brad Davis, and Brian McKeever, as well as Jason and his current girlfriend Betty. They moved through the market like a pack, laughing far too loudly and drawing weary eyes from all corners. Flash had a habit of pocketing things while his mates acted as a distraction for whichever poor vendor they decided to pick on, and it wasn’t exactly a secret as to who partook in the weekly vandalisation of the market stalls. All this and yet no one could say anything… Suppose being the son of the Mayor got you that.

2. (in which youll find me using one-line mcu characters as names and creating them into entire characters)

“Shove off!” Tiny literally shoved Harley away, almost sending him tripping over his burlap sack. He held his head high and sniffed. “You used me trying to prove a point to them girls. Harlot.” “Did not.” “Did too!” “Maybe I just wanted to kiss ya.” “You haven’t kissed me like that in a year.”

tagging: @b1uetrees @captainfairygodmother @girlsaturday @underwhelmingalchemist @brittasfan @by-gray

[pansexualkiba]

"'Don't you want to be married, Katsuki?' 'It's like you don't even care, Katsuki!' 'Learn your VOWS, Katsuki!' RAAGH!" Katsuki mocked, kicking a nearby stump. "Maybe I'd be more open to the wedding if it wasn't arranged, ever think of that?!" Katsuki raged. He took out the ring from his breast pocket and flipped it around his fingers.

"Haaah... Nobody even asked if I wanted to get married in the first place. I especially don't want to marry that rich girl... Cheap fucking parents springing for the first wealthy family they can find, ugh." Katsuki huffed.

A crow startled him, and the shock grounded him again. Somehow, in his blind rage, he'd managed to run deep into the woods, where the nearest road was only a suggestion through the treeline. The full moon shone down on the snowbank, illuminating the small clearing he was in in an unearthly pale blue.

Katsuki wasn't one for Romanticism, but it was a glacially beautiful night, in his opinion.

The chill of winter midnight further cooled his head, and Katsuki grumbled as he stared at the ring. "Learn your vows... Learn your fucking vows... As if they're at all difficult." Katsuki growled. He then stood up, taking on a more affected accent, an apery of the Yaoyorozu patriarch if anything. "I vow to stay by your side, as your loving husband." He easily recited, ghosting the blocking of the ceremony with a nearby tree.

"With this candle," He snapped an icicle off a branch. "I shall light your way in the darkness." The tip of the icicle was placed to a small sapling growth, as if to mimic the transference of flame.

"Your cup shall never empty," Katsuki mimed sipping from a wine glass. "For I shall be your wine. And, most importantly," Katsuki rolled his eyes, and placed his wedding ring on an outstretched root.

"With this ring, I take you to be my bride."

It was as if the world froze, in that deep winter chill.

The wind began to pick up, crows began to shriek and the snow began to move.

"What the hell-" Katsuki took a reflexive step back, and suddenly, the root he had placed the ring around curled in on itself. Four other offshoots became known, and Katsuki realized with some small amount of horror that it wasn't a root - it was a hand, entirely skeletonized and buried haphazardly in a shallow grave.

How shallow it was was soon brought to light, as the hand clawed at the ground before a second, more fleshed (but still rotting) hand sprung out of the ground and joined its mate. The forest sod gave away, snow and dirt and moss erupting from the ground, and Katsuki shielded his eyes to keep the soil from blinding him.

The sounds of movement ceased.

Katsuki slowly opened his eyes.

The figure was ethereal. What color the skin once had was utterly removed, being so pale that they reflected the blue glow of the night forest. Owing to their semi-decayed state, their body was slim and slender, but certainly masculine. This masculinity was undercut by the utterly gorgeous, almost impossibly expensive wedding gown the figure was wearing, stained grey and brown by its time in the earth, and certainly eaten through by insects and worms. A horridly matching veil covered much of the bride's face, but there were waves of dark hair falling around the back of the dress.

The bride lifted their veil, revealing an almost cherubic face, ruined by the passages of time having sunken their cheeks sallow, their teeth showing through a hole in the left cheek.

"I do." The bride whispered.

Katsuki did the one thing he could think of, when faced with quantifiable proof that the dead walked the earth.

He attempted to tackle the bride.

The bride, however, seemed to giggle at the attack, and caught Katsuki, redirecting him into a deep bow with strength almost (and quite obviously) supernatural in its extremeness.

"I, Izuku Midoriya, hereby take you as my lawfully-wedded husband, in the eyes of God." The bride - Izuku - continued, voice barely a whisper but so, so happy, as if it was the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world.

Katsuki shoved himself out of the corpse's arms and hit the ground hard. The bride made to follow - Katsuki scrambled to his feet and broke for the treeline, for the bridge into town, for his actual life away from walking corpses and sham marriages and-

And a hand was gripping his arm. With a disgusted cry, Katsuki grabbed the hand and threw it over his shoulder, not looking at what could be behind him.

(Unseen, Izuku Midoriya, the living bride, easily caught his hand, as delicately and tenderly as his own bouquet.)

Eventually, Katsuki broke through the trees, despite the foliage's apparent determination to hinder his escape. The moon illuminated the dirt road into his town, and the bridge shone light blue in the snow.

It was so familiar, oh-so familiar, that Katsuki couldn't help himself but to lean over the side of the bridge, catching his breath.

There was no sound, nothing to indicate danger, so Katsuki allowed himself a second to absorb the moon's light. He turned to head home-

The bride was standing there.

With his back to the wall of the bridge, Katsuki was trapped. The corpse slowly stalked forward, and Katsuki made futile efforts to move back.

"You may kiss..." Izuku Midoriya, the corpse bride whispered happily, eyes shining in the night, "The bride..."

Izuku Midoriya pulled in close.

Katsuki Bakugou knew no more.

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Oh man this is difficult without knowing what songs are on there but I'm gonna go with Catland and 69 (egregious wink) or 96 if that works out better!

Bestie. You genuinely could not have chosen better. Stars fucking aligned. Song 69 (nice): Should I Stay or Should I Go?, by The Clash I actually hollered when I counted and found this song. And you KNOW it's only ON my wrapped because of this ship. GOD I love that they staked their claim on song 69 that's SO right for them. 1.9k, bickering and denial of feelings, no smut but lots of refs to it and some nudity (thanks, Thomas). Hope you like it, my love 💛 Also on Ao3

“Zip it, Whiskers.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls.”

Charles’ snorted, and went back to doing his best to ignore the bloody cat as he scoured the cluttered lair for his shirt. Not that easy to tune him out, really — seeing as he was in the buff and running his mouth. Then again, Charles really ought to be used to both those things by now.

“Y’know, you could really stand to work on your pillowtalk,” the Cat King drawled, folding his hands behind his head. He rolled his body against the mattress — almost giving Charles an eyeful when the silk sheet slipped dangerously far down his toned stomach. “I can give you all the sex tips your little heart desires but it’s all for nothing if you don’t enjoy the afterglow.”

“I don’t need sex tips,” Charles grumbled, scratching his head. Fucking hell, it couldn’t’ve flown that far, could it? Mind you, it was ripped off pretty enthusiastically. Still, a bright red polo shirt ought to be obvious in this big sodding mess of fishing equipment and alley cat gubbins.

“Tips, tricks, experience in the field, whatever you wanna call it.”

“You’re not my bloody Obi-Wan.” Charles changed tack and circled back, bracing his hand on the bed to crouch down and peer under it.

“Ugh. Star Wars kid. Shoulda known. Okay, eighties boy, young Padawan, fine, so I’m not your teacher.”

“Fuck, no,” Charles huffed, lifting his head — and flinching when he found the Cat King’s right in front of him. He’d scooted closer, spookily silent, and now he was lounging on his stomach and angled towards Charles. Propped on his elbows, hands folded, watching him with those big yellow eyes from point-blanc range like it wasn’t bloody creepy at all. Charles glanced away and found that, somehow, the slippery sheet had followed the Cat King’s movements to stay draped perfectly over his arse. Not that Charles cared. Or was even looking. Shut up.

The Cat King cocked his head. “Does raise an interesting question though, doesn’t it?” he purred, reaching out, walking his fingers along the line of Charles’ cheekbone. “About what exactly it is you do come here for…”

Charles swallowed, reflexively. He didn’t know whether to flinch from the touch or lean into it. So he did the obvious next best thing; stayed dead still and glowered. “Pretty obvious, innit?”

The Cat King tut-tutted, softly, tucking a finger under his chin — Charles winced at the tiniest sting of claw. “The tough guy act does not suit you, little mouse. Here's a hot tip: you wanna be some hit-it-and-quit-it player? Squeak up— and put the big brown eyes away before someone swallows you whole.”

Charles reared back, scowling, ears burning. “Piss off.”

“Only trying to help!” He reached under the pillow — and pulled out the bright red crumpled mess of Charles’ shirt, offering it up. “Keep wearing your heart on your sleeve like that, someone's bound to take a bite out of it.”

Charles snatched his shirt and backed off, dragging it furiously over his head. “You don't know anything about me.”

“Well, evidently, neither do you.” The Cat King sighed, big and dramatic, and sat up, somehow making the transition from stomach to sitting look effortless. He brought his knee up to drape his elbow over it. Charles looked away quicksharp as the sheet fell away, pooling around his thighs. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Can I stop you?” Charles muttered, hopping up on one foot to slip the other into his shoe.

“What's in this for me?”

Charles came back to earth with a stumble. “You what?”

“You heard.” He sounded… cold. It was weird. They weren't exactly chummy when they talked, but usually there was heat, if there was anything. Dirty words or at the very least fighting ones. “Why should I keep entertaining you, hm?”

“That's…” Charles shook his head as he snapped his braces back over his shoulders. “That's — not a personal question, is it? Question for you, if anything.”

The Cat King's eyes flashed dangerously and he stood up in a motion so fluid you wouldn’t’ve thought he was finding his feet on a plush, sinking mattress. He stood and prowled across the bed, still completely starkers, not a scrap on him apart from the glinting remnants of his jewellery, his rings, the drop in his ear, the string of pearls, all glinting like his eyes in the neon light. Didn't even conjure a robe as he hopped casually off the side and slunk over, stalking like a panther. He came in close, foot between Charles’ feet, hip to hip, chest to chest, just a little off-side but still right up in Charles’ face.

He tossed his head, flicking the loose, stray waves of his pitch black hair out of his eyes and he stared, in that way only cats seemed to pull off. Black and gold and bloody inescapable.

“Y’know, I have been asking myself, as a matter of fact. But I'll be damned if I can find the answer.” The weight of a hand on Charles' waist startled him as it settled there, warm and close. “You're hot stuff, handsome, but I've thrown better away. And for a lot less. I get that we have a fun little hatefuck situation going on and don’t get me wrong, I love it! Very hot. But that's no excuse to be fucking rude after the deed is done, now, is it? Maybe I don't wanna play with some brat who throws his toys outta the stroller, you ever think about that? So; what’s a boy to do, hm?”

Charles’ swallowed, and held his ground. He was losing the staring contest but he wasn't backing off that easy. “Well. That's your business, innit. You can chuck me out if you don't want me here.”

“Okay, touchy. No, you sweet thing, no — I'm giving you the opportunity to tell me you fucking want to be here. Because I am sick of this hot and cold bullshit.” He leaned up, leaned in, and the heat of him pressed against Charles’ front, real and bloody addictive in the way so little else in Charles’ cold, dead world was. “You wanna come to my house and play rough? Fine, I’m game. But I think I’m just about done with this little dance. Doing everything your heartsick little self desires and being treated like the bad guy for giving you exactly. What. You. Want.”

“I don’t —”

“Ah-bup-bup,” the Cat King interrupted, quick as a flash, pressing his finger to Charles’ lips. He was smiling but it was strained, false; a little mad gleam in his eye of something older and wilder than Charles could wrap his head around. “I know a little flirty antagonism is kind of our love language, babe, but think very, very carefully what you imply next. I don’t take what isn’t given or owed to me. Ever. So you start making out like it wasn’t you who showed up to my throne room in your little fuck-me jeans and started getting handsy, we’re gonna have a problem. Capisce?”

Charles winced, and shut his gob. Fair cop.

“Good boy. Now.” He lifted his hand and opened it — and the gold links of Charles’ necklace cascaded down to dangle from his fingertip. He tugged the collar of Charles’ shirt up, briskly, and busied himself settling the chain in place under it as he talked. “I’m not an idiot, y’know. Don’t be fooled by the pretty face. Brains and beauty in the same package, I know, I know, it’s unfair, but, I can do the math. I can figure some shit out myself; and I know there’s other beds you’d rather be falling into.”

His face felt hot — from the scrutiny and the claws teasing around his throat.

“And hey, I can relate! But you're not here with him —” Charles bristled, and the Cat King rolled his eyes — “or her, or them, or whatever tooootally mysterious anonymous person you're completely not in love with and freaking the fuck out about. You're not here with them, you're here with me. And I’m no fucking understudy. So come on, tell me. What’s in this for me?” He hooked his fingers in the chain and tugged. “What’s in this for you? We fight, we screw, we bicker, we screw again, honestly, I’m getting mixed signals, here. One minute you’re storming out, the next you’re scratching at my door — Jesus, I’m supposed to be the cat in this situationship! So come on, which is it, huh? Want in, want out? Just, argh, why are you fucking here?!”

Charles stood and stared, poleaxed, rooted to the spot. The Cat King stared back at him, breathing fast and shallow. Still not a stitch on him. He’d been naked all this time, leaving it all on show, but he hadn't looked exposed. Not 'til just now.

He closed his eyes, and Charles remembered how to breathe.

“Look, I don’t ca — mm.” The Cat King stopped himself, putting a finger to his lips, tapping at his scar as he reconsidered. “Look. I’m not gonna like, magic it out of you, okay? Your baggage, your business. I get it.” He looped Charles’ chain around his fingers once, drawing it tighter. “But indulge me, will you? I just wanna know. You wanna keep doing this thing or not? And don’t. Fucking lie to me.”

Charles wasn’t convinced he could’ve lied if he tried, suckered in by the gravity of seeing that puffed-up, preening pusscat rubbed raw as an exposed nerve. But he squirmed, and he faltered. He’d done all sorts of shit with the Cat King — things he’d always wanted to try, things he hadn’t known were possible, things he couldn’t even bloody spell — and not one of them had made him feel as splayed out and vulnerable as this.

“I…” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I dunno know what I want." He swallowed tightly. "I don't know what I'm doing.”

The Cat King scanned his face, but he wouldn’t find a trace of a lie there. There wasn’t one.

“... No. No, I guess you don't.”

He huffed, and waved his hand and in a lick of purple flames a slinky black dressing gown materialised on him. He let go of Charles’ necklace sharply, gathering his robe closed and crossing his arms over it.

“Well, my advice is you figure it out. Because he won’t wait around for ever.” The Cat King held his own necklace instead, rubbing the smooth pearls between his fingertips. “And neither will —” He cut himself off again, nose and brow wrinkling like he was pissed off with himself about it, and hissed through his teeth. “Ugh, fuck, just — just think it over before you come crying to me to get railed again, okay?”

He snapped his fingers — and in the blink of an eye Charles was left alone, in the cannery, half-dressed and stunned in front of an empty throne with the rest of his clothes tossed carelessly over it.

~

Charles would be halfway through the rest of his day, watching fondly as Edwin muttered over the typos in a new addition to their library, when he realised his body wasn't real and neither were his clothes. He could've just willed them back on and slipped through the mirror quicksharp, spared himself the interrogation.

Stupid, really. That he hadn't even thought of it.

And he was gonna keep not thinking about not thinking about it for as long as he could get away with, ta very much.

[moonlightazriel]

Son of the Darkness XII /// Azriel X F!Reader

Summary: Hidden for so long The court of shadows thrived, and things were great until the high lord's death, now the next in line should assume the crown of high lord of shadows, will he accept his duties?

Warnings: Mentions of blood and death.

Word Count: 1,8K

Notes: Finally felt like writing SOD again, i didn't wrote befoe cuz i didn't wanted to deliver a bad chapter just so i could say i was writing. I'm happy with how it turned out, hope y'all enjoys just as much.

Son of the darkness masterlist

Main Masterlist

She never felt so tired, it took everything she had not to give in right there, let him take her, do with her whatever he pleased. She craved to be touched by him, and hours after their encounter, she still could feel his hands grabbing her hair, and the sweet taste of his cock on the tip of her tongue. Her mind kept replaying it all night, she had to take a cold shower to soothe the burning in her skin, she burned for him, so intensely.

She kept quiet during breakfast, Rhysand was telling them that the High Lords meeting would be in a week and they could go back to the Night Court with them, which Azriel quickly agreed, maybe not being alone with him would be easier to pretend she didn’t want to be near him, it would be easier to avoid that pull on her chest that always seemed to lead to him, even if she tried to deny it. 

So she hadn’t shared a word with him the whole day, just packing whatever she needed and giving the order for her armies to get ready in case they needed them. Eva had convinced Rune to let her go too, saying she would help convince the others to help. So as the day came to an end, they were already teleporting back to Prythian. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Cassian’s head popped up in front of her and she looked away from her book, from the corner of her eyes she could see Azriel looking at them, watching her every move. They were in the House of Wind for three days now and she was doing a great job of avoiding him like the plague, so she breathed with relief when Cassian asked her to leave the house with him. 

“Sure.” She got up, grabbed her sword that was lying on the floor next to her, and strapped it to her back, Cassian rose an eyebrow. “You never know.” They walked to the nearest balcony and Cassian pulled her closer, lifting her so he would fly them to the city below. 

“What’s going on between you and Azriel?” She turned her head to him, the wind moved a few loose strands of hair from the face of the general and the sun kissed his skin, making his hazel eyes shine.

“We’re not discussing this, especially right now.” She scoffed, she wasn’t interested in discussing whatever was happening between her and her High Lord, especially with his brother and in the air. Cassian laughed, making her whole body shake with him. 

“You two are unbelievable, he refused to say something too, you’re perfect for each other.” Her heart twisted in her chest and Cassian gently placed her on the floor, their short flight was over.

“If you weren’t such a busybody and stopped trying to snoop in other people’s relationships, he would actually go to you and talk.” Cassian turned to her, an amused smirk on his lips.

“So there’s a relationship then?” She groaned frustrated, starting to walk, leaving Cassian behind. She heard his laughter before he followed her. 

“You want to know so much about other people but what about you?” She asked after they found a place to sit and look at the Sidra.

“Me?” 

“I’ve been around for only three days Cas, and I see how you look at a certain Archeron sister.” Cassian turned to her rather quickly and she bit her lip, trying to suppress a giggle. 

“There’s nothing between me and Nesta.” He said defensively and she snorted.

“I’ve never mentioned Nesta’s name, but if it fits…” He rolled his eyes. 

“She doesn’t particularly enjoy us. After she was made, she grew resentful towards us, something happened to them in there, but I guess it was worse for her, she was different when she came back. I wish I could have done something to avoid it, they didn’t deserve what happened to them. ” He sounded sad.

“I’m sure you did everything you could to help, and even if Nesta doesn’t show, deep down she knows it too.” She patted Cassian’s shoulder and he smiled at her, little dimples in his cheeks as he did so.

“I really like you, the sister I never had.” She smiled back. 

“I like you too Cassian, a lot.” They sat for a little while, the river calmly flowing its course, unbothered by the life and people around it. 

“HELP! WE’RE IN THE LIBRARY.” They jumped from their seats at the same time, looking at each other.

“Follow me.” The people around them looked confused as they ran toward the mountain, it took a minute for her to recognize Feyre’s voice asking for help clear as the day. She followed Cassian, her lungs burning as they rushed, entering the same library where she met Azriel, the one that held the Soul Seeker at the bottom. “FUCK! They’re down there with that damned thing.”

“I’ll go, you take them out.” Cassian made a sound as if he was going to disagree but he didn’t have the time. Y/N walked to the fence and quickly jumped over it, Cassian’s yelp of surprise was the last thing she heard before she was free falling to the bottom of the library, the shadows below coming to life to greet her, ready to devour and destroy. 

She landed on the stone floor with a loud noise, the darkness surrounded her and she focused her eyes, seeing two males at the end of the stairs, Feyre was hopefully back to safety, so Y/N drew the dagger that was always strapped to her thigh, ready for some fun. She could smell the fear pouring from the male’s body, and hear the uneven breathing as Bryaxis showed them their worst nightmares, she could hear her mother’s voice somewhere, but she shook her head, ignoring it.  

She walked slowly until she was close enough to see their features in the dark, the male screamed as her dagger slit his throat open, and the other one quickly started to swing his sword around. 

“Who’s there?” His voice was laced with terror, and his teeth made a continuous noise as the bottom hit the top again and again, the male was terrified and she laughed, the darkness around her liked it too.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s going to be over soon. We just need to have a talk.” She threw her dagger, pinning the male by his shirt on the nearest wall, she walked closer, releasing her sword from her back, letting the sharp end touch his skin, pressing just enough to have a trickle of blood running down his neck.

“I won’t tell you anything.” The male said and she rolled her eyes.

“If you do, I’ll let you live, and I tend to be very truthful to my words.” The male breathed with relief, and the darkness around her seemed to swallow, tasting the hope in the man. “What did you two want?”

“Hybern wants her, she took something from him and he wants it back.” Cassian’s words rang in her head. She was different when she came back. They were after Nesta, and whatever she took, it was important enough for Hybern to be desperate to get it back.

“More, I want more.” She pushed the sword forward, piercing his neck a bit more.

“That’s all I know, he sent us specifically for this. I don’t know anything else, please let me go.” He begged and she nodded, whispering an “okay” before removing her sword and dagger, the male breathed in relief. “Thank you.”

“All yours now, Soul Seeker.” The darkness danced around her, and Bryaxis went full force on him, the male fell to his knees, she could see the panic in his eyes and the screams ripping from his lips, his body shaking and he fell to the ground. 

“Y-you said I c-c-could live.” The man breathed, barely able to talk.

“And you can, if you’re able to escape it. Good luck.” She started to walk to the stairs, the screams of the male behind her as she reached a more illuminated point of the library, the three males looked at her, swords drawn and ready to attack.

“What happened down there?” Rhysand asked, feeling his bones chill as he watched her walk out of Bryaxis home so calmly as she had just exited a field of flowers.

“I took care of the threat, but can we please talk somewhere else? All of this dust is making my nose itch.” She walked past them and they just dumbly followed her back to the House of Wind. 

“Are you hurt?” Azriel asked the first word he spoke to her in days, her heart clenched hearing his voice, he sounded so concerned, his eyes searched for any injuries while his shadows pooled around her feet, some, more daring, reaching for her face, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“I’m okay, I promise, don’t worry.” He nodded, checking one more time just to be sure. “Now let’s go talk to them.” He led the way, and the rest of the inner circle waited for them in the living room. 

“We’re glad to see that you're safe, thank you for rescuing us.” Feyre said, looking lost, they all did, knowing their home wasn’t safe for them anymore. Azriel stood still by her side, his fingers slightly brushing hers, and she could feel he was shaking a little bit. 

“They were after her, he said she took something from the king and he wants it back.” She pointed to Nesta, whose blue icy eyes turned in her direction, with a confused look.

“What could I have possibly taken from that idiot?” She sounded angry.

“Your powers.” Amren spoke. “Even if you try to deny we can feel it, like the cauldron was forced to give more than it wanted.” 

“If she took the powers from the cauldron, maybe he needs it back to work in its fullest power.” Cassian said, the engines in Y/N’s brain started to work, if she had the cauldron’s power, she could fire back.

“Or he’s afraid of what she can do.”  The room fell silent. “Is it possible to train her powers, he might be afraid that she’s learning what to do with them if the cauldron can decimate an army, Nesta can do it too, she just doesn’t know how.” 

“Amren, you’re going to help Nesta, she needs to learn as much as she can about her powers. Maybe she can even feel where the cauldron is  if they have the same powers.” Rhysand spoke.

“It’s a theory, we can try.” Feyre said and Nesta rose from her seat.

“I won’t do anything, I didn't ask for this, you can’t force me.” She was ready to leave when Eva spoke, for the first time in the day.

“You cannot go back to what you were before, but you can make him pay for everything he has done. The revenge is yours to claim.” Nesta looked at her, the words seemed to sink in deep within her and she nodded.

“Let’s make that motherfucker pay then.”  

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Taglist: @allison-rosewood-maximoff @devilsfoodcake22 @fieldofdaisiies @valeridarkness @brekkershadowsinger @margssstuff

[takeariskao3]

written for #SeveralSunlitDaylights & @corneliaavenue-ao3 <3 day 2: fearless

Ginny should not have taken divination. 

The regret had blossomed steadily over the few short weeks since term started. Firstly, their classroom at the top of the North Tower was hot. And stifling. And class always took place right after lunch. Which just left Ginny longing for a nap. 

Secondly, she was the only third year Gryffindor in the class. Her housemates apparently preferred electives in Arithmancy or Muggle Studies over the art of the Unfogging the Future. But no one had bothered to tell her. 

Thirdly, because she hadn't immediately had a familiar face to sit with, she'd chosen to share a table with Luna Lovegood. Ginny knew Luna lived near the same village as the Burrow, and their parents seemed on friendly enough terms, even if they didn't socialize, but that soon turned out to be a mistake. Because Luna was passionate about Divination. This left Ginny forced to listen to odd predictions about conspiracy theories and cryptids she'd never heard of. Which brought Professor Trelawney over to their workstation, often. Trelawney seemed to thrive on the weird and dramatic, which Luna supplied in droves. 

Ginny was well on her way to thinking they were both utter quacks.

And lastly, because all Divination turned out to be was destiny, and fate, and grand design. Ginny was sick to death of feeling called to a higher purpose, like she was meant for something... 

Or someone. 

This year was supposed to be different. Ginny had turned over a new leaf. She was starting fresh. And she was finished daydreaming about getting kissed in the rain. She wasn't supposed to be feeding her yearning with more nonsense about predetermination and things written in the stars. All of that was just girlhood fantasy. 

Except Ginny's stupid tea leaves, and her stupid text book, and her stupid partner, and her stupid sodding professor kept predicting 'a great but tragic love' in her future. 

It was not helping her aforementioned resolve to put her past foolishness behind her. 

"This is interesting," Luna lilted from across the table and tipped Ginny's cup back and forth as she examined it intently. Ginny prepared for a comment that would decidedly not be interesting. "It could be a triangle, meaning a creative spirit, but if I flip it over, it looks more like a bouquet. A grand gesture."

Ginny resisted the urge to roll her eyes and instead focused on the dregs at the bottom of Luna's cup. 

"It could be both, I suppose," Luna continued, oblivious to Ginny's disdain. "A combination of the two? Perhaps, you are giving the grand gesture instead of receiving..."

When Ginny didn't answer, Luna began taking notes on her parchment but still continued to speak absentmindedly. 

"Do you enjoy things like drawing or music?"

"No," Ginny grumbled, only half paying attention. 

Luna hummed, clearly puzzled. "I do think it would be a very nice thing to give a gift like that. To feel that deeply for someone. After all, that's why poets write their poems..."

Ginny froze, her vision blurring slightly around the edges. Unfortunately, Luna noticed. 

"Oh," she sighed. "Have you written something?"

"No," Ginny replied forcefully and her face heated.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," Luna reassured. "If there are others vying for your love's attention, this will set you apart.”

Ginny clapped her hands over her face and swore under her breath. She determined right then and there that sending that singing Valentine was, without a doubt, the single most mortifying thing she'd ever done. 

Luna indicated a brown lump near the perimeter. "And look here, the daffodil, your affections are requited. Your gift will be cherished!" 

"Can we talk about something other than my affections, please?" 

Luna watched her unblinkingly, but seemed to understand Ginny had reached her wit's end. 

"You have something that looks like clasped hands," Ginny started, doing her best to sound business-like. "But it also looks a bit like the number eight, so I can't be sure."

Luna flipped through a few pages of her text book, and paused about halfway down the page. "Friends?" 

Ginny shrugged, and immediately felt a deep-rooted ache at the eagerness taking over Luna's expression. 

Eyes widening in unmitigated hope, Luna smiled. "I've never had a friend before."

Mouth going dry, Ginny swallowed down the mix of uncomfortableness and pity that Luna often spurred. She shrugged again. "There's also something that looks like a pig snout, and that's not even in the book, so what do I know?" 

Luna's smile stretched into a grin. "That's not a pig snout, that's a Blibbering Humdinger!"

Ginny snorted, but she didn’t bother asking what a Blibbering Humdinger was. She'd save that for Professor Trelawney.

[itsclydebitches]

Title: Paved With Good Intentions

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Relationships: Very background Charlie/Vaggie. 99% Charlie and Alastor interactions (with added Razzle and Dazzle)

Word Count: 3,863

Summary:

“Why... hmm. Okay, real quick: what’s an old-timey way of saying someone is full of shit?”

Charlie blinked up at him innocently, probably overdoing it a tad, but after a week of hearing him disparage her dreams as “wacky nonsense” she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not too much, anyway.

“Why, I’d say the sod is full of hot air! A far classier image than the one you’ve just conjured.”

“Then you’re full of hot air, Alastor.” Charlie grinned.

Or: Charlie wants everyone to know that she didn't invite the Radio Demon into her home without precautions.

A/N: First Hazbin fic! Jfc Alastor may be one of the hardest characters I've ever written for. Nailing his voice is gonna take a while.

Fic also below the cut if you prefer to read here 👍

Many in Hell (okay, most in Hell) were under the impression that their Princess was a delusional simpleton, unable to understand something as straightforward as how her own domain worked. Her little interview hadn't helped matters, even if it did reassure them that she could at least throw a decent punch. Really, Charlie only cared about her reputation in as much as it might attract new patrons to the hotel. She didn't need her people to love her, she just needed them to be safe .

(She'd said that to Vaggie once who promptly broke into a choking laugh. “Charlie. You need everyone to love you. All the time . You're just lucky you're really fucking good at it.”)

If strangers cursed her out on the street, that was fine. If her first soon-to-be-redeemed soul thought this was a hilarious fuck-up with only free board making it palatable, that was also fine. If her own father laughed awkwardly at the mere idea of her success that was fine because Charlie could see the good underneath their caustic words; the fear and vulnerability buried beneath their dismissal. Criticism rolled off her back like magma on a fire-duck and if shouldering the disdain of her community was the price of seeing them saved, Charlie would gladly pay it.

...Although, she did wish her closest companions had a little more faith in her. Not about the hotel necessarily, but just that she had a functioning brain she put to use.

“Your... goats?” Alastor said, tipping his head to narrow eyes at them.

“Goat-dragons,” Charlie corrected, not sparing him a glance. “Mom made them when I was younger, to act as my bodyguards when she and Dad weren't around. You would not beeeliiieve how many assassination attempts there were when I was a kid. Dad even dyed my hair once to try and give me a low profile and that was—well! You don't need to see those pictures. The point is that I didn't just let you in all willy-nilly, heedless of my own safety, or whatever it is Vaggie's been saying. If you'd meant any real harm they would have torn you to shreds.”

Charlie was in the process of re-styling the seating area for a slumber party that night. Which throw pillow better conveyed emotional safety to share one's most intimate secrets past 3:00am? Blue or yellow? Pursing her lips, she bounced from foot-to-foot a couple times before chucking both against the growing mound. After a good fluffing she nodded. Both. Both was good.

When she turned, Alastor was staring.

He'd only been at the hotel about a week but Charlie had noticed that he did that a lot. It wasn't just the fixed smile that lent weight to his gaze; he didn't blink . Leaning against Husk's bar with that microphone tucked under one arm, Alastor looked so at ease that Charlie knew it was all an act—the real Alastor, tentacled and laughing maniacally, simmered just beneath the surface. She'd have felt threatened by it if not for the fact that, well, Razzle and Dazzle were here.

Charlie shot them a quick smile. They'd piled on the carpet together, a mess of limbs and horns. Snores and the occasional 'meep' emerged to fill the silence.

“Well now, stop the presses! Our little lady is just full of surprises.” Alastor's grin stretched even further, seeming to creak along its edge. His hands connected in a shattering clap. “We haven't known each other very long, my dear, so I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding—entirely forgivable, I assure you—but I thought you just implied that these lazy, miniature vermin are capable of besting me?”

“ Don't talk about them like that! ”

The words snapped out of Charlie before she could consider reigning them in. She even saw a little smoke wafting upwards, a sure sign that if she let those emotions stew any longer her true form would burst through. Fucking hell, Charlie, you're giving orders to the Radio Demon now? Oh Lord. It was never good when her thoughts starting sounding like Vaggie, but Charlie stifled a groan as she admitted that yeah, that probably wasn’t selling the whole 'Capable of handling tough situations without needlessly endangering herself' vibe she was going for.

Alastor just smiled though. It was hard to tell, but Charlie thought he might have been pleased with her temper. There was something in the way he leaned forward onto the tip of his staff; off balance to start a fight, but magnetically drawn into the fray. “Easy now, darling! I never took to baloney as a child—horrific excuse for a meat, truly—but I can recognize it when I hear it. So you care for these... creatures? Well off course you do! A sweet, silly thing like you is bound to get attached to all manner of beings. The delightful,” he dropped into a sweeping bow, “—and the drab.” Alastor's staff kicked outward at the end of the gesture, landing on Dazzle's back leg. The goat-dragon gave a sleepy grunt at the disturbance but otherwise didn't stir.

Really, Alastor had hardly touched him, but Charlie still felt the tip of one fang digging painfully into her bottom lip. She took a deep, fortifying breath to cleanse herself of negativity. She was just stressed about the new Extermination timeline. And the sleepover. And the fact that the Radio Demon was now living down the hall. Just the other day she’d chastised Angel for a barrage of angry texts he’d sent without thinking and now here Charlie was, nearly flying off the handle for similarly petty reasons. Razzle and Dazzle were fine. She was fine, and her people were going to be fine if she had anything to fucking say about it. Charlie summoned up a smile to match Alastor’s own.

“You’re right,” she said. “An Overlord like you didn’t exist back when Mom made them, so she couldn’t have foreseen how powerful you are. I mean yeah, you’d probably win... even if there are two of them. But!” Charlie hastened to add, waving her hands as Alastor’s head cracked sickeningly to the right, “The point is that these hypotheticals are silly. Why do you care so much about who’d win in a fight? You’re never going to fight them. You don’t want to hurt me.”

Alastor’s head, still staring at her from its unnatural angle, began to vibrate oddly while the chest beneath it hitched. It took Charlie a long moment to realize that he was laughing. Not his usual, staccato Ha, Ha, Ha , but something that felt more genuine, despite the fact that no body—not even a demon’s—should be moving like that.

“Ah, what an entertaining bunny you are,” he said, a slight wheeze mixing in with the radio static. “Charlie dearest, have you forgotten that I was a serial killer? Am currently a hunter of Overlords? A keeper of souls? Are you truly under the misguided belief that I wouldn’t hurt you?”

It was terrifying how fast he didn’t move. Charlie watched as Alastor took his time lengthening each limb—spine cracking, joints tearing until they were only held together by sickly, glowing threads—and the tentacles he summoned were lazy as a house cat, inching towards her like they knew it didn’t matter how fast she ran. They’d catch her. The static grew to a high-pitched whine that hurt her ears and the very reality around Alastor began to distort, glitching horribly. One elongated limb reached out with claws glinting in the newly darkened foyer, fingers twitching, itching to rip out her throat.

Charlie blinked. She pursed her lips, gesturing emphatically to Razzle and Dazzle who still lay snoring on the carpet. “Are you listening to me? They’d have ripped you to shreds if you meant any real harm .”

She could see the exact moment Alastor gave up the performance. He froze, the very air particles freezing with him, and a pin-print of light sprang back into his eyes.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s not—you can’t—” With a frustrated groan Charlie pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “It’d be easier to show you.”

She trotted through the bits of distorted reality (shivering because ugh ) and ducked under the long line of Alastor’s leg. His eyes tracked her as Charlie scooped a goat-dragon into each arm and nudged the hotel door open with her hip. Once outside, she slapped a drowsy Razzle onto her shoulder and cupped a hand over her mouth.

“Hello there!” she called to a passing demon.

“Who the fuck you yelling at? I’ll kill you, bitch!”

“Will you?” Charlie’s gaze slid to Alastor, now back in his everyday form, curiously peeking out from the doorway. “You know what? That sounds great! Really swell! Please come and kill me.”

The demon stopped in his tracks, staring incredulously up the hill at her fidgety form. “What? Fucking what ? You have a death wish?”

“Yes! Absolutely. Will you come kill me pretty, pretty please? Uh... you ugly, short-sighted asshole? Sorry, sorry sorry ,” Charlie muttered into Razzle’s fur.

“Oh, you’re a whole new level of crazy—”

The demon was adjusting his glasses with one claw and pulling out a clever with the other when Charlie felt Alastor’s energy at her back. She didn’t need to turn around again. The horror that descended on the demon’s face and his hasty exit said it all.

Razzle and Dazzle were now alert, tails thumbing, but neither made a move to go after the guy. Charlie released the breath she’d been holding and promised to write at least five Kindness Notes to leave around town tomorrow.

When she did finally look Alastor was twiddling his fingers at the demon’s retreating form. His eyes, however, were still latched onto Charlie.

“What an interesting way you have of entertaining yourself, my dear. I whole-heartedly approve! Let me take you out on the town—Cannibal Town, that is. You can offer your limbs to the first ravenous child we meet.”

Charlie cracked a smiled. “Uh... maybe later? I didn’t just do that for kicks, you know. The point is we’re living in Hell .” She ignored the way his eye twitched at the obvious statement. “Alastor, how many times a day do you think people threaten to kill me? Pull weapons? Or yes, try to eat me? If Razzle and Dazzle attacked everyone who simply appeared threatening I never would have opened the hotel because there wouldn't be anyone left to save. That guy? All bluster. I’m not sure how Mom did it, but they’re capable of sensing true intentions. They’ll only transform for someone with a real, sustained desire to kill me—or, I guess discorporate me—and the rest? The rest I can handle myself.”

“Hmm.”

Alastor bent forward, inspecting Dazzle closely. The goat-dragon panted happily in his face. “Fascinating! Powerful too, though I’d expect nothing less from the likes of Lilith. I must say, the confidence you hold in your own abilities is simply inspiring given what I’ve seen from you so far.”

Charlie blinked, trying to decide if she’d just been insulted or not.

“You remain delusional, darling,” he clarified, patting her head. Alastor’s grin widened at her scowl and he only pulled back when Razzle gave his fingers a quick lick, his static hissing like a cat. Charlie had the strong urge to chuck them both at the demon and let him suffer the fate of endless cuddles and sticky kisses.

She didn’t though. She was merciful.

“That’s why though,” Charlie said, shrugging so that Razzle had to dig his claws into her shoulder to stay balanced. Ow.

“Why what?”

Alastor had clearly lost the train of their conversation—or was pretending to—inspecting his own claws with the air of a bored Valley Girl.

“Why... hmm. Okay, real quick: what’s an old-timey way of saying someone is full of shit?”

Charlie blinked up at him innocently, probably overdoing it a tad, but after a week of hearing him disparage her dreams as “wacky nonsense” she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not too much, anyway.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. Definitely suspicious, though not enough to deny her.

“Why, I’d say the sod is full of hot air! A far classier image than the one you’ve just conjured.”

“Then you’re full of hot air, Alastor.” Charlie grinned. “This whole shtick you’ve got going where you pretend like you’re just one insult away from killing us all; the super evil Overlord who could go on a rampage at the slightest whim? Yeah, I get why Vaggie is concerned, but that’s not gonna work on me.” She ran her hand gently through Dazzle’s hair, eliciting a purr. “You can toss out threats and transform all you want, but if you’d ever actually intended to hurt me, even just once... they’d have reacted. They’d have defended me, whether they could win against you or not. I didn’t let you stay because I was desperate for your help—although, ha, I kinda am. I let you stay because I trust you.”

The last was delivered softly and Charlie dared to lay a hand on his arm, oh so briefly. Alastor didn’t react. He appeared to be seeing something past her, the dials of his eyes ticking erratically.

The spell was broken when Razzle let out an explosive sneeze.

“Oh shit that reminds me! I need to pick up some almond butter for Sir Pentious. Apparently his human body was allergic to peanuts and he’s still pretty sensitive about it? And Angel made me swear I’d have peanut butter on hand for the s’mores if he was going to participate in the sleepover. I need to hit the shops before they close—can you get the other supplies ready while I’m gone? Thanks, Alastor, you’re a lifesaver!”

Charlie pelted down the hill with Razzle and Dazzle flying around her heels, both of them yipping at the prospect of a walk.

Alastor remained standing there for a long time after she’d gone. At a glance he looked the same as he always did, though if anyone had gotten close enough they would have caught the sound of a radio continually switching stations.

There appeared to be no connection between the clips. Except, perhaps, that each voice spoke in a tone of furious confusion.

***

The smell of popcorn and cheap booze was sickening.

Alastor’s grin never faltered—obviously—but there were small tears in the couch armrest that spoke of his disgust. In all his years alive and dead he’d never had the pleasure of attending a ‘slumber party’ before and the newfound honor was proving to be a dubious one. Sticky sweets, snacks, and spirits covered every available surface, thrown into truly unholy combinations as Husker passed his (admittedly substantial) limit. If they all hadn’t already been damned, Alastor suspected that making caramel popcorn whiskey floats would have done the trick. The other guests were decked out in their finest nightwear, resulting in them witnessing more of Angel than Alastor had ever wanted to see. Their sanguine Princess had led them through insipid card games, a pillow fight—which did not, apparently, allow for weapons or demonic beasts. Mores the pity—and worst of all: a production shown through that horrible picture box. If they craved entertainment he might have offered her the use of his radio, but...

Well.

In truth, nothing that had occurred here tonight had truly tested Alastor’s patience. If anything, this was merely a distilled version of their collective sins; hardly surprising. He had merely been...out of sorts since their little spat that afternoon. Though it was nothing Alastor couldn’t handle, of course.

(A block away six of Hell’s dictation speakers suddenly crackled to life, causing everyone in the vicinity to freeze, warily lifting their heads. Rather than the usual draconian drivel, however, a sustained, static-y growl began to sound.)

“They’re called Kindness Notes,” Charlie was saying, displaying her stack of colored paper like a trophy. “I got the idea from this awesome human website called Reddit that must just be filled with puppies and rainbows and—”

(”Think we should tell her?” whispered Cherri.

“Yeah, but only after she’s made a bunch,” Angel snickered.)

“—and so it’s the PERFECT activity for a redemption sleepover! Remember: there is no wrong way to go about a creative project, so have fun with it! I’ve got glitter gel pens and stickers—those are scratch and sniff!—and decorative hole punches and more stickers and ribbons and—”

“Stickers?” Husk asked, tipping his glass her way. Charlie nodded with the speed of a bobble-head doll.

“Exactly! Does anyone have any questions?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one.”

“Great!”

“How much sugar you had, kid?”

“Sooooo much!” and the stack would have gone flying if not for Vaggie’s quick reflexes.

“Alright, I’ll take it from here.” She dropped a quick kiss onto Charlie’s rosy cheek before distributing the paper. “You can write anything you want provided it’s nice . Like, actually nice and not your fucked up perception of nice. Don’t sign your name, but you can put a little HH at the bottom to help promote the hotel. Try not to get too many stains on these and yes, everyone has to participate.”

Vaggie stopped in front of the couch where Alastor sat, the only one still dressed and removed from the chaos of their snack-infested pillow nest. He hadn’t the slightest idea why she’d be glaring at him when she said that and he ensured the sentiment was conveyed through his grin.

“But of course!” he said, selecting red with a black pen.

“Humph. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Something nice? A truly daunting task, even for someone of his talents. After today Alastor was more convinced than ever that the Princess was the most insane of them all. Oh, it served his purposes deliciously that she should trust him, particularly with so little effort on his part, and yet it was insulting how naive she could be. Even if he’d had a conscious, Alastor was sure he’d have no qualms about upsetting the power dynamic of Hell and seizing it for himself. If this was their royalty... Hell deserved better. Someone with hunger. Someone with style. Their little bearcat was funneling her passion in all the wrong, most entertainingly stupid directions.

Alastor tilted his head as Charlie finished drawing a sunflower, Niffty flitting about as she swept up the glitter falling away. It looked... domestic .

Ah, but it would be so easy to slit her throat from this angle, spilling ‘paint’ all across the project. Or remove that pretty head from her shoulders, near instantaneously. Summon up his demon pet to crush her bones. Drop her into a void. Fill her mind with so many screams that her brain leaked out her ears in chunky rivers. Hollow her out and puppet her so convincingly that even their Dumb Dora wouldn’t recognize her. He could do it .

Beside Alastor, taking up their half of the couch, Razzle and Dazzle gazed upon the festivities with vacant expressions, tongues lolling.

One—he didn’t care to know which—turned its head and gave him a happy chirp.

(A block away the growl became an all-out screech, like a thousand souls blended together in agony.)

“I could do it,” Alastor whispered to them. He tilted his staff for good measure, ensuring the microphone pointed directly at Charlie. “I doubt your little ‘intentions’ magic is as powerful as she says. Even if it is, you beasts lack in imagination. Trust me, darlings: there are many ways to hurt someone that don’t threaten their physical safety.”

The second goat-dragon had joined in now, tilting its head curiously at Alastor. The first began thumping its tail against its companion’s face, pleased as punch, and suddenly Alastor felt a surge of genuine anger—the first in a long time.

“ She is only unharmed because I wish it ,” he hissed, “because she is more entertaining to me alive than dead!”

(The six speakers blew, showering citizens in shrapnel.)

“Alastor?”

He quickly blinked away the red light that had covered his eyes, turning his attention to Charlie.

“Apologies! Merely musing over what uplifting message I should grace the denizens of Hell with.” Alastor tapped a long claw against his chin, hamming it up. Only Vaggie was sober and de-caffeinated enough to catch on. The smile Charlie graced him with was... honest.

Violent images filled his head in response: of obliterating—or better yet—permanently stitching that smile into place. All the while those creatures sat beside him, both at perfect ease. One even edged closer.

He could do it. He would do it. The only reason Alastor hadn’t was because he didn’t want to do it yet .

But that day would come.

Dazzle sniffed the edge of Alastor’s sleeve. Razzle yawned.

Until then, their Princess was clearly in need of better protection. He’d assign a few shadows to her; sharp pieces of his silhouette who could tail the girl without notice. It would only require a bit of exertion on his part and the surveillance was worth it to ensure his favorite toy didn’t go dying before he had a chance to finish playing with her.

After all , Alastor thought, more at ease with that decision than he’d been all day, better the Devil you know.

“Do you know what you're writing?” Charlie asked, nearly having to shout over the commotion of an impromptu show-and-tell. Sugar and alcohol seemed to have loosened everyone’s dignity alongside their inhibition, because suddenly they all wanted praise for their absurd little notes. Generic messages of support were shoved under Charlie’s nose, led by Vaggie in a delightfully embarrassing display. Although, was it better or worse that Sir Pentious was equally desperate for Charlie’s approval? Angel slapped his note down on the table—complete with a diagram—and Alastor deliberately did not give it a closer look. (Husker’s spluttering was information enough, thank you.) Cherri was busy rolling hers into fuzes, muttering continuously about the message she’d send in the next turf war. Niffty had just written CLEAN in shaky letters across pages and pages and pages of notes.

All the while Charlie stared across the chaos at him. Imploring.

However could Alastor deny her?

“Oh, yes indeedy, my dear,” he said. “Patience—you’ll see it soon enough.” Alastor deliberately raised a hand, ensuring she saw, tracked, and understood when he laid in atop Razzle’s head. His hand was now large enough to crush the beast’s skull, claws poised to sink into vulnerable flesh, a dark ooze sizzling like acid that crept from a crack in his wrist, edging dangerously close.

Throughout it all, Razzle purred.

***

The next morning Charlie woke to find a red note taped to her bed, delivered by shadows. Dazzle was the first to find and drop it into his mistress’ lap, producing happy yips as he caught her expression.

“We’ll win him over,” Charlie said, grinning as she re-pinned the note to her mirror.

Alastor had given her just one word of encouragement, accompanied by a sketch of two dead goat-dragons:

SMILE

[definitionsfading]

tartan

for your consideration; a domestic ficlet I did as a warm-up last night

content warnings: includes some adult humor between married celestial entities and Crowley is pregnant (by choice) ((the babies are Aziraphale’s)) (((ayy)))

+ + + + + +

It’d been something of a strange summer thus far, all things told. London volleyed between pouring rain and spiking heat waves every other week throughout the month of June, then trundled headlong into July with the tepid promise of milder weather. It was a sleight of hand trick meant to beguile and fool every weather forecaster in the country, because after the rains passed one morning the temperature dropped so low that Aziraphale had to pull his wool cardigan back out of the upstairs wardrobe.

But if mother nature was temperamental and unpredictable that summer, well—she had nothing on a pregnant demon. 

“I’m hardly a stone’s throw into the second bloody trimester and already nothing fits,” Crowley moaned from where he’d flopped back onto the bed with the button of his trousers still undone, the garment in question butterflied open at the zip. “Not even a vest top. Meanwhile, it’s sodding July and we’re wearing jumpers, as if my entire existence weren’t already enough of a sick joke.” 

Aziraphale poked his head out of the adjacent water closet, fingers still busy tidying up his cufflinks, and appraised the grim sight on the bed. Crowley was right; every time he tugged down his black cotton vest it would simply roll up over the rounded swell of his middle again. 

“Don’t get yourself in a tip, dear, I’m sure we’ll be able to pop out to the shops and find something suiting,” Aziraphale said, stepping further into the room to wander over to the bedside. “Even if it’s unseasonably cool, I think this weather is a far cry better than the heat for somebody in your condition.”

“My condition, he says,” Crowley snorted, golden eyes flashing just before he draped a dramatic forearm across his face and moaned again. “This is your fault, you know—we only really needed the one baby and here your angelic super sperm had to go and knock me up twice as hard. I’d still be fitting into my trousers if I weren’t busy stuffing my face for three.” 

Aziraphale laughed, warm palms landing on the knobby shapes of Crowley’s knee caps. “Now see here,” he countered, “I wouldn’t have been able to do that if it weren’t for your overindulgent ovaries releasing two eggs during the same cycle. You’re just as much to blame, if not more.” 

Crowley made another wretched sound but let his arm roll away from his face, gazing up at his husband with a pitiful hangdog expression around his eyes. “But m’cold, angel,” he said, pouting out his lower lip. “I can’t very well go out looking like this, and what’s the point in buying anything—? When I must be gaining a fresh inch around the middle overnight at this rate.” 

“Because you’re healthy, darling, and your body is doing a remarkable job of sustaining our growing children,” Aziraphale reminded him, letting his hands slide down to Crowley’s thighs as a telling flush bloomed on the demon’s chest and began crawling toward his throat. “If you weren’t growing accordingly I think we’d have more cause for concern. From my point of view, I don’t think you’ve ever been as gorgeous as you are right now.” 

“Yeah, but I can be butt-arse naked in front of you, you sentimental git,” Crowley groused, wriggling there with Aziraphale leaning between his spread knees. “All that greeting card swill doesn’t solve the problem of me busting all the seams in my clothes if I so much as sneeze.” 

Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, with genuine effort, and then smiled. “I think I may have a temporary solution, if you’re amenable to it.” 

“Which is?” Crowley asked, arching a gingery eyebrow, but Aziraphale was already pushing away from the bedside and whisking back over to the old wardrobe. 

Crowley laid there in resignation for a few beats, gazing up at the velvet canopy of the four-poster until Aziraphale started sliding hangers on the rail and curiosity got the better of him. By the time he could manage to hoist himself back up into a sitting position again, the angel was already standing at the bedside with an assortment of clothing folded over one arm. 

“Oh no, absssolutely not,” Crowley started, eyes widening at the sight of some camel coloured slacks. “I’d rather go out full starkers, angel, than be caught dead—”

“Do hush, you utter fiend, it’s not that bad,” Aziraphale tutted over him with a roll of his eyes, holding up a jumper with a flourish meant to inspire. “This is pure Ladakhi cashmere, I’ll have you know. It’ll feel like French butter against your skin.” 

Crowley pulled a doubtful face. “Dunno about you, but I’ve never been one to slather myself in butter on a real lark,” he muttered, but reached out and took the sweater anyway, a cream and camel-based tartan with a thin blue stripe. He swore as he pulled it on over his head, and then proceeded to sit very still on the edge of the bed as they both looked down at the offending garment. The cashmere accommodated his belly perfectly, neither too snug nor too loose where it draped around his figure as if it’d been made bespoke. 

“That was pure luck,” Crowley said, plucking at the sleeves. “There’s no way in utter creation those trousers will fit me.” 

Aziraphale only held them out with another glowing smile. “Give them a try, love, if only to indulge a doddering old angel.” 

It took some grumbling and a few more choice swears once Crowley was standing, but he stepped one foot at a time into the slacks and then—rather miraculously, all in all—hoisted them up so they fastened without a hitch just under his navel. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, once Aziraphale had pulled the tartan jumper down and straightened the hem for him. “Uhm.” 

“You look so handsome,” Aziraphale crowed as his hands clasped together, corners of his eyes crinkling up in joy. “Go over and have a peek in the looking glass for yourself.” 

Crowley sauntered over to the mirror and appraised his reflection from the front, and then the very new and ever-changing side profile. He cupped a hand under his growing bump and pulled a frown, but it began to wobble a bit just as soon as he caught Aziraphale’s adoring expression peering at him in the glass. 

“Do I look fat?” he asked in a tremulous sort of laugh, just before Aziraphale’s arms circled around his middle and pressed the tartan cashmere more flush against Crowley’s skin. Damn it all to hell, it was as sodding soft as French butter.

“No, you’re positively radiant,” Aziraphale said, dropping a kiss onto Crowley’s shoulder there in their shared reflection. “Even better, wearing my colours like you are.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley sniffled, feeling something unexpected and hot burning behind his eyes. “And what of it?”

“You look like you belong to me,” Aziraphale said in a velvety voice, bracing both hands underneath Crowley’s belly. “All mine to keep and adore for myself, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley scoffed and reached up to dab at something on one cheek before wrinkling his nose. It was starting to get oddly warm in the bedroom all of a sudden. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that part,” he said. “Just this once.”

Aziraphale nodded, and this time felt the upward quirk of his husband’s dopey smile against his lips when he gently turned his face for a kiss. “Just this once,” he agreed amiably. “Do you think you’ll be warm enough to pop out to the shops, now?”

“If I must,” Crowley diplomatically decided, admiring his transformed reflection for another beat before turning to straighten Aziraphale’s bow tie. He leaned in for another chaste kiss, and then reached around to pinch a small handful of angelic bum. “The sooner we get out, the sooner we can do luncheon and come back to shag for the rest of the afternoon.” 

“Impeccable logic, dear,” Aziraphale said with a breathy little laugh of his own. Crowley gave him a wink before stepping away to fetch his trainers and sunglasses, and only then did Aziraphale glance back to the looking glass and see that the tartan of his bow tie had somehow changed itself to match the colours on a certain demon’s cashmere jumper. 

It was rounding out to be an interesting summer, indeed.

[if you enjoy fics like this one, feel free to check out my ineffable parents ficlet collection or other Good Omens works on AO3]

[thana-topsy]

I got one - Malthyr and Ambarys of the New Gnisis Cornerclub. #49, I think, but necessity as in "I need you/we need each other because life kinda sucks here and if it weren't for you/us I think we'd lose ourselves".

Okay, I still have some of these prompts still sitting in my inbox and I hate seeing them waste away, especially fun prompts like this. So I'm gonna attempt to use these as writing warm-ups before getting into meatier WIPs. So one smooch, coming right up!

--

Ambarys x Malthyr “A kiss out of necessity.”

“Alright, out you go sera, easy does it.” 

Ambarys busied himself scrubbing down the bar, watching out of the corner of his eye as Malthyr escorted the final patron of the night to the front door. It was well past the witching hour. The mer should have been cut off long ago, but they couldn’t afford to turn down any coin, even if it meant watching his people drink themselves sick. Sour guilt pulled at Ambarys’s stomach and he threw the soiled cleaning rag into the nearby pail with a sigh. And who could blame them, in this wretched city?

“Poor sod,” Malthyr muttered, locking the door behind the mer and pulling down the heavy wooden bar. 

“It’s not our place to babysit them,” Amabrys grumbled. 

“Never said anything about babysittin’ nobody.” Malthyr wiped his nose roughly against his sleeve before beginning to upturn the chairs onto the tables. “Just hate to see ‘em like that sometimes.”

“It’s a corner club, Mal. Comes with the territory.” 

Malthyr let out a frustrated growl, waving a hand in Ambarys’s direction. “Don’t preach to me, you prattling old scrib.” 

Ambarys barked a laugh, then rolled up his sleeves before starting in on the pile of dirty dishes. 

An hour later the New Gnisis was as clean as it ever was; floor swept, tables cleared, dishes washed, glasses dried. Malthyr returned the broom and dustpan to the corner as Ambarys poured them each a finger of shein. They clinked their glasses together without a word, knocking them back in silence as well, each hissing at the burn of the liquor. Ambarys poured them a second, then made his way around to the patron side. He leaned his back against the bar, letting his arm brush against Malthyr’s. 

“This month’s taxes are gonna put us in the red if we aren’t careful,” Ambarys mused. “Was thinking about trying to run a special. Sell off some of the less popular drink for cheap. It’s just gathering dust as is.”

Malthyr grunted in response.

“All these new bloods who’ve never even set foot in Morrowind drink that Nordic swill over the imports. Makes me wonder why I even bother having the stuff shipped in.” 

Another nonverbal acknowledgement. 

“You’re great for conversation.”

“I’m tired, damn you.”

Ambarys let his head roll from side to side, cracking his neck, then attempted to weasel his way beneath Malthyr’s arm where he leaned against the bar. “Hey, c’mon…”

“Annoying swit,” Malthyr grumbled, but lifted his arm and pulled Ambarys against him, taking a swig of shein with his other hand.

Ambarys settled with his back against the bar once again, one arm looped around Malthyr’s waist as he let his eyes go unfocused looking over Malthyr’s shoulder. He felt Malthyr’s thumb trace the muscle of his lower back, heard him exhale as he tipped forward and pressed his forehead against Ambarys’s shoulder.

“Let’s get some sleep, hey Mal?” Ambarys suggested, voice pitched low. 

“Sure,” Malthyr said, little more than a sigh. As he moved to stand, Ambarys tightened his grip around his waist and pulled him in for a kiss. Days old stubble scraped against his chin; the taste of shein and the smell of sweat and spice. It was brief, but Malthyr melted if only for a moment. Then they stacked their glasses to wash in the morning, extinguished the candles, and made their way upstairs.   

[rcreveal]

New Leadership

Crowley read Aziraphale’s lips as the angel looked at him from across the street on the precipice of the elevator to Heaven.  Huh, so it was like that.

In the Bentley, he turned off the song of the nightingale that had been theirs for so long as he drove steadily to his flat, eyes dry and temporarily feeling nothing but cold rage: at Heaven, at Hell, at that manipulative bastard, the Metatron, and at that sodding idiot, Aziraphale.

Opening the flat he found a hideous side table with curved spindly legs that had a neat set of pigeon holes stuffed full of his mail.  It was just part of the overwhelming explosion of baroque opulence, velour, and velvet across the entire flat: red velvet curtains, red velvet sofa, baroque monstrosity of a desk.  Shaking his head in amazement, and storing the anger at his place being so thoroughly debased for later usage, he made directly for the wall safe.  His Da Vinci piece was gone, likely sent down to Hell as tribute, with a sickening picture of a red kitten painted on velvet having killed a nest of sparrows hanging in the place it had graced.  But with luck they wouldn’t have been able to crack the safe.

A moment’s work at the lock showed that his little helpmates were still stored safely, he pulled out the specially made brass knuckles set with genuine holy relics and demon repelling glyphs and slipped them into his jacket pocket.  The dull ache of them so close to his skin just made him angrier, good.

Right, then, time to go to Hell.

Heated arguments were taking place in Beelzebub’s throne room between Shax, Furfur, Dagon and Hastur.  Crowley sauntered in with the hand-crank resting on his shoulder like he owned the place, walked straight to the throne, and sprawled into it.  The other demons were temporarily shocked into silence at the absolute nerve of the traitor.  Shax, recovering first, yelled, “What the Heaven do you think you’re doing, traitor?!”

Crowley casually pointed at her from the throne, red tinged demonic lighting pulsing from his finger until she cracked and exploded.

Tipping his head up and over to the side, he said, “It’s obvious. I’m taking over,” to the rest of them.

Hastur, gaping and gabbling, stalks towards Crowley gesturing jerkily from where Shax had stood then back to Crowley, “What did you…? What do you think..? Look what you..!” finally looming over Crowley on the throne he growls, “On whose authority do you have the right to be the Grand Duke of Hell?!!”

Crowley looks up at him casually. Then Crowley stands menacingly slowly right within an inch of Hastur’s face, radiating such cold fury that Hastur takes an involuntary step back.  Crowley pats Hastur on the shoulder, with the hand still holding the hand-crank while he slips his other hand into his jacket. He growls softly, “Oh, you want my authority, Hastur? Look, I‘ve got it right here.”

The holy brass knuckles ignite on contact with the demon’s jaw, as the punch lifts the demon off his feet.  Hastur doesn’t disincorporate, but he lays crumpled at Crowley’s feet with a new tattoo burned on his jaw.

“Anyone else want to question my authority!?”Crowley says, pointing the hand-crank at the demons who are still standing frozen and gawking.  The remaining demons make no move to stop Crowley as sits back down and leans into the black throne throwing a leg over one of the arms apparently entirely at his ease.  

“I’ve got news for you lot,” Crowley growls, “The Metatron made Aziraphale Supreme Archangel! You sent dozens of demons who couldn’t stop him when he was all alone with a couple of measly humans for support.  How do you think you’ll fare when he’s got all the resources of Heaven?  Without me, you haven’t got a, hah, prayer, of opposing Heaven.  You’ll just roll over and show them your bellies and do whatever they ask, again,“ he glares at Dagon, who was trying to surreptitiously slink off with his phone. “And Dagon, do tell Archangel Michael, I send my regards when you tell them I’m the new Grand Duke of Hell!”

“Now push off!  I want everything you’ve got planned on the Second Coming!” 

[grasscuttingservices]

Why Sod Installation Is the Fastest Way to a Green, Healthy Yard

Sod installation provides an instant green lawn by laying mature, professionally grown grass directly onto prepared soil. Unlike traditional seeding, sod establishes quickly, prevents erosion, and allows homeowners to enjoy a lush, healthy yard in as little as 2–3 weeks with proper care.

Introduction

Dreaming of a vibrant, green lawn without the wait? You're not alone. Many homeowners and property managers turn to sod installation for immediate curb appeal and fast results. Compared to growing grass from seed—which can take weeks or months—sod offers an efficient and visually satisfying solution. In this article, we'll explore why sod is the fastest way to achieve a healthy lawn, what makes it effective, and how you can ensure long-term success.

What Is Sod and How Does It Work?

Sod is pre-grown grass that comes in rolls or slabs, complete with mature roots and a layer of soil. It’s cultivated in sod farms under controlled conditions and harvested when it reaches ideal health and density.

Key Benefits of Sod Over Seed

Immediate visual impact: Your lawn looks fully grown on day one

Fast rooting: Sod roots establish within 10–14 days with proper watering

Weed prevention: Thick sod crowds out weeds, unlike vulnerable seed beds

Erosion control: Sod helps stabilize soil on slopes or newly graded land

Cleaner installation: No mud patches, blown seed, or bare spots

Why Sod Installation Is the Fastest Path to Lawn Success

1. Instant Transformation

With sod, you skip the bare-soil phase entirely. The grass arrives green, dense, and already mature, giving your property a well-maintained look from day one.

2. Accelerated Root Establishment

Day 1–3: Sod begins bonding with soil

Day 4–10: Roots penetrate deeper; light mowing may begin by day 10

By Week 3: The sod is walkable and fully established

Compared to seeding—which can take 6–12 weeks to fill in—sod is significantly faster and more reliable.

3. Ideal for Busy Homeowners and Tight Timelines

If you're prepping for an event, open house, or new construction, sod delivers immediate results with minimal downtime.

Example: A Toronto homeowner installed sod on a Thursday and hosted a backyard party the following weekend—with a stunning lawn as the backdrop.

How to Ensure a Fast, Healthy Sod Installation

Step 1: Proper Soil Preparation

Clear old grass and debris

Grade and level the surface

Add topsoil and fertilizer for optimal rooting

Moisten the soil before laying sod

Step 2: Install Quickly and Seamlessly

Lay sod on the same day it's delivered

Stagger seams in a brick-like pattern

Use a lawn roller to press roots into soil

Step 3: Water Immediately and Consistently

Water within 30 minutes of installation

Keep sod moist for the first 10–14 days

Gradually reduce watering after root establishment

Step 4: Avoid Traffic

Stay off the sod until it fully roots (usually around day 10–14) to avoid disrupting root development.

Long-Term Lawn Health After Sod Installation

Regular Maintenance Tips

Mow once the grass reaches 3–4 inches (never cut more than ⅓ at a time)

Fertilize after 4–6 weeks using a nitrogen-rich blend

Aerate annually for stronger roots

Continue deep, infrequent watering to encourage drought resistance

Expert Insight: According to the Ontario Sod Growers Association, lawns maintained with proper mowing and irrigation after sod installation stay healthier and greener throughout the seasons.

Is Sod Right for Your Yard?

Ideal Scenarios for Sod Installation

Newly built homes or large-scale renovations

Sloped or erosion-prone areas

Homes with poor soil or high foot traffic

Properties needing fast transformation for resale or events

Limitations to Consider

Higher upfront cost than seed

Needs daily watering during establishment

Not ideal during extreme heat or frozen ground conditions

Still, the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks for those seeking fast, reliable results.

Frequently Asked Questions

How soon can I walk on my new sod?

You should wait 10–14 days before walking on newly installed sod. Early foot traffic can interfere with root establishment.

When can I mow my new sod?

Once the grass reaches 3–4 inches tall and is firmly rooted (typically around day 10–14), you can mow using a sharp blade.

How long does it take sod to fully root?

Initial roots begin forming in 3–5 days, with full establishment typically by 2–3 weeks.

Can I install sod in the fall?

Yes, spring and fall are ideal for sod installation in Toronto due to mild temperatures and steady rainfall.

How much does sod installation cost?

The average cost in the Toronto area ranges from $1.50 to $2.50 per square foot, depending on sod type, prep work, and installation complexity.

Conclusion

If you’re looking for a quick, effective way to enjoy a lush green lawn, sod installation is your best bet. It offers immediate results, rapid rooting, and long-term beauty with minimal hassle. With proper planning and care, your sod lawn can be healthy, resilient, and picture-perfect—fast.

Need help with sod installation in Toronto or the GTA? Contact a trusted local provider to get started today with expert support and a seamless experience.

[landscapedesignservicetorrance]

My Journey to a Greener Lawn in Torrance – Why Sod Installation Was a Game Changer

Alright, so let's discuss lawns. If you're like me and reside in Torrance, you've probably seen how maddening it is to maintain fresh-looking grass. Between the SoCal sun, spotty dirt, and occasional weather fluctuations, my lawn had more or less thrown in the towel. After experimenting (and failing) with grass seeds and home lawn care tips, I finally gave in and began searching for sod installation services in the Torrance area. I wasn't even aware what sod was to begin with — I thought it was some high-falutin' gardening term. But as it turns out, sod is just mature grass that's rolled out like carpet. Sounds easy? It kind of is… if you hire the right people to do it. Why I Had New Sod Installed I was simply fed up with: Brown, cracked spots Throwing money away on seed that never grew level Blushing when I had visitors over I thought if I was going to spend money on my house, the lawn would be a place to begin. I wanted a low-maintenance, quick-growing, and long-lasting solution. That's when I began researching new sod installation in Torrance and came across some companies that seemed promising. There are a lot of sod installation businesses around Torrance, but they're not all equal. Some are very inexpensive but sacrifice quality. Others are full-service and do it all from soil preparation to after-install maintenance. I hired a crew that had excellent local ratings and actually knew what type of sod is best for Torrance's climate. They inquired about: How much sun/shade my yard receives If I had wanted drought-resistant grass My long-term care preferences I didn't even consider half of that nonsense, so it was pleasant to feel advised as opposed to hard-sold. The Day of Installation The entire process was easier than I had anticipated. They arrived on time, uprooted the old grass, leveled the ground, and rolled in the new sod like professionals. In a matter of hours, my lawn looked as though it belonged on the cover of a real estate magazine. They even explained to me the watering routine and offered advice on how to ensure the sod took root. Here's what I learned: Don't step on the new sod for a week at least Water it every morning (but not in the evening) Don't mow until the grass roots (typically 2-3 weeks) After a Few Weeks: Big Difference Now, a few weeks on, my lawn is better than ever. I've had neighbors come by and ask what company I hired. It's thick, green, and honestly makes the house feel much more welcoming. It also feels nice knowing I spent money on something that actually benefits my property. Final Thoughts If you're in Torrance and have lawn issues such as I did, I highly recommend new sod installation. It's quick, efficient, and worth its weight in gold as far as curb appeal and comfort go. Just be sure to select experienced sod installation services in Torrance who have a local knowledge of soils and climate — that does make all the difference.

#SodInstallation #NewSodNearTorrance #TorranceLandscaping #GreenLawnGoals #SoCalYards #LawnUpgrade #HomeImprovementTorrance #CurbAppealBoost #BackyardBliss #YardTransformation #EcoFriendlyLawnCare