#soft dark don john

[sweetwolfcupcake]

Swords in the Court: Peace at Last

Secret Garden

Yandere Don John x Reader

Word count: 5k+

Part 2

Warning: Violence, blood, masturbation, misogyny and a hint of religious rigidity (the fic is set in the medieval era, what else do you expect?)

Note: This story is set in a fictionalised historical setting. Though there are clear inspirations drawn from the real world and history, this tale in no way tries to explain, change or state any historical, political, communal, geographical or religious 'facts'. Kindly treat this short-series as it is, a fiction

Unedited and poor attempt at medieval-world description

He is swinging.

Muffled sounds, yelling, groaning, hooves, metal....

He is laid somewhere.

Cool cloth on his face, and a faint fragrance he fails to grasp, despite being almost within his reach.

Cool, warm–it burns!

John gasps awake, feeling a particular area of his torso burning.

There are muffled voices around him. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, but it dims again.

The next time John wakes up, he is startled by a jerk. Through his limited vision, he can make out two people struggling on the floor. Grunting, he sits up, despite his arms shaking and his vision unclear, but his eyes manage to focus every now and then. 

—--

You know you should not be visiting Lord John’s chamber at this unholy hour. But the royal healer had given you a vial of essential medicine that you forgot to administer. That is the excuse you have managed to come up with as you near his chamber with a water-filled vial. 

Why would you do that?

You should be leaving for the capital by now.

But the Earl and Duke requested that you stay for the feast, which has most of the residents distracted at the moment. Your steps slow down when you do not see a single guard outside his chamber. 

Something does not feel right.

You rush inside his chamber just in time to find a maid holding a dagger. Before you know it, you pounce on her. She gasps, caught off guard and the weapon drops while the world around you tilts as you crash on the floor with her. 

“Who sent you?” You ask, breathlessly trying to pin her, but she elbows you on your side, making you wheeze.

Perhaps fate truly is yours this night. By pure chance, you manage to hold her ankle as she tries to flee, it earns you a haphazard kick on your chin that could have been a lot worse had you not been holding her ankle. But it makes your teeth sink into your lower lip. You do not even register the metallic tang on your tongue as you pull her down with all the strength you can gather. 

“You are going to be found out and beheaded anyway but—bitch!”

Your attempt to negotiate is met with another hard shove. It makes you cry out and lose your hold on her before she scrambles towards the dagger and raises back on her feet. You follow after her, but she already has the dagger in her hold. She is now attacking a sat-up John, who groans, trying to keep the blade away.

It happens so fast. You are not thinking of the consequences, but you get hold of the first heavy item that you find and swing across her face. It turns out to be an elaborate candle stand—heavy, intricate, now marred with the girl’s blood who has fallen, bleeding on the floor. 

“Are you alright?” You rush to a groaning John whose blood tricks through his palm. The struggle has opened his wound.

“Guards! GUARDS!!”

—-----

There is stillness in the chamber, except for the hushed whispers. The ‘maid’ is dead, and while you recover from the shock of having killed somebody, your mind is flooded with questions.

“This is a grave misstep in our honoured man’s safety and it shall be investigated.” the Earl tries to assure.

“Until then…”

“Until then me and Borachio shall be in this chamber with John,” Conrade speaks up.

“He’s right, we cannot give the snakes another opportunity,” Borachio adds.

“Lord Juan must rest. He has already done so much, gone through—”

“I am well, my Lord. Sleeping had almost cost me my life.” 

Whether it is the herbs mixed with pain or an ambush of emotions, it feels as if his voice has gained a layer of gruffness as he cuts off the Duke

“I would like some peace for now.”

“S-sure, My Lord, the knights shall be guarding your chamber every hour of the day and the night from now on.”

With that, the Earl begins to urge everyone to exit the chamber, leaving behind only his two most trusted friends. You follow them out as well.

“My Lady…”

Your steps cease and for the first time in the night after what has transpired, you look into Don John’s eyes. You are yet to come to terms with the fact that you have indeed killed someone. But his eyes seem to have the most alluring shade of brown, especially under the candlelight. The rest of the people have left, leaving only four of you in the chamber.

“I cannot thank you enough…You have risked your life to save mine. I have no clue how to return this priceless favour.”

You did not save his life for a favour. You were expecting nothing at all, you still are not.

“I expect nothing in return, My Lord. I acted on reflexes and by God’s grace, you are unharmed.

“Seems like I have cheated death too many times now.” His lips curve up in a cynical but faint smile before he nods “You have been exceptionally kind and generous to me. I shall never forget it.”

You try searching for anything other than the pure gratitude and admiration you see in his eyes. You can find nothing else.

“You are our honoured guest, I was doing my duty.” 

He saved me once, I am simply returning the favour

You manage to give an appropriate response despite your mind’s state and with a nod, you greet him good night and exit the chamber. Once outside, you feel like you can finally breathe.

—---

The rest of the two days pass in peace—two days. That is how long Lord John can wait before he insists on riding his horse again, against the royal physician's advice. By now, a letter from the capital has arrived, revealing that the Emperor of Spain has officially extended his support to the Kingdom. George has been captured and taken to the capital, and you deem the King of France no fool.

Peace reigns for now.

The journey back is slower, but at least there is no hovering threat of war. Back in the palace, the wedding preparations have taken full swing. 

“You had me on the edge for whole four days, five days, if we count all.” Maddie is by your side as soon as you enter the palace, while a grand welcome is prepared for the commander, and Lord Juan who volunteered and risked his life in the battle.

“I am well, as you can see. Lord John though…By now you must have heard what has transpired.” 

Maddie nods and squeezes your shoulder “Everybody here speaks of your bravery.”

“I didn’t want—” Your throat closes in as you vacantly stare at the crowd cheering for the men entering the palace gates or horses “ I didn’t want to…”

“Hush, I know, I know. Everybody knows you have the Queen’s support.”

You understand that nothing is permanent here.

“But, I don’t understand, what were you doing there in his chamber at that time? There was a feast, right?”

 Your friend’s question makes your thoughts still for a moment and by pure coincidence, Lord John rides through the gates, the cheerful uproar heightens but his eyes rise to meet yours as you stand along with your friend, waiting from above.

“He’s looking at us,” Maddie whispers.

You dare to think that there’s something akin to a smile in his eyes.

“I know.” 

You reply before dropping your gaze and greeting him with a curtsy, subtle enough not to garner attention, but obvious in your movements for him.

—---

Ever since the battle, every waking moment, the image flashes behind John’s eyes—the man, wearing the Kingdom’s armour attacking him. His blade was crimson, and the helmet protected his identity. He was so close, and yet, due to the brutality of warfare and general chaos, John could not quite catch any sign of identification.

But, does he need to?

“I do not understand, you have been quiet since the attack, don’t you want to find out?” Borachio whispers into his ears as they sit to bear witness to the beheadings—a punishment for treason.

The name of the next rebel baron is announced as soon as the fourth head rolls down to the ground.

“Do not appear distracted, Borachio. This is a very important event.” John’s tone gives away nothing, surprising his friend.

“John—”

“We shall not speak of it now.” His jaw clenches with his words and Borachio is wise enough not to poke further.

Throughout his life, John has been playing a delicate dance with death. First, as a boy, when fortune has been on his side and perhaps death, slightly merciful—why else would he survive then?

But as he grew into a man, he learnt that death always followed him, especially as long as he was in the palace—a glaring threat to the Crown Prince’s claim to the throne. He never released how much the weight of the title of ‘bastard’ held until his first brush with death, the first time his steps faltered and he almost fell into the waiting abyss. 

There have been times when he was ready to embrace death—for so long, John the Bastard deliberately danced on the risky side of death, waiting, just waiting to fall finally and be free. But once he understood the potential he had and the power his sword and mind wielded—the freedom that came with being a bastard—his steps slowed and turned more graceful. He wished to live. Ever since, he has not been dancing with death with open arms, he has been cheating death, bidding his time. 

But Don Juan, the recognised bastard knows that death shall take him when it decides it must. He will live. He will live to rise.

He has always been ambitious, but never truly eyed the throne. It was too much. He hated the court, after all. And yet he is a threat. Every breath he takes is poison to his own so-called family. They fear him and paint him as a villain. John knows he is no noble-hearted hero. But he is not a villain either, not yet at least.

He has been a fool, though. He thought that once the Crown was secured, they would let him be. His mentor has never been wrong, the old man told him. But he should have known better. He had enough.

John’s steely gaze remains fixed on the ongoing beheadings. 

Oh how fragile the human life is, one forceful swing and everything turns into a ‘has been’. No sky cries, no leaf flutters and the world moves as it always has. Great deaths make no difference. Great lives do. 

John’s eyes turn to the Crown Prince, sitting with his brothers.

They feared that a child would bring chaos to their empire, and marked him as an enemy ever since his first breath into this world, while all John has ever done is to avoid conflict. As a boy, he stood no chance against them anyway, and he respected his mother and her choices. But the world he is a part of is not run by kindness. She did not believe in revenge, she did not like brutality. But she is gone now. 

He thought choosing tact, winning the Emperor’s favour could earn him what he deserved, a noble title—he could then retire far away from the court, maybe take a wife—he never wanted the throne, he wanted a regal title, he wished to have many dreamed of, rising from nothing, they could keep the crown. And yet they stabbed him from the back— even when he fought for the Empire’s favour. 

But this will be the last time he allows it. He has had enough.

They always feared that the Empire’s bastard son, the true firstborn would be the cause of their downfall. 

So be it.

John turns his eyes back on the executioner as he swings the weapon, cutting off another head—clean and precise, with crimson all over.

He shall turn all their fears into reality.

John vows to himself, watching the head roll down.

Picking up the previously untouched cup, he gestures to a servant to fill it with wine. 

He shall give them a reason to fear him. They have watered the poison tree for too long, now it bears the fruits, and they must consume it. Must face the consequences of their deeds. 

—------

You do not understand its necessity. Why does your presence matter here? You stand behind the Queen and the King, tense and barely keeping your tears from showing. Every death reminds you of the night.

There was blood on the candlestand. It was heavy, carved with gold, maybe—you don’t remember.  But you remember how you hit the girl with all your strength, bringing it down to the side of her head. There was so much blood—-on the floor, on the side of her disfigured face, from the gash on her head. Her hair was matted with blood, her eyes were cold and open and—

A hand on your elbow makes you flinch. 

“The Queen,” Maddie whispers, nudging you.

You look at the Queen waiting with her cup of wine.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” With quick, precise movements, you refill her cup. She looks away but gestures for you to bend and come close. You oblige immediately.

“It is important to stay, George has not been beheaded yet. So chin up and watch. Get used to it if you wish to stay in the court and rise.” 

You stiffen and gulp but nod anyway

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The world is no kind place, you know this much and you have witnessed enough to know how brutal the court can be.

Straightening up, you square your shoulders and steel your heart as you watch George being brought for execution. He is given no privilege of any speech before his death. He has not even confessed to his sin, he does not need to. With his baleful eyes, he glares at the Queen and the King. His lips move as he keeps his eyes lacking any fear or remorse until the executioner swings the axe and his head rolls down, joining the rest on the ground.

You let out a slow quivering breath. This is the first time you have witnessed so many executions together. The Queen ordered that you must be present, so here you are, watching headless bodies fall. 

But you know deep down, that if you cannot stand to witness brutality, you will never be able to rise, have a place in the court. Is it not what you want? What have you always wanted?

Your gaze flickers towards Lord John, sitting at a distance, drinking wine while he watches with the nonchalance that you know only comes with a certain proximity to death and bloodshed. Perhaps he has witnessed many.

 Perhaps that is why he is where he is, at the edge of Dukedom. You conclude, looking away. You want power, so you must play safe now. Lord John seems like a dangerous temptation in flesh and bones.

—------

You feel ashamed, but not half as much as you should. Is it not a sin? Touching yourself at the thought of another man? Regardless of the fact that you have no husband or lover, yet. You lay in your bed, finally able to relax. There is nothing to worry about other than the upcoming feast in celebration of victory, a masque shall be hosted as well. As the Lady-in-Waiting, you have the privilege to choose from some of the finest materials to be sewn together. But none shall be finer than the royal family, of course.

Should you not be wondering about the dress? You need to oversee the food arrangements along with the Earl of Casterwood and, of course, make sure that there is plenty of wine incoming.

You do worry about it, you have been, but you as if seamlessly, your thoughts have shifted to the enigmatic Bastard Prince— Lord John. You admit that throughout your years in the court, you have shielded yourself with the Queen’s shadow, being close to her, resisting temptation. Any fool would think you are religious, but you are not, none of them are. But you know that it is impossible without marriage if you have to climb the ranks. You are a woman, after all.

You admit that apart from a brief, fiery affair with a squire around your age, that sizzled down as quickly as it had burst in flames, no man has made your head turn. He was too eager to bury himself between your legs and you could not have done that to yourself. You never intended to marry him anyway. You never allowed him to go beyond your breasts, and he was sloppy even then. A boy. Yes, you were no more than fourteen, but even then you knew you did not want him, you wanted more.

But Lord John has managed to turn your head and keep your gaze. You are afraid to admit that he is, indeed an attractive man and not just objectively—there are so many of them in the court already. But you find him handsome in every way you know attraction works for you. He is the only man you are afraid can disarm and seduce you before you know it and it has kept you on edge, you want to keep your distance. 

In the darkness of the night though, you cannot help but remember him as you saw him at Katherine's. The body tanned to a beautiful bronze—almost golden, and the way his sheen of sweat made him glow under filtering sun rays. His raven hair is always brushed to perfection, but that day, it was tousled so perfectly, strands falling on his forehead, as if fueling the fire that simmers just below the surface of his deep, dark eyes—the perfect brown, under the sun, it was dipped in gold. His nose almost matches his eyes in sharpness, the straight defined line that shapes his handsome face to allure even the most indifferent eyes. But despite the sharpness and subdued fire in his eyes, there is the subtlety of something—maybe the worldly experience, but it almost seems…soft.

Yet, he possesses a body that seems crafted by some divine force. But you know, it is crafted by skill, war and scars. You saw him that day, half-naked, the pants so loose it almost exposed him to your eyes. Something about the deep, straight scar on his stomach makes him twice more attractive. 

You remember the glimpse of his back against the supple, thighs, the way he bent as his hips rocked in rhythm, it was just a glimpse but that was enough to know. Your hand finds comfort between your legs and you grasp your inner thigh, imagining it to be his hand. They are big, you have noticed that too, but even with the fleeting, formal touches, they have been gentle with you. Tonight, you allow yourself the delusion of a fairytale, imagining him to be a loyal, gentle lover, even though you know that it is far from the truth, none of the men from any royal court can be loyal. You can bet from the stories and whispers you have heard, rarely a man is gentle or cares about anything beyond his own pleasure. You envision the loosely hung pants around his lower waist, the strings in his hold as you rub yourself, slow and firm at first, imagining his thumb on your pearl.

 That day, you heard his laughter—honeyed, deep and echoing in that chamber, and his moans that rang with Kathrine’s. There was an elegant sweetness to the raw masculine sounds. You gasp, feeling the pleasure building, remembering the way his body glowed, the way he sauntered towards you, the mirth in his eyes along with the dying heat of pleasure. You imagine his lips on your breasts, his hips along with yours, moving in rhythm as you gasp, biting your lips to suppress the sounds of pleasure as you come undone, your slick covering your fingertips. 

Warmth flushes in your cheeks and the rest of your body when you open your eyes, floating down from the pleasure with laboured breaths, you sigh and stare vacantly at the ceiling, feeling cold and ashamed of touching yourself to the thought of a man whose intentions are still veiled.

For now, Lord John is an enigma you are strangely drawn to, but you have enough confidence in yourself to not make any life-altering mistakes. Folks like you do not get second chances.

—-----

A few days before the great feast when the engagement and the Spanish alliance are to be declared, the King decides to host a grand game to amuse himself and his guests. The Empire’s fleet shall touch the Kingdom’s coasts in a few more nights—until then, the festivities keep on their swing.

“Does it taste better than the last?”

Maddie and you have chosen a table that offers an unrestricted view of the ground only a few feet below.

“I like the tarts more.” You disagree, taking another tart onto your plate.

“Look at that, how the energy has shifted now. People are cheering for the Princess, the king, the Queen. These days have been so tensed, I couldn’t sleep, worrying about you.”

You smile and hold Madeline’s hand across the table. “It’s done now. The Pretender is dead, France would not dare to take a head-on conflict with Spain by our side, and all we need to worry is about our role in a wedding that shall go down in history.”

“By God’s grace, may this be true.” She squeezes your hand and you return the gesture keenly.

She glances at the ongoing sports when something catches her eye. “Look at that stallion. Isn’t it magnificent?”

You follow her gaze to find Lord John riding his infamous stallion, Igor. You have heard whispers about Igor’s speed, power, and rebellious nature. His hooves will kick anyone but Lord John. Under the autumn sun, Lord John rides his beloved jet-black stallion, its mane dancing with the wind. The simple, white and beige attire suits him. He appears regal with a rugged edge, the kind of man they would write and sing ballads about.

You return your gaze to your plate as soon as you realise that you have been staring longer than you should. You have a world before you. A simple mistake can dismantle everything—all you have earned and built. Besides, the Queen is cautious about him, and so are you.

“What? Don’t you find him handsome? The dashing half-brother of the Crown Prince who led a battle against a looming threat and won?”

You let out a chuckle and meet your friend’s gaze “Write a ballad about him.”

Madeline shrugs “I might, you know me. But there has to be a lady love for that. He wins every battle just to return to her. Someone he burns for.”

“How romantic.” You roll your eyes and drink from your cup “Shall we find him a bride then?”

Maddie tilts her head and scoffs “I think he already has a name in mind.”

You scoff and shake your head when she continues to stare at you, “Oh come on, why on earth would you think that?”

“Mhm.” She smirks and takes a sip from her cup as well “It is subtle but keen eyes can never miss,”

“You’re thinking too far Maddie. He is pleasant for the sight and certainly knows how to treat a lady but…there’s nothing more.” 

You clarify, smoothening the non-existent lines on your dress while you try not to focus on your heating cheeks and think about his piercing gaze. You watch as his sword cuts through hanging targets. You never bothered to investigate what they are, but they seem heavy and are constantly moving due to being hanged from the high branches and clean cuts are impressive. Most men there struggle while he makes it seem as easy as cutting butter. 

You scoff and look away. Men and their silly games. The court is the real game. You pretend not to hear how the young girls and women swoon over him, but they try not to be obvious. After all, he is the Bastard Prince, his fortunes are uncertain.

“How much do you think he knows of the court?” You put the question out of whim.

“Looking at where he is, he must be good,” Madeline replies.

“Hm, a man who knows the battlefield and the court…” you trail off, leaning closer before continuing “You think he desires the throne, Maddie?”

Madeline sighs and leans away, resting her back ��Who doesn’t?”

There, your answer. The one reason you were looking for is to ground yourself. Don John is not the man you should harbour any feelings for. This response is the water you need to kill the simmering fire.

—----

You find yourself in the chapel on your knees. You have been visiting regularly these days, paying attention, searching for a word, some explanation, assurance.

You did not want to kill that girl, it was a desperate move in the heat of the moment. You know it, God knows this is true but she haunts you, that night haunts you in your dreams. The silence in the chapel is soothing to you, a little place you can hide away from side-eyes, whispers and scoffs.

Your fingers intertwine in a praying position as you wait for an answer—a thought, an explanation, an epiphany? Anything. You are faltering, you know you are. Are your ambitions impossible? Is it a sign that you stop? You have not even begun.

“Show me a sign, Father. Lead me out of this darkness.”

“May the light shine upon us all.” 

You flinch and turn around, only to find Lord John sitting on one of the benches, head slightly bowed, eyes closed and fingers crossed in prayer. But they open in no time and the hypnotic gaze meets yours.

“My Lord?” You raise and greet him.

“Please.” He smiles, and it makes your heart flutter in all the ways you would not want it to. “John will be fine, I don’t mind.” He shifts, making space for you to sit. “Do me the honour, my Lady.”

You want to say that in the traditional sense, you are no lady either. You are safe as long as the Queen has power, or you have her favour. Instead, you smile, slightly confused but walk towards him anyway to sit beside him.

“Forgive me,” He begins after a moment of pause.

“Forgive you? You rode all the way to the battlefield, fought a battle that was not even yours, risked everything—-”

“But you saved my life. And I feel I have not thanked you enough.” He finishes.

The setting sun casts perfect rays over the glass windows, which are painted with intricacies, and some of the light falls on the side of his face. He almost seems…harmless and sweet. But you would not fall for that. You are not one of those sheltered, privileged court maidens, trying to find fairytales in real life like beautiful fools. 

Maybe it’s not their fault. Deep down, you know you do resent them. You are not the most enchanting rosy-cheeked maiden, nor do you have an aristocratic surname to make up for it. You have nothing but your wit and knowledge, and you hold on to them like the lifelines they are. 

“I was doing my duty, My Lord.” 

His smile conveys more than simple politeness, but he turns to look ahead before you can read him.

“Good, because I thought you were repaying the favour. I saved your face that day at Katherine’s and so you saved my life.”

Remembering that day, you had slightly shrugged off the garbs of courtly mannerisms. You had been as direct as you could to him, and perhaps, he had been honest to you.

“You said you want ‘everything’ that day.”

He smiles but keeps his eyes on the alter ahead “I still do.”

“And what does ‘everything’ mean? Don’t you have everything you could possibly ask for?”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of you?” You scoff, though deep down, there might be a seedling of truth to it “No, My Lord.”

“Good, fear hinders growth in this world. So does guilt, and plain kindness. You have come so far, I understand how it must feel, to receive disapproving stares, thinly veiled threats and reminders that you do not belong here. I would know.”

You have been staring at the altar as well, the candles’ steady glow has something hypnotic about it. But his words make you turn to him. You can only imagine the amount of pain he had been put through being a bastard, living right under the same roof as his half-brothers and their mother, a reminder of the Emperor’s infidelity.

“I can only imagine the conflict and pain you might have faced growing up.” You mean it, you cannot possibly fathom his pain.

“There, and the snakes will have you…” He clicks his fingers and turns to you. “...just like that.”

You frown, confused.

“You wish to rise, don’t you? People like us know that we are meant for greater things but we don’t have an easy path.”

You cannot deny that, but choose to respond with silence.

“Whatever happened that night, you did to save my life. I know you feel guilty. But allow me to give you this piece of advice. This will not be the last time your hands have someone else’s blood on them if you make up your mind to rise in court. How do you think Empires are made?”

“I do not wish to rule.”

John raises an eyebrow “Everybody wants to rule the world. It’s only a matter of chance and time.” He turns to meet your gaze

“So your ‘everything’ encompasses a lot.”

His smile is cryptic this time “I have everything I could possibly ask for, you said it yourself, My lady.” There’s a sharpness in his gaze, the simmering fire you had first seen, just below the surface.

“Then I am happy for you.”

“And you, My Lady. Do you have everything you could possibly want? Would you dare to eyes a higher seat? Something more than the court here could offer you?”

You frown, unable to read him this time “I…I don’t think I understand what you suggest my Lord.”

He turns to the alter again “I think you would do excellent in the Spanish court.” 

“As the Princess’ Lady-in-Waiting?”

He is silent for a moment before he makes his intention clear “As my partner. We can empathise with each other and are familiar with the conflicts we face. Besides, you could evade the sorry fate of marrying a fat old man and have all your potential wasted being a nurse.”

“Are you…Are you offering me to be your mistress?”

What else can it be? John is an ambitious man and he would choose a worthy ally through marriage. Despite your best efforts, it stings you as you gulp a lump down your throat. 

“I find you fitting and your company quite pleasing. You have ambition and potential for court politics, while the heart to never judge someone by their birth.”

“You ask me to be your mistress, right at the chapel and try to make it sound like you are taking vows.” You can barely keep your voice from cracking as you raise, struggling to keep your tears from showing. 

Why must it hurt you far deeper than it has to? More than it is supposed to?

“If your sharp and knowing eyes could read even an ounce of me, My Lord, “ you grit out “Then you you would know, I am no whore.”

With that, you give him a courteous bow and march out of the place, no longer trusting your voice or your eyes.

—-----

You manage to hold back till you are back in your room, but as soon as you shut the door, the tears flow. You are not sobbing—-that can be counted as slightly dramatic for your standards. You simply are hurt. 

What were you even thinking?

John is an ambitious man, standing on the edge of everything he has built from the ground, at the very doorstep of the life he probably had envisioned. Dukedom is a surety after his heroic victory at the battle. Of course, he will seek a strong alliance with a powerful family through marriage. 

Why would he choose you? A nobody. Someone with nothing to offer.

He has, royal blood running in his veins after all. Perhaps he considers that he is doing you the honour by offering the position of his mistress.

The thought fills you with anger. Surely, he has never led you on. Whatever silly attraction you have developed for the half-prince is purely your doing, your fault.

But no more of it. You wanted answers, God gave you one. You have something to keep yourself grounded. You must not falter now.

****

[deadsetobsessions]

Summonings

Ever since Danny Phantom became the Ghost King, he’s had to deal with an endless amount of crap. An eternity of it, actually, and it was constantly causing him unending amount of existential crises and stress.

First, there was the paperwork. Pariah Dark, the incompetent asshole, had left him decades worth of bureaucracy to painfully sift through. He ended up hiring some ghosts with paperwork obsessions to sort some of that out. Who knew ruling the infinite realms would require this much paperwork? He’s lucky each section of the underworld had their own systems to report to their own rulers who, in turn, report to him.

Secondly, there were the Observers. And other ghosts, like his own rogues, but they were the main issues. Eyeball menaces. They protested his appointment, something he actually agreed with. Putting a fifteen year old on the throne is rarely a smart decision. But the Infinite Realm values strength, the only type of currency that matters in the land of the gods and the dead. Danny? Phantom? He’s got strength in spades. With only a few months of being a ghost, Danny had managed to defeat Pariah Dark, who had cowered gods and struck fear into the hearts of ghost heroes.

But Danny hasn’t quite realized the significance of that yet, too focused on the realization that he was about to be in charge of the infinite realms. The Observants, since his reluctant and extremely limited coronation, has been up his ass about doing things the “proper way.”

Danny’s main problem lies with the ridiculous amount of paperwork though. It’s fine. Tedious. But fine.

But if he gets one more fifteen page essay style complaint form about some guy named Constantine, Danny might seriously reconsider donning Dan’s ruthlessness and offing the guy himself. Perhaps grab the man by his shoulders and shake him like a rag doll and ask who the fuck told him it was a good idea to sell his soul out like that? Danny eventually just sent out Skulker to hunt down the contracts and trade minor services for them. He owns most of the soul now, and perhaps he’ll hunt this guy down and force him to do paperwork.

Regardless, paperwork was just often tedious. He’s worked out a system for himself. The halfa, true to his teenage form, had better things to be doing. His homework, for one. Hanging out with his friends and logging in hours for Doomed 2 would be another. But no, he’s here, twirling a pen as he glared down at a stack of forms for a zone expansion. What the fuck does Zeus want to expand his zone for? The current share space of the sky domain is literally a perfect balance with respect towards the other gods. For the love of- Danny slams down a red ‘REJECTED’ stamp on top of the stack. His hair flickers wildly in annoyance, the iced over Crown floating above his head emitting concerning levels of frost. To anyone else but himself, of course.

He then feels a soft tug on his core.

Right. The third most annoying thing about becoming King: the fucking summoning. Danny taps his pen against his lips, clicking it against his fangs, as he considers the summoning circle that calls him. Huh. Desperation. Mildly bloody. Fear. Resignation- ah, fuck it, it’s not like he’s too enthusiastic about staying to do work with the Observers poking around. He takes the summoning, allowing his regalia to overtake his normal hazmat-clad form, and approves the summoning.

Oh hey, Danny thinks he recognizes that ugly ass trenchcoat.

—-

John Constantine has had more than enough practice summoning things that would give people nightmares. But there are things he normally refuses to touch, refuses to even entertain the idea of trying. As usual, desperation made John its bitch and the Justice League’s battered and bruised faces tugged on his shriveled heart.

He’s going to summon something from the Infinite Realms. Oh, but he wasn’t just summoning any old ghost. No, he thought, I’m just going to summon the one being that’s guaranteed to be able to crush our universe without breaking a sweat. Bollocks.

“Is it ready?”

“Untwist your pants, spooky,” John snaps, wishing he had a crate of whiskey he could down. “We’re trying to summon the Ghost King, not your average demon.”

“What do we know about him?” Batman’s gravelly voice demanded.

“Powerful enough to take us all out without even breaking a sweat. Defeated the bloody tyrant who ruled over the Realms last I heard.”

“That’s it?”

“You could ask Deadman, but I heard he’s on the outs with the Infinite Realms on the fact that he’s made of pure magic, not ectoplasm.”

“There’s no guarantee the king will work with us.” Zatanna says, pressing her fingertips together tiredly. She had been at the forefront of the battle and had paid the price for it. “But he’s supposedly more benevolent than his predecessor… and we’re out of options.”

“Hm.”

“Just make sure to shut up and let me do the talking.”

“Hn.”

John rolls his eyes and takes a fortifying breath, something that does not go unnoticed by the League. They all tense up, preparing themselves for a battle. Another one, seeing as they all got their ass kicked by a ghost only ten hours ago. The League is spread thin, running interference to distract the ghost in question and evacuating civilians.

John Constantine started chanting, the glow of his magic lighting up the circle as he spills his blood into the circle.

He waits, heart in his throat, for the summoning to work.

“Is it supposed to take-” Red Robin asks, only to cut himself off as the circle flares once more. Power pulsates outwards from the circle. Frost crackles on the frost resistant floors, spreading outwards as a green portal rips open the fabric of time and space. Long, spindly imitations of a hand grabs the edges of space and pulls, heaving the rest of his celestial body out of the tear in reality. John does not look away. He can not look away, not from the eerie green pallor of the King, not from his torrential white wisps of hair, not from the black-hole like material of his outfit, not from the nebulas and beginnings and endings tailored onto the King’s cape. John could not look away from the ice crown that floated like a bastion of power above the king’s head.

His mouth is dry. What price will he have to pay to save the world? What price will this being demand of him, of the Justice League, to save the world?

John desperately needs that drink.

—-

Oh! He’s in his home dimension! His core purrs at coming home, at the close proximity to his first haunt.

He was expecting cultists, or even the Winchesters again, but this is nice.

The Justice League- summoning him. Sam and Tucker are going to flip when they hear about this.

They’ve been staring at him in silence for a bit now. It was getting awkward.

“Why have you summoned me?” He asks, softening his tone. By their winces, he didn’t get it as well as he thought. Danny grimaces. At the first sign of discomfort though, the man in the trenchcoat- is that fucking Constantine?!- launches into a nerve filled tirade.

“Your, uh, Majesty.” He starts. “One of… One of your subjects is wreaking havoc on the world. We would be extremely grateful if… if you could reign him in?”

Danny’s face sours, only to quickly clear his expression as he realized how much even a small hint of displeasure causes the jumpiness in Constantine and the others.

“To do that, I will have to make a contract with you, seeing as you’ve summoned me.” Danny drawls, letting his overly long digits wave at the summoning circle in question. He could break it, of course, but Danny’s bored and trying to draw this out. He’s not saying he’d take a batch of cookies as payment but that’s exactly what he’s saying.

“The price… you could always have my soul?”

Danny pauses. “Your… soul?”

Oh, he did not say what he just said.

“Yes. My soul.”

Oh, he did.

Fuck it. Danny’s flashbacks of suffering through the reports pushes green into his irises and urgency to his action.

He breaks out of the circle, hands lunging and gripping Constantine’s jaw tightly. Danny ignores the shouts of alarm as he allows the thrown weapons to pass through him.

John Constantine is panicking now, struggling in the air as Danny lifts him an inch off the floor in agitation.

Good.

“Your soul, little wizard? The one you’ve split eight ways till the thirtieth of February? The one that caused,” he tightens his grip, no doubt bruising the man. “An insane amount of paperwork that I’ve had to suffer through. Your soul, John Constantine?”

Danny hisses his name. The man makes a warbling noise that Danny takes as acknowledgement. Danny bats away the weak spell Zatanna sends at him with a hand.

“You’ll find that I am in the possession of most of your soul contracts. To simply put,” he grins, teeth made of dying stars on display. “I own your soul. My soul, now.”

He drops the wizard who collapses onto his knees to stare up at him in horror, eyes flicking between the circle that was meant to contain him and Danny, who is very much not contained. He crouches down- something necessary but disjointed as he’s not used to this taller form- and speaks to Constantine in a slow, dead serious, drawl.

“If you ever sell your soul again, you and I are going to have issues. Is that clear, John Constantine?”

“Uh- yeah, yes, yes, your majesty.”

Patting his cheek condescendingly, Danny gets up and sighs, stress relieved. He’s starting to feel bad, though, so he allows his form to ripple back to his normal teenage Phantom self.

“Well, it’s not like anyone will buy it, since they know they’ll have to go against me.” He chirps, flipping 180 from his terror inducing eldritch voice. “So, what’ll you pay me to get rid of whatever ghost you’ve got?”

“…. Nothing?”

Red Robin holds out a bag, eyebags betraying his exhaustion. “I’ve got fifty dollars and a bag of cookies.”

Phantom beams at him. “Throw in a couple of autographs and you’ve got a deal.”

“That’s- yeah, okay.” Red Robin says, inching forward cautiously to hand him the bag.

“Great. I’ll be back for them later. You can call me Phantom. ‘Your Majesty’ gets annoying after a while.”

“Thank- thank you for your mercy, Your- Phantom.” Wonder Woman says.

“Sure. Make sure this idiot doesn’t make any more deals with demons while I’m out, yeah?”

With that, Danny Phantom grabs the bag of cookies and fifty dollars and flies through the wall to do his job.

John slams his head onto the space station floor.

“Fuck.”

—-

Danny: lol I’ll do it for the shits and giggles

Constantine and the League: he’s terrifying, a bastion of pure power and authority

Red Robin, Young “we commit war crimes bc it gets shit done” Justice leader and fellow gremlin: he’d probably do it for cookies. I would.

[diejager]

Is there a Milf reader who have to take care of task 141 when they ask for a night stay? >:)) imagine they are your husband friends. (Your husband couldn’t knock you out so they help)

Affair Cw: implied cheating, voice kink, polygamy, creampie, rough sex, soft sex, fluff, fivesome/gangbang, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.5k

Your husband, sweet Tom, had friends over, drinking and laughing echoing from the kitchen, loud and boisterous sounds filled with ease and pleasure. You’d never heard him so joyous with anyone else - apart from you, he was a loving man - joking and chuckling so openly, in comparison to his quiet and humble self outside of your home.

Donning a robe over your attire, you wrapped yourself warmly before walking down the stairs, padded feet muffling your steps down the smooth, wooden flooring. You gazed into the dining room, staring at Tom’s back at the end of the table, his leaner build in contrast to his friend’s broad shoulders, and the dichotomy of their various personality that shine through their eyes. Unlike your husband’s soft hazel, the four men had beautiful shades, two blues: a violent, stormy blue and a bright, electric sky, and two browns: a dark and thunderous brown, and a warm and gentle chocolate. It stirred something in your gut, a warmth that shouldn’t be there.

Your sudden appearance had surprised them, four pairs of eyes alerting Tom that you stumbled into their little chat. Tom peered over his shoulder, his pretty hazel meeting your eyes and smiled softly, coaxing you over his side with a hand. Pushed forward, you stepped out of the dark hallway and into the lighted room, hand sliding into Tom’s and seated in his lap, bringing your robe closer to your chest.

“My sweet wife,” his eyes gleamed proudly, lips dancing across yours in a delicious show of adoration, “These are my friends from the SAS, dear.”

You let your eyes rove over them, to Tom’s left was a rugged-looking man with a wild mohawk with the electric blues, a zealous smirk gracing his lips. Beside him was the man with dark eyes, a hood pulled over his head and a skull-painted mask over his face, leaving a dusty black painted around his eyes like a dark shroud over his black garments. At the head of the table was a bear-like man in a beanie that exhumed confidence and stoicism with his stormy blue-grey, a cigar hanging from the corner of his lips and arms folded against his chest. And the final man, leaner than the others, but as big as the rest with his warm skin and warmer, chocolate eyes, a well-trimmed moustache and stubble, and his cute, flag-printed cap, casting a shadow over his dazzling eyes.

They all looked at you softly, your name rolling off their tongues with a distinct accent that made your lashes flutter and throat clog, introducing themselves with a little quip of their lips, two smiles, one reckless grin and a gentle squint of his eyes. Kyle was the softest one, John the leading figure, Simon the man shrouded in mystery and Johnny the one with a Scottish drawl. You wouldn’t mind them coming by more often when the kids were asleep upstairs.

Johnny was a feral man, jumping you in bed and tearing your clothes away with two or three gestures, ripping your shirt from the seams and tearing the gusset of your panties into pieces. He left you naked and wanting, writhing under him and his teasing kisses, teeth bared and snarling. Johnny was an overzealous sort, recklessly dominant with his whole body, throwing himself at you without any baseline, going without a plan or second thought. He was a man that believed that acts dictated how he felt and that was how he could show it to you —with his body.

He kissed you roughly, all teeth and biting, nipping at your lip and jaw, sinking into the meat of your neck and shoulder as he split you open on his cock, his veined girth and wild pubes. He praised you with every breath, grasping your hips and waist with a soft grip, kneading your breasts and thigh, fat and skin squeezed between his fingers. He filled you with more than just his cock, he purged you of stress, blowing away any fear away with smothering kisses and the rough tap of his tip against your cervix.

He left you satiated, face buried in your covers and snoring away after he bathed and took care of you, feeding you snacks and water and tucking you to bed. Brushing your hair back and promising to stay until your husband came back, whispering promises to come see you again.

Kyle was an angel, setting the line between what he was willing and wasn’t to do to you, lifting you up slowly, building up a heat in your core and making you boil over the edge. He shrugged off your robes with soft, guiding hands, lowering you to your bed and going down on you as if you were the last thing he’d ever eat. He stretched you open with his tongue and fingers, pulling orgasm after orgasm until you were left a mess. His love language was praises and softness, a gentle dominance with a smile and loving caresses.

He embraced you slowly, pushing into you tender kisses, lips dancing across yours to paint a Renaissance artwork worth being hung in the Salon des Refusés. A painting of your body lost in the throes of pleasure, your face twisted and nipples perked up, toes curled and fingers gripping your bed sheets, and lips glossy as you moan out his name. Kyle put you on a pedestal, a painting rivalling the beauty of Monet’s Olympia, your skin the same softness of her image, your hair spiralled wildly and him waiting against you for your every beck and call. You were the Olympia of his world.

He filled what Johnny couldn’t, his cock leaner than the Scot’s, but he made up with his longer length, brushing against your g-spot before hitting the deepest part of your cunt, drilling a spot for himself with his rapidly growing pace and gentle hold, gripping your hair to have you arch against him, staring up at the ceiling with fluttering lashes.

Simon came third, a wall standing between you and your freedom, a force to submit to. He was a rough lover, hands calloused and gruff voice. He manhandled you into your mattress, pressing your face into your bed while he ploughed through you. He was brutal and silent, taking control of you without uttering a single word, legs open and slick rolling down your thighs. Simon had you call him Sir or Master in the bedroom, having you scream his title and voice your needs to him, cries muffled by your wet cushion.

You felt every graze of his girth, thicker than the two before him and long with heavy balls, his cock throbbing inside of you when you clenched down. He loomed over you, an inked arm forcing you to arch your back, ass raised high and face down by the harsh hold of his hand. He was a mass of fat and muscles, unmoving and rough, snapping his hips against yours while he murmured filthy things, dirty and degrading words before throwing praises, lacing them with demeaning remarks. He swore he’d prepare you for Price, that he was the last step before you’d be completely ruined for anyone else, still filling you up with his cum.

You were unconscious by the time he tucked you in bed, taking his time to clean you up while you dozed away, dreaming about the men who gave you something to dream of while they were gone. When you woke up, you realised he left you a message on your phone under an unknown number, and you added him without a second thought.

When John came over, he expected you to obey him, kneeling by his feet in nothing but your panties, gazing at him with wide and teary eyes, tensing your thighs to drive off the tingling heat between your legs. Your core burned with a wildfire that hungered for more, hole leaky and clenching around nothing while you served John, your lips wrapped around his girth, drooling down his balls. John was stern, demanding to let yourself go to him, but he was hard like Simon, gentle like Kyle and rough like Johnny.

But unlike them, he moved with precision, folding you in half as he pumped you full of himself, his cock abruptly sinking into you before he pulled out completely and snapped his hips, burying himself balls deep inside of you. With your legs hanging off his shoulders and his hand collaring your neck, you let out choked breaths, his thrusts punching the air out of your body with the pointed and precise drive of his hips. He made you come twice before he filled you up, gushing around him with a loud whine, being bred by Tom’s friend from the Air Force.

He left you debauched and ruined, his spend leaking from your cunt and swollen clit throbbing from being pinched and rolled throughout your session. He kissed you goodbye before he left your room, pulling the blanket over your dazed and naked figure.

You couldn’t look at them in the eye when they all gathered for another boy’s night at your house, seated on Tom’s lap, fiddling with your finger as his thumb drew circles on your thigh to soothe your apparently sudden nerves.

“Did you remember to thank them, dear?” He kissed the skin behind your ears, teasing you with his breathy voice.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy

[ethelcained]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍?

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 dominic fike & fem!oc

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : Vienna Hadid possessed a multitude of talents, excelling in singing, composing music, and the art of concealing her emotions, especially those she harbored for her bandmate and longtime friend.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : swearing, alcohol and drug consumption

𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 : yeah girl give us nothing! this is seriously so bad, please just understand that i haven’t written a fic in over four years 😭😭 this is for @fawnchives and her post that made me want to write a dom fic. please request things and give me ideas, i beg you

Walking through the narrow hallway, Vienna felt her nerves escalating. An early morning call from her manager summoned her to an abrupt meeting, leaving her with little information. Hastily donning her white top adorned with patched black stars and dark baggy jeans, she noted her roommate and bandmate Yves still in bed, amplifying her unease as she realized it was likely a solo meeting.

"Mornin'," Vienna mumbled upon entering the conference room, guided by her manager's receptionist, Julia. The room fell silent as she took her seat, greeted warmly by Molly, her manager's assistant. As she surveyed the unfamiliar faces occupying the usually familiar space, Dave, her manager, initiated the proceedings, handing out folders and expressing gratitude for their prompt attendance.

Attempting to decipher the folder's contents, Vienna was interrupted by Dave's address. He introduced John, a man in a suit whose significance she couldn't place, as the creative director for an upcoming A24 movie. John explained their proposal: they wanted Vienna to compose a soft, perhaps even a love song for the movie.

The room held its breath, awaiting her response. "Wait—what? So, I'm not in trouble?" Vienna stuttered, the weight of the revelation settling in. Laughter erupted as Molly reassured her, dispelling her apprehension with a wave of relief.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 

The sound of keys jiggling reverberated throughout the apartment. "My baby," Yves exclaimed with excitement as she rushed toward the front door, catching sight of a smiling Vienna. She held onto Vienna's face and peppered kisses all over her cheeks and forehead, both girls giggling as they made their way to the living room.

There, they found Chris sprawled out on the couch, Kevin seated on one of their large bean bag chairs, scrolling through the various options of cartoon series with a remote, and finally Dominic, occupying the other side of the couch with a guitar in hand, doing what Vienna recognized as tuning his instrument.

"What the fuck, bro?" Chris groaned as he repositioned his legs to make room for Yves, who pushed both of the boys' legs out of her way before jumping down on the couch, laughing at the thump it made. Dominic murmured a small "come here" as he tossed his guitar to the side, leaving space for Vienna to sit next to him, smiling as she eagerly did.

"Dave told us you had a meeting with him and the crew, how was it, Vie?" Kevin asked, turning his attention towards his friends after settling on watching the regular show.

"They asked me to make a song for an A24 movie," Vienna announced, smiling at her friends' surprised faces.

"That's cool, man. Are they giving you full creative freedom?" Dominic asked, staring at his friend as she settled into a comfortable position on the couch.

"Kinda? They want the song to be slower, but I can produce it with whoever, which is cool," Vienna replied. The band nodded in acknowledgment; Chris sat up as he started to light up his pre-rolled joint.

"You gonna write a love song about me?" He joked, exhaling the smoke he had previously inhaled.

"In your dreams, slut," Vienna exclaimed, chucking a pillow towards the drummer.

Chris Sturniolo earned a reputation as a "man whore," reveling in the excitement of flings without any desire for commitment. Despite his promiscuous nature, his charm never deterred women. Their paths intersected at a high school party where Chris, donning his most seductive smile, approached Vienna. Despite her initial rejection, she invited him to join her in a game of beer pong, igniting a friendship that would endure.

"Don’t stress about it too hard; you’re able to write a song by looking at a fucking rock!" Dominic told his friend, sensing her nerves and placing his hand over her fidgeting ones. The girl relaxed at his words and the feeling of his thumb caressing her palm, looking to the TV once she felt heat on her now rosy face.

"Sabrina’s asking if we wanted to go to this bonfire-type party Saturday," Kevin spoke, diverting the group’s attention from the TV to the singer.

"I’m down; Brina always has the finest girls at her parties," Yves answered, directing her focus towards an enthusiastic Chris, who enthusiastically dapped her up in agreement.

"Yeah, man, it’s fine with me," Dom replied once he noticed Kevin’s awaiting eyes, taking the joint from Yves and inhaling its contents.

Vienna couldn’t help but stare as Dominic blew out the smoke, the way his eyes were dilated and lidded. He always seemed at peace when intoxicated, his lips almost forming into a faint smile. The girl was brought out of her trance when she felt her friends' expectant eyes.

"Uh, yeah, it’s fine by me," she muttered, hoping that none of her bandmates noticed her previous actions towards her friend.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 

“You think Enya’s going to be at the bonfire?” Yves wondered as she fixed her eyeliner, looking behind her to Vienna rummaging through her closet.

“Who? The girl you made out with after our New York show?” She questioned while holding up two different dress options, awaiting her friend's response.

“That one, and no, the girl I met at Brent’s party last month,” her friend exasperated as she pointed at the short black lacy dress, turning back around to add the final touches of her eyeshadow as Vienna removed her articles of clothing to put the dress on.

“My bad, it’s been hard to keep up lately,” the girl let out a breathy giggle after pushing her head through the dress and settling down on the bed to put on a pair of burgundy kitten heels.

“You’re making me sound like such a whore, Vie,” her friend whined as she placed herself beside the girl, adding lipgloss over Vienna’s lip liner.

Fixing the girl's small smudge of lipgloss with her finger, Vienna grabbed ahold of her friend's hand and kissed it softly as she laughed at Yves’ dramatic endeavour.

“I think she’d be a fool to forget about a cutie like you,” the girl booped her nose as she stood up, grabbing her purse and filling it with what she thought was necessary for the night. Yves, on the other hand, was texting the boys to let them know that they’re almost ready.

Setting her phone down, she looked around her friend's bed, spotting the girl's notebook. Flipping through the pages, knowing that all of Vienna’s songs were usually written on these very pages.

“Have you come up with a song yet?” Yves asked, looking at her friend's defeated face.

“Nothing that’s good enough.” And it was true, Vienna had spent the last five days restlessly scribbling away at the pages of her notebook. Not finding inspiration was a foreign concept to her, and she hated that feeling more than anything, contemplating if she’s even deserving of such an opportunity if she can’t even come up with a melody for a song, let alone lyrics.

“Maybe you just need to recklessly make out with someone tonight, that usually helps with my writer's block,” her friend smiled as she guided the both of them out of Vienna’s room and towards their front door.

Since their elementary school days, their bond remained unbreakable. Yves served as the catalyst, introducing Vienna to the facets that now defined her, from the instruments she played to the music she cherished. While Vienna didn't inherently possess shyness, she perpetually grappled with dismantling her emotional barriers. Vulnerability unsettled her, viewing loss of control as her Achilles' heel. Yves, conversely, epitomized fearlessness, embracing her authentic self without reservation. Perhaps stemming from societal shame directed at her sexuality, she concealed her true identity for years. However, upon proudly declaring her lesbian identity, Yves refrained from fortifying any walls.

“There they are, finally,” Chris dramatically groaned once the girls exited the elevator and approached the three boys in the lobby of their apartment. Vienna rolled her eyes at the boys' lack of patience as they walked to Kevin’s car.

“Acting like you don’t take hours fixing that mop of yours,” Yves mumbled as she got on her tiptoes to pull at the boy’s hair, to which he turned back to give her a glare.

“You look so good,” Dominic told the girl as he grabbed her hand so Vienna could do a spin and show the boy the full outfit. “You’re an idiot,” she giggled as she let go of his hand and got in the backseat of her friend's SUV, making sure to hide her blush in the dark lighting of the vehicle.

“Let’s fucking go,” Kevin shouted excitedly once everyone settled in the car, Chris making sure to connect his phone to the Bluetooth. Shuffling his playlist after typing in the address of the party, the group screamed the lyrics of Childish Gambino’s "Bonfire" as Kevin backed out of the parking lot.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 

“You made it!” Sabrina screeched once she spotted her favorite group of people, drunkenly hugging her friends one by one. “Course we did, we’d never miss a Brina party,” Kevin laughed at his friend's look of surprise.

“Well, everyone’s at the bar mostly, but we have the whole beach to ourselves so feel free to do whatever,” the blonde explained as she guided the group to the open bar.

“Is Enya here?” Yves made sure to ask Sabrina as quietly as she could, her friend nodding and leading her to the girl in excitement.

“Well, guess I’m gonna go get myself a drink,” Chris said as he noticed the pretty girl sitting by the bar, causing his friends to laugh knowing that his motive was not getting a drink but flirting with the girl instead.

Vienna sighed as her group parted ways, walking to the bar to grab herself a drink. Looking at the infinite amount of alcohol sprawled out on the counter and settling on a rum and coke concoction and sitting on a beach chair that was located in the far end of the bonfire.

The loud music blaring through the speakers was all that Vienna could focus on. Taking sips as she observed the scenery in front of her, there were people everywhere. Some near the ocean discussing among themselves, others were near the bonfire dancing rhythmically to the music. She spotted Kevin playing beer pong with a few people, laughing loudly when Omar missed his shot, causing him to sulk.

Vienna discovered a profound sense of solace in Kevin's presence, experiencing a deep understanding whenever they were together. Their connection dated back to their shared 8th-grade music class, where they frequently collaborated, crafting their own melodies. While Kevin proposed the idea of forming a band, Vienna initially considered it absurd but eventually acquiesced, recognizing the potential in his vision.

The girl looked up when she heard a screech, seeing Dominic carry a girl over his shoulder as she begged for him to put her down through fits of laughter. Vienna couldn’t help but bite her lip and feel her chest tighten. Maybe it was the alcohol in her system, but she felt a bit agitated at the scene in front of her. Her gaze narrowed as she watched Dominic's playful antics, a mix of jealousy and annoyance bubbling within her. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unsettling emotions, but the sight of him with another girl stirred something unfamiliar in her heart. Determined to regain her composure, she turned away, hoping to find distraction elsewhere. Walking towards her friend Bea and sitting beside her.

“You want some?” the girl asked through a mouthful of s’mores, offering her friend the bag of marshmallows, which Vienna gratefully accepted

“How long are you staying in L.A this time?” Vienna questioned the girl, rummaging through the bag of marshmallows and grabbing a stick to roast them.

“I have no clue, I only came here for ‘Chella but I’m enjoying the Cali weather way too much,” the British girl continued to talk about her recent California stay as Vienna held the stick to the fire for her marshmallow. Though she felt distracted when she saw Dom’s figure sitting on the sand and conversing with the same girl, she had seen him with earlier behind Bea.

“Uh, Vie, your marshmallow’s burning,” Bea snapped Vienna back into reality upon hearing her friend's words. Vienna blew out the now burnt marshmallow, muttering a few curses in between each blow.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just get with Dom already,” Bea asked her friend after noticing the boy sliding his hand through his curly hair as he enthusiastically spoke to the girl in front of him.

“What? No, no way,” Vienna answered shocked at the girl's implication. “We’re just friends, Bea, you know this.”

Bea rolled her eyes, finding Vienna ridiculous when she’d dealt with the two’s secret longing glances anytime they were around each other. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” she said, giving Vienna another marshmallow that she hopefully wouldn’t burn once more. Vienna chuckled nervously, feeling Bea's piercing gaze.

"Come on, Bea, you're reading too much into it. Dom and I are just friends," she insisted, trying to brush off the tension in her voice. But deep down, she couldn't deny the truth in Bea's words. There had always been an underlying tension between her and Dominic, something unspoken yet palpable whenever they were together. She sighed inwardly, realizing she couldn't continue denying her feelings forever.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Vienna couldn't shake the lingering thought of Dominic from her mind, wondering if maybe Bea was onto something after all.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 

The night continued with more drinks and glances between the curly-headed boy and the girl.

"Why're you sitting so far from everyone?" Vienna felt a hand on her shoulder, looking up to find the very same person her mind had been preoccupied with all night. "Not really feeling it tonight," the girl mumbled as she felt the boy's strong gaze. "You okay?" he softly asked, looking at her like she was a porcelain doll about to shatter at any moment. "Yeah, just got a lot up here," the girl explained, pressing her index finger to her temple, indicating that she'd been in her head tonight.

Dominic hummed as he took hold of her hand and tugged at it, signaling that he wanted her to stand up. "Where are we going?" the girl whined as he kept guiding her further from the party, stopping in front of the ocean. The girl looked around confused as to why he dragged her so far from the party where the only lighting were the twinkling lights at the bar, now far away from them.

"Come on," the boy urged as he started to remove his shirt, keeping nothing but his boxers on.

"The fuck are you doing, weirdo?" the girl nervously wondered as he stepped closer to her. "Waiting for you to get undressed?" he replied, inching closer and closer as the girl took a step back

When he noticed her nervous expression, he let out a laugh, finally understanding the situation. "Oh, fuck, Vienna, I just wanna get in the ocean with you," he breathily explained, laughing at the girl's look of realization and relief. "I mean, we could..." he started, groaning when the girl pushed his chest and called him an idiot.

Vienna couldn't help but laugh at Dominic's playful antics, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders as she stripped down to her underwear and joined him in the water.

The cool ocean breeze brushed against her skin, washing away the worries of the night as they splashed and laughed together under the moonlight. For a moment, everything felt perfect, the weight of unspoken words lifted from her chest as they enjoyed each other's company in the peaceful embrace of the sea.

As they swam further into the depths, Vienna couldn't help but feel grateful for this unexpected moment of connection with Dominic. She swam up to him, grabbing his face with both of her hands, tossing the hair that was covering his eyes to the side and caressing his apple tattoo underneath his eyelid with her thumb. Their heavy breathing and the crashing of the waves were all that the two could hear, feeling like they were the only people in this world. Dom couldn't help but melt at her touch, feeling her eyes on him as she kept caressing his cheekbone.

"You, uh, you had something on your eye,"

she mumbled after breaking out of her trance. She felt the boy smile as he replied with a small yet teasing "Oh yeah?" laughing as she splashed him with water.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 

Vienna stepped onto the stage, the crowd's applause washing over her, feeling vulnerable in the spotlight without her bandmates by her side.

It had been months since that transformative night when inspiration struck. She poured her heart into writing a love song, pushing through exhaustion to fill the blank pages with raw emotion. Now, in the studio, surrounded by industry professionals, she played her creation, feeling a mix of pride and insecurity. Their awestruck stares reassured her, confirming that her song was exactly what they needed.

In the following weeks, Vienna found herself swept up in a whirlwind of meetings and promotions, barely able to keep pace. And now, standing on stage, preparing to perform her single 'Guilty as Sin?' for the first time at the movie's release party, she couldn't help but feel a surge of nerves mingled with excitement.

Breathing in the sweet melody of the song, Vienna locked eyes with the boy who inspired its creation.

Dominic had been a constant presence in her life since high school, always seeming just out of reach. Despite her feelings for him, she buried them deep, watching him interact with other girls with a pang of longing. But as she poured her heart out on stage, singing every word to him, all she could think about was how his lips might feel against hers.

As the final notes rang out, Vienna was brought back to reality, the crowd's cheers filling the air.

Returning to her green room, her mind was consumed by thoughts of Dominic. Suddenly, he appeared before her, praising her performance. In a moment of impulse, fuelled by adrenaline and desire, Vienna closed the distance between them, capturing his lips with hers.

The kiss started with passion, a release of pent-up emotions, but as reality set in, it became tender and uncertain.

Breaking away, Vienna feared Dominic's reaction, but instead, he cupped her face, wiping away her tears. “You don’t know how long i’ve wanted to do this.” He whispered lowly. His confession took her by surprise, leaving her speechless as he kissed her once more.

In that moment, Vienna realized that sometimes, the most unexpected beginnings lead to the most beautiful journeys. With Dominic's lips pressed against hers, she embraced the uncertainty of the future, ready to face it with an open heart and a smile.

[javiersprincess]

𝚩𝚬 𝐌𝐘…

˖°.𓆩♡𓆪 .°˖ tags: written explictly for @prettyboykatsuki. south asian reader in mind. established relationship. age gap. fem presenting reader. nudity. set in rdr1 where reader is going with john to mexico. hint and joking of a daddy kink.

˖°.𓆩♡𓆪 .°˖ synopsis: john marston in his older age only wants to be there for you whether you scowl or weep.

You and John arrive to a small dusty town just by the Mexican border, so small and remote it was just a saloon, a shop and few dusty buildings. You were dead tired and filthy - when John had brought up getting a bath and staying in the hotel above the saloon you didn’t make some sort snarky comment about how his old age is getting to him. You follow him on your white mare, frowning along the way as you think about how you’ll have to brush her out soon. You hitch her up out the front of the saloon and turn when you hear the whistle John sends your way, holding the swinging door of the establishment open for you.

“After you, my lady,” He comments grinning even while sweating and covered head to toe in dust from the ride. His eyes don’t leave your form even has he watches you walk past him, a glint them as he follows in falling step with your gait. You went straight to the bartender, eying the sign of how much it will cost to spend a room and night. When he’s finally behind you, your head had turned to look back at him and John can already hear how your voice will fret over how much it would cost you.

Which is why he beats you to the punch and drops just enough for one bath and one room. One for the two of you. The bartender raises his brow at the two you with a knowing look. When you turned to look at him, annoyance painting your face you are met with the same grin on John’s lips as he nudges his shoulder to yours while grabbing the keys to the room.

“What? You were so worried about the price, this is halving it right, sweetheart?” Your face twists into a scowl.

“You are an annoying man Mr. Marston.” You hiss stomping past him, making sure your shoulder hits his arm in a your little petty way of getting back at him. You hear his rickety laugh as he follows you up the stairs and he opens the door for you just like he did outside.

“Quit trying to be the gentleman - it doesn’t you.” You snip as you enter into the threshold of the room, hand working to off your layers to hang them somewhere to be shaken off later. John laughs again, dark and deep as he takes his hat off and works to do the same with his coat. From his place on the chair by the desk the hotel provides he asks you,

“What is it that you think suits me then?” He is taking off his gloves, head tilted to watch how you strip down your layers until you are only in your bloomers and chemise. You roll your eyes not sparing him a glance as make your way to the bathroom attached to the room to start the bath you are aching for.

“Probably a dog with how filthy you are.” You say, laughing around the bite of your words and John only laughs in return, calling out back as he takes his shirt off.

“Oh but I am your dog aren’t I, my sweet?” He hears your groan from his sweet talk and it only serves to make him laugh harder as he hears the water start to run. John chuckles with a soft shake of his head, ever so fond as he works the rest of his clothes off. His gun belt is thrown over the desk, along with his hat and gloves. He’s left only his union suit as he walks to the bathroom door, now filled with pleasantly soft orange lighting and steam. He can see you, resting your head against the lip of the tub, the water filled with soap studs. Your face is lax and flushed and you don’t notice him until you feel rough lips press a kiss to your cheek.

“You enjoying yourself?” John asks you, voice soft as the steam against your skin. You hum your affirmation, tilting so you can look at him. There is a faraway look in your eyes, something aching and tender yet and John asks you, honorably and carefully.

“What you thinking bout?” You don’t say anything at first, merely gazing at him before your eyes flicker to a small painting on the side of the wall where on faces when they sit in the tub. The painting was of a flowers -white with cool purple edging the ends of the petals sitting on a lily pad in the water. There written on the bottom end of the painting, in neat cursive read, “Nymphaea nouchali. Water Lily, India, 1899."

1899. The year still stings.

“You thinking about your folks?’ He asks and you allow yourself to lean closer to him, resting your soft cheek against his shoulder that is above the steaming bathwater.

“I try not to but - when I see stuff like that…it’s hard not to.” You have lost all your edges, soft and vulnerable before him. John knows, and he knows you know which is why you can let yourself be like this with him. Dropping the outer exterior that you wear like armor and letting him to take care of you when you need it most. He’s your dog, he’s your man - he is yours completely and utterly. He moves his hand so he can hold your chin his his palm gently, reverently.

His thumb strokes the skin of the chin lovingly.

“I know sweetheart, I know that loss well and true,” he turns to look back at the painting too. The numbers 1899 make the wounds in his heart ache. “I ain’t saying this to cover up what you feelin’ but you are not without family. You have me and the ranch - as long you will have us.” John speaks to you and every word is forged of the same iron his bullets are. Forged with fire and blood and the promise of their conviction. It makes you smile and you hope John doesn’t see the wateriness of your eyes as you nod.

“Besides, you’re in good hands,” He says something mischievous and sleazy in his eyes now that you have graced him with a smile, “You might not have your pa around but you still got your daddy with me don’t ya?”

Your smile drops and replaced with a similar scowl that gets sent his way day after day but he only chuckles deep in his chest as he watches you step out of the bath. You shout at him, telling him to shut up and get in the bath as you wrap the towel around yourself and head to get dressed. John strips away his last layer and steps into the now warm and tepid water. He doesn’t mind - his body warm with the deep flush he caught over your cheeks and the way you never said no to what he said.

[johnwickb1tsch]

andar conmigo ~ part 6

A Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline/fic- Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle ~ You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you...Your old flame don John does not like this at all. Warnings: nsfw fluff 🥰 chapter map

Part 6

“I’m still not sure I understand this siesta thing.”

“It’s just a break from the hottest part of the day.” You smirk to yourself. “And maybe an excuse, for the men to sneak home from work to make love to their wives.” Or, someone else’s wife.

“Ohh. Too bad my wife is so busy writing,” he teases, and finally you look up from your notebook. His long body is sprawled out on the bed in just his undershirt and trousers, his hands behind his head. 

Here you are, hallucinating a story while staring at a piece of paper, trying to repair the damage wrought by the duck pond, while that specimen of a man is laid out for you? 

Maybe there is something wrong with your brain.

“Mi amor, my poor, neglected darling,” you lament dramatically, setting down your pen. His gaze sweeps over you in just your white slip, a warmth in his dark eyes that suspends all your higher brain functions. This man.

It’s so different, from the way Juan looks at you. Appreciation, over possession. If you were a horse, Juan would break you with the whip, while Paul offers you the carrot.

It’s almost more dangerous, in a way. You just might accept the bit with a smile and orange in your teeth, rather than a kick. 

He watches you intently as you hike up your skirts to climb into his lap. He wraps his arms around you with a contented sigh, pulling you close. You cup his face in your hands, caressing his high cheekbones with your thumbs. He’s so handsome. Pretty, even. Beautiful. But it’s his pure earnestness that truly cuts you to shreds, that makes you want to throw everything out the window and just give him everything.

Of course, you kiss him, and he kisses back, a deep moan called up from his chest. His arm locks around your waist; he flips you onto the bed below him, as though you weigh nothing. With his long body stretched out over yours, you kiss and twine, as though desperate to devour each other. His large hand cups your breast, caressing your nipple with his thumb as he kisses the soft mounded flesh. It sends a frisson of pleasure straight to your center, filling you with even more desperation for this man. The emptiness in you aches to be filled by him; caught up in this madness, you feel as though you’ll never be complete, without him.

You are relieved, when his hand slides down your curves, bunching in the skirt of your slip, pulling it up your thighs.

And you want to scream, when he draws back, pressing his forehead to yours with a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly, smoothing back down your slip, much to your disappointment. “I want you, so much.”

“Don’t be sorry.” You laugh at yourself, this ridiculous position you find yourself in with your legs tangled with his, grinding on each other through your clothes, and the uncontainable joy and clawing desire it calls up inside you. “I want you too.”

“Yeah?” He sounds almost surprised–which seems ridiculous, considering.

“So much. So much I feel like…I might be losing my mind.”

Again he flashes that guileless smile, so open and wholehearted. “Can I touch you again, y/n?”

“Please?” You hear how desperate you sound, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to care. He kisses you again, and the world goes fuzzy and golden edged, in this man’s arms. His paw of a hand squeezing the flesh of your buttocks drives you mad enough–his long fingers stroking your center make you see stars.

“Paul?”

You think you sound more beast than human in that moment.

“Y/n?”

“You could…make love to me?”

He moans at the thought, his face buried in your hair. “There’s nothing I want more…” He starts to kiss down your neck, then your chest, grazing your erect nipple through the thin fabric of your slip with his lips. “But I’m not sure…” He keeps going, kissing down your torso, rucking your skirts up over your hips to press his mouth low on your belly. “That I can stop…” His tongue dips past the waistline of your panties, and you cannot help but moan, fisting the dark silk of his hair between your fingers. “When you need me to. You’re so beautiful and soft and I…I want to lose myself inside you.”

You watch him down the length of your body as he draws your panties down your thighs, baring you to him in the light of day. You should be embarrassed, but from the expression on his face of such pure adoration, you just can’t muster it. You feel like a goddess, in this man’s arms. You want to accept your due, revel in his offering. You want to worship him too.

“I would trust you to,” you sigh as he kisses the inside of your thigh, your empty cunt aching to be filled by this man. “I think…you’re the only man I do trust.”

You can tell this means the world to him, by the raw expression on his earnest features, by the need in his polished ebony eyes. 

“Y/n…” He gives that shaky laugh that melts your heart for him. “God, you know how to tempt a man.”

“Not really,” you protest. It just all comes so easily, with him. 

“I didn’t mean…” He sighs, resting his cheek on your thigh. “Just…that you exist. That’s enough, for me. I’m crazy for you.”

“Oh Paul.” You shift your hips, trying to relieve some of the agonizing tension this man inspires in you. You’ve never had a man's mouth down there, and just the thought of it fills you with equal anticipation and dread. 

“I…can’t,” you pant, stars still in your eyes. “Paul, that’s so…” The best thing you’ve ever felt. He kisses your thigh again, a devious glint in his eye you’ve never seen before. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothes gently, and then he kisses your center. You think you’ve never felt anything so wonderful–until he licks you full on, tearing a surprised moan from your lips, arching off the bed as though you’ve lost control of your body. “Shhh,” he cautions you with an adorably sly smile.

“Can we try something?”

“Yes?”

“It’s something…I heard the boys talking about coming back from leave when we were in France. They called it soixsante-neuf.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Sounds exotic.” 

He laughs a little again, undressing you both and maneuvering you with gentle hands until you are side by side, but flipped, and you are face to face with his lovely, straining manhood. Oh. Now you get it. 

“Are you sure this is…” Possible? dies on your tongue, as he spreads your legs and licks your needy clit again, pulling you to him like a delectable treat with a strong grip on your thigh and buttocks. You moan–too loud, and for a moment you fear you’ve woken the house. Anyone below your window will have no doubts about what you two are up to in your room. 

Although, you doubt they would guess exactly how you’re going about it…

You take his velvety length into your mouth as far as you can, careful of your teeth from this new angle, loving the feeling of his plump head sliding against your tongue. This time he lets out a muffled groan, and you find a rhythm together, a maddening, wonderful, desperate feast of pleasure upon each other. You are afraid you will smother him with your thighs, robbed of your self-control as he brings you to pieces with his silky sweet tongue. He spills inside your mouth as you moan your ecstasy, and like a woman dying of thirst you swallow his every drop down. 

Wrung out, you curl together like cats in the bed, boneless and sated and so very very happy. Paul presses a soft kiss to your thigh, laughing quietly to himself in that unassuming way that clenches your heart.

“I would say I’m kicking myself for not bringing any condoms on this trip…but that wasn’t half bad.” It occurs to you that most men just back from war, fresh off a marriage annulment would have filled their suitcase with as many condoms as he had chocolate. He is so sweet, your Paul. It’s becoming harder and harder to think of him any other way. 

This time, you laugh with him, at the both of you. “Maybe you’re right, Paul Sutton. We do…balance each other out…very well,” you admit breathily. That’s when it occurs to you that soixante-neuf must mean sixty-nine, but also, you cannot help but think of that Eastern symbol you’ve seen in books, the yin and the yang.  

He looks down his body at you with a glitter in his polished ebony eyes that makes your heart flutter all over again. “Yeah?” He starts to kiss the inside of your thigh once more with those plush lips that rob you of all your reason, but you worm away with a cry, unable to stand it so soon. Giggling, you crawl up the bed into his strong arms again, and there you snooze together, taking a bit longer for your siesta than the usual time allotted. 

Ah well. 

Who could begrudge the newly weds your time together, after all? 

You can only think of one man who would.

[cynicalrosebud]

Lacuna (1) - Gentle Guardians

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Series Masterlist

Summary: This is a K9 Hybrid AU, featuring Price and his K9H Angel! A couple short little flash-forward drabbles to start off with, just to get a feel for our darlings.

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD and therapy, you are responsible for your own media consumption

Notes: First chapter of this series is a go!

The hum of the base was a constant backdrop as she curled up beside John Price, her fur soft and comforting against the hard metal of the chair. Price absently scratched behind her ears, his fingers brushing through her thick coat, a quiet balm for both their frayed nerves.

“Ready for this, Angel?” he asked, glancing down at her with a mix of affection and concern. The therapy session was about to begin, and the weight of their shared experiences hung heavy in the air.

Angel met his gaze, her eyes warm and understanding. She nudged his hand with her nose, a silent reassurance. They had been through countless missions together, faced the chaos of war, and yet, here they were, finding solace in each other.

“Right then,” he chuckled, a hint of pride in his voice. “Let’s show them what we can do.” He stood, and Angel followed, her tail wagging softly. As they stepped into the room filled with weary soldiers, John felt a surge of hope. Together, they were more than just a handler and a Hybrid—they were a team ready to heal.

John Price pushed open the door to the therapy room, the scent of fresh coffee and warm wood filling the air. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension, soldiers scattered around, some sitting in quiet contemplation, others sharing muted conversations.

Angel trotted beside him, her ears perked up, instinctively sensing the weight of the room. Price knelt, giving her a reassuring scratch behind the ears. “You ready, girl?” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

She looked up at him, her golden eyes filled with determination, as if saying, Always.

Together, they stepped into the center, and Price cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room. “Alright, everyone,” he began, his tone commanding yet warm. “This is Angel, my partner. We’re here to help you through this. Let her remind you that healing comes in many forms.”

As he spoke, Angel moved gracefully through the space, her presence bringing a flicker of warmth to the soldiers’ faces. She approached a man with weary eyes, gently resting her head on his knee. He hesitated, then reached out, a small smile breaking through his facade.

Price watched, heart swelling with pride. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Take your time. She’s here for you.”

As Angel continued to offer her comfort, Price felt a renewed sense of purpose. Together, they were not just a team—they were a lifeline in a world too often engulfed in darkness.

The sun peeked through the curtains of Price’s modest home, casting soft rays across the living room. John Price stirred awake, the familiar warmth of Angel pressed against his side. Her soft fur brushed against his skin, a constant reminder of the bond they had forged over years of service.

With a contented sigh, he reached down to scratch her behind the ears. Angel stirred, her tail wagging slowly as she blinked awake. “Morning, lass,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. She looked up at him, eyes bright and alert, ready for whatever the day had in store.

After a quick breakfast, Price donned his well-worn tactical gear, the fabric a comforting weight he’d grown accustomed to over the years. Angel watched attentively, her ears twitching as he moved around the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee and glanced at her. “You ready for a little training session?”

Angel jumped up, tail wagging excitedly. She loved their morning routines, where they practiced commands and refined her skills as both a therapy and service Hybrid. Price led her to the backyard, a small but secure space with plenty of room to roam.

“Alright, let’s start with ‘stay,’” he instructed, positioning her at a distance before stepping back. “Stay.”

Angel sat patiently, her focus unwavering. Price took a moment to appreciate how far they’d come. Together, they had tackled countless missions, her keen senses and unwavering loyalty helping to keep him grounded during the chaos. Now, in retirement, they were learning to navigate a different kind of life.

“Good girl,” he praised when he called her to him. “Now, how about we work on some scents?”

They spent the morning honing Angel’s abilities, hiding various objects around the yard and challenging her to find them. Price laughed as she darted around, her excitement infectious. She had a way of bringing light to the simplest of moments.

By midday, they were both ready for a break. Price set up a small picnic under the shade of a tree, pulling out a sandwich and a few dog treats. He watched as Angel lay at his feet, her eyes following his every move. “You’ve earned this, haven’t you?” he said, tossing her a treat. She caught it mid-air, tail wagging with delight.

After their meal, they settled on the porch, the warm breeze rustling the leaves. Price pulled out a book, glancing down at Angel, who had nestled against his leg. He lost himself in the pages, occasionally looking down to see her peacefully dozing.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the landscape, Price felt a sense of contentment wash over him. They might not be in the field anymore, but this was their new mission—healing, one day at a time.

With the evening’s calm settling in, Price leaned down, scratching Angel’s ears once more. “What do you say, lass? A little walk before bed?”

Angel perked up, instantly alert. She loved their evening strolls, the way the world transformed under the twilight sky. Price smiled, grabbing her leash and heading out, grateful for the bond they shared—a partnership that had weathered storms and found peace in the quiet moments.

As they walked side by side, Angel nudged his hand, and he glanced down, his heart swelling. Together, they were not just a handler and a Hybrid; they were family, healing together in a world that had once seemed dark.

[babybatgrimm]

New Years Party

Summary: The night of the New Year's party.

Warnings: Fluff, GN!Reader, PDA

A/N: Happy New Year everyone! Hope you enjoy the mini party~

Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish

He's taking a deep breath and fiddling with his shirt cuff as he steps up to your door, the dress shirt feeling tighter than usual around his throat as he gently knocks his knuckles on the wood. “Just a minute.” He hears you call from inside.

He waits patiently, doing his best to control his heart rate as he stares down at his shoes. Moments pass by before the door creaks open, and his eyes are now met with your sleek black shoes. Trailing his gaze up your figure, noting the dark jeans and emerald green shirt, before his eyes connect with yours.

“Well don’ ye’ look dandy,” he smiles down at you, glad he wasn't the only one who chose jeans. “Shall we be off then?” And with a nod the pair of you leave for the party.

The hours passed by fairly quickly in the livelihood of the crowd. Soon enough, someone shouted it was time for the countdown to midnight, and of course, Soap being the social butterfly he is, had managed to lose you in the crowd.

His eyes scan every face before they land on you, standing off to one side with a drink, calmly chatting with someone.

He made a B-line to you, weaving through the various bodies in his best efforts to get to you. “I'll be damned if I miss this.” He internally scolds himself for being so far away so close to the moment he'd invited you for.

The countdown had gotten to ten by the time he'd made it to you, and with a strong grip he gently pulled you by the wrist to his chest, drawing you away from your conversation.

“Johnny?” A questioning gaze up at him as a warm blush heats your cheeks. The shouting of the crowd counting down in the background almost drowned out his reply.

“Almost missed the moment.” he says, and as the crowd shouts one, he dips you low, away from most everyone's eyeline, and connects your lips in a soft, but somewhat messy kiss.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

His posture is stiff as a concrete wall as he almost robotically knocks on your door, his hand falling back by his side as he waits, hearing you shuffle behind the door before replying “Hold on a second” before your footsteps get louder.

As the door swings open, his eyes lock onto yours before taking a quick scan of you. His gaze lingers on your shirt for a moment, studying the words printed on the front before connecting with your eyes again.

You giggle at him, raising a brow for a moment. “At ease, LT, it's just a holiday party.” You tease before stepping past him and closing the door. Your words pull a quiet grumble of a laugh from his chest before he motions for you to lead the way.

The night passes somewhat quietly for the pair of you. Ghost being the way he is, preferring to stay out of the way from most of the crowd, instead opting to sit at a table, drink in hand as he listens to you chatting away.

When the countdown begins, Simon stiffens, realising it was now or never for the moment. In a quick motion, he has you on your feet and in a darker corner of the room, away from prying eyes.

Before you could get a word out, the countdown ends, and the room erupts in cheers around you as Simon slips his balaclava up over his nose, planting a soft, but rather ungracious kiss.

He holds it for a moment before pulling away, peering down at you with unusually tender eyes. “Happy New Year.” His voice is quiet but loud enough amongst the cheering crowd.

John Price

He's already knocked on your door by the time it's in range, a little too eager, before fixing his shirt cuff. It only took a moment for you to open the door, your smile bright up at him as he gazed down at you, his eyes scanning down you for a moment before he smiles back. “Ready to go then?” He asks, gesturing to the side for you to step out.

Your smile grows as you giggle softly, you reply “such a gentleman today,” with a tease in your tone as you head down the walkway.

“Am I not every day?” He questions, following quickly behind you, now needing an answer to his, clearly very important, question.

The evening is shared with drinks and the smell of Price’s cigar smoke lingering in the air by the window you sat by. As the last of his cigar burns to ash, the countdown begins, prompting him to crush out the last of the smouldering ash.

He moves to your side, sliding across the edge of the table. “You know kid, I think you should stick around the team for a while longer.” He says, rather quietly next to your ear.

“Oh yeah?” You ask, looking up at him in question. The crowd shouting the countdown reaches zero, and as cheers erupt in the room, Price pulls his hat off, using it to hide your faces from the crowd as he connects his lips with yours.

A moment of surprise makes you stiffen before melting into the kiss, warm but controlled, measured. After a beat passes Price pulls away.

“Yeah, I do.” he says with a husky chuckle by your ear.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

He shuffled on his feet outside your door, revving himself up before finally making contact with his knuckles on the panel of wood. He listens to your shuffles behind the door for a moment before it swings open, and he's met with you smiling up at him. “You're late.” You tease with a small smirk.

He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Only by a minute.” He retorts with a grin. “Ready to go?” He asks, taking in your form and noting the dark blues in the fabric with a quick once-over glance of you.

You nod, moving out of the doorway and heading off toward the party, Gaz following close on your heels.

The pair of you spend your time chatting with others and occasionally dancing for the evening. The music loud and the crowd dense as everyone shuffles around each other. Gaz manages to guide you both away from the bulk of the crowd, finding a somewhat clearer area to stand in.

He gazes at you, a small grin pulling his lips as the countdown begins. “What?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“I ever tell you how much I like your face?” He asks nonchalantly, grin growing slightly as he studies your expression. Your cheeks flush with heat as he scans over every detail of your face.

“N-no, you haven't.” You say slightly stunned at the question, leaning back slowly as Gaz continues to get closer.

“Well I do.” He says as the countdown ends, pressing his lips to yours in a hasty crash of soft skin. His hand snaking to the top of your hip as he holds the kiss for a few seconds, listening to the cheers from the crowd before pulling away.

Konig

He'd shown up earlier than he'd intended, too eager to get to the end of the night, so he decided to stand nearby. 'Until a more appropriate time.' He affirms himself, denying that he was just stalling.

A few minutes pass by before he finally knocks, harder than he meant to, hearing you call from the other side. “Hold on.” You say, moving around the room.

He takes a small step back to give you space when you open the door, looking up at him with a smile. His eyes crinkle at the corners of his eyes, peering down at you through his hood. “Evening. Ready to go?” He asks in his thick accent.

You nod, stepping out and closing the door behind you, “ready,” you say, smiling a little wider before walking away, Konig easily keeping up with, and then sort of struggling to walk slow enough for you as you make your way to the party.

Konig being the quiet creature he is, the evening was spent near the edge of the crowd near the large windows at the side of the hall. He'd listen to you talk the whole night, about whatever you wanted to, and when someone among the crowd shouts it's time for the countdown, the room cheers before the numbers are called out in unison.

Konig looks over at you, piercing blue eyes staring you down as he straightens up slightly in his place. Tilting your head in confusion, you look up at him and ask “you okay Konig?” He nods.

“You know, I invited you here fo’ a reason.” He says simply, turning to face you fully, towering over you with his stature.

“O-oh?” You question, a bit taken aback by his statement. “Well I didn't think there wasn't one I suppose.”

He chuckled softly, leaning down closer to you, encircling you against the window, shrouding you from the crowd behind his frame. Your eyes widen slightly at the proximity, leaning your head back to peer up at him.

“Koni-?” You're cut off before you can finish, the crowd erupting in cheers as the countdown ends, his hood pushed up to his nose and his lips colliding with yours, small stubble scratches at the soft skin as you melt into the kiss. You lean up onto your toes to reach him better as he pulls away, breaking the kiss with a chuckle.

“Yes, Liebe?” ‘Yes, Love?’

A/N: Sorry for the late post today, had a few things to fix before I could post it!

[yourmomxx]

[prom date]

jj maybank x male!reader

words: 0,6k

Didn't they tell us, don′t rush into things?

Didn't you flash your green eyes at me?

Didn′t you calm my fears with a Cheshire cat smile?

—

Purple-blue and pink light swept across the hall. Huge snowflakes and strips of silver tinsel hung from the ceiling, giving no indication that the dance floor was a converted gym.

You had smiled as you had entered the room. JJ had only felt nervousness when he had squeezed your hand.

The initial confidence he had felt when you had picked him up from his home in your car had quickly evaporated.

You only had to glance at JJ as he approached you in the black suit he was wearing, to add to your enthusiasm for the evening. The two of you stood close together, amidst other dancing couples and you could smell JJ’s perfume.

JJ's hands were on your shoulders and yours were placed on JJ’s hips. JJ was nervous. Was that right? Was that how you dance with a boy? Was this comfortable for you, or should he take a step further away from you?

You only had eyes for JJ. As you swayed to the slow song, your gaze rested on the blonde hair, styled in soft waves today. They looked so soft and you had to resist running his fingers through them all evening. JJ’s eyes looked different in the dim light depending on the color of the headlight hitting them—pink, purple, dark blue. But you didn't need headlights to know that his eyes were that piercing light blue you loved so much, that only reflected in the waves beneath your surfboard. Maybe that's why you’d been so smitten with them from the start.

JJ’s eyes darted nervously over the people standing around you. Other couples swaying to the song, entwined tightly, but none of them were like... you two.

Today JJ had decided to wear a formal suit. You thought he was pretty anyway. You found that JJ had different auras depending on the choice of clothing that he wore. JJ with the tank tops and cargo shorts was a sort of reckless boy from the poor part of the island, who'd found his best friends in teacher's favorite Pope Heyward, climate activist Kiara Carrera and surfer John Booker Routledge. JJ with the black suit and a tie represented the crush of all girls, the heartthrob, the flirt. But as you looked at the blond boy in front of you, hands on his hips and pink-purple-blue light all around you both, all you could see was JJ, your JJ.

JJ felt the nervousness growing in him and instinctively turned his head forward again, where he was immediately caught by your gaze. His boyfriend’s warm eyes looked down at him, and while the lighting around them didn't give him a good view, JJ knew what color they were. Y/E/C like the lush spring days he knew from his childhood. Maybe that's why he always felt so safe in them. JJ noticed his heartbeat slow down and his doubts recede as he looked into your eyes, because wasn’t everything around him meaningless when Y/N Y/L/N was standing in front of him, his Y/N?

"They're staring," JJ whispered hoarsely. You almost didn't hear him. JJ felt you look around, becoming aware of the fixed eyes that were only on you two. But you just shrugged, a faint smile playing on your lips, and JJ wondered how one person could be so brave.

"Yes, because I’m dancing with you. They're jealous.” JJ’s eyes widened at your statement.

"Jealous?" he repeated, dumbfounded.

You nodded. And with a slight smile in your purple eyes, you leaned down to him and whispered, "I know that I would be."

JJ could feel your breath on his skin. Then you bridged the gap between him and you and placed your soft lips on JJ’s in a slow, promising kiss. And the pleasantly warm feeling that spread through the pit of his stomach when he was touched was always worth the staring looks.

—

We found Wonderland

You and I got lost in it

And we pretended it could last forever

- Wonderland by Taylor Swift

[deepdreamnights]

Down in the Cyberpunk District

She'll be back at Yamakora-Smithson Accounting tomorrow, but for tonight, she's out to ride.

Prompt: a female vintage retro-robot, tin robot, punk aesthetic, shiny pantyhose, character design by akiman and john byrne, from Street Fighter Alpha 3, full body, character design on white background, promotional art, 1998, flirty pose, whiplash curves, curvy, leggy, bulbous, in the style of 1 9 9 0 s fighting game art:: a dinosaur anthro wearing work clothes standing on the corner of a dinosaur city. Solarpunk sci-if scene. charles r knight and syd mead:: an anthropomorphic [Brontosaurus excelsus], wearing clothes, brontosaurus-anthro, heavyset, thick limbs,:: dita von teese dressed as a metermaid, character design by akiman and don bluth for street fighter alpha 3, 1998, line art with flat anime cel shading, in the style of 1 9 9 0 s fighting games:: an instagram photo of an influencer with long straight brown hair, thick eyebrows and soft glam makeup wearing silver choker necklace, she is posing for the camera in her home, she has dark tan skin:: ,artwork by timothy mattihan, in the style of digital and glitchy, violet and gold, faith-inspired art, burne-jones, fauvist animator, northern china's terrain, mosaic pop art

This is a 'prompt smash' experiment, combining random (mostly) machine-generated prompts into a single prompt with multiple sub-prompts. Midjourney blends concepts in these situations, making vivid but essentially random results.

[slocumjoe]

What do the companions do/wear on their days off?

omg this is such a good prompt...

Companions' off-day

Cait;

What she does; Relax as much as Cait can relax. She might clean her gear, or practice her aim at the shooting range, but Cait takes her quiet moments where she can get them. Though, her idea of quiet isn't actually...quiet. She likes the bar scene, telling stories of her and Sole's exploits. Cuts back on booze after the Vault, but still takes a soda to toast to her own badassery.

What she wears; Tank tops, baggy pants. Soft shorts, sweats, lounge wear. Assuming she feels totally safe, of course. You can tell her comfort level by her pants of choice. Her normal leathers? Uncomfortable. Jeans? Open to relaxing, but unsure. Cotton or fabric? It's lounging time, baby.

Curie;

What she does; All sorts of things. Curie dips her fingers in everything she can. She bakes, she runs tests and experiments, she works at the clinic, she tends to animals, she gardens, she does this and that and that and that and...a very busy bee. Curie is never not doing anything. Berry-picking, trying her hand at weapon crafting, kickball; Curie's days off are full of activities and learning.

What she wears; Colorful clothing, fun patterns. Floral button-up blouses with high-waisted pants and sneakers, flannel overshirts with comic graphic tees, long dresses and skirts. She really likes dresses. So swishy! All her clothes are dirt-stained at the knees.

Danse;

What he does; Train, tuneup his gear, patrol, repeat. Danse doesn't have much outside of his military life. There isn't a buffer for him. He doesn't have an off switch like that. After BB, this worsens. Doesn’t eat, sleep, or stop doing. The other companions intervene and force him to take a break, but it's uncomfortable for him. Eventually they take turns keeping Danse busy for his own wellbeing. Cait spars with him, MacCready takes him shooting at the range, Preston has him gardening, et cetera.

What he wears; Work clothing. Overalls, jeans, tighter shirts that won't snag on little bits of machinery.. His boots are forever caked in mud. Used to like Tacky Old Man Patterns and brighter colors, but After BB, wears dark, form-hiding clothing, like thick sweaters and coats. Gets a lot of body image issues. Starts wearing hats to hide/shadow his face.

Deacon;

What he does; If really relaxing, Deacon is most himself. He reads, tailors his clothing, listens to music and radio shows. When Deacon relaxes, he isn't doing anything but enjoying media. It's not often he gets to relax. He'll also play with makeup and his wigs, trying out new potential looks. It is genuinely fun, even if for work purposes. Likes helping Curie and Piper with their makeup.

What he wears; Hoodie, sweats, crocs. Comfy, nondescript. If he's relaxing, he isn't being Deacon, Railroad Spy for a bit. He's just Deacon. And Deacon wears crocs and a hoodie with a weird graphic on it.

Gage;

What he does; Depends. Is he still a Nuka World raider, or domesticated by a Minuteman Sole? If former, uses the off time to run his own little investigations into everyone else, keep tabs. Works, basically. If domesticated, sits on a porch with a smoke, watches the sheep (settlers) go baa (tend the fields, run their shops, guard the settlement, etc). Whittles as a hobby, makes intricate wooden animals. Teaches Shaun how to do it. Kids take to him, weirdly enough. Also plays harmonica, but only in private.

What he wears; Tank tops, dark jeans, and his usual shit-kicker boots. Raider gear is messy, but its every-day practical. Has a furlined jacket he dons if cold, but he avoids it because something about a furry coat collar makes woman irresistibly attracted to you, and he prefers to lay low.

Hancock;

What he does; practices knife tricks, reads, writes, fiddles with his gun (never happy with the recoil), plays video games on terminals or Sole's pipboy. Babysits Duncan, plays video games with him. MacCready doesn't need to know Uncle John has a higher score in Zeta Invaders than him. Often goes 'campaigning', asks people about their thoughts on leadership and community.

What he wears; Pants, boots, no shirt or a very loose shirt. Has cut the bottom off of dresses to make the top a shirt. Gives the bottom to Curie to make into skirts.

MacCready;

What he does; Shooting practice, video games, comic books, puts models together, and most curiously, draws. Rather good at it. Draws his own comics, but most his impressive work is his diagrams of wasteland critters. He does it to help his head remember weakpoints, point out openings in the middle of chaos. Plays toys with Duncan shamelessly.

What he wears; Warm clothing, mostly, no matter the weather. Thick sweaters, soft slacks, jeans...practical, but comfy. Dislikes silky fabrics, loves thick socks. Wears his hat everywhere.

Nick;

What he does; Loves activity books, especially number-based puzzles. They're kind of hard to come by, and he feels bad filling them out since they're not in production. Piper and Nat make new ones for him. He's also good at the piano, and when he can find a functioning one, likes to just sit and enjoy the music. Tries to teach Danse piano, but good God, that man couldn't carry a tune if he glued it to his hands.

Wears; Nick is an old man. He's always in the slacks, the suspenders, the button-up dress shirt.

Piper;

What she does; Makes Nick's puzzle books, for one. She likes racking her brain to find a challenge, look for little details to catch him up. Enjoys reading, obviously, but writing tends to be a work thing. Piper likes writing, but when you do it for work, doing it to relax feels like making a paradox.

What she wears; Jean shorts, graphic tees, and baggy tank tops. Wears flip flops and crocs. Puts her hair in low pigtails since its a bit too short to go all the back in one tail.

Preston;

What he does; Tries his damndest to relax, but he just can't. He's always all nerves and waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's cooking a new recipe, or patching up his coat, or making maps. Really likes cartography, scary accurate. It takes a lot to really get him to let his guard down. After Blind Betrayal, takes Danse under his wing since they're in similar boats. They talk a lot of history.

What he wears; Sweatpants, soft shirts and flannels, warm clothing. He's easily cold, especially his hands and feet. Wears gloves and thicker socks often.

X6-88;

What he does; Trains. If forced to take up a standard method of 'relaxation', will take up art, weapon crafting, or try his hand at Nick's and Piper's puzzle books. Sometimes he blows through them with a scoff, other times he gives up and asks the solution. Fascinated by those trick, brain teaser puzzle toys.

What he wears; Dark shirts, dark pants, dark boots. He's never not dressed nicely, cleanly, and formally. Even his sleepwear (once Sole demands he treat himself to his very own wardrobe) is elegant in a way. The sunglasses stay on, always.

[deans-baby-momma]

The Hunter and The Sheriff - Chapter 4 (FIN)

CHAPTER 4

When Donna enters the kitchen Dean’s jaw drops and his heart thuds in his chest. She is fucking gorgeous!

Donna is wearing a black leather skirt that hits right above her knees, a purple halter top that has straps that criss-cross over her bosom, leaving a peek of ample cleavage. Her ankle boots are also leather but what gets Dean's motor running is the fact that she is going to be on his arm tonight.

If there is one thing that John Winchester taught his sons, it was how to be gentlemen; tonight Dean proves it as he ushers Donna to the passenger door of the Impala, opening it and leading her onto the vinyl seat.

As soon as the Sheriff is safely inside, he shuts the door and rushes around to the drivers’ side and slides behind the wheel.

During the whole drive across town to the restaurant she had picked, Dean kept stealing glances at his date. She absolutely took his breath away. Donna Hanscum was the whole package.

Not only was she a distinguished member of law enforcement in this town but she was aware of the creatures other people had nightmares about…. and she was helping rid this world of those monsters! All the while, rocking a body to make any man begging on his knees for.

When they arrive, Dean escorts the lovely Sheriff into the fancy establishment and tries not to seem fazed at the extravagance of the place.

He steps up to the hostess at the podium and gives his name.

The girl searches her schedule and smiles as she finds what she's looking for.

“Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester,” she says.

Dean takes Donna's hand and goes to do as the hostess says but is pulled back as Donna is standing there, stock-still.

“What's the matter, Don?”

“Sh-she…. She thinks we’re a couple,” the blonde Sheriff stutters.

Dean looks at his date, confused. “We are, aren't we?”

Donna blinks once, twice then looks at him. “She thinks I could land a hottie like you for a husband? Me? The fattie?!”

Dean looks over his shoulder at the hostess and holds up a finger, asking her to wait.

“Baby,” he says as he takes both Donna’s hands in his. “I will disagree with you on one thing, you are absolutely not a ‘fattie’, you hear me?” Dean asked as he leaned in close, “and also, fuck what anyone else thinks. They don't know us so let's go in there and eat some disgustingly expensive food and get drunk on some sickeningly sweet wine and then I'll take you home and prove to you just how much I adore you, okay honey?”

Donna couldn't suppress the smile that fills her face if she tried.

“Okay,” she confirms. “Let's do this.”

After dinner, Dean paid the hefty bill and led Donna back to the Impala.

“That was the worst food ever,” Donna exclaims once they were seated. “I can't believe they charge so much for tasteless garbage! They should be shut down for ripping people off.”

“I won't disagree,” Dean says as he backs out of the parking space and turns toward town. “I'm sorry this date sucked.”

“The date was phenomenal,” Donna rebutted. “I was the envy of every woman in that place. And a few men too,” she adds with a chuckle. “Thank you Dean.”

“Date's not over yet baby,” Dean tells her as he pulls into a snazzy bar. “We gonna go in here and listen to some tunes, drink away the bitterness of the food we ate and then I'm taking you home and proving to you how spectacular you are.”

“Okay,” Donna nods and steps out of the car when Dean opens her door. They walk inside to see a cozy tavern with a few tables and chair sitting around and the corners filled with small sofas with low tables in front of them.

Past the bar is a stage where a band is playing soft music. The place isn't overly crowded and the couple quickly finds themselves settled on one of the loveseats.

Dean looks around and smiles. This is exactly what he had in mind when he wanted to bring Donna on a date.

Secluded but yet not, dim lighting but not dark and music that you didn't have to scream over to be heard.

“What can I get for you two?” The waitress appears out of nowhere. They give her their orders and relax back into the cushions, Dean's arm wrapped around Donna’s shoulders.

The band starts another slow song and Donna begins humming, soon she's singing along with the vocalist.

“Late at night when all the world is sleeping I stay up and think of you. And I wish on a star that somewhere you are thinking of me too. 'Cause I'm dreaming of you tonight. 'Til tomorrow I'll be holding you tight. And there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be than here in my room dreaming about you and me

Wonder if you ever see me…what?” Donna stops singing when she realizes Dean is looking at her. “Am I that bad?”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Sounded like angels singing. You have a beautiful voice Don.”

Donna blushes and looks down, not accustomed to praise from a date.

The waitress drops off their drinks and Donna picks up her mojito and downs it. “Now that's a good drink,” she giggles and then finishes out the song while leaning into Dean's side.

After four mojitos and three whiskeys, Dean pulls Donna toward the door because the Sheriff is getting a little too frisky for public eyes.

She, of course, misinterprets their destination and thinks they're headed for the dance floor so she begins grinding on him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Thought you didn't dance, Dean-o?”

“I don't Sweetheart,” Dean says as he stumbles toward the door. “I'm taking you home, honey. You're wasted.”

Donna stops and pouts. “Party pooper,” she mumbles and then smiles widely. “Oh wait. I know what's coming next. Me!”

Donna bends over laughing and Dean can't help but join her. The jovial moment is tarnished when a whistle fills the air and someone comments “Bend over more darling. I can almost see everything!”

Donna had never seen Dean move so fast. One minute he was standing in front of her, laughing and the next he was standing across the room, over some drunk stranger with a bloody nose.

That sobered Donna immediately and she pulled Dean away and out the door. Donna pulls Dean to the Impala and not so patiently waits as he unlocks the door for her.

The ride back to her house is quiet, not even the radio to break up the silence inside the Chevrolet.

As soon as Dean parks on the driveway, Donna gets out and stomps to the door, unlocking it and marching inside.

She turns as soon as she hears the door close and crosses her arms.

“Dean, you can't just go around punching people out like some kind of caveman!” she states, her breath, labored. “I'm the Sheriff in this town, how would it look if my boyfriend got arrested for a drunk and disorderly?”

Dean looks remorseful and ashamed over his actions but he also cannot take his eyes off the peek of cleavage Donna is showing with her chest heaving.

“Don, I'm sorry. Really I am. I was just trying to defend you-” he pauses as her breasts bounce along with the rhythm of her breathing. “-but right now all I can think about is burying my face in your gorgeous tits.”

Donna looks down at her chest and huffs. “Jesus, Dean! Are you trying to distract me? I'm serious here.”

“Oh, I'm serious too sweetheart. I'm seriously going to make you forget-,” he says as he stalks toward her. “-about everything. The only thing you'll remember is my name. And you'll be screaming that,” Dean promises.

Donna puts her hand up, stopping Dean in his tracks. “First, you're going to let me finish what I was saying and then I just might allow you to suffocate in these,” Donna says as she squeezes her breasts together, the plump flesh almost busting out of the camisole.

Dean whimpers but nods his acceptance.

“You cannot go around just punching people for rude and lewd remarks,” she begins and Dean hangs his head in remorse. “I'm the Sheriff and I really don't want my boyfriend to spend a night in lockup for something that was-” Donna pauses as she watches Dean shrink into himself and she feels bad for leading him on. “-so goddamned hot I almost came right there.”

Dean lifts his head rapidly and watches as Donna unties the bow at the nape of her neck, the material falling down and her breasts bouncing free.

“Come here baby,” she says as she reaches for him. “They're all yours.”

Dean moves fast as lightning, closing the space between them and buries his face right in Donna's chest. He growls, licks and nips at the skin as he picks his girlfriend up by her supple ass.

“Oh god Dean,” Donna moans loudly, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Don't stop. Fuck, don't stop!”

Dean lavishes each breast with kisses and sucks marks onto each one, claiming Donna as his.

Donna wraps her legs around his waist and starts humping him, her skirt bunched up around her hips.

Dean grins at her as their eyes meet and he nurses her left nipple.

“Getting frisky there aren't you Sheriff?” he chuckles.

“Well yea,” Donna responds breathy. “I know you have a deadly weapon on your body. I need to….oh to hell with the innuendoes right now. Just fucking fuck me Dean!”

“Yes ma'am,” Dean says as he sits her back onto her booted feet. “Show me the way, baby.”

Donna takes his hand and runs toward the bedroom. Once there, she kicks her boots off, unzips the skirt and pushes it and her panties to the floor before turning to watch Dean undress.

As soon as his legs are free from his jeans, Donna is on the floor at his feet.

“I wanna suck your dick until you cum down my throat.”

Dean groans as he pushes his boxers to the floor, his hard cock bouncing between them.

She wraps her fingers around the base and guides the head to her lips, gently licking the precum from the tip.

“Tasty,” Donna hums.

“Less talking, more sucking,” Dean says. And promptly bites his lip as Donna takes his shaft all the way in her mouth.

The Sheriff works her magic and soon is swallowing around the head of Dean's dick as her nose nestles in the sparse pubic hair.

“Shit baby,” Dean coos as he scoops Donna’s curly mane into a makeshift ponytail. “You gonna let me fuck that beautiful face?”

“Mmhmm,” Donna hums and begins rubbing his ball sack.

Dean holds her hair in one hand and places his other hand on Donna's head as he begins pulling out and pumping right back in, no resistance to going down her throat now.

“Goddamn,” he exclaims. “Your mouth is almost as good as your pussy. I'm gonna cum down your throat. You want that baby?”

Donna nods as forcibly as she “P'ease yus.”

Dean doesn't hold back as he thrusts into Donna's willing mouth and in no time he growls as his fingers grip and pull the Sheriff's hair while shooting his load into her mouth and down her throat.

When he pulls his dick from her, Donna swallows and licks the remnants from her lips before leaning forward and gently kissing the now flaccid member.

Dean hisses and then chuckles. “Sensitive,” he explains before helping her to her feet. “Now plant that perfect body on the bed and open up. I've worked up an appetite.”

Donna does as requested, unashamedly spreading her legs to show her glistening center.

“Oh sweetie,” Dean says as he gazes upon her wet cunt in front of his face. “Did you cum already? Getting face-fucked turn you on til you just let go all over yourself? You are a fucking mess down here.”

Dean chuckles as he sees her walls clenching the air. He lightly blows against her exposed pussy which causes the good Sheriff to whimper. Dean smiles before diving in, devouring her from the inside out.

He licks a trail around the rim of her entrance all the while his thumb is swiping left to right on her swollen clit.

Donna is a begging mess, imploring him for “more” and praising his techniques “fuck yes Dean! You are a master at eating pussy. I'm going to cum on your face.”

Dean takes that as a challenge and ups his ministrations. He replaces his thumb with his tongue and flicks the swollen nub as he inserts two fingers into her warm cavern, pumping his hand and scissoring his digits.

Donna practically convulses on the bed, her ass leaving the mattress and Dean sucks her bundle of nerves between his lips.

“Fucking hell!” she screams. “Gah! Bite me, Dean. Bite my clit.”

And Dean complies. He uses his teeth to gently gnaw on the flesh, rolling it between his pearly whites.

When Donna screams out again, it is accompanied by her pussy gushing liquid, her cum shooting right into Dean's mouth.

As Dean licks her clean, paying close attention to her now-reddened and abused clit, Donna lays flat above him catching her breath.

“Damn, that was hot,” she husks, her voice wrecked and hoarse. “I don't know where that came from.” She laughs as she lifts her head to look at her lover.

“That was amazing,” he agrees as he crawls up her body, stopping to peck a kiss to each engorged peak of her breast before hovering over her and grinning. “Didn't know you were into pain fucking.”

“Eh, everything is worth at least trying once,” she shrugs and then wraps her arms around his neck. “And we'll do that again… but Dean?”

“Hmmm?”

“Make love to me now?”

And that's just what he does. He fucks her good and hard, soft and sweet until she understood that she was deserving and valuable.

As he watches her pink swollen lips stretched and quivering around his throbbing dick as she creams all over it, he mutters words foreign to him.

“Goddamn! I fucking love you, woman.”

And their world, their little bubble Donna and Dean had created, stands silent. No movement, no sound, not even a breath is heaved as their eyes meet.

They both know their lives would never be the same. Donna smiles up at Dean and cups his cheek in her palm.

“I love you too, Dean”

THE END

@spnbaby-67 @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach

@larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam

@sandlee44 @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @supraveng @akshi8278

@lyarr24 @kazsrm67 @chriszgirl92 @deanwithscissors @raisinggray @fanfic-n-tabulous @hobby27

@stoneyggirl2 @purpleeclipseeggsland @kmc1989 @leigh70

@foxyjwls007 @dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy

@perpetualabsurdity @kickingitwithkirk @deans-spinster-witch @krazykelly

@nancymcl

[littlejuicebox]

Dancing in a burning room

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character/Ranger AKA AstarionxWren Rating/Warnings: M+ for gore, no smut in this one, Act 1 spoilers Chapter number: Eight Word count: 4.1K (Sheesh! Had to move the plot along.) Masterlist: Click here. Song inspiration: "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" - John Mayer Notes: Let's play a game, tell me where the song inspiration references are in the fic.

-----

Astarion woke before Wren, his elven trance much more efficient than the haphazard, limb-twisting sleep of the half-elf. His eyes fluttered open, and the vampire found himself, once again, at a loss for what to do next. It was still dark, the diffused apricot glow of Wren’s makeshift lamp the only source of light in the camp. The entire ordeal was unfamiliar… it was strange, waking up next to someone he’d bedded the night before sleeping peacefully beside him instead of startling awake to their screams of their absolute terror. He mentally added it to the growing list of firsts in his lifetime.

The vampire studied the woman's face and noted the slight upturn of her nose, the sharp angle of her cheekbones, and the minute scrunch between her eyebrows as she dreamed, as if concentrating in her sleep. In the past, he’d gone through great efforts to avoid remembering the faces of anyone he laid with, and yet this time the rogue found himself trying to commit her face to his memory… he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was merely clinging to any silly little moment of comfort he found in the wilds in order to preserve the memory, in case his next 200 years were filled by further torture when Cazador found him.

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, the vampire rolled out of bed, leaving the woman to her rest. He needed to be out of there and hunting before anyone woke up… or caught him coming out of Wren’s shelter and started asking too many questions he didn’t have answers to. He broke through the tent and in doing so broke the spell that had been woven around the two in a haze of smoke and starlight last night. As he exited, he ignored a gnawing feeling rising in pit of his stomach, a whispering fear that he'd created an unintended soft spot for himself. A sort of lingering dread, akin to an ongoing, high-pitched ringing he could barely hear but was faintly aware existed, followed him as he exited the shelter and wandered into the forest.

-----

When Wren awoke, she turned to find the pillow next to her empty and already absent of any body heat. Admittedly, she had expected as much, but a sliver of her heart felt the faint pang of disappointment. The ranger turned to face the canvas ceiling, pushing curled tendrils of hair away as her eyes adjusted to the light still radiating from the amber vessel. In the quiet solitude of her shelter and the stark soberness of her constitution, after the blissful haze of last night, she was forced to finally acknowledge the coils of guilt clutching her heart.

‘It’s been years, Wren. You’ve locked yourself in a cage... and you’ve chosen to unlock it now. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

The logic was there. And yet, so was the shame, ripping at her core and clutching at her organs, forcing her breaths to turn shallow. But today wasn’t a day for brooding and self-loathing; they had goblins to kill and a Druid to find.

After donning her armor, Wren exited the tent to be greeted by bright flares of sunlight and an already bustling camp. Had she truly been the last to rise? The medicinals and physical exertion from last night must have knocked her into a deeper slumber than she'd realized. The little bird bent down to grab her quiver and caught a glimpse of something nestled amongst the arrows. She grabbed at the out of place thing, withdrawing a simple surprise that she recognized immediately. An Aster flower. For all his innuendo, the vampire could sometimes be explicitly on the nose.

The edges of Wren's neck flushed around the leather collar of her armor, almost making the skin itch with the rush of new blood. She turned her head just a fraction to look at the vampire, feeling the prickling heat of his gaze upon her. Astarion was sitting on a boulder, the picture of nonchalance. He met her eyes with a soft smirk and a sly wink, dagger in one hand as he poked the tip of the narrow blade against his opposing finger, testing the sharpness. The silver-haired rake flicked the weapon slightly, a subtle hello laced in the glint of a dagger, before turning to laugh at some joke Karlach made at Wyll’s expense.

It was a simple, sweet, innocent little secret between the two of them, but something about it set the little bird's body on fire. She lamented the fact that she could not stride across the camp and hold him like she wanted... how she longed to feel him in her arms in that moment. But instead, Wren quickly plucked the flower from her quiver and pressed it between the pages of the tattered spell book she’d stolen from Nettie days ago, snuffing out the feelings brewing inside as she went.

-----

The first few phases of the goblin camp raid went smoothly. Astarion and Wren efficiently took out the scouts while Shadowheart — affectionately called Drowheart by her campmates while in her disguise — made her rounds poisoning the food and alcohol supply and freeing the Owlbear.

“Okay. Dror Ragzlin will be in here.” Shadowheart explained in a hushed whisper, drawing an "X" on a makeshift schematic of the temple as they readied themselves outside of the gargantuan doors. “First, we handle Minthara and get Halsin.” She circled room on the periphery of the temple to show that location. “Then, we all take out the Hobogoblin and his hoard.”

“Minthara?” Wren asked, voice cracking just slightly at the end, which she attempted to cover up with a cough.

Astarion picked up on the strangeness of her tone, head cocking to examine the woman through his peripherals. She'd been oddly quiet on the way to the camp, but he'd chalked it up to battle nerves or some sort of post-coital awkwardness, which he himself felt. He flicked his gaze over to the ranger with interest, white brows furrowing as he studied her; he could hear the moment her heart picked up its pace and the stable thrum turned into a rapid fire. But other than that, she’d turned stone cold. Impassive. Unreadable.

“Yes, Minthara.” Shadowheart huffed, already growing impatient. They had limited time to act and the pressure of being the one to call the shots was slowly dripping weight onto one of the scales within her psyche and unbalancing her constitution. “Any more questions? Then let’s get on with it.”

Drowheart easily lead the group through the fallen temple, past several torture rooms filled with mangled bodies, and straight to Minthara. They’d been instructed to wait for the cleric’s signal before attacking. With so many goblin cultists and worgs wandering about, subterfuge was clearly the tactical advantage; although distracted, Wren was aware enough to be proud the cleric knew her stuff.

It was a damn good plan. It was a great plan, even. It might’ve truly worked. But halfway through the conversation Drowheart and Minthara were having about “trying” to find Emerald Grove, the two women gesturing over a large map strewn upon an oak desk, the paladin turned to catch a glimpse of Wren where she’d attempted to obscure herself behind Wyll and Karlach.

Minthara’s eyebrows furrowed as she drifted away from the conversation, no longer captivated by Drowheart’s -- admittedly lackluster -- attempts at theatrics and distraction. Wren felt the woman's eyes upon her and couldn’t help but lift her head to acknowledge the Drow, chin cocked in subtle pride. Minthara’s face clicked with recognition. All the parasites reared their bodies and linked together in a volatile ripple as the True Soul aggressively delved into Wren’s mind, desiring to confirm her suspicions.

The group got pulled into a deeply hidden, foggy memory of a younger Wren wearing a lightly embroidered, bell sleeved blue dress. For a moment, the edges of the vision were a bloom of vignette, and the memory had a feeling of being closely guarded by the keeper. It took aggressive delving from Minthara to pull the memory from Wren, the little bird’s psyche unwilling to release it and clutching to the precious thing with thorned tendrils in an attempt to protect from the intrusion.

But finally, the paladin broke through, and the vision was opened to reveal all. Wren wore a flower crown, dark, lengthy braids, and the visage of a more optimistic, less time-worn young half-elf. She was holding onto the arm of a salt and peppered man, his eyes that same amber color as Wren’s real eye — clearly, her father. They were walking toward a red-eyed, white-haired Drow holding out his hand to her; several semi-blurred faces were in the background. It was autumn, and the breeze picked up and scattered leaves from the trees, swirling them around the memory like confetti, causing memory Wren to laugh in delight. The emotion of the scene was deep and extreme; a sickening, overwhelming combination of adoration, excitement, and sadness all in one. As it ended, the lingering, intense feelings sent the entire group reeling from the vividness of it all.

Wren forced Minthara out of her brain with extreme effort, though her face remained almost impassive. Almost. Astarion caught the glimpse of a single tear rolling out the woman’s eye before she blinked the rest away. The half-elf eyes narrowed as she locked her gaze onto the Drow woman, clutching the hilt of her scimitar in a white-knuckled grip.

“I remember you... you're the ranger woman that caused my cousin to forsake Lolth.” Minthara spit in disgust as she broke out of the trance. If the group hadn't been sent spinning from the sensation of intruding on someone's most secret memories, they might have considered that tone odd from another Drow no longer serving Lolth. But cultural indoctrination ran deep, regardless of hypocrisy.

The atmosphere in the room flipped. Thick, heavy air and a subtle thrum of energy plucked itself around the room. The vampire knew, without really understanding how he knew, that the ranger was about to unleash that fascinating form of terror like what she'd released onto the Gur; the storm of rage and vengeance before the calm of death. He felt the hairs on his arms stand at attention just as Wren lunged across the desk, hands outstretched and blue snaps of lightening already crackling at her fingertips.

Chaos reverberated around the room and descended upon the gang almost as fast as lightning strikes; Drowheart’s plan was shot to hell by the archer with nary a bow in sight. Gale had slyly locked them all together at the beginning with an arcane lock on the door — nobody in, nobody out; fight to the death quickly became the agenda. Lae’zel and Karlach broke into the pandemonium first, screaming their individual war cries as they swung their sword and axe, respectively. Blood rained around them in spiraled drops of crimson. They were quickly followed by Shadowheart and Wyll, both playing support roles to the fearless, raging women.

A well-placed blast of thunderwave from Gale knocked two goblins that had been running to Minthara’s aid into the cavern beneath the dilapidated room; the wizard was playing defense and doing everything in his magical power to keep the altercation between their gang leader and the Drow a fair fight. The women were swinging at one another with their melees; Minthara's pointed mace narrowly made contact with Wren's ribs and sent a sharp cry of pain from the half-elf. The ranger managed to grab the mace on the second swing, her own weapon clattering to the ground during the tussle, before she placed a swift kick to the Drow’s abdomen. The move knocked Minthara prone, disarming her in the process. Wren tossed the mace aside where it skittered into the cavern below.

Gale might've been trying to keep the fight fair, but Astarion had other ideas entirely. He would gladly stab Minthara in the back. But two more goblins, smarter than their counterparts, had climbed overhead into the crossbeams. He was pinned in place. Every time the vampire tried to advance, he was greeted by a meticulous flurry of arrows that sent him reeling back towards cover. ‘Damn Gale and his dibs on the missile snaring gloves.’

The women were now in a fist fight on the rough, cold ground, each haphazard roll for dominance forcing the pair closer and closer to the edge of the room where a cavern gaped below. It was clear Minthara was stronger, but Wren was fueled by an explosive combination of pure rage and murderous revenge, which helped even the playing field. The two were locked in a battle of strength and will, both too stubborn to give up their pursuits to acknowledge they were on the brink of death.

In a split decision Astarion dashed forward, narrowly outrunning a flurry of arrows just as Minthara and Wren both tumbled over the edge of the crevasse. A lone arrow buried itself in his calf, slicing all the way through, as the vampire made the final dive towards Wren, his long limbs outstretched and desperately grasping for the woman. The rogue barely caught the half elf by the freckled hand as she slid over the edge. When he looked down, Astarion saw the paladin grasping haphazardly at the ranger, attempting to maintain her hold.

“You should have remembered me as the woman that downed two of house Baenre.” Wren hissed through clenched teeth as the little bird placed a swift kick to Minthara's face, ripping a string of blood and a grunt of pain from the Drow.

The agony from the arrow lodged in Astarion's leg was searing and sharp. The burning through his calf became almost unbearable as blood began to pool towards the front of his pants, but the vampire kept both hands firmly locked around Wren’s forearm. Teeth gritted, beads of sweat rolling down his face, the silver-haired elf groaned with immense effort as he struggled to hold the weight of the two women. Wren glanced up at Astarion, and as their eyes connected, she gave him a wild look he didn't understand.

Then he felt it, the slight current of electricity running through him, like a pulse. Not painful, but noticeable. Wren released a shattering scream as she bent the electricity through her own body, deftly curving it away from Astarion and towards Minthara. The searing force of the spell shot azure bolts down the ranger's arm, burning the jagged pattern into her flesh as she doubled in her efforts; the wail ripped from Wren’s vocal cords rang into the cavern and echoed back to them.

The paladin tried her best to hold on, but the blistering agony became too great, and her body’s natural response overruled her brain’s will -- she released the ranger’s hand with a look of pure terror on her face. Astarion and Wren both watched, unable to look away from the horrid scene, as the Drow tumbled into the dark abyss before disappearing from view.

“A little help here!” Astarion shouted, coming back to his senses, all energy positively ripped from him by now, miraculously clutching to whatever final shreds of strength and willpower remained. The little bird began trying to pull herself back over the edge, deft fingers hooked into the stone ledge. Astarion had the sickening thought that no one was going to come and save them, and he was going to lose his greatest ally, but finally, blessedly, Wyll ran toward the rogue and helped drag the ranger back over the edge.

“Make that the woman that downed three of house Baenre.” The brunette half-elf grumbled with a wry chuckle as she grasped the cold cobblestone. She heaved for a moment, eyes turning to assess the damage to her campmates. They were scattered about the room in various states of deterioration from the battle that had just ensued, but alive. The others were tending to their wounds, drinking healing potions, rearranging their weaponry... or in Shadowheart and Lae'zel's case, kissing passionately. The little bird turned to look at Astarion and gasped as she caught him breaking the shaft of the arrow before ripping it from his leg. "Astarion! You're wounded!"

Astarion winced as he cast the projectile aside before turning to snap at the woman. He couldn't help it -- the fear, fucking pain and frustration all rose to the surface the moment he heard her voice. "How good of you to notice, darling. Why yes, yes I am! I'll take that as a thank you for saving your life after you practically pitched yourself off a fucking cavern edge."

Wren reached her hand toward the vampire’s leg, and he nearly ripped away from her touch before feeling the subtle warmth of her healing spell. Then she grabbed her own arm, rubbing at the jagged burn marks that danced across her flesh; her quick attempt to heal the marks was unsuccessful. After a deep breath, the half-elf stood and turned her two-toned eyes back to the rogue, extending her hand to help him stand. “Thank you.”

Astarion had so many questions for her that he couldn’t ask in that moment, and so much anger that he couldn’t express, either. What in the hells had happened to her husband? Where in the hells had she even met a Drow? Why in the hells did she think pitching herself off a cavern edge would be the best choice when battling Minthara? How in the hells did any of that add up to get her where she was, standing before him, after nearly falling to her death? He sighed a frustrated huff and took her hand, shoving the questions into the back of his mind. “Alright then, little bird. Let’s finish what we started and get the hells out of his place.”

-----

Breaking Halsin from the cage was easy; Astarion had the lock undone with barely the flick of a wrist. The Druid was given a brief run down from the gang and was quick to join their cause. After that, a little bit of tactical planning went a long way to making the rest of the raid a breeze in comparison to the mishap with Minthara.

Days ago, Gale and Shadowheart worked in tandem to hide several vases of oil in the rafters above Dror Ragzlin’s throne room. A few well-placed arrows from Wren and Lae’zel sent the thick, slick liquid down in spiraling waterfalls around the hoard before anyone had a moment to catch on to the subterfuge. Two firebolts from Gale and Astarion, followed by several more vessels of oil thrown from the rest of the crew, and nearly the entire room and hoard went up in flames.

Dror and a few goblins were all that remained among the sweltering inferno, and Halsin quickly wildshaped into his bear form, charging toward the Hobogoblin with no intentions for mercy. Karlach, Lae'zel, and Wyll followed behind, heavily dosed on fire-resistance potions and intercepting any goblin stupid enough to join the thrall.

Wren and Astarion were on the periphery of the battle, focused on taking on any outlying stragglers; Shadowheart and Gale were nearby, focused on containing the fire itself. If anyone from the gang had an opportunity to watch the rogue and ranger in that moment, they would've witnessed a remarkable amount of coordination between the two as they were encircled by foes. It appeared as if they were locked in a dance where only they knew the steps; Wren ducked where Astarion swung, he dodged where she stabbed; an arrow was shot at every foe along the vampire's back just as a dagger was tossed at every goblin at the half-elf's. Each movement was fluid and instinctual, their bodies working in tandem; they were truly dancing in a burning room.

Before long, all of the goblins were felled and Dror Ragzlin's limp body expelled its last deep, dying breath before being violently shredded to ribbons by an unyielding cave bear. The gang watched in both horror and fascination as Halsin's wildshape form tore into the red flesh of their foe, none of them daring to inhibit the bear’s nature and succumb to heavy paws themselves. Finally, the fit of rage subsided, and the Druid returned to his elven form, panting, but with hardly a scratch on his person.

Halsin turned to face the gang, all focused on the mountain of a man as he gazed down at them with shockingly gentle eyes for someone that had just committed such obscene violence. "Pardon the viscera... but thank you all, truly, for your rescue."

The beat of silence spread too long across the group. Halsin was... an impressive creature, to be sure. Everyone stood in awe of his hulking frame, battle prowess, and quiet, commanding nature. It was Wren who spoke first, after a soft clearing from her throat. "I've heard great things about you, Archdruid Halsin. From your associates at the grove… and from my father."

Astarion's vermillion eyes snapped between the little bird and the mountain man in shock. She was regarding Halsin with no small amount of adoration; almost as if she were the Druid's biggest fan and meeting the celebrity, if you could call him that, for the first time. Yet another secret revealed at the most inopportune time, and something in his psyche prickled with... jealousy? Add Halsin to the list of men he couldn't compete with in Wren's eyes, just under her dead husband.

Halsin regarded the ranger with interest, his eyes scanning her face for a sign of familiarity in her features, trying to place her parentage. "What is your name, dear one?"

"Wren Yildirim, sir. Of the Styrmir nomads. My father, Draven Yildirim, traded with you and your grove, learned several medicinal recipes from you, and was lucky enough to receive aid from your own hands after a run in with a swarm of poisonous snakes almost a vicennial ago." Her tone was quiet, almost reverent. "You may not remember me. But I remember you. I was but a girl when you happened upon my injured father and our clan all those years ago."

The Archdruid's eyes softened with recognition as he placed a gentle, albeit massive, hand on the woman's shoulder. "Ah yes, I do remember you. And your father. Forgive me... I have lived many years, and it is impossible to recall every being I've met or have aided. But it is good to see you healthy and thriving, Wren. Your father spoke of you with great pride upon our meetings."

Astarion eyes crinkled with suspicion. What in the hells? All the revelations from today were giving him whiplash. Had they all been led to save Wren's Druid idol in some sort of twisted blood debt? All the bleeding hearts in the gang seemed on the verge of tears as the webs of this story wove around them -- Karlach, for one, was practically sobbing.

The vampire rolled his eyes, now thoroughly done with the entire affair and itching to get back to camp. Not to mention, the pain in his calf seared with renewed vigor as the numbing adrenaline of battle subsided. “Sorry to interrupt this… lovely reunion, but can we get the hells out of here now? There are surely a few more goblins waiting for us outside the temple and at this point I think the grove is waiting anxiously for our return. Best to not keep them waiting, hm?"

Everyone nodded in agreement and readied for the final phase of clearing out the fallen temple. Astarion had a million questions swirling in his head as he sliced through the last few foolish goblins that chose pride over flight. In the vampire's mind, he wondered if perhaps he were remaining blindly tethered to their little bird leader. Had he replaced Cazador with another master, much more subtle in her manipulations? Had he, for once, been the seduced rather than the seducer? Would he become just like the goblins that now fell before him... a useless, bloodied corpse, easily forgotten and replaced? Shouldn't he know by now; shouldn't he have learned by now not to trust anyone?

All the time Astarion spent with this woman left him with more questions than answers and he found himself more deeply wrapped into whatever web she wove around them all from his lack of planning and general impulsivity. The vampire resolved that when they returned to camp, that would have to change; he would need some answers, or he would be forced to leave and hope to make it to Baldur's Gate alone. Time was running out. Cazador was coming for him. The spell had been broken and he had to stop playing unwitting knight in someone else's story.

[mads-weasley]

Epiphany Pt. 11: Labyrinth

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

inspo: labyrinth by taylor swift

A/N: covid finally got me, yall...and i wouldn't wish this on anyone (even the norman dike's of the world). thanks for being patient with this chapter! this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Easy's respite at Mourmelon-le-Grand gets cut short when they quickly deploy to hold the divisions of SS troops that break through the line in the Ardennes Forest.

Warnings: mentions of blood

DECEMBER 18, 1944: MOURMELON-LE-GRAND, FRANCE

“George,” (y/n) grumbled, giving him a smack on the shoulder. “Shut up! We’re trying to watch this!”

He turned toward her with a blank expression. “I’ve seen this movie 13 times, okay?”

 “Well, I haven’t, so shut up,” Joe Toye griped, whispering over his shoulder at the man. 

For a brief moment, George’s John Wayne impersonation stopped, and (y/n) tried to focus on the movie, but Skip and Don erupted into a lively conversation behind her.

She swiveled around in her chair, her gaze fixed on them as she furrowed her brows in exasperation. “Guys! Seriously, I love you, but be quiet,” she hissed. “Please.”

“Apologies,” Skip murmured, raising his hand in a playful salute. “Shutting up, corporal.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned her attention back to the movie.

“Got a penny?”

She ignored him.

“Got a penny?” George whispered, drawing out the phrase.

She ignored him again.

He paused and took a drag of his cigarette. “Got a penny?” he called out in the quiet room.

Just as (y/n) turned to punch his arm, Lip turned around with his arms crossed, glaring at him with a shared frustration. 

“What?” George laughed, grinning proudly.

Before she could say anything to him, the doors swung open, ushering in a blast of frigid air. The lights flicked on, and the paratroopers squinted and groaned. 

“Come on! Quiet!” Two officers yelled, striding to the front of the room. “I said, quiet! Elements of the 1st and the 6th SS Panzer Division have broken through in the Ardennes Forest.”

The news left everyone stunned, and (y/n) exchanged a look of disbelief with Goerge. 

“Now they’ve overrun the 28th Infantry and elements of the 4th. All officers report to respective HQs. All passes are canceled.”

The room erupted in complaints, but her thoughts were fixed on Lew. She had to find him before they mobilized. Getting up, she tugged her thin coat closer to her body as she pushed through the doors and was hit with the bitter cold.

As she turned toward Lew’s barracks, someone grasped her arm, gently pulling her to the side of the tent. Seeing Lewis’ familiar browns, she sighed. “I was just about to come find you.”

“So you’ve heard?” he asked, worry etched across his face. “Do you have any winter gear? Or ammo?”

Panic gnawed at (y/n) as she shook her head. “No, not yet. It’s bad, isn’t it,” she asked, looking around at the chaos that now enveloped the camp. 

“Here,” he whispered, removing his dark brown scarf and wrapping it around her neck. “I’ll see if I can find you anything else.”

“But, Lew, you need-” she began, but he interrupted, keeping the scarf securely in place.

 “No. You keep it.”

“What about you?”

Lew shrugged, and an icy gust of wind ran through the camp, sending a shiver through his body. “I’ll manage.” 

Concern washed over her, and she looked up at him in disbelief. “Lewis Nixon, you need to-”

“Nix!” a voice called out, and they turned to see Dick, bundled up in what little winter clothing he could find. “We’ve got to go.”

Lew nodded and turned back to (y/n), quickly checking their surroundings. He leaned in and pressed a soft, reassuring kiss against her lips. “Please be careful, sweetheart. I love you.”

She closed her eyes, basking in his warmth before he pulled away. “You, too,” she murmured against his lips.

“I’ll find you once we get settled, alright?” He assured her, backing up slowly. 

Taking one last look at her, he turned and joined Dick. (Y/n) stood for a moment, watching as they walked away. She knew she had to act fast to get ready for their deployment. Quickly, she turned and headed towards her barracks, scanning the area for her squad members.

In her hurried pace, she spotted George walking without his characteristic smirk. He seemed preoccupied, lost in his thoughts as he puffed on a cigarette. She rushed up to him, her boots crunching on the frost-laden ground.

“George,” (y/n) called out, trying to catch his attention.

George turned to face her. “I was wondering where you ran off to.”

She wasted no time in telling him the truth about the situation. “It’s bad, George,” she breathed out. “We need to grab any ammo and warm clothing we can.”

“Right,” he nodded, eyes widening for a moment.

They walked together toward the barracks, the biting cold gnawing at their skin. George, just like her, had no winter clothing, and they shared their concerns about the upcoming objective. 

“Do you have anything for the cold?” she asked, worried for her friend.

He shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “Not a stitch. How about you?”

Her fingers instinctively touched the scarf around her neck, the soft fabric a comforting reminder of Lew’s presence. “I found this,” she stammered, her face heating up despite the chill in the air.

“You found it, huh?” George teased, his eyes glinting mischievously. “That’s funny because I just spotted Captain Nixon without his scarf a minute ago.”

“What a coincidence,” she mumbled, avoiding George’s playful gaze, her mind racing to come up with an excuse.

“Don’t worry, (y/n/n),” he grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m sure he just misplaced it,” he winked.

Rolling her eyes at George’s teasing, she playfully shoved him. “Whatever George.” The gravity of the situation reminded her that, scarf or not, they all had much more pressing matters to attend to.

(Y/n) sat sandwiched between Bill and Joe Toye in the troop transport, the vehicle’s rattling frame reverberating through her body. The biting cold was an ever-present enemy, and it threatened to gnaw at them and leave its mark. The body heat from the larger men on either side of her provided somewhat of a defense, pushing back the icy chill that constantly threatened to invade.

She huddled into Lew’s scarf, the comforting smell of his presence mingling with the faint traces of whiskey clung to the fabric. It was a meager substitute for his actual warmth, but it offered a semblance of comfort in the bleak situation they were facing. 

“I just wanna know where they’re sending us,” Babe called out above the engine’s roar, voicing the collective concern. “And what we’re supposed to do with no ammo.”

(Y/n) shifted slightly, glancing over at George seated across from her. She shook her head, her expression reflecting a mix of uncertainty and worry. “I don’t know, Babe. Strayer isn’t even in the country.”

Her eyes flicked up to a replacement lighting a cigarette for Popeye.

“Hey, kid,” Bill called out, his teeth chattering. ”What’s your name, again?”

The boy looked over at Bill warily. “Suerth. Suerth Jr.”

“Got any ammo, Junior?” Babe asked quickly.

“Just what I’m carrying.”

“What about socks, Junior? You got extra socks?”

Looking around the truck confused, Suerth nodded once. “A pair.”

Skip immediately perked up from his position on the truck floor in front of (y/n), waving his index finger around. “You need four, minimum. Feet, hands, neck, balls…”

(Y/n) grinned as she and the rest of the men chimed in, “Extra socks warms them all!!”

“Okay, we all remembered that one. But did we remember the socks?” Skip joked, but the cold atmosphere had already seeped back into the truck. The rest of the men continued in conversation, but (y/n)’s mind wandered to a few weeks prior in Paris.

As the first rays of dawn fluttered through the curtains, the gentle light began to dance across the room. (Y/n) stirred, slowly waking from her peaceful slumber. She found herself in a moment of peace, her head resting on Lew’s chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting lullaby.

The morning painted the room in a soft glow, illuminating the features of the man beside her. She watched him sleep, her eyes tracing the gentle curve of his nose, the shadows playing on his face. His lips were slightly parted, and the early morning light highlighted his features in a way that made her heart swell. 

As if sensing her gaze, he stirred, eyelashes fluttering as he started to wake. The corners of her lips turned up in a tender smile, observing the moment as Nix slowly became aware of his surroundings. 

His brown eyes met hers in a warm and sleepy gaze that made her heart skip a beat. He smiled back, a drowsy yet affectionate look that spoke of the feelings they’d shared the night prior. The sun continued its ascent, bathing the room in a golden hue.

Their eyes remained locked, a silent conversation passing between them. In that precious moment, words were unnecessary. With a gentle caress, (y/n) brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead, her fingers lingering on his skin.

“You know,” (y/n) murmured, her voice soft as the morning breeze. “You look especially handsome in the morning light.”

Lew chuckled, the sound like music to her ears. “Flattery won’t get you everywhere, you know.”

“Maybe just a little closer,” she teased, shifting to face him more fully, her arms wrapping gently around his waist.

He grinned, the sunlight catching his eyes. “Can’t argue with that.”

Leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, and the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them and the-

“(Y/n),” Bill shook her shoulder. “We’re here.”

 Bill’s words jarred (y/n) from her memory, pulling her back to their present reality. Her eyes widened as she looked around, seeing that they were the last ones in the truck. 

“Sorry,” she muttered, getting up and grabbing her gear quickly. 

He watched her carefully for a moment. “You alright?”

“Yeah, she nodded, following him out of the truck. “Just got a lot to think about, is all.”

As her feet hit the frozen ground, the icy wind pierced through her. She shivered involuntarily, nuzzling into her scarf and tucking her hands under her armpits. The breath she exhaled turned into visible mist, fading into the icy air.

A smirk grew on Bill’s face, and he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Does all that thinkin’ have to do with a certain Captain?”

Her cheeks warmed at the implication, and she groaned, trying to walk off from him. “Bill, come on! First George, now you?”

He laughed, a hearty and comforting sound amidst the cold surroundings. ”Ahh come on, (y/n/n). You know we won’t say nothin’.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Seeking some respite from the chill, they gathered around a burning pit of gasoline. The flames flickered, casting a warm glow that provided some relief from the biting cold. (Y/n)’s fingers tingled with warmth as she extended them toward the fire, her squadmates gathering around for the shared heat. 

Amidst the crackling of the fire, the distant rumble of a vehicle approached and grabbed (y/n)’s attention. Her eyes caught Lew’s familiar figure hopping out of a jeep with Dick.

“Wait right here. Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered the driver, clipboard in hand. Their eyes met, and his gaze conveyed a mix of worry, silently acknowledging the danger ahead and reassuring her in the same breath. Despite the cold, there was a flicker of warmth in those eyes. He nodded in her direction, his unspoken message clear: important matters awaited him with Colonel Sink.

She watched as he and Dick were soon engrossed in a rapid conversation with Sink, pouring over maps of their upcoming objective. For the second time in the last ten minutes, she was pulled from her thoughts by someone calling her name. This time it was Babe. 

“Hey Bill, (y/n), Don. Come here, look at this.”

The trio looked at each other worriedly, following Babe to the main road. The sight that met their eyes was nothing short of harrowing. 

There were bloody and worn soldiers as far as the eye could see, limping from the very place Easy was being sent to. Their faces were either blank or etched with pain and fear, their movements sluggish, uniforms stained with the evidence of the brutal battle they endured. 

“What the…” Bill’s voice trailed off. They stood there, silent, their minds struggling to comprehend what was before them.

The only sounds that pierced the grim silence were the haunting echoes of boots on frozen ground and the heart-wrenching cries and groans of the wounded. 

“What the hell is going on?” Malarkey whispered, his eyes focused on the battered soldiers.

Bill reached out and grabbed a soldier by the arm. “Hey, pal, what happened? Where the hell are you going?”

The man’s face showed pure exhaustion, and his words were weak as he spoke. “They came out of nowhere. They slaughtered us. You gotta get out of here.”

Babe appeared over Bill’s shoulder, a look of helplessness on his face. “We just got here.”

The soldier stared at them blankly for a moment before Bill grabbed his ammo bag. “Give me your ammo. Come on.”

“Take it. You’ll need it,” the man mumbled.

Nausea rose up (y/n)’s throat as she watched on. It had started as a subtle discomfort, a gnawing unease that intensified with each passing moment. The sight of the battered soldiers had churned her insides, triggering an avalanche of emotions she struggled to contain. 

As the procession of soldiers unfolded before her, the sheer gravity of the situation weighed heavily on her heart. Their bloodied and worn forms, their haunted expressions, the desperate cries for help…they all combined to create a suffocating atmosphere, and the impact hit her like a physical blow.

She felt her muscles tense in protest, and the stench of fear and blood, mingling with the acrid smell of gasoline and gunpowder, only served to intensify the waves of nausea. With a choked gasp, she staggered backwards, her other hand instinctively reaching for her helmet, tearing it off just as she emptied her stomach onto the ground behind her. 

Time seemed to blur, and she was vaguely aware of a presence beside her, a comforting hand rubbing her back gently. In the darkness threatening to pull her under, she clung to the soothing touch to ground her.

Once finished, she braced her hands on her knees, concentrating on the calming touch rather than the burn she felt in her throat. A canteen was moved into her line of vision, and she took it quickly. (Y/n) rinsed her mouth with water, spitting the residual bile and taking deep breaths to steady herself.

“Thanks, Lew,” she whispered hoarsely, holding out the canteen. “I’m glad this was water, for once.”

“Yeah,” he gruffed, pushing it back to her, urging her to take another sip. “You alright?”

“These men…,” she began, standing up slowly. “They’ve been through hell.”

His worried eyes watched her as she looked out at the sea of bloody and exhausted men. “I know,” he paused, doing the same. “Come on, we got some ammo.”

(Y/n) followed him as he quickly made his way to a table with a few crates of ammo. Everyone around her stuffed their pockets with as much as they could, and she was no exception. They needed as much as they could get. Her mind drifted to ammo, then to the cold, then to the scarf around her neck…Lew’s scarf. Did he ever find anything?

She turned to Lew with frantic eyes, scanning his figure for any cold weather gear. “Did you find anything?”

He hesitated for a moment, deciding whether or not to lie. Seeing her concerned face, he decided against telling her the truth. “Yes, they’re on the jeep. But I did find you these,” he whispered, discreetly sliding her a pair of gloves under the table. 

“No,” she protested, pushing them back gently. “I’m not taking-”

Lew shook his head, a faint, reassuring smile on his lips. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes. That’s an order, corporal,” he said, nudging the gloves toward her with a smirk. “You’re so stubborn, woman. Just take the damn gloves.”

Reluctantly, she accepted them and slipped them on slowly, savoring the warmth they provided. “I hate you,” she muttered, returning to the table to get more ammunition. “And I hate it when you pull rank.”

Lew rolled his eyes playfully, his voice a tender murmur meant for her ears alone. “I love you, too.”

After a moment, he reached out and gently pulled her to face him. He leaned in close, his voice a soft caress among the tension in the air. “Keep your head down, alright?”

Their proximity sent a heat wave through her, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. Suddenly aware of the closeness, he cleared his throat and took a subtle step back, eyes glancing around them for onlookers. 

A sigh escaped her lips as she looked up at him, the worry evident in her eyes. “I will. Where will you be?”

“Most likely a little behind the line with Dick,” he replied, his gaze briefly shifting to the ground. “I won’t be far.”

A wave of concern washed over her. “You be careful, too. I can’t ha-”

“Don’t worry about me,” he interjected, adjusting her helmet with a determined air. ���You know I’ll manage.”

“Lewis, will yo-”

Lieutenant Dike’s sharp voice pierced the air, cutting through their conversation abruptly. “Easy Company! Move out!”

(Y/n) took a steadying breath, closing her eyes momentarily to gather her resolve. When she opened them, Lew was watching her intently with an expression she hadn’t quite seen before. It had a blend of adoration and worry, unlike anything she’d witnessed in Paris or the camp's chaos.  His eyes seemed to whisper, “You’re strong, and I’ve got your back.”

George called her name from a distance, but her eyes remained locked on Lew’s. He nodded once, a subtle reassurance that said it was okay. With a shaky smile, she turned and joined Luz and her squad, stepping into the path toward Bastogne.

Nixon’s eyes followed (y/n) as she melded into the sea of soldiers on their way to the town. Her familiar figure seemed to blur into the collective form of Easy Company. The air was alive with the charged energy of soldiers readying for battle, but Lewis Nixon felt a sudden stillness within him, a sharp awareness that it was her first time in combat after being hit.

A shiver ran down his spine, an icy finger tracing the contours of his thoughts. The weight of impending danger settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach. His fists clenched involuntarily, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to reach out, to call her back, to hold her close and promise safety, but the harsh reality of war held him back. Each step she took away from his felt like an eternity, the silent ticking of a clock counting down to disaster.

As she blended into the crowd, her presence grew fainter like a flickering flame in the distance. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily to center his thoughts. The cacophony of soldiers, the shuffle of feet, the clinking of gear…all of it seemed to fade into the background as his mind flashed with all his memories of her. But as the seconds ticked away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this battle, this path they were treading, would demand more than either of them could foresee. 

Breathe in, breathe through, breathe deep, breathe out…

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[kanye--westeros]

Top Albums of 2024

1. I LAY DOWN MY LIFE FOR YOU - JPEGMAFIA (Favorite Track: vulgar display of power)

2. Dark Times - Vince Staples (Favorite Track: Étouffée)

3. GNX - Kendrick Lamar (Favorite Track: tv off)

4. empathogen - Willow Smith (Favorite Track: false self)

5. CHROMAKOPIA - Tyler, The Creator (Favorite Track: I Killed You)

6. Big Ideas - Remi Wolf (Favorite Track: Wave)

7. Blue Lips - ScHoolboy Q (Favorite Track: time killers)

8. Algorithm - Lucky Daye (Favorite Track: Think Different)

9. What Now - Brittany Howard (Favorite Track: Red Flags)

10. Soul Burger - Ab-Soul (Favorite Track: California Dream)

11. Charm - Clairo (Favorite Track: Juna)

12. Two Star & The Dream Police - Mk.gee (Favorite Track: Candy)

13. I've Never Been Here Before - Erick the Architect (Favorite Track: Breaking Point)

14. Humble As the Sun - Bob Vylan (Favorite Track: Ring the Alarm)

15. TANGK - IDLES (Favorite Track: POP POP POP)

16. Nothing - Louis Cole (Favorite Track: Life)

17. COWBOY CARTER - Beyonce (Favorite Track: SWEET HONEY BUCKIIN')

18. People Who Aren't There Anymore - Future Islands (Favorite Track: Corner Of My Eye)

19. What A Devastating Turn Of Events - Rachel Chinouriri (Favorite Track: Dumb Bitch Juice)

20. The People We Become - nobigdyl. (Favorite Track: leave it to God)

21. It Wasn't That Deep - Glolorun (Favorite Track: Walk)

22. HEAVY JELLY - SOFT PLAY (Favorite Track: Act Violently)

23. Imaginal Disk - Magdalena Bay (Favorite Track: Cry For Me)

24. Songs For Sinners & Saints - Killer Mike (Favorite Track: Humble Me

25. Mahashmashana - Father John Misty (Favorite Track: Screamland)

26. Bando Stone & The New World - Childish Gambino (Favorite Track: Cruisin)

27. The Alexander Technique - Rex Orange County (Favorite Track: Carrera)

28. Cyan Blue - Charlotte Day Wilson (Favorite Track: My Way)

29. Atavista - Childish Gambino (Favorite Track: Final Church)

30. She Reaches Out To She Reaches Out To She - Chelsea Wolfe (Favorite Track: Dusk)

31. No - Tomato Flower (Favorite Track: Destroyer)

32. Pointy Heights - Foushee (Favorite Track: rice & peas)

33. Love Heart Cheat Code - Hiatus Kaiyote (Favorite Track: Cinnamon Temple)

34. Quiet In A World Full Of Noise - Dawn Richard x Spencer Zahn (Favorite Track: The Dancer)

35. Public Love - Littrell (Favorite Track: Meet Me In The Water)

36. AND THEY MINE FOR OUR BODIES - Gao the Arsonist (Favorite Track: INSOMANIA)

37. Afrikan Alien - Pa Salieu (Favorite Track: Big Smile)

38. TIMELESS - Kaytranada (Favorite Track: WITCHY)

39. HARDSTONE PSYCHO - Don Toliver (Favorite Track: BACKSTREETS)

40. ORQUIDEAS - Kali Uchis (Favorite Track: Perdiste)

Honorable Mention:

Hit Me Hard And Soft - Billie Eilish, Older - Lizzy McAlpine, HEAVY - SiR, Hyperdrama - Justice, INDIGO - Jared Evan, Dark Matter - Pearl Jam, JPEG RAW - Gary Clark Jr., What A Fucking Nightmare - The Chisel, Chains & Stakes - The Dead South, #Richaxxhaitian - Mach-Hommy, I Got Heaven - Mannequin Pussy, Samurai - Lupe Fiasco, Something in the Room She Moves - Julia Holter, Brat - Charli XCX, 9 - Kenny Mason, The Art Of The Lie - John Grant, Dopamine - Normani, Where The Butterflies Go In The Rain - Raveena, Big For You - Zsela, God Said No - Omar Apollo, Wide open, horses - James Vincent McMorrow, This Wasn't For You Anyway - Lola Young, Permanent Pleasure - Joywave, MEGAN - Megan Thee Stallion, Mantras - Katie Pruitt, Romanticism - Hana Vu, No Name - Jack White, CRASH - Kehlani, Shadowbox - MAVI, Bird's Eye - Ravyn Lenae, This Is How Tomorrow Moves - Beabadoobee, Bad Cameo - James Blake x Lil Yachty, Ultra 85 - Logic, The Loop - Jordan Rakei, A LA SALA - Khruangbin, Power - illuminati hotties, Better Me Than You - Big Sean, Wild God - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, Please Don't Cry - Rapsody, Found Heaven - Conan Gray, When a Thought Grows Wings - Luna Li, A Dream Is All We Know - The Lemon Twigs, Penalty of Leadership - Boldy James & Nicholas Craven, You Only Die 1nce - Freddie Gibbs, Bravado Intimo - IDK, Evergreen - Soccer Mommy, The FORCE - LL Cool J, From Zero - Linkin Park, Moth - Fana Hues, PHASOR - Helado Negro, Dunya - Mustafa The Poet, Negative Spaces - Poppy, Maybe In Nirvana - Smino, Mika's Laundry - Matt Champion, Fabiana Palladino - Fabiana Palladino

Albums Worth Checking Out Despite Not Making HM:

Stargazer - Helqvist, We Don't Trust You - Metro Boomin x Future, Bryson Tiller - Bryson Tiller, Deeper Well - Kacey Musgraves, Here In The Pitch - Jessica Pratt, Pinball - MIKE & Tony Seltzer, Only God Above Us - Vampire Weekend, Loss Of Life - MGMT, Saviors - Green Day, GRIP - serpentwithfeet, Eternal Sunshine - Ariana Grande, Can We Please Have Fun - Kings of Leon, Name Your Sorrow - Pillow Queens, Visions - Norah Jones, Girl With No Face - Allie X, Melt The Honey - PACKS, All Born Screaming - St. Vincent, Everything I Thought It Was - Justin Timberlake, Lives Outgrown - Beth Gibbons, INSANO (NITRO MEGA) - Kid Cudi, American Dream - 21 Savage, Radical Optimism - Dua Lipa, Chaos Angel - Maya Hawke, Good Together - Lake Street Dive, Little Rope - Sleater-Kinney, Don't Forget Me - Maggie Rogers, Love's Letter - Shae Universe, Everybody Can't Go - Benny The Butcher, Head Rush - Channel Tres, Summertime Butch - Benny The Butcher, Quantum Baby - Tinashe, Doing It For Me - Larry June, PRATTS & PAIN - Royel Otis, flight b741 - King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard, COYOTE - Tommy Richman, Idols & Vices: Vol 1 - Kimbra, For Crying Out Loud - FINNEAS, Leon - Leon Bridges, Glorious - GloRilla, Still Praying - Westside Gunn, Tyla - Tyla, Audio Vertigo - Elbow, WORLD WIDE WHACK - Tierra Whack, Black Yacht Rock Vol. 1: City Of Limitless Access - Pharrell Williams, Underdressed At The Symphony - Faye Webster, The Crossroads - Cordae, Petrichor - 070 Shake, Blacks & Whites - Big Hit, Hit-Boy x The Alchemist, The Book Of Clarence Soundtrack - Jeymes Samuel, ROLLERCOASTER - Cadence Weapon, BUG - Kacy Hill, Why Lawd? - NxWorries, Born In The Wild - Tems, When Angels Cry - jev., Across The Tracks - Boldy James x Conductor Williams, Memoirs in Armour - Navy Blue, The Genuine Articulate - The Alchemist

Notable EPs/Mixtapes:

Drop 7 - Little Simz, Scrapyard - Quadeca, Something Ether - Lil Yachty, ROBOPHOBIA EP - EARTHGANG, Might Delete Later - J. Cole, Slow Burn - Baby Rose x BADBADNOTGOOD, On Read EP - Dear Silas, The Pursuit - The 80s, King Of The Mischievous South Vol. 2 - Denzel Curry, Alligator Bites Never Heal - Doechii

Great Songs on Decent to Bad Albums:

"OFTEN, I HAVE THESE DREAMZ" by Kid Cudi

"Honestly" by Lil Dicky

"Doomsday" by Lyrical Lemonade x Cordae x Juice WRLD

"If We Being Real" by Yeat

"Your share of the night" by Gesaffelstein

"BANG YOUR HEAD" by Devin Malik x Schoolboy Q

"Nobody Escapes" by Mother Mother

"Fuel" by Eminem x JID

"Earwax" by Ski Mask The Slump God

"Walking In The Rain" by Toro Y Moi

[marshalforgotten]

Christmas Greetings

Snow fell on a graveyard beyond a glimmering village, like a white, unblemished coat. The tombstones unfazed, stood tall in spite of bitter cold and all was quiet against dark night. Many had visited and passed, on this day as was guaranteed during such times. Now as the people had long returned to their homes, in isolation a voice rang out. Solemn and singing a tune.

"A-wassail, a-wassail throughout all the town A-wassail good neighbours, we'll drink to you now Besides all on Earth, you have apples in store Pray, let us come in for its cold by the door~"

"Oh, oh, oh-oh Fol de de ro fol de da ri Sing too rah lie doh~" ♬

The voice in question came from a barefoot woman. Her ivory hair and gold eyes glowed with evening encompassing it, against dark skin. Upon form she donned a sleeveless, red dress that had shoulders exposed. An unfitting attire, considering conditions which surrounded her. Sitting on a long, tall gravestone, unprotected feet hung nonchalantly. In right hand there was what appeared to be a small, green banana and inside left's grasp bottle of wine. Taking another chug of drink, Alkebu-lan continued the song with voice like a fire hearth sparing one from ice and snow.

"There's a master and a mistress getting warm by the fire While we poor wass-sailors stand down in the mire Come you pretty maid, with your silver-headed pin Pray, open the door and let us come in And if we survive for another new year Perhaps we may call and see who does live here~"

"Ah-ah-ah Fol de dey ro fol de da ri Sing too, rah lie doh~" ♬

Wild, yellow hues then looked up above; watching the clouds finally part for moonlight. Taking this as a cue, she placed down items and pressed footing against biting snow on ground. Despite this, she spun into a slow dance twirling icy particles in her wake.

"We know by the moon that we are not too soon And we know by the sky that we are not too high We know by the stars that we are not too far And we know by the ground that we are within sound~"

"We know by the moon that we are not too soon And we know by the sky that we are not too high We know by the stars that we are not too far And we know by the ground that we are within sound~"

"Fol de dey ro lie doooooh..." ♬

Her voice faded and she lowered arms. After a moment of silence, soft laughter escaped lungs; sad and bitter.

"Hope that was enough for you, my little protector of the forest. I never would be in such a state, if otherwise," Alkebu-lan confessed. Approaching the grave she had sat upon, figure settled onto floor then her hand reached out and stroked its etchings. Time had eroded the words, but it had not yet reached a point where they would become unintelligible by new generations. For now, she would count this as a blessing while it lasted. Lying down, she pressed her cheek against it.

"Long have I wished for nothing more than your soul to know peace, but... I have been cursed with the knowledge that it is not. No, instead I find it in another. Plagued by anxieties and carrying heavy burdens." Eyes closed, with a troubled expression. "I have to remind myself every time I am near him that he is not you- That he is his own person, with another family. But it is difficult; painful, not to fall into that... delusion..." She backed up to look at the names engraved on stone, once more. Light had fled from gaze and lips showed no joy. Silently, hidden primate touched one title on there.

"Here lies John Clayton, Earl of Greystoke."

"... At least here, I can ensure your body decays undisturbed," she muttered, before pressing forehead against it and releasing a sigh. Silently, tears fell off her cheek.

"... My dear Thabo, it never gets any easier visiting you..."