#shell cufflinks

[skyeslittlecorner]

Oh no, everyone has great ideas and you turn them into such amazing stories 🥹 Love family stuffs ahhhhh 😩

How about the kings and their kids prepare for Mother's day? 👀 The kids ask for advices and join their dads in prepare them (...and the king's gifts too... if you know what I mean 👀👌👈)

I love bringing your ideas to life! And I'm glad that you entrust them to me, you don't even know what an inspiration it is, that I can write for you, and you like it. Stay amazing as always 🙏

Family time, let's go!

꧁:･ ✡ ･:꧂

Satan and the twins had some trouble with their gift for you. They said they wanted to do it themselves, without dad, because it would be a surprise for both of you. Of course, he agreed, but he still ordered the nobles to keep an eye on them. First they went to Sitri and wanted to paint the cups, but they broke them. Then they approached Paimon to make you your own stickers, but after half an hour, glitter was everywhere. Before they accosted anyone else, Astaroth intervened. He took them to the meadow (so they could run around and shake off some glitter) and only when they got tired did he start telling them about how their father was a child, when they were picking wild flowers for bouquets for you.

Satan himself will give you a box of mint-blueberry chocolates, which you regularly carved at 3 a.m. during your pregnancy, and a smirk with the words "I'm ready for round two." Of course, he pissed you off with that. And since he also brought good wine, get ready for the next five rounds.

Mammon and your little gang will present you with a whole collection of jewelry. You expected them to be pasta necklaces and modeling clay earrings, but of course you underestimated them. Pearl necklace, ruby bracelets, cufflinks with gold beads. Of course, they are made a bit crooked and clumsy, the younger the child the more so, but you and Mammon look like the proudest parents in the world. This is the only jewelry you want to wear.

From the king you will receive a beautiful silk set (actually five sets, each matching one piece of jewelry you received), underwear and a long dressing gown, (and a matching dress, shoes and even a handbag), which you will have to try out together.

Beelzebub loves scribbles, and so does his little girl! The card you will receive will be the messiest, most colorful conglomeration of colored tissue paper, photos and ribbons you could ever imagine. Beel made sure that there was no shortage of materials, so in one place you have shells from the Caribbean, a heart made of Chinese silk and amber with a fossil (where did they get it from? Did he really take your daughter for a walk around the world? You don't ask, you don't want to know the answer).

Beel will give you markers with edible icing. He had a great time with the little one, but now it's time for mommy to show off her artistic talent. Preferably on his body. You can trace his tattoos with a marker, or maybe write something new. He's ready to be your canvas all night long.

Your daughter has Leviathan’s perfectionism, but in a specific version that when daddy likes something, it means it's already perfect. Usually. Sometimes she says daddy has no taste, and that's the sassy part she inherited from you. She would spend a good week sitting in her father's office and embroidering a pillow as a gift for you, with small flowers, because she doesn't know anything else yet. Levi makes sure she doesn't gouge out her eye with the needle, and every time the needle almost pierces her finger, the thread pulls it back. He usually doesn't worry about it, let the child learn. This time he would prefer there was no blood on the embroidery because the gift for you has to be more perfect than anything else.

Leviathan will give you a choker, also embroidered, but with black thread on black material. You can read it only by touch. What does it say? Only you two know. It's so adjustable that it's perfect for both wearing and choking.

[messedupfan]

The Hope of a Free World: The Prologue

Summary: It's the last night of the Victory Tour for Katniss and Peeta and you are expected to attend the social event of the year at President Snow's mansion.

A/n: Hello! Sorry that this has taken so long to get out! I had so many ideas when it came to this request. The other two parts aren't quite ready but I hope that y'all enjoy this start!

Masterlist | All Stories Taglist

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You are threading your coin through your fingers and sigh. Things in the districts were beginning to get restless as rumors of an uprising began to spread. Ever since two teenagers from Twelve defied the Capitol and refused to play by the rules of their game. In the name of love, they claimed. It didn’t matter to those in the districts. You found it to be a bold move by the star-crossed lovers of District 12. But anyone paying attention can see that the girl was acting out of survival instincts and defiance. Not out of pure love for the boy she seemed to hardly know. 

“The train to the Capitol will be here soon,” Finnick says as he knocks your feet off of his coffee table as he adjusts his cufflinks. “You need to get ready and preferably stop crashing on my sofa. You have your own house, remember?” He stops at an extravagant mirror that hangs on the wall to adjust his collar. 

You sigh again, “I made a promise to stop drinking excessively. I can’t do that and be alone over there. Besides if I recall, Annie said I can crash here as often as I please.” 

“Wanda is lucky she only has to deal with you a couple of times a year,” he gripes as he double checks his appearance. “Get dressed, now,” he shook his head because you were still sitting on the couch, moving your coin through your fingers. It was your token in the Hunger Games. This was a coin that your father made you when you were a kid. It was a silver medallion meant to be worn on a chain. But you haven’t worn it in years because you rather fiddle with it whenever you are nervous. On the face of the medallion is a trident rising out of thin silver waves. A blue abalone shell provides a naturally patterned ocean blue background. Your father was very skilled with making jewelry. You were excited to return home from your Games to share your wealth with him and buy him all of the material he could only dream of. But, because of your minor rebellious actions in the Games, he was taken from you. By President Snow. 

Not the man himself, of course, but he gave the order. 

“Okay, okay,” you grumble as you stand up from the couch. “You know, I think Annie lets me stay over because I’m the closest thing to a child the two of you will ever have.” 

Finnick shakes his head with a laugh, “You might be right.” Even though you weren’t much younger than Finnick and Annie, they took you under their wing. They knew exactly what you were going through when you lost your father. Finnick knew better than anyone when you turned eighteen and Snow first arranged for you to meet with a customer. The mistake you had made was keeping in touch with your friends and falling for someone. Snow threatened their lives and their families lives if you refused to show the customer a good time. None of them deserved to die for your mistakes. Or worse, be turned into Avoxes. The tongueless slaves to the Capitol. 

In no time at all, you are on the train to the Capitol. For the past couple of years, you were typically giddy about getting a trip to the Capitol. It meant that you could visit with Wanda. But with talks about an uprising, you wanted to focus on that more than anything. A successful uprising could mean freedom from the segregation of the districts and the oppression of President Snow. Freedom from the Games. Most importantly, it could mean the freedom to love. You never saw yourself falling as hard as you have for someone from the Capitol but Wanda has a certain way about her. Beyond the enchanting green eyes and the vibrant red wig, which she wore to blend in with the Capitol culture. She was a person. She had opinions and interesting ideas. She hated the Games as much as anyone in the districts does. 

“Keep your focus, you’ll be able to see your girl tonight,” Finnick whispered into your ear as the train came to a stop. You roll your shoulders and smooth out your clothing as you stand in front of the exit of the train. Katniss and Peeta had been in District 4 only a few days ago for their Victory Tour and tonight was the final night of their tour. It was going to end with a massive party in President Snow’s mansion and every victor that could be sold was expected to be in attendance. Especially since this year’s victors could not be auctioned off as they have been in the past. 

As you are escorted to a vehicle there are screens everywhere airing footage of Peeta on one knee in front of Katniss. You shook your head. They were smart to get engaged so publicly.  You predict that lot of your clients will be so bummed that they can’t have a night with either of them. It could hurt the government and raise a lot of questions if it ever came out that Katniss or Peeta were ever spotted spending time with someone else. Though, you are certain that there are plenty of people that will still try to spend a night with either of them or even both of them once they have turned eighteen. You just hope that the government is overthrown before that can happen. Thankfully, on this trip, you’re not expected to see anyone until the event. So you don’t have to worry about hearing creepy rich guys complain about how they can’t be the ones to deflower the girl on fire. You know exactly where you’ll be spending your night. 

“I think I know who I’m bidding on,” Wanda whispered in your ear from behind you. Her warm breath tickled your skin and warmed your heart as you closed your eyes to bask in the feeling for a moment. 

“Now, now, Ms. Maximoff,” you say as you step back and turn around to get a look at her. Most women in the Capitol opted for frilly dresses, something to accentuate their womanly curves, or hide the lack of them under layers and layers of thick fabric with outlandish designs. Wanda, however, succeeded in showing off her attributes in a simple yet stylish red and black suit with a black turtle neck. The black on her suit sat on the notch lapels of her coat. It looked as though there was a darkness from inside that was spilling out onto the solid blood red that made up the rest of her suit. She also wore a gold necklace with a gold coin on it. You’ve never seen this one before. You frown as you pick it up to observe it, she hasn’t bought jewelry for herself in years. She was usually gifted jewelry and it was never as simple as this. As you move it in the light, an image of the Mockingjay appears. “That’s quite a piece right there.” You look around and notice all of the memorabilia and cheap merchandise of that bird that decorated the event on both the walls, tables, and even the guests. 

“Like it?” Wanda asks as she leans in. “It’s one of a kind,” she winks. 

You smirk as you adjust the gold coin on her chest. “Very fitting for you, Ms. Maximoff.” You wink. There was a reason this Mockingjay was hidden in plain sight but you weren’t going to ask standing in a heavily monitored event. 

Wanda blushes, “You flatter me too much.” You’re about to ask where you could get something of your own when music announcing President Snow’s appearance cuts the conversation short. Every person that was inside of the mansion filtered out the back doors to give their full attention to the President as he addressed the attendees. You didn’t care too much for the speech when you noticed Finnick slipping away with the 75th Hunger Games head gamemaker, Plutarch Heavnsbee. You narrowed your eyes as you finished the rest of your mocktail. Wishing that you could’ve had alcohol inside. 

That night, you didn’t follow them. You didn’t ask questions. You simply made polite conversation with the guests of honor as well as the other guests while making a mental note of everyone of your fellow victors that you’ve noticed disappear throughout the event. The absence that worried you the most was Wanda’s. You were certain she would have taken you home with her. Luckily, when you went to find out who did win the bidding war for your company, you were relieved to be informed that Ms. Maximoff was waiting for you at her home. 

You didn’t ask Wanda where she disappeared off to when she finally slipped through the shadows and joined you in the bed. You kept your thoughts to yourself in the morning as you committed the details of being with her to your memory. Every freckle and beauty mark that was spread about on her body. Every kiss she placed on yours. Every taste. Every caress. The way her enchanting green eyes made you dream of a brighter future as you gazed into them. You memorized the way her breath changed as she got closer and closer to her climax. Her light giggles when you made a joke and kissed behind her ear. This wasn’t a meeting that you needed to numb yourself from. You wanted to be here between her warm silk sheets, memorizing the way she fit perfectly in your arms as she sat between your legs. Locking all of it away in a place close to your heart for you to use the next time you have to be with someone else. 

“Wanda I,” you sighed where you sat at the edge of her bed as you got ready to leave her. She crawled up to you and wrapped her body around you as she hushed you.

“Don’t say it,” she whispered against your ear as she kissed your neck. “I know.” You nodded and melted in her embrace for a moment before you finished getting ready. Her time was almost up and the Peacekeepers were very punctual. 

It was noon when you kissed her goodbye just as a Peacekeeper knocked lightly on the door to escort you to the vehicle that is going to deliver you to the train you’ll take home. You hated when Peacekeepers picked you up in the Capitol. They were so polite it made you sick. It was unfair. They were meant to keep the peace but often they could be the opposite in the districts. According to your father, that’s how you lost your mother. She was bartering with a Peacekeeper that was trying to lowball her. She refused and that made the officer unhappy. He had every Peacekeeper in Four keep a close eye on her and when she eventually slipped up, they had her executed. Your father never mentioned what she did that cost her life and you never asked. 

But when you return to District 4, you end your streak of not asking questions and you pull Finnick aside to ask him what the hell is going on.

The Tribute The Mentor

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[megistusdiary]

No thoughts head empty except for the inherit sexuality of putting on a fancy dress and struggling to zip it, and arle just has to come over and help you out, her hands gently gliding over your back to zip it

-🎭, down bad as always

wait, you're cooking‼️‼️💯💯

i NEED this so bad. except the zipper would go right back down 🤭

let me write a little something since it's been a hot minute because i've been drained 🫠﹒

i think i made her a little manipulative, but...come on. it's arlecchino.

⪩⪨﹒arlecchino thoughts﹒⪩⪨

warnings: fem reader, suggestive themes

"what's taking so long, doll?" arlecchino nudges your door wide open, leaning on the frame. she's been ready, punctual as always, eyes slightly narrowed as she watches you slowly turn to face her.

you're standing in front of the ornate mirror of your shared bedroom, one hand holding up the back of your dress from slipping right off of you. "i'll be right there, i promise-" your voice is muffled as you turn over your shoulder.

she can see you clearly struggling to catch the zipper, reaching back clumsily. her lips quirk up the tiniest bit, something only you would ever catch. her heels click on the floor as she walks towards you, idly fidgeting with her cufflinks.

she leans over your shoulder, lips brushing the shell of your ear. she makes eye-contact with you using the mirror, leaning closer so you can only see one of her deep red eyes.

"such a clumsy girl," she playfully tuts, leaning back up to move your hand, skillfully catching the dress fabric. her other hand slides down your back, a sharp nail lightly dragging itself down your bare skin.

she teases you further, sliding it over the band of your panties before pulling it away and zipping the dress up ever so slowly. once the zipper reaches the top, she finishes buttoning the fabric, relishing in the way your skin radiates heat from the suggestive touches.

"hurry now, or we'll be late. you wouldn't want to make me steal some other unfortunate couple's reservation, would you?" her voice is low and calculated in your ear. there are hints of tenderness hidden beneath, and you shiver.

you turn to look over your shoulder at her, eyes flicking between her eyes and lips. "of course not."

she rewards you with a chaste kiss, your lipstick leaving a soft cast on her lips. "good girl. i'll be in the car."

[pascalispretty]

The Poetry of the Body: One

Miguel Galindo x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Discussions of pregnancy, implied age gap, hair pulling, choking, biting, scratching, dirty talk, breeding kink, D/s vibes, Miguel being himself, heavy petting, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, daddy kink. AU where Emily doesn't exist.

Summary: You and Miguel discuss the possibility of expanding your family, and negotiate the details.

A/N: thanks to my beloved @misscharlielulu for all her love and support in getting this finished. Title of the fic is from 'La llama doble. Amor y erotismo' by Octavio Paz. Title of the chapter comes from the Pablo Neruda poem 'My Lovely One', which is quoted within the fic (see end of work for translation). Written to fulfil the 'breeding kink' prompt for @storiesofsvu2-0's bingo!

One: My Homeland Is In Your Eyes (ao3)

It’s late by the time you and Miguel come home. The house is quiet; the guards near-silent as they patrol the perimeter, the rest of the household fast asleep. As soon as you get through the front door you kick your heels off, wanting to preserve the peace that’s settled over the house. At the top of the stairs, where Miguel makes to turn left, you tug on his hand. 

“I wanna see Cristóbal,” you whisper, aware that the wine from dinner makes you sound as tipsy as you feel. 

“Don’t wake him,” he says after a moment and follows your lead down the hall, your footsteps muted by the thick carpet. Your husband’s hand is warm in yours as you carefully push open the door of your son’s room. The light from the hallway spills into the nursery, just enough to illuminate Cristóbal sleeping soundly in his bed. The tangle of his dark curls stands out starkly against his light sheets – you feel an overwhelming urge to tiptoe across the room and press a kiss to his head. 

Instead, you hover in the doorway with Miguel and content yourself with blowing him a kiss. Any more would risk waking him.

“See?” Miguel whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Safe and sound.” He squeezes your hand reassuringly, and you both watch as Cristóbal nuzzles closer to his stuffed rabbit. The nursery door closes with a soft click and this time you let Miguel lead you by the hand to the other end of the house and your bedroom. 

“It’s unfair, you know,” you start once your bedroom door closes behind you. Miguel half turns on his way into the en suite, raising an eyebrow. 

“What’s that?” 

“How much he looks like you.” You boost yourself up on the bathroom counter, getting comfortable as you undo Miguel’s cufflinks for him. Miguel smiles at you, chucking you playfully under the chin once you’re done. 

“You say that as though it’s a bad thing,” Miguel replies, toeing his dress shoes off. The bathroom always looks a mess after a night like tonight, clothes thrown in the vague direction of the hamper and your makeup strewn everywhere until you can be bothered to straighten everything up. 

“It’s not bad,” you protest, watching intently as Miguel takes his phone out of his pocket so he can shrug his grey blazer and vest off. “It just feels very unfair that I did all the hard work, but he’s the spitting image of you.” 

“Sorry, querida. You’re going to have to take that one up with God.” You roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing, hopping down from the counter. 

“God’s got nothing to do with it. Certainly not where you’re concerned.” It’s a mischievous jab, one that takes you dangerously close to precarious ground. You at least have the wherewithal not to call him ‘el Diablo’ to his face. Turning around, you glance up at Miguel’s reflection in the mirror to study his reaction, pleased that he seems more amused than annoyed. 

“I’m not about to let anything else take credit for my exceptionally good genes. I just hope he has his mother’s brains.” 

“And his father’s humility.” You flick the tap on, and open the drawer beside it to get your pills. The alarm had gone off on your phone at dinner, prompting you to take it, but that had been hours ago. Only the topic of conversation reminded you of it. 

Before you can attempt to wrest one of the tiny pills from the package, you feel one of Miguel’s arms loop tightly around your waist, his body moulding against yours. He reaches forward to turn the faucet off again.

“Don’t take it.” Miguel rests his chin on your shoulder, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. For a long moment, you just look at him, wondering if you heard him right. This time, there’s no teasing in his expression; his lovely dark eyes are full of sincerity. 

“Miguel-” you start, not even sure where to begin. 

“What? We’ve talked about it. We could see if this one looks more like you.” He presses closer, his beard prickling your neck and his gaze unwavering. 

“...in a vague, ‘someday’ kind of way. We should at least have an actual, sober conversation about having another baby.” You fidget idly with the pack of birth control pills still in your hand. Miguel was right; you had talked about it, on-and-off since before Cristóbal was even born. 

Before you had gotten pregnant with your son, the answer had been an unwavering ‘yes’. Two children had felt like a good number; little siblings who could play and grow together. And even now, the idea tugs on your heartstrings, the thought of your precious family expanding to welcome another perfect baby. 

And yet. 

“I- Miguel, it was so hard with Cristóbal.” It’s a severe understatement. He sighs softly, arms squeezing you tighter. 

“I know, amor. But we’ll know what to expect this time. And you know I’ll always take care of you.” Miguel dips his head to press a kiss to your bare shoulder. Your hesitation is weakening by the second, soothed by Miguel’s touch and his promise. 

“Even when I get fat and hideous again?” You ask, running the fingers of your free hand along his forearm. 

“You weren’t fat, you were pregnant. How could you possibly be hideous, full of our baby?” He trails more kisses along the curve of your shoulder and neck, and you tip your head back to allow him better access. 

“You just say that because you were into it,” you huff, but Miguel ignores you in favour of nipping your throat. He could hardly deny it anyway; from the first shy curve of your belly, he had been intensely preoccupied with the changes his baby was wreaking on your body. 

The relentless assault on your reserve escalates when your husband presses his leg between yours, providing the barest amount of pressure at the apex of your thighs. Your cocktail dress isn’t so accommodating; you’re certain you hear some of the stitches pop as he tries to force your legs further apart. It’s so hard to think straight with his mouth at your neck and his thigh against your centre, that familiar tightness in your core just starting to build. 

You let go of the pills, the packet clattering as it falls from your fingers and into the sink. 

“I want a real conversation about this tomorrow. Sober. Uninterrupted,” you manage between shaking breaths. The hard line of his cock presses insistently against the curve of your backside, and your eyes practically roll back in your head at the feeling. 

“Fine,” Miguel says between kisses, backing off just enough to turn you around to face him. 

“I mean it,” you try even as he encourages you up to sit on the bathroom counter. Your fingers grip the front of his black shirt, and you have to fight the urge to pull it open and send buttons scattering over the floor. 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight’s mine.” Miguel steps between your legs and tries to kiss you, but you lean back. 

“Tonight’s yours, jefe. But if we’re trying again, I want to be seduced. Make it something I want.” Your fingers start working open the buttons of his shirt as he gives you an amused smile.  

“I can’t conjure up another thunderstorm, mi amor,” he starts, and you pout up at him. In a hormonal haze when you were pregnant with Cristóbal, you had become convinced he’d been conceived during one of the rare thunderstorms that rolled across the desert. The oppressive August heat had broken for a little while, and you and Miguel had made good use of the time. 

“If you don’t like my terms-” 

“The terms are fine, I’m just tempering your expectations. Short of arranging an act of God for you, what kind of seduction do you want?” He trails his fingers up the inside of your thigh, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw gently. You swallow thickly, the way he’s looking at you making you feel delirious with need. 

“Do you want me to be sweet with you, baby?” The hand on your thigh slides under the hem of your dress, higher, until his fingertips brush against your silky underwear. He knows you, knows what you need; for him to supplant your anxieties with something dark and thrilling. You don’t miss the brief, smug smirk when he registers how wet you are already, and he makes a soft, contented noise in the back of his throat. 

“My pretty baby. I can be sweet with you if you want me to be. Bring you roses and compare you to poetry. ‘Mi patria está en tus ojos, yo camino por ellos, ellos dan luz al mundo por donde yo camino…’” Miguel leans in to kiss you again, and you don’t pull back this time. Using Neruda and pet names against you is underhanded at best, but you can’t argue with it, not when you’d asked for a seduction. 

Miguel’s mouth slants over yours, stealing your breath with the depth of the kiss. You can taste the whiskey from dinner on his lips. His fingertips press more firmly against your cunt, finding your clit through the silk, and you whimper against his mouth as heat radiates through your body. You’re so caught up in the way his hand between your legs is petting at you that you don’t notice his other hand shifting. He grabs a fistful of your hair with no warning, the sharp pain in your scalp eliciting a stunned cry from you. The feeling dances right along that knife edge of pleasure-pain, one that you’ve become intimately familiar with since you met Miguel. 

“Or do you want a different kind of seduction?” He asks, ignoring your needy whine when he stops stroking your clit. The hand in your hair tugs down, forcing you to arch your back and expose your throat to him. More stitches pop as he steps closer between your legs, your dress riding up your thighs as you try to accommodate him. He leans down until your noses bump, his dark gaze unwavering. 

“Should I be mean to you, mi amor? Cruel, demanding?” His free hand finds your throat, his palm burning hot against your skin. Your nails catch at his black undershirt, clawing at the soft fabric. The silk of your dress and the slick marble of the counter leaves you feeling like you’re slipping inexorably forwards, towards Miguel. He gives a little shake of your throat; he’s barely applying any pressure, but your breath hitches anyway. 

“I know how much you like it, mijita. You like it so much it makes you feel wretched,” he murmurs, and you can’t argue with him. Even the condescending way he calls you ‘mijita’ does something inexplicable to you, sending heat rushing through your veins, scorching you from the inside out. 

“Fuck, Miguel-” you gasp out, your eyelashes fluttering closed. He could have you right here on the unforgiving bathroom counter and you’d only urge him on. Instead, he hauls you upright, steadying you when your knees nearly buckle under you, and kisses you again. His beard rasps against your skin, his tongue dips between your lips, and it all works in concert to make the ache in your core feel so overwhelming that you might cry. 

The two of you stumble towards the bedroom together, neither of you willing to break apart for long enough to find your way more easily. You manage to get Miguel’s shirt and undershirt off finally, and you feel immensely gratified by the soft groan you pull from him when you drag your nails down his chest. You stop at the foot of the bed, Miguel reaching behind you to try and find the zipper of your dress.

Part of you wants to tell him not to bother - with all the sounds of stitches ripping earlier, the delicate silk is probably beyond saving - but you take the opportunity while his hands are occupied to run your fingers through his dark curls. He’s always so put together for the rest of the world, but you adore messing with his hair; on rare occasions, he’ll let you comb your fingers through it while he rests his head in your lap. 

More stitches pop when Miguel finally gets the zipper undone and shoves your dress abruptly down your body, leaving it in an expensive pile on the floor as he focuses his attention on your bra. By the time he has you completely stripped, your chest is heaving as you try to catch your breath between kisses, your heart beating a rapid tattoo against your ribcage. 

“Bed,” he orders, even as he pushes you back onto the mattress. You do as you’re told, moving back until you reach the pillows and kicking the heavy duvet out of the way. Sitting with your back to the tufted headboard, you watch with hungry eyes as Miguel undresses the rest of the way. Your reaction to the sight and sound of him undoing his belt is practically Pavlovian; you can feel more slick pooling between your thighs as he does it. 

You drink in the sight of him greedily, eyes trailing over tanned skin and firm muscle. It’s a mutual act of voyeurism. He’s eyeing you predatorily, like he’s deciding on how best he wants to devour you. Neither of you takes your eyes off one another for a long moment, even as he moves to kneel on the bed at your feet. 

Miguel’s large hands cup your ankles first, his thumbs sweeping over the delicate jut of bone before sliding up your calves, your thighs, higher. You’re pliant for him, letting him open your legs so he can kneel between your thighs, so agonisingly close to where you want him most. It’s only as he spreads his hands over your hips that you realise what he’s looking at, and you squirm in discomfort. 

“Miguel, don’t-” you start, automatically trying to bring one of your hands down to cover your c-section scar. He ignores you, batting your hand away before grasping your hips again. His thumbs rub circles over your hipbones, just inches away from the scar you can’t stand. 

“Oh, mijita,” he murmurs, condescension creeping into his voice again. “This is Galindo territory. If I wanted to keep you in this bed until something stuck, I could.” As distractions go, it’s excellent. Your mind spins off in half a dozen directions at once. By the tone of his voice, you know he’s not referring to Santo Padre when he’s talking about territory. 

Whether he means either your bed or your body, you’ll gladly cede control to him like this. 

The feminist in you should feel ashamed at the way you crave his dominance and displays of strength, but you’d abandoned yourself to it years ago. He’d long since discovered that it was the perfect way to get you out of your own head. 

Miguel’s hands move up from your hips, coming to rest on either side of your head as he stretches his body out over yours. You wrap yourself around him eagerly, cradling his hips with your thighs and wrapping your arms around his broad torso so you can clutch at his back. The warm weight of him on top of you sends you squirming, seeking some sort of relief for your aching cunt. 

You surge forward and kiss him hard, whimpering against his mouth when you feel one of his hands slip between your bodies. He wraps his fingers around his cock, his knuckles brushing your slick folds and you flick your hips to try and chase the brief touch. 

“You’re so wet,” he manages, dragging the head of his cock through your slit. The feeling makes you wail, your cunt clenching pathetically around nothing. “I’m going to fuck you full, baby.” 

“God, do it, do it-” you gasp out, cutting yourself off with a sharp cry when he finally stops teasing and slides into you, burying himself to the hilt. Wet as you are, it’s still a stretch as he fills you, dragging you right back along that pleasure-pain knife edge. The two of you groan together when he bottoms out, your hands skittering along his back as you search for purchase and your eyes squeezing closed. 

Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulders when he pulls most of the way out, as though you can claw him back down to you. He doesn’t need the encouragement to sink back in again, but you swear you feel him pulse inside of you when you scratch your way down his back. Normally scratching at Miguel like that would get you punished, but he barely even falters as he starts to fuck you properly. 

Every hard thrust of his hips sends more heat licking through your veins, pleasure coiling so tightly in your belly that you can barely breathe. You can feel every low groan rumbling through Miguel’s chest as it escapes him. It’s impossible to tell where he ends and you begin, his cock pushing up against the very end of you. 

His hands, his huge hands that you love so much, settle on your waist and hold you tight so you don’t shift up the bed. The way he moves you so easily makes you feel helpless in the most thrilling, perverse way. He could crack you in two, and you’d only thank him for it. And now, with the weight of him on you and his grip on your waist, all you can do is lie there and take what he gives you. 

“Miguel-” His name escapes you as a pathetic little mewl between moans, and when you force your eyes open you nearly black out. He’s looking down at you with an intensity that makes you want to sob, a vivid reminder of the pleasure he took in trying to get you pregnant the first time. You’re agonisingly close to the edge, the muscles in your core cramping from being held taut for so long, and you try to shove one of your hands between your bodies. 

It doesn’t work. There’s not enough space between you, you can’t move Miguel’s solid chest enough to get room to slide your hand down, and you really do sob this time in frustration. 

“Miguel, please,” you manage, grabbing at one of his hands. “Please, please, I’m so close, I just need your fingers, please.” You’re in no state to eloquently ask for what you want; you’re surprised you can even recall your own name right now. You throw your head back in anticipation when Miguel takes your cue, his pace unchecked even as he slides his hand between you to find your clit. 

A ragged sound rips out of your mouth as he strokes your clit. There’s no technique to it, but it doesn’t matter; every pass of his fingers sends you spiralling higher, your body bearing down on him as you teeter on the brink. 

“Oh fuck.” Your voice sounds wrecked even to your own ears. “That’s it, ‘m so close, please Daddy, please Daddy-” you chant, until the tension in your belly suddenly snaps and sends you hurtling over the edge. Heat washes over your body, radiating out until you find yourself balling your fists and curling your toes at the intensity. 

Before you’ve even stopped trembling, Miguel’s hand finds your throat again and squeezes. It’s not enough pressure to cut your air off completely, but it’s enough to turn your moans into weak gasps. Your hands catch his wrist, urging him on, trying to get him to press tighter. You hope he leaves bruises. The sharp movements of his hips turn savage and he fucks you harder into the mattress as he presses down on your throat. You feel drunk on him, your head swimming as you try to clench down on him, to help him find his release the way he’d helped you. 

Miguel comes with a loud groan, his fingers tightening on your neck as he forces himself closer, trying to come as deeply in you as he can. The hand on your throat slackens, and you take a deep, gulping breath as you wait for your husband to come back to himself. His weight drops onto you as his muscles slacken and you wrap your arms around him. 

You let your eyes fall closed and run your fingers down his back, smiling to yourself when you feel him press kisses down your sternum. 

“Good girl,” he whispers against your breast as he pulls out of you, rolling off you and onto his side. You whine at the loss of him, still trying to catch your breath. It makes you jump when he touches your thigh unexpectedly, tugging it towards him. Still, you don’t bother to open your eyes until you feel his fingers at your cunt again. 

“Miguel-” you start, opening your eyes and looking down just in time to see him catch a drop of his come that had leaked out of you with his fingertip, and push it abruptly back into you. He must register the surprise on your face because he gives you that smug smile again. 

“You promised me that tonight was mine. Give Daddy half an hour and he’ll be able to go again, there’s my good girl,” he murmurs, half-dragging you into his arms. As much as you want to relax against his chest, you can’t help but pout up at him. It’s so casually condescending, but he had it right earlier; you like it so much, beyond all sense. Miguel notices the expression on your face, and the smirk on his face widens. 

“It’s not my fault you’re a terrible negotiator.” Miguel smooths your hair down and runs his hand down your back. You concede, letting yourself go boneless as he palms your ass, pressing you closer to him. “So smart, but so susceptible to my charms.” 

Taglist: @misscharlielulu, @avengersfan25

Poetry Translation: Mi patria está en tus ojos, yo camino por ellos, ellos dan luz al mundo por donde yo camino // My homeland is in your eyes, I walk through them, they light the world through which I walk.

[rumbelleshowdown]

-

Author: Sourcherryjam

Group: C

Prompts: Siren's song, full moon. Landlord troubles. Challenges.

-

The Siren's Call

Rent day usually meant an empty shop, everyone avoiding their landlord until Mr. Gold made the rounds himself to collect payments.

Then, fourteen months ago, Belle French had accepted the librarian position and moved into town, and suddenly, every rent day, she was in on her lunch break with a check and a smile. 

Of course, Gold didn’t care that she came. What did it matter to him if someone actually sought him out to pay him on time, in full? Sure, in doing so, she ensured that he took every maintenance complaint seriously—he’d even once gone himself to fix her garbage disposal. He didn’t care that she’d smiled at him, offered him a cup of tea, and engaged him in conversation about his antique cufflinks. 

He didn’t care about the librarian.

The only reason he made sure to be in at lunchtime on rent day was to avoid confusion, that was all. He only checked the clock every few minutes to see how much of his time she wasted. 

Today, it was fifty-five minutes. Fifty-five minutes he’d spent polishing a silver tea service instead of collecting rent. She usually came within half an hour, chatted for ten or so minutes, and then left, for a total of, at most, forty wasted minutes, but now it’d been fifty-five and he hadn’t even seen her yet?

This was why he didn’t care about Belle French. Ultimately, she would turn on him like everyone else.

It was a full seventy-two minutes before Belle French staggered into the shop like she’d been shot.

“Morning, Mr. Gold,” she slurred, eyes half closed as she wobbled toward him. Was she drunk?

“It’s past one, Miss French.” He set his cloth down, watching her ping-pong across the floor, hand pressed to her forehead. “What is the matter with you?”

She slumped into his counter, pressed her eyes into her palm, and slid a check to him. He pried it out from under her finger, and even the familiar Alice in Wonderland pattern didn’t please him.

“This is blank.” It took fourteen months, but the librarian was finally trying to get a favor out of him.

“Just fill it in,” Belle said. “You know how—” She groaned, sinking further into her hand. “—much it is.”

That was a new tactic. It soothed his ruffled feathers. “It’s fully blank, Miss French. You didn’t even sign it.” 

“What?” She peeked between her fingers and he showed it to her. “Oh god. Mr. Gold, I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s going on?”

She dropped her head to the counter, and he squashed down the urge to stroke her hair. He was her landlord. He didn’t even use her first name.

“It’s this headache.” 

“A headache?” His hand moved as if it wanted to touch her forehead, and he clamped his other hand over it. “Seems like a migraine.”

“I’ve never had a migraine before,” she said.  “And this one’s gone on eight days.”

Before he could stop himself, he’d walked around the counter to put his arm around her. “Eight days? What did Dr. Whale say?”

When he prompted her upright, she followed along, hanging half limp against him. 

“I didn’t go.” 

He slung her arm over his shoulder, supporting her with his across her waist, and half dragged her to the back. If anyone walked in, they’d think he’d drugged her.

“Why not?”

“Useless.”

They crossed through the doorway and just as he was about to scold her, her hand fell from her eyes and she straightened a fraction. 

“It hurts less,” she said. “What’s happened? What do you have back here?”

She plopped down on his cot, and he suddenly realized what he was doing. Without a second’s thought, he’d brought Belle—Miss French—the love of his life—fuck—back to his private room and led her to the cot he himself slept on. 

“Lots of things.” He stepped toward her, thumping harder on his cane than necessary. Just the librarian. Miss French. A tenant. 

She zeroed in on something behind him. “That. What’s that?” 

Before he could answer, she was across the room, grabbing a gilded conch shell off a cluttered shelf. He barely had time to marvel at her boldness before she let out a sigh he felt all the way in his toes.

“Oh my god.” She sank back onto his cot, clutching the conch. “I can hear my own thoughts again. What is this?” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to dismiss it as just a trinket, but the memory of polishing it teased at him. He’d been sitting at his table eight days ago, the night of the full moon, carefully working a rag over its bumps and crevices until it shone, thinking about how he’d seen Belle leave the library laughing on the phone. He’d spent all day trying not to think about it, but in the back of his shop, he allowed himself to dwell, to imagine that he’d been on the other end making her laugh. 

Then, he’d felt a tremor, assumed it was just the old building settling, and moved on with his evening.

“It’s a siren horn.” Thank god for his practiced confidence. “Legend says—what are you doing?”

Belle walked past him, clutching the shell. “I have to go this way.” 

He all but ran after her, grabbing the pistol out of its drawer on the way, and caught her as she was stepping off the sidewalk.

“Where are you going?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. This way.”

He couldn’t believe what was happening. He couldn’t believe himself. Who was he? 

“I’ll drive you.”

***

Gold wasn’t surprised that, after a lot of meandering and dead ends, they pulled up to the marina. He’d known all along that Belle was being called to the sea. 

The locked door wouldn’t stop her, but it stalled her long enough for Gold to limp out and around to her. 

“Do you hear that?” She clutched the conch, staring at the water with glassy eyes.

“No.” He could imagine what she heard—the siren’s song. That’s the last time he wouldn’t take a legend seriously. 

She kicked her shoes off as she strode to the shore, mouth sagging. In the car, she’d told him all about the internet hacks and remedies she’d tried, including submerging herself in a tub full of ice which he’d be imagining for eternity, but now she floated forward in silence, him thumping after her.

“Belle.”

“Yes?”

She shrugged out of her cardigan and dropped it into the sand. With no idea of what to do, Gold grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the dock instead of the water. It seemed like it would be easier to contain her there.

“Mr. Gold,” she said, allowing him to tug her. “It’s okay. You can let go.”

“No,” he snarled. “I won’t let you drown yourself.”

“She won’t let me drown. Can’t you hear her?”

They reached the dock, and if Gold stopped panicking, he could hear a distant melody calling Belle’s name. He took a step toward it, then shook his head. One of them had to stay clear or they’d both drown. 

She walked up to the edge and curled her toes around the wood, swaying forward. If he hadn’t been holding her, she’d have fallen in.

“Let go, Mr. Gold.”

“Belle, give me the horn.”

She clutched it tighter, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t destroyed it in his shop. Any idiot would have, but he was too busy mooning over Belle. 

“Belle.”

“It’s not mine to give.” 

She looked over the water and he saw it—a churning pool moving closer. No more time for thinking. He grabbed the shell, letting go of Belle as he did, and when she shrieked and scrabbled backwards for it, it rolled off the dock.

“Shit.”

He ripped off his jacket, waistcoat, shirt, and tie, tearing buttons and silk as he did. He was afraid of being weighed down by all his clothes, of having something for the siren to grab, so he kicked off his shoes and his pants, and as Belle slipped into the water, he dove in after her and the shell in his underthings.

Destroying the shell was his first priority, so he swam past Belle to retrieve it, then came up underneath her, pushing her up with his shoulder and a strength he was grateful he possessed. She fought him, dress billowing out around her and into his way, but he hadn’t become a rich old miser by giving up easily. He all but hurled her back onto the dock, and as she struggled to return to the sea, he smashed the conch against the wood.

A piercing, unearthly shriek rent the air, and they both clapped their hands over their ears. 

“Mr. Gold?” Belle asked, clear-eyed, and he breathed. She was back. “Oh god, hang on, I’m coming!” 

He floated to the dock, reaching for her outstretched hand when something gripped him like a vice and dragged him backwards.

“Mr. Gold!” Belle shrieked, straining for him, but the siren dragged him out of reach.

“Belle!” 

It pulled him under water, but he could still see Belle rummaging through his clothes. Was she robbing him? He deserved it. 

But then she stood at the edge of the dock, pistol pointed at him, and he understood. She and the siren were in cahoots. Did he have any oxygen?

Her mouth moved, but he couldn’t hear her anymore, and then the gun exploded and so did his shoulder, and so did the siren behind him, and despite the pain and blossom of blood, he was free. He kicked up, and when he reached the surface, Belle grabbed him and pulled.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” she said. “It just grazed you.”

“It’s fine,” he wheezed in between coughing up water. His undershirt was soaked and pink. “You can owe me a favor.”

“A big one.” She put her arm around him. “Come on, let’s get you to the hospital.” 

She helped him up, and he was freezing, soaking wet in his underwear with a bullet wound. He looked down at his discarded clothes, the shards of shell. Belle pressed his wadded-up button-down to his shoulder and  handed him his cane, but kept her arm around him as he transferred his weight to it.

“How does it feel,” he said as they limped, two bedraggled lumps, to the car, “living out the most popular fantasy in Storybrooke?” 

“What? Being saved by a dashing hero?”

“Shooting me.”

She snickered, and his mouth twitched in the closest thing to a grin he could manage. That was a real laugh.

“You’ll probably need someone to take care of you while you recover,” Belle said.

He wrinkled his nose at the thought of hiring a nurse to deal with a shoulder scratch. “I can manage on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked up at her, and she was biting her lip at him, fluttering her eyelashes. Was he crazy, or was she flirting? 

“I suppose if someone owed me a big favor, I could use the help.” 

They reached his car and she turned to face him, still pressing his bundled shirt to his wound, hand speckled with his blood. 

“You know, I was sick all week, and no one even tried to help me with my headache,” she said. “I’d like to thank you.”

He couldn’t breathe, and it had nothing to do with the pain or the water. “It’s no matter.”

“Maybe this will do?” She licked her lips, and he had a second to fantasize about that before he didn’t need to, because she was pressing them to his, and he was just standing there, limp and lifeless as a fish. She pulled back and bit her lip.

“Well?”

He cleared his throat, trying to string together even one coherent thought other than Belle. “That’ll do,” he said hoarsely, and then he kissed her again.

-

[adelha-mathilde]

Lucifer ends up getting whisked away for a week. Adelha just up and kidnapped him to leave but a text. Telling Diavolo that she is holding Lucifer for ransom.

So Lucifer spends his birthday on a secluded island. Lots of fresh air and sandy beaches as well as tons of fresh seafood. Adelha has made sure that there is both tea and a bit of opera music in the cottage.

The local wildlife tend to visit them both during the afternoon. Like a family of foxes that end up smelling the fresh fish to nab a couple of them. While the local pixies that live in a tree close to the cottage tend to pilfer things. Like Lucifer's gloves or his cufflinks for him to hunt down. A silly game for everyone that ends with the pixies getting cream for their antics and a light scolding.

Lucifer returns to the Devildom with a slight tan and a warm smile. Diavolo finding that Lucifer collected a jar filled with sea shells and shiny stones to keep at his desk. While the brothers each get a hug from Lucifer. Adelha is sure to spend that return night at the House of Lamentation. Fish stew is on the menu.

[multipleoccupancy]

The Winter Solstice was celebrated very differently in District 4, and the only gifts people exchanged there were either beautiful shells or sea glass found on the beach. Upon arriving in the Capitol, Fish quickly realized that here, gift-giving was a big part of the celebrations. And of course, the gifts had to be expensive.

She adapted to the tradition quickly, always a chameleon, and got Caesar a very sparkly blue tie that made him tear up with emotion. But as for finding a gift for the President, that was another matter entirely. After hesitating for a few days (Should she even buy him one? Was it rude to do it, or rude not to do it?) she had settled on a pair of silver cuff links shaped like roses. A little bit on the nose, but he was not exactly an easy man to shop for.

Giving the gift to him was yet another nerve-wracking experience, and she just placed the box before him, eyes darted at the table awkwardly. "I just wanted to thank you for everything you have done for me this year, Mr. President."

@imprvdente

Coriolanus had not expected a gift from Fish Monet of all people. Yes, his officers and various suck ups were expected usually out of necessity, sometimes out of life or death. As for himself, he usually treated his immediate family to gifts, trivial usually except for Cassia who was the known and obvious favourite.

He cast a look over the box presented to him, raising his eyebrows in some surprise, genuine for a change as his mind whirred with the possibilities. Was there poison in the box like Lucy Gray had done with his mother's compact? Was it a genuine gift, properly thought out to gain more of his favour? Or was she in the belief that he could be paid off for all he had indeed done for her.

"That is very thoughtful of you, Miss Monet," he accepted or at least seemed to as he picked up the box and carefully opened it, off to the side so he could dodge anything that might fly out of it.

A flash of silver and his eyes settled on the pair of cufflinks and their statement shape. He did admire them for a long moment in total silence, his eyes looking over the details she at least had an understanding of what he would like. "Thank you," he said in half a grumble and then closed the box, setting it aside and willing himself not to even look at the box again as if he had lost all interest in it. She could not be of the belief that she knew his tastes.

"I understand that things are done differently in the Districts this time of year. Remind me what is the tradition in District 4? Gift giving is not usually practiced." So she had to be playing his game, didn't she?

[fanfiction-butterfree]

THE NANNY NAMED LUIGI

CHAPTER II: Airplanes and Early mornings

Koopa Man: This is your pilot speaking. Thank you for flying Air Goomba. We should be arriving at Shadow City International Airport in just under 5 hours. The skies are relatively clear so we expect only a slight amount of turbulence. 

Luigi sighed as he stared out of the airplane window. In just 7 hours he'd be at Bowser's Castle to act as the nanny for the Koopalings and their brother Bowser Junior. He still didn't know how his brother managed to convince him to take the job. Then again he hadn't managed to get a job since he'd been fired by his fiance, so maybe he was just open to any suggestion.  

Goomba Steward: The emergency exits are located there and there. 

The goomba gestured towards the orange colored emergency exits.

The green dressed Mario brother looked around the cabin. 

There were Toads on their way to vacation. 

Business Koopas on their way home. 

Humans who would transfer to a plane headed to the Luncheon Kingdom for a wedding. 

And a few others whose goals varied from migration to a short vacation. 

As the plane's engines revved up, and the fasten seatbelt sign went on, the emerald clad human closed his eyes, hoping to get some sleep before he arrived at his destination. 

The means people used to travel in this world were as diverse as the beings that inhabited it. 

There were cars, bicycles, motorcycles, and hot air balloons. Trams, buses, trains, and blimps. There were planes, ships, koopa copters, and spaceships. There were things I had yet to mention and that most people of our world had yet to imagine. 

But of all the methods used to traverse distances, the most famous was the warp pipe. A technological marvel that could get you from A to B in a fraction of the time it took all but the fastest commercial planes. 

It was, sadly, also the least comfortable, most expensive to build, and hardest to maintain form of transportation. Which is why it was generally only built when money was no option. Such as in certain government buildings so doctors, politicians, military, aid workers, and refugees could easily get to an allied nation or a nearby province. Or temporarily in the case sporting events, or kidnappings. 

Teenage Male Koopa: GIMME THAT! 

Slightly Younger Male Koopa: NO IT'S MINE! 

Teenage Male Koopa: YOU DON'T EVEN USE IT! 

Much Younger Male Koopa: I'M TELLING DAD!

Bowser woke up like he did every morning to the sound of his children arguing over something. 

Teenage Male Koopa & Slightly Younger Male Koopa: DON'T YOU DARE!! 

Much Younger Male Koopa: DAD! 

In this case the argument was between three of his least favorite kids. 

Even Younger Male Koopa: IGGY AND LEMMY ARE FIGHTING AGAIN! 

Iggy & Lemmy: SHUT UP LARRY!

Larry started crying

Bowser: KNOCK IT OFF OR I'M SENDING YOU ALL TO BOARDING SCHOOL ON THE MOON! 

There was a moment of silence before the three brothers started laughing. 

Bowser sighed. 

He knew he wouldn't send them to boarding school, and they knew he wouldn't send them to boarding school, but at least they stopped fighting and that was all he really wanted. 

Bowser got up and looked in the mirror. After a month without Kamek's help, he looked and felt tired. He'd grown a beard, the same shade of red as his mane. Normally he'd shave it, but he felt too tired to even try to. 

He put on a white dress shirt with french cuffs and a spread collar, silver cufflinks shaped like his logo, a navy blazer with gold buttons with his logo on them , Khaki colored dress pants, white socks, brown leather dress shoes, a red silk tie in a half windsor knot, a gold pocket watch, and a forest green shell with white spikes.

Normally he'd just wear a shell and some spiked wristbands, but he had a conference in two days, so he had to get used to dressing up. 

He didn't mind the clothes, in fact they felt quite good, but in his mind he wasn't the type of guy who would wear them. Or wear a beard, or do a lot of things for that matter. 

He looked at his watch. 

Bowser: Three hours till Mario's brother gets here. I hope he lasts longer than the last one.

The king muttered to himself. 

Somewhere in the skies near the coast of the Darklands an Air Goomba plane was preparing to make its final approach to Shadow City International Airport. 

Shyguy Stewardess: Sir, wake up, we're almost at our final destination. 

Luigi: Wuh huh? 

Luigi slowly got up. 

He'd been able to sleep through most of the flight, only waking once to go to the toilet, once to stretch, and once to eat his breakfast. His breakfast consisted of an omelet with fried mushrooms and fire flower, some somewhat stale bread, an assortment of overripe fruit native to the Mushroom kingdom, and some coffee, which he'd been told was a type popular in the Darklands, and was unfortunately the best part of the meal. While it had been a bit too dark for his taste, he still enjoyed it. 

The landing had been uneventful, some passengers had clapped, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

The lesser known Mario brother thought of his situation as he made his way through the airport. He'd met Bowser only a few times in his life, and couldn't remember the last time they'd exchanged more than a few words. Even after Bowser's wife died a few years ago, he'd only sent him a short letter offering his condolences, and never gotten a reply. And now he was on his way to babysit the man's children. 

He giggled nervously. 

The only time he'd babysat anything was his neighbor's Yoshi, and even that almost went wrong. 

He made his way to Darklands Customs and Border Protection.

Koopa Woman: Passport? 

Luigi showed his passport

Koopa Woman: Business or Pleasure?

Luigi: Business

Koopa Woman: Staying long? 

Luigi: I hope not! 

Koopa Woman: Haven't heard that in a while. 

Luigi chuckled nervously

Koopa Woman: Luigi … Mario? Huh, same last name as Mario Mario. 

Luigi: He's my brother

He smiled proudly. 

The koopa burst into laughter

Koopa Woman: Yeah right! And I'm the queen of the Darklands! 

She regained her composure

Koopa Woman: Regardless everything checks out. Welcome to the Darklands mister Mario. 

The man in green finished going through security, got his luggage, and walked outside, somewhat disheartened by what happened at customs. 

Shyguy Driver: Linguine Mario? Lugini Mario? I'm here for a Loogy Mario! 

Luigi: It's Luigi. 

Shyguy Driver: Can I see your passport ? 

The shyguy looked at it briefly 

Shyguy Driver: Looks good. Ok, get in the car. 

Luigi nodded, and got in the car. 

Shyguy Driver: Lets hope you don't end like the last ones. 

He muttered to himself. 

Time is a funny thing. Seconds can feel like minutes, minutes can feel like hours, hours can feel like days, and days can feel like years. Or in the case of one unfortunate King Bowser, ruler of the Darklands. Hours can feel like Centuries. 

Bowser looked at his watch. 

Bowser: 3 minutes till he's here. 

His children were all waiting in front of the door. 

He'd told them that he'd send them to the moon if they what they did to the last people that babysat them.

Not that it mattered, he was too tired to do anything, let alone punish them if they did what he feared they were going to do to Mario's brother . 

The doorbell rang.

Teenage Female Koopa: Ready! 

A security guard opened the door remotely

Oldest Teenage Male Koopa: Aim! 

The door opened

Second Oldest Teenage Male Koopa: FIRE! 

Bowser: NO! 

Bowser reacted too late. In unison the Koopalings blew scarlet balls of fire at their unfortunate target. 

Iggy: That was number 39! 

The crimson firestorm which wrapped around the figure in the doorway, gave way to emerald and viridian flames, behind which were intense eyes which seemed to burn with lime green fire. 

The mix of red and green fire dissipated as the man dressed in green dusted himself off. 

As he looked around the room, his composure shifted from intense anger to an equally intense nervousness

Luigi: Hello… I'm…

Bowser: The Nanny. 

[thesimperiuscurse]

seventeen. 

At seventeen, Eva wouldn’t have recognised Mako. Don’t be fooled by his innocent expression: this is a boy who has run wild, having begun to grasp the intense power that his wealth and body holds over people. He was well into exploring sexuality behind closed doors, as well as experimenting with more dangerous things to numb the pain of Zakharova Conservatory and inject life into gaping absences. 

At eighteen, he fell in love with Victoria, who (for all her irredeemable behaviour) reined in his fuckboy ways and traded chains for diamond cufflinks and Armani suits, the right pedigree for walking arm in arm into New York’s high society clubs and exclusive restaurants. His soft nature and yearning for love found a place where it could bloom—or assumed it could. 

Some time before nineteen, hurt and humiliated, he met Misha. As they healed together, Mako could be truly vulnerable for the first time in his life, free of the demand to please. His style began to take on gentle, feminine elements at the same time as Misha’s began to shine. 

At nineteen, almost twenty, Mako is happy to be himself in the shelter of Eva’s warmth, quiet and loving, no longer in need of the destructive shell he built at seventeen.

[gingerbreadmonsters]

wrapped up in clover

or: FOR YOU ARE MINE, AT LAST.

gn!reader, warnings for manipulation, unhealthy romantic relationships and major (canonical) character death, i’m really really sorry. the out-of-nowhere companion to here we are in heaven - look, this is just what happens when you leave me alone with a love song, alright? inspired by ‘at last’ by etta james. takes place pre-cataclysm, with major spoilers for ‘Worth Dying For’. you have been warned! damien throwing stones at glass houses in 1400 words or less.

once again, just to reiterate - warnings for imperium grimdarkness, heavily implied abusive behaviour towards the listener character, major character death, and heavy heavy spoilers for ‘Worth Dying For’. mind the warnings, and you are reminded that you can stop reading at any point if you feel uncomfortable. dead dove: do not eat. reader discretion is advised. minors dni. please consider yourself warned.

We’re happy together.

A crown is not a very easy thing to wear, to be honest.

It’s heavy, and it’s awkward, and it never really sits right on your head. It means that people look at you, and talk about you, and try to use you to get what they want. It means that you have to make speeches on TV, and live in a great big palace, and try not to tear your hair out at the endless stupidity of every godforsaken consul and advisor and High Councillor.

And, worst of all, it means he can’t ever be with you.

People have talked about him since the day he was born. It was to be expected. The only son of Queen-Imperial Sofia, the humanborn woman who rescued the Imperium from the collapse of Emile’s line, who in the most terrifying time of chaos in living memory found clarity. Strength. The foundations of a new age. A heroine of the people, an iron fist in a velvet glove. Turning outwards, ever outwards, from the son she should have loved to the people she claimed to.

What do you do when your mother’s a fairy tale? Pencil drawings can’t kiss you goodnight.

Since before he can even remember, there have been eyes upon him. Upon his face, upon his fate, upon the future of a world that by all known logic should have faltered and died decades ago. The Imperium is his by blood, by right, by determination. If he’s going to be a good king, a great king - and he is, make no mistake - then he might as well give them something to watch.

(That’s you, by the way. They’re watching you. Smile.)

How had you even met? He’s not sure. It’s hazy, the way that memories from when you’re very young tend to be. No matter who you ask, it’s always different - although, to be perfectly honest, it’s not like it actually matters. Semantics. These aren’t the sorts of things they write in history books. You’re here now, aren’t you? Good. Then the matter’s settled.

It is a funny story, though, don’t you think? A little boy with a heart made of sand, dry and coarse and crumbling, falling through his fingers and scraping against his skin. The smell of salt and the rush of the ocean washing over him, soaking through him. Bucket and spade in hand, a sunny afternoon becomes a beautiful palace, covered in shells and pretty stones, and the big round moat is scooped out with two pairs of hands.

How on earth had you managed it? Tumbling into his life, turning his head, teaching him all the things that he’d never thought to learn. One minute you’re his best friend, sitting on a gilded swingset in an ornamental garden. The next, you’re all grown up, framed in the mirrors on the ballroom wall, and he has to fight not to melt his cufflinks at the sight of you dancing with another man.

A sandy, empty soul, covered in grit and salt and seaweed - his palms flare with fire as the breath catches in his chest when you walk by, as the butterflies settle in his stomach when you hold out your hand for him to kiss. Hotter and hotter, until it’s molten glass dripping down his wrists, vitrifying right in front of his eyes. Sparking and glowing with passion, scorching little trails up his sleeves, a hissing chorus of mine mine mine in the furnace of his ribs.

It’s you. It’s always been you. Cool water running through a scalding heart, steam filling his aching lungs until it’s all he knows how to breathe.

Maybe it was all his mistake. It’s possible, you know. Maybe he’d given you too much, too quickly. Maybe he’d overdone it just a bit. Unempowered people can be unstable, unpredictable, reckless - and despite what he’d thought, it turns out you’re no different.

Was it inevitable? Was there anything, was there ever anything he could have done to stop things turning out this way? He isn’t sure. Ever since you two were little, you’ve never been one to keep your mouth shut. The lessons never stuck. Justice is a tricky business, but it helps to have a crown prince on your side - that is, until a coronation changes everything, and you’re both in over your newly-crowned heads.

You’ve always been good at games, no matter the rules. They’ve always said he’s the one with the sharp tongue. Yours, it seems, is made of silver.

Moonlight in your mouth, he’d thought he could save you. The isolations, the therapy, the sessions he wasn’t allowed to know about. You wouldn’t stop talking. The plausible deniability. You wouldn’t stop looking. The gentle hand under your chin gets hotter, harsher, until molten metal spills out over your lips and pours down your throat, coating your teeth and searing the roof of your mouth, but even now you still don’t stop.

It’s unfortunate. What’s the phrase? Morbid curiosity, maybe. You, wanting to see how far you could push before it all came crashing down on your head. Him, wanting to see just how you’d look when, one way or another, you finally broke. Can you really be a martyr if nobody even knows you were alive in the first place?

Stacks of paper crumble into ash, bridges burning in your wake. Justice isn’t blind, and the walls have ears. This isn’t the sort of court you were made for.

There have always been some rather… antiquated Imperial traditions, it’s true. Some are nicer than others, but most have stood the test of time. Old habits, old ways that he’s never really seen the point in arguing with. It would be more trouble than it’s worth, to waste time trying to get rid of them.

One of those traditions is that, depending on the magical race of the Monarch-Imperial, the practices of the Imperial government are changed accordingly. Most of the time it’s little things, like the embossments on the paper or the colour of the accents on the curtains. Insignificant. Inconsequential. What’s that saying again? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Ah, traditions. Watching them light the kindling at your feet, he’s starting to think that maybe he should have fixed this one.

(It could have been worse. Imagine if he’d been a shifter.)

It’s fine. You’re fine. Fire has always been kind to you, hasn’t it? Well. He’s always been kind to you, and as far as anyone here is concerned, that’s the same thing. That’s what this is, then. Kindness. Benevolence, of the sort he thinks you’d be proud of. The suffering of one for the good of many - and you’ve always been the type to take everyone’s burdens on yourself. You must have known. Wasn’t this what you wanted?

You won’t struggle, will you? No? Good. It will all be over soon.

A glass heart, cold and hard and utterly bulletproof. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he really is too possessive. What does it matter now? Allow him this, just once more. Flames bite at the soles of your shoes, but you don’t say anything. You’d better be quick. You don’t have long. Looking at him, you’re looking at him, but not like everyone else does. They look, but you see. The boy he was, the man he’s become. What do you see now?

You’re mine, and I’m yours, and nothing in this world is going to change that.

No more second chances. Ashes to ashes and all that. You have always, always been his. What a shame, that this is how you choose to prove it. The element of his control, and the one thing he could never master. How poetic. Hotter and hotter - through the smoke, silver starts to melt, bubbling over cracked, blistering skin.

In all the shapes and forms that you take in my life.

The ultimate act of surrender. Glass bubbles in your blood - the smell of salt, the sound of the ocean, and a lovely sandcastle covered in shells. In life, you gave yourself to fire. One way or another, you were always destined to burn.

take a trip to the other side of the mirror?

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[licially]

Throwaway: A Vikdecai fic

//I don't feel the need to continue this at all, so this is a throwaway. I'm not doing this for a ship discourse, I just didn't know how to write this out all the way.

“As to you…Viktor.” Mordecai, with a newfound resentment for him, cocked his M1911 back. His usual stern expression, coupled with a pair of emotionless eyes, turned an already haunting triggerman into that of a boogeyman. He stepped over the grounds of the Lackadaisy speakeasy, his tonal words matched his strutting in uniform fashion. 

“How unbelievably tragic. How have they managed to reduce such a powerful fiend into some underutilized role back in here? Atlas may not be here, yet the establishment-” 

“Oh you talk too much! Hargh-” Viktor screamed out, laying on the floor with the earlier gunfight that ensued. Ironically, just before his kneecaps, and into his right thigh laid the wound, and as Mordecai monologues his way into the vicinity, Viktor already had treated his wounds with bandaging of his shirt arm. 

“Well, it seems you have remembered your past.” The black cat fixed his cufflinks, as if in an effort to taunt him, and adjusted his gloves. After a short while, he crouched over one of the bodies who carried an unused pistol - another M1911, ironically - and slinked away back behind a partial wall of cover.  

“Our lives are intertwined. It has merely redirected us apart, and Atlas’ death desecrated Lackadaisy. It is tragic to see a place like this, yet the same tragedy transcribes your involvement in Lackadaisy. Tell me, Viktor, have you abandoned your dreams?”

The much more brawn and gruff Viktor spat out the disgusting mixture of phlegm and blood that welled up in his mouth, and reached for a nearby staff: a part of a collapsed pillar, broken. Was it merely for aesthetics?

The roof itself is just the caverns, there would have been no point to continue on with this ‘support’ pillar structure. Regardless of the pondering, he also spent that time picking up a nearby Remington Model 12, racking it with a few more shells on the dead body of one of Marigold’s lackeys, and shooting it at the ceiling as a warning.  “I’ve never been a fan of your small talks.”

[sharkyswaters]

[sochicfinds]

Orange Turtle Shell Cufflinks and Tie Clip Set, Gold Plated Japanese 1960s Jewelry for Men

[1966loveminuszeronolimit]

well ill be damned here comes your ghost again but thats not unusual its just that the moon is full and you happened to CALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL... AND HERE I SIT hand on the telephone hearing a voice id known a couple of light years ago heading straight for a fall as i remember your eyes were bluer than robins eggs my poetry is lousy you said where are you calling from a booth in the midwestt. ten years ago i bought you some cufflinks you brought me something we both know what memories can bring they bring diamonds and rust well you burst on the scene already a legend the unwashed fenomenon the original vagabond you strayed into my arms and there you stayed temporarily lost at sea the madonna was yours for free the girl on the half shell she could keep you unharmed NOW I SEEEE YOU STANDING WITH BROWN LEAVES FALLING ALL AROUND AND SNOW IN YOUR HAIR smiling out the window of that crummy hotel on washington square our breath comes out white clouds mingles and hangs in the air speaking strictly for me we both could have died then and there now youre telling me youre not nostalgic than give me another word for it you who are so goood with words and at keeping things vague i need some of that vagueness now its all come back too clearly yes i loved you dearly. and if youre offering me diamonds and rust then ive already paid.

[belinchak22]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: VINTAGE BRIGHT SILVER CUFFLINKS WITH RAISED TURTLE & A GREEN STONE FOR SHELL!!.

[dastoorjewels]

Artificial Jewelry for Pet Lovers: Animal and Paw Print Motifs

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