#supposedly a ficlet

[maikee-akihiro]

3 times Crowley stops the urge to kiss Azi(1+ when he doesn't)

Fandom: Good Omens

Chapters: 3/4 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Warnings: Suicide

Summary:

[Based on my Good Omens Reincarnation AU!]

A broken promise was left for Crowley

Chapter Three ✧ Stars ✧ Year 1957

Crowley met a boy at the orphanage he lives in.

Rumors flew around, some say the older kid was here because he disembodied his parents. Others say that he was thrown away here because of some crime. But it was all speculation, bullshit if Crowley has any say.

Crowley didn't believe those words even though others did. He had a gut feeling– either way he’d trust his gut more than the words of those bastards. He eyes one of the bullies who kept laughing at him from afar. He just gave them a stink eye and focused his attention on his food but then he noticed the infamous boy leaving the cafeteria, whilst others were throwing insults at him.

It's funny how comically tragic their life is, both orphaned at a young age and left to fend for yourself against these ferocious creatures who share the same face as them. 

He decides to follow the boy. It’s much better than to listen to their snickering and whines. 

They ended up at a bench near the cathedral. The boy, shocked as he realized someone had followed him, asks guardedly.

“What do you want.”

Crowley raises his hands, calming the boy down. “Not an enemy, I'm just the same as you. Those guys are dickwads.”

The boy’s demeanor slightly changed, but his guard was still up as he sat on the bench.

He lowered his hands and sat beside him. “Self righteous assholes amirite?”

“Tell me about it.” The boy sighs, getting more comfortable. “I didn’t do nothing to them, but they suddenly went up their ways and disturb me every single time. It's annoying.”

He nods. “I don’t get it as well. Most likely they were the one who spreaded rumors bout’ you.”

“Rumors?”

“Yea.” Crowley starts. “They say you murdered your parents, or that you were a criminal so your parents threw you here.” He heard the boy scoff.

“What a fantasy they have, lot of them.” He unwraps his sandwich.

“I know right? I remember them making rumors bout’ me burning my house down so my parents kicked me out.” Crowley recalls his first time here, it was not welcoming indeed.

“Gosh those bastards.” He angrily bites on his sandwich, offering some to Crowley. He declines and says he’s full.

“What’s your name, by the way?” The older boy asks.

“My name’s Charles, but my friends call me Crowley.”

“Crowley? What an odd nickname.” 

He playfully scoffs. “Okay mister perfectionist, what's yours then?”

“Mine’s Aziraphale.” He counters.

“Huh, like that angel?”

“You read the bible?” Aziraphale asks, curiosity filled his face.

“I mean, yea, why else would I know you’re named after an angel?”

“Huh.” He says with a small smile. “Never peg you’d even touch a bible.”

“Mate, we literally live in an orphanage funded by a church. Of course they do bible studies for kids.” He replies with a patronizing tone, in which Aziraphale laughs. 

Crowley couldn’t help but be infected by his laugh.

Without regard, they talked for long hours– too long in fact that a nun calls them in for cleaning time.

-

Crowley made a friend at the orphanage he lives in. They got along well. Too well perhaps.

His name is Aziraphale.

It's been, what, four years now since they’ve known each other.

They surprisingly have a lot of similarities– like how they don't like oysters, or that they both like reading– or that they both enjoyed wrecking havoc(though azi’s more tamer in Crowley’s humble opinion).  

He looks at the boy, who now looks older than they first met, and admires him.

The sun kissed his entire being, he sits there like a riveting painting of an angel. It’s fitting, just like his name. Him just staying there draws breath that he doesn't need, it serves as a reminder of how he can be so dangerously captivating. 

These thoughts confuse Crowley sometimes.

“Hey Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice whispered. They were both in Crowley’s room hanging out, yet the sound of his angel’s voice stilled the once welcomed silence.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask a probably intrusive question?”

Curious, Crowley agrees.

Nothing seemed wrong when it came to him.

He stays silent for a second. Taking a deep breath, he asks.

“How.. did you get here? What was the reason?”

Crowley didn’t expect that. Had he been waiting to ask that? No wonder his mood was a bit different today.

“Of course, it's alright if you don't answer– you don't have to feel pressured and—.” Seeing his silence, Aziraphale filled it with his excuses. 

He even thought it was cute.

“Angel, it's okay.” He replies.

“I’d be happy to answer that, no need to explain” He smiles, then continues.

“Well.. my parents died in an aircraft detonation, it was a horrific terrorist attack.” He fiddles with his fingers, ignoring the shock on his face.

“I was supposedly with them, but I kept whining how scary it was to be on air.” His brows knit, recalling memories he once buried. 

“Annoyed by my antics, they left me at my uncle’s house. I remember my mom saying she’ll bring me back a souvenir–” He pauses, but he can already see the sorrow on Aziraphale’s face without looking. “–guess their souvenir was their caskets.”He chuckles at his own dark joke. 

He stops for a second. He felt heavy in his heart to continue. 

He knew the time would come when it was finally his turn to open up– about what happened. He was happy that he could share it with someone who cares.

He tries not to let it affect him as he continues on. “Then that druggie excuse of an uncle couldn’t take care of me, s–so he sent me here in this hell.” He tries not to let any tear fall even though his voice was at the verge of collapsing. 

“Th—they, those bully bastards— once they knew why I was here, they started calling me a–” His voice no longer coherent, started stuttering out his well crafted answer– he was always prepared for this. 

A cold tear fell on his cheek, yet it was replaced by warm hands that wiped them away. As they kept streaming down, his angel delicately wiped them all– embracing him tight even with the agonizing grief kept stabbing the angel.

“You don't have to continue, I understand.”

With bated breaths, he lets out a raspy ‘thank you’

Aziraphale’s warm hands cradle him close, with him hugging tighter

That night, they got even closer than ever.

-

He learns that his angel loves stargazing.

“Angel angel angel.” He runs to his room excitedly. Spotting the boy sitting on his bed, he walks over to him.

“What.” Azi, who was in the middle of reading, asks– his gaze tears through Crowley with affection despite the annoyance in his voice.

“I found a spot! A perfect spot to stargaze!”

“Really?” He closes the book, his attention now pique. 

“Yes! But they say it's better to go there around August though.” He says dejectedly, sitting beside Aziraphale.

The older boy just chuckles as he pats his head.

“There, there. Don’t worry love, we have time—” Yet he contradicts his words right then and there with sudden rapid coughs. His brows knitted in pain as he held his throat, his coughs still uncontained.

“Angel? Are you al—” His sentence went offrail as fresh dotted patterns of red splattered on the lavender sheets, splashes of red that came from Aziraphale’s mouth.

He learns that day that they might not stargaze for a while.

“SISTER GRACE!” Crowley rushes out of their room, carrying Aziraphale in his arms. Dorm doors opened by his ruckus, but he couldn’t care less about their days. 

“SISTER GRACE, SISTER MARIE.”

The painful yells of a distraught young boy resounded, yet none of the bystanders cried for help with him.

What a cruel world indeed.

He pushes his way to the dean’s office, clocking everyone in the way.

-

Crowley met a boy at the orphanage he lives in. They got along well—very well if he might. His name is Aziraphale. His Angel.

But this friend of his is now lying in an unfamiliar bed, with tubes and IV fluids snaked around his unmoving body. 

He was isolated by a transparent barrier, a barrier so easy to destroy but so hard to do so.

They say it's influenza that struck him, with doctors saying that it's more prominent on kids than on adults to contract the virus.

They say it's a pandemic. They say it’s quite deadly. They warn him to stray far from his light as it may burn him in the process.

But Crowley couldn’t care less.

He brings the chair near the bed, much to Aziraphale’s dismay.

“What are you doing Crowley?” Aziraphale asks in a deadpan voice, voice too hoarse to talk. 

Aziraphale’s hair started to grow after that incident, and so did Crowley’s worry. They stayed here for so long yet not even proper medicine for his voice could cure his sickness.

“I’m not leaving you angel. I’m staying here.” He replies grudgingly, snuggling into his seat.

“You do know there’s a thing called ‘visiting hours’?”

“And do you know there’s this thing called ‘I dont give a fuck’?” He retorts. Aziraphale just lets out a rasp sigh as he sits up, facing Crowley.

In a worry, he stands up and almost moves the barrier. 

“What are you doing!? You should stay down! It might affect your health angel.”

“Same applies to me. With you here, you might get infected.” Crowley frowns. 

“So what? I’m still not leaving you.”

Aziraphale sighs once again as he lays back down, ignoring Crowley’s smug smile.

The silence came back once again. Crowley hated this somber feeling, it reminds him so much of his parent’s funeral.

Aziraphale, noticing his demeanor change, says. “Don’t be down Crowley. I’ll get better and we can see the stars as promised.”

He scoffs, but his eyes betray him. “Sure sure, just get better.” He says as he brings out a book to read.

Welcomed silence engulfed them once more, but on the look of azirapahle’s face– it seems he had more to say.

“Have I ever told you how I was abandoned?” Crowley looks up from his book, eyes shaking as he hears those words.

He had been curious, but he learned not to stick his nose in anyone’s business.

“No, you haven’t.”

Silence. 

It was always silence that accompanied both of them, yet none of them objected its presence.

“They found out I was gay.”

Silence was always their comfort friend, it knows when it's needed and knows when it doesn’t.

“They were ashamed of me.”

Sometimes, silence was more than of an enough answer– but sometimes it isn’t

“As a born and raised Catholic, I was their greatest shame. They cursed and ridiculed me, their own son.” Aziraphale clutches the sheets, trembling slightly from his own words.

“They didn’t just abandon me. They disowned and marked me dead– to never come back to them.” He shakily breathes in. “From the start, I was always the disappointment. It was so easy for them to do this since it was like they planned it from the start.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley for comfort, but all he saw was his blank expression staring back at him.

Silence didn't quite fit them.

-

Crowley knows someone at the orphanage he lives in. His name is Aziraphale. 

“Time of death, July 31st, 12:01 am.”

He’s someone dear to him.

The Doctor pulls the sheets up, forever covering his face.

He wanted to stop him. Ask him why put such a cloth over his face, but he knew better.

Somber as the lights, his light fades darker.

The world spins for a bit, his eyes disorienting him.

“Fuck.” He mutters, clenching his hair hard. The nurse advised him to stop, but all he can hear was whispers– shouts and noises he couldn't explain– visions he couldn't comprehend. iT was all static– then he was bombarded with remnants of familiar things.

Everything all at once came flooding in.

He remembers.

He finally got his memories back, but he was so fucking late.

He remembers dying, around the same time a long time ago. It was an accident really, a nice accident. He never expected to meet his angel this early on though.

As the headache subsided, every thought in his mind became clear.

That night, the hospital room heard the echoes of anguish from a boy whose mind juvenile yet soul old.

A night to forever mark his regrets.

-

Crowley knew a person– loved that person. And they did the same back, but more impactful than Crowley could ever be. More than what Crowley is.

His name is Aziraphale. His angel. 

He walks by the cliffside, with a letter in hand. His strides never stopping as he leaps through the safety barriers. 

He stopped a few steps once he felt the strong seawater air touch his face.

He leers down, the crashing waves felt so melodious in his ears right now. It pulls him, he wants to get closer to the waves.

Step.

After the fire from a lifetime ago, he wonders how it’d feel being hugged in cold through death. Fire hurts, it burns. 

Step.

It was a good thing he was an orphan. No attachments to this life, nor would anyone find him.

Step.

He confirms the letter once more, looking at the contents. He then places down, puts a rock above it. 

Step. 

He wished that he and Aziraphale came here to watch the stars, now it’ll be such a bitter memory for him.

Step.

[faux-mance]

thinking about geno's impostor syndrome

his own world replaced him. it tore apart his code to make another version of him that lived his life, and he was forced to watch that sans fill his

and maybe he was glad after was taking care of papyrus, but that doesn't make it hurt, any less. geno was supposed to be the one doing that. it wasn't supposed to come to this. it wasn't fucking fair that he'd suffered so much, only to see another version of him be with geno's brother.

but maybe it was fair. maybe it was what he deserved. he couldn't save his friends. he couldn't save his brother. he couldn't even save himself. it was why he gave up the name sans, wasn't it? he didn't deserve that name. he didn't deserve that life.

— the surface doesn't change how geno feels. sure, the sun on his face and his feet in the grass feel nice. but geno can't help thinking it wasn't supposed to be for him. like the very code in the world is calling him a fraud. this ending wasn't for him. it was for frisk and sans and papyrus. it was for toriel and undyne and alphys and asgore and all the other monsters. why should geno intrude on any of that? what right did he have, to claim this world as his own? he couldn't even save himself. it'd been frisk's idea to use the pie to get him out of the save screen. he didn't deserve to be here. maybe that was what led him to go back into the mountain. to walk through soft, undisturbed snow. not many would step foot here again. not many would want to. that was fine with geno. he found it under a house all too similar to the one now on the surface. that one felt foreign to him, just like the sunlight and the grass and the smiles of his family. this one, he knew well. the click of a lock opened a back door into a dark room, one that hadn't seen the light of day for quite a while. he slid the syringe out of the drawer, the viscous determination inside swirling slowly, the light emanating from it casting a soft red glow on geno's hand. at the same moment, his gaze fell on a familiar silhouette under a purple curtain. the corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile.

[searchingforserendipity25]

AU-gust fic prompt:

Locked in a room + There was only one bed, in combination with

"I'll take care of it, don't worry!"

"How long has it been since you've slept?"

Thank you @ymfingsteadilyon! <3

Prompt from this list of AUs, my ask box is always open!

-

There were not many formal inns left to Minas Tirith after the battle at its gates, and the coming of the Rohirrim. Most operated informally, and some families, moved by need and by sympathy, opened the spaces of their vacated houses, the empty rooms of sons made swiftly useful in the grim certainty of their never-return.

"Do not expect food to go with the board. I can find you a place, but the window is boarded, and there is but one bed," the matron said briskly.

Maglor's mouth tightened, as did the hand with which he carried their light satchel, empty of even the last of their bread.

Daeron had grown used to his quick speech, and made a point to speak more quickly still. They had walked the long way from the Bay of Belfalas, making swift time with little rest, and Daeron wished dearly for a lightless place to rest his aching head.

He bowed, in a fashion older than the wrecked city of Minas Tirith, or the first ancient fortress to ever bear that name. "That is well, and better than well. We are most grateful for your hospitality."

"Repair my old loom and mend the hinges as you promised, and be gone by noon of the third day," Mother Morwen said, and sent them off.

The lady of the house looked at them not quite trustingly as they climbed the steps of the crooked staircase, not turning eyes eyes away. She was keen, as some Gondorians were, to sense a working of power when in its presence; though Daeron thought she would not have welcomed them at all, if she found anything to fear or disdain in their bearing.

A light enchantment concealed the strangeness of their appearance among Men. It could not hide the marks of battle on them - Daeron's still healing scratch, stark and ugly on his temple, the slow,  stiff way Maglor moved his knee. They had sought to appear to have the look of straggling soldiers, delayed from the host returning from the Gates of Mordor, and the guise was easy to chant and easy to hold, being very close to the truth.

The room itself was a narrow, slanting garret: a narrow, slanting window lit the caulked walls, cast changeful blue light upon the floating dust in the air.

Daeron rubbed at his cheek, avoiding the wound to his face, and thought wearily of rising once more, and filling the empty ewer, and washing his face as it needed to be washed.

In the end, they made the way northwards and westwards for the coronation. 

It had been a long debate. Maglor, self-wise with long reflection by the waters, avoided yielding lightly on any appeal to heart or loyalty or despair; and Daeron disliked the cities of Men greatly, for their sounds and smell, the cacophony of voices and all the mingled impression of many thousand mortal, splendid, forceful lives bound together in the Music.

Their songs had done grave damage to Sauron in the lands to the East of Ithilien for many years. A slow and gruelling and silent campaign, of enchanted groves and illusions raised up to trick passing bands of Gorthaur’s emissaries, to thwart chariots. To give time, and cover, and safety to the fleeing refugees that were at times forced to flee from their homes, for defying Sauron’s influence and rule and enslaving dominion. 

And now, to hesitate to undertake this journey, after so many others through torment and danger!

All things considered, it would have been rather remiss of them not to make the journey. For one thing, the songs to mark the end of one Age and the start of another must perforce be as excellent as they could be; and neither of them could offer a better wedding gift than their music.

They had laid out arguments for days before deciding, each taking one position one day, and another the next; convinced and unconvinced each other and themselves. Because both of them wished to go, and neither wished to admit it, they had gone on in silence.

It filled the small room, the quiet, followed their shadows against the wall. Already Maglor turned the room's single narrow stool. Before Daeron had sat himself down on the edge of the mattress, he had already turned the stool to face the door, and laid down his lute and long knife ready on his lap where he sat.

"There is no need to worry," he said at last, sensing Daeron's hesitation. "I will keep watch."

“Assuredly not,” Daeron said at once. “And let you keep us both awake with your nerves?"

“I am not beset by anything, much less the nerves,” Maglor said, very dignified, as if he had not spent all the resting hours of their few pauses on the way pacing by the fire, turning a flute between his fingers ceaselessly, eyes distant, set upon a distant past, and a near future. 

Daeron had not generally kept watch at all, for many years; he slept where he would in the wild, and heard the murmurs of the land’s movement as he slept. Danger did not touch him but lightly, for centuries.

That had been before Sauron grew in power, and sent his servants after him, seeking to claim him and use him. Daeron had not slept many nights since without Maglor keeping wary vigil - the palm of his cursed hand raised up, a threat and warning to the world that something foul was awake and listening.

 They had joined their journeys together, they two travelers, both very aware of the danger they courted in evading capture and the danger they might be if captured.

It had been a difficult choice to make, and a difficult life to lead; but it had been easy, very easy, in the end, to let the closeness of a hundred nights under the stars and days spent in quiet turn to shared song, and to a shared life. 

These were not his safe wandering places of years long lost. And yet - and yet, it was the end of an Age. Another one was starting. They had felt it, rising as the sun over cold mist in the days after Sauron’s defeat; a new Age, with very little of ancient lore and ancient power in it. 

“There is no danger,” Daeron said more softly, and knew it was true as he spoke. “How long has it been since last thou hast slept? This is the king’s city, and this the king’s peace. I find it very unlikely we should be beset by wraiths and assassins and robbers tonight, in this place, with how long we have spent guarding the king’s lands already. For one thing, it would lack any poetic beauty at all.” 

“Some poetic justice, perhaps,” said Maglor, who was always a little sore about his own guilt. But the stained line of mouth did ease, a little; and he set aside blade and instrument, and sat beside him him instead.

Daeron sighed. The feelings of the body beside him, familiar and ever-warm, eased the strain on his muscles. He could feel Maglor settling close, slowly, in a rare easing of tension.

There was peace, then, in the small room facing one of the seven broken city walls.

It was a strange notion, and a strange estrangement. Even now, scarred and weary to the bone, Daeron did not think of himself as a warrior. His king was dead, his lady, his teacher, his city; his part in the Music diminished, turned to small, unknown deeds, feats remembered by none, except in short-lived legends, and the memory of his companion.

He was but a wanderer, and not much given to wandering among the company of mortals at that. He had avoided war for many years, and fought in the shadows only. Had avoided the speech of speaking creatures altogether, and spoken to birds only, and then only to Maglor, and to what few people they met. He had not sought glory; he had not sought joy, though he had chosen it, when it grew into a thing that could be had.

Maglor sighed from deep in his chest, with a weariness Daeron felt as his own. His hand, when it held Daeron's, felt as heavy and graceful and terrible as the first time Daeron had taken it, and the closeness just as sweet when his eyes creased for him.

"How long hast it been since thou hast slept? Aye, very well. Let us have some rest, and put aside poetry for a time."

They slept wrapped close together, that night; and in the morning they washed themselves well, and went into the wrecked galleries where there were already markets of fruit and bread operating once more, and sellers offered salted fish from Dol Amroth in honour of the day's celebration; and the grey dawn opened over the splintered and shattered colonnades of the market square.

In the evening, there was the wedding of Elessar, the King returned; and of Arwen, called Undómiel, as fair and noble as Lúthien who danced in the meadows and glades of Menegroth. 

There was a wedding to be had; and the singing, all agreed, was surpassingly beautiful.

[lexirosewrites]

Ficlet idea, designer Eddie and model Steve

OH NO OMFG this prompt was from a year and a half ago (September 2023) because i apparently wrote this whole thing and then accidentally lost it in my drafts😭😭😭 might as well post it now!

A New Muse

Eddie can’t say how he went from the Indiana trailer park to having his own collection at New York Fashion Week without explaining that things like that don’t usually happen to people like him.

Maybe it was the luck of being born an alpha. Or maybe it was just stupid fate.

Who knows? Certainly not him.

And although he’s been used to the lifestyle of excess and glamor for a while now, sometimes the world he lives in now still manages to amaze him.

All it took was a lucky break and his work being seen by the right people. Then he’d been whisked away to riches and fame, his name becoming known by every young adult in a matter of months.

Suffice to say that by this point, Eddie wasn’t overly surprised when he was asked to do a feature piece in a big time magazine. The editor had specifically requested for him to design a few grunge menswear outfits to be modeled alongside the article about his rise to success.

Eddie spent weeks grueling over his designs, making sure all his pieces were representative of the kind of work he does, but it was a struggle to create something that he was proud of and that would explain his vision of fashion.

The interview itself was simple enough, just a handful of questions by someone who already knew far too much about his life. They skirted around his less than pretty past and played up the rags to riches aspect that everyone loved to oversell when it comes to alphas.

And then came the photoshoot.

Eddie had been given measurements of an up-and-coming model who would be showcasing all of the designs. Supposedly, the guy was fine modeling both masculine and feminine clothing, so Eddie was able to keep his sizing consistent across the board.

The only mistake was that he was never given a photo of the model. Or told that he was an omega.

He had no clue that the model would be the most stunning man he’s ever seen.

“Hi, I’m Stevie,” the angle introduced himself with a dimpled smile and wide eyes. His scent dripping with sugary sweetness. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Eddie almost forgets to shake his hand, too enamored with the beautiful omega being presented to him on a platter. He recovers enough to slip his hand into the waiting one.

“I’m an alpha.”

That’s definitely not what he meant to say.

Steve chuckles, a soft charming little thing.

“Good to know. Do you have a name, alpha?”

Eddie’s tongue feels too big for his mouth. He might be drooling. He’s definitely lightheaded.

The omega called him alpha. He could be his alpha.

“Um, I’m so sorry! Eddie! It’s Eddie!” he spits out in a rush, attempting to recover from his temporary lapse in sanity.

Another angelic noise of amusement.

“You’re sweet, Eddie,” Steve tells him, sounding slightly forlorn about it. “But I can’t date a coworker.”

Eddie can practically feel his ears pin back against his head in disappointment like a kicked puppy.

“Oh. Right, yeah, no that makes sense. Smart idea. Gotta be careful when you’re a professional.” His voice is thin and unconvincing.

Being rejected by a perfect angel hurts more than he thought it would.

Steve’s perfectly plump lips turn upward slowly.

“But if you find me after the shoot when we’re not coworkers anymore, you can buy me coffee. That is… if you let go of my hand so I can do my job first.”

Jesus Christ.

Eddie had never let go of his hand.

He loosens his grip long enough for Steve to make it through the shoot and then he vows to never let go again.

They’re mated a year later, right before Steve changes his modeling demographic to maternity photoshoots instead.

And Eddie finds his lifelong muse.

[hoshigray]

⋆♱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 ✮ 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢-𝐓𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 ♱⋆ | a JJK series

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: hi hello!! so like, yeah, this is late bc I didn't plan on doing any kinktober stuff since i got shit irl to do. BUT, after some thought and some creative bursts of energy, I figured "ehh why not." So, I'm not setting the dates as life can be unpredictable, but here are the things I'm doing/have done for the month!! Think of this more like a book list than a prompt list tbh

reblogs + comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ⋆♱✮♱⋆ transparent edit made by me + header art by yuto sano + fic dividers by the amazing @cafekitsune!!

𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌, 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒎...

All the material below contains 18+ content, so minors do not interact.

☠︎ = ficlet/scenario | ♱ = fics

☠︎ 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 (true form! Sukuna x fem/afab! reader)

☠︎ 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 (dom! Nanami x fem/afab! reader)

♱ 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇[𝐞𝐫]!! (serial killers! Toji + Sukuna x fem! reader)

Next time, look around the area before you say you find a serial killer attractive. Because you’re about to see what mess your words will have you end up in — and your clothes all torn up.

☠︎ 𝐓𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐔𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 (rigger! geto x fem! reader!)

♱ 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 (vampire bf! Choso x fem! reader)

Finding out your boyfriend's a vampire was far from the chill evening you planned with him. But you can't lie, imagining those fangs sinking down on and sucking on your skin....it's kinda hot.

♱ 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬, 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 (ex-husband! Toji x fem! reader)

Your ex-husband bringing the kids over for trick-or-treating is one thing; him wanting to spend the night at your place is another. But it's just for the night. There's no way one night can rekindle some old feelings...right?

☠︎ 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 (Toji x fem! reader)

♱ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 (Carrie inspired! Gojo x fem/afab! reader)

Taking a loner like you to the prom was, at first, an easy bet for the most popular kid in school. What he didn't expect, however, is to fall madly in love with you — and how that love brings hell on supposedly the best night of senior year...

This is all the stuff for this month. Thanks for stopping by!

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝑱𝒐𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉'𝒔 𝑳𝒂𝒊𝒓?

Would you wish to be tagged? Please lmk in the replies or in my inbox!

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2023 ⋆♱✮♱⋆ These tales have been transcribed and written by the original poster (me). Do not steal, edit, copy/plagiarize, or post any of my works on your own accounts, in or out of this app. Please and thank you.

[deliciouskeys]

I threatened to write something for Butchlander week and well... I have written, uh, something. *skulks back into the abyss*

Written to accompany this wonderful art I commissioned from @semains whom I love dearly-- thank you for indulging my requests for setting and exact pose as well! Commission them!

Butchlander Week NSFW Saturday prompt: Roleplay/Roles. Because it might be the role of a lifetime for Butcher, but you know Homelander is having the time of his life pretending he can't escape / pretending it hurts sooo much.

(yeah, double dipping) Cozy Corner Kinktober prompt #5 Buttplug (sort of. I can't explain myself. I have no excuses. It might be disturbing, so apologies in advance. Pure Id, aka wtf).

My header is getting longer than the ficlet, gdi

"Harder." Homelander's tone is haughty and whiny all at once–  so grating that Butcher wishes he could deliver on the request. Who'd have thought that this grandiose straightedge little cunt would get so hard having a stranger smack him over and over? Who'd ever guess that this supe celebrity– maybe the world's most famous person, and definitely the darling of the American public– would be into this kind of shit behind closed doors? That he wouldn't be bloody ashamed of himself whisking Butcher off to his bizarrely decorated apartment every single night.  Bypassing all of Vought security, so that Vought's public enemy number… if not #1 then at least top 10… could make himself comfortable sitting on his bed. Not all that comfortable, since the bed is a strange upholstered leather number and stiff as hell, but Butcher supposes a supe might not feel the difference between this and a Tempur-Pedic.

He brings him here every night, and every night the script stays largely the same. Homelander plies him with some alcohol, sometimes a glass of whiskey, but more often just a bottle of Heineken. Butcher sits down, Homelander eagerly drapes himself over his lap, pulls and folds his cape underneath him, as if he doesn't trust Butcher enough to spread it out next to him. wiggling his hips, insisting Butcher pull down his pants and spank him. And Butcher obliges every time, even though it's clearly hurting his hands much more than it hurts Homelander– they alternate sides every night but Butcher suspects he already has stress fractures that don't heal because his hands ache all the time and never quite recover between sessions. But despite the pain, and despite the very little to no pain he's actually inflicting on the spoiled brat who always asks to be hit harder, there's just something irresistible about it. About finally being allowed to take out his aggression on the man he hates most in the world. The man he hates most in the world, who also happens to have a surprisingly perky ass that jiggles hypnotically if you hit it hard enough and just right, so Butcher hits him with his full strength not because of the cunt's whiny demands, but because he just wants to see the flesh wobble.

"I said harder!" Homelander's voice cuts through Butcher's thoughts, and Butcher can't help it any longer.

"You want me to hit you harder, you're gonna have to find a paddle."

Homelander's breath hitches and he says nothing in reply. No, this sick cunt clearly craves skin on skin contact to get off, Butcher already knows this, which is why he knew what to threaten him with to get him to shut up.

But he does wish he could hurt him. The achy joints of his hand plead he stop. Butcher stares down at the well defined muscular globes, skin turned a nice blush color where he's been hit but Butcher wishes he could turn it black and blue. Purple and green. He wants the cunt to really feel the intensity he's supposedly asking for, just to prove how wrong he is.

"I'm waiting," Homelander reminds him.

"Just taking a breather, alright? Enjoying the view." Butcher tries to squeeze a handful of flesh, but it's never as soft as it looks. "Look like one of 'em marble statues you got out in your lounge area."

Butcher hears Homelander's breath hitch and sees him take a peek at the mirror above, clearly checking himself out. This is all a game to him. It flatters his vanity that Butcher does this for him. Butcher would like nothing more than to turn this around on him, make it less of a game and more of an actual punishment.

A strange idea creeps in. Butcher leans back to reach for the Heineken bottle he emptied earlier and put on the nightstand, always on a coaster Homelander insists he use. God forbid he get a water ring on the antique looking furniture, with the creepy little cameo portraits of people who died last century. The beer is mostly just to take the edge off before Homelander lies down over his legs– he and Homelander mutually figured out the session goes better if he's slightly buzzed and maybe just a little numb to the pain in his hand. And they figured this out because Homelander happened to whisk him away right after he stumbled out of a bar on a late Saturday night, after which point Butcher understood that Homelander would come and find him wherever he was– even if he wasn't at home past midnight. It's sexual slavery, is what it is. Butcher would resent it more if he didn't somewhat enjoy getting to beat this cunt on a nightly basis before being dropped off at home.

Homelander shifts, growing impatient while waiting for another round of spanking to start after the breather. "Come on!" he says through gritted teeth, and he sounds angry, and fucking self-righteous, as if he's complaining about customer service he's paid for. It's not Butcher's fault that the cunt only seems to come after he's gotten spanked for minutes straight, at some point his body finally deciding that this is such an enjoyable moment that his hips start grinding forward into Butcher's leg and he comes, the same pathetic little hitched moan escaping his lips every time, the same toe-curling Butcher can see because the cunt does take off his boots to lie on the bed. Thank god he never pulls his pants far down enough, because he never gets any jizz on Butcher's jeans. Homelander seems to think Butcher doesn't notice, or at least they both pretend they haven't. As if Butcher can avoid noticing his leg being humped violently, wondering if this is the night the cunt breaks one of his limbs out of pure excitement. As if it's not clear what just happened from the flushed face and glazed over eyes the supe has when he rises off the bed, finally satisfied. But if no one tells and no one asks, it didn't necessarily happen, and both seem content to keep it at that. Homelander takes a quick shower and suit change before dropping Butcher off at his apartment, without any further ceremony or pleasantries, and by morning Butcher is half in denial about any of it even happening.

"Are you fucking deaf? Why did you stop?" Homelander says and starts to turn his head to look back at him, but Butcher shoves his face back to face forward. 

They have an unspoken agreement not to look each other in the eye when they're doing this, ever. Homelander almost broke the agreement, but obediently looks away again after the lightest push.

"Shut your fucking trap already. I heard you the first ten times just fine," Butcher growls under his breath, and his mind is made up about what he was hesitating to do. He forces the neck of the empty bottle into the cunt's tight crack, moving it around, looking for give.

Homelander's back arches, clearly not expecting the sensation. "The fuck are you doing?"

"GIving you something harder, like you were whining for, you spoiled brat." Butcher gives up doing it blindly and pulls one of the cheeks towards him. "Now where's your fucking chocolate starfish? You even have one?" And as if to punctuate that last word, Butcher finds the place and  breaks the initial resistance resistance, the bottle neck beginning a slow slide in.

Homelander breathes harder. "I don't like it," he mutters, and his ass flexes in protest.

"You better like it and accept it, or else you're going to end up with a pile of glass shards inside you."

Butcher is skeptical that glass could really do anything to this supe's internal organs, but it seems Homelander wants to avoid the mess anyway, and his muscles relax.

"That's right. Now stop whining and take your punishment."

He tries to push the bottle in even further, feeling more and more protest.

"I don't like it," Homelander repeats, sharply this time, as if it means something.

"You ain't supposed to like it," Butcher says and decides to finally smack him on the ass with his other hand after keeping him waiting. Butcher doesn't anticipate that Homelander's body will convulse, shatter the bottle, grind into him, and come all at once.

"The hell was that?" Butcher asks, pulling back the jagged bottle's bottom half that survived. Homelander's body is still twitching underneath him and he's panting. Maybe this was going to be it. Butcher overstepped the line. Homelander was probably immersed in some unresolved childhood trauma or fantasy or whatever the fuck about having a father figure who would discipline him with a firm but loving hand. This must have ended the illusion for him. Maybe enough that Butcher is about to meet his end– sometimes it's hard to remember that the whimpering quivering pathetic mess draped over his knees is the selfsame terrifying force of nature that can take out an entire army if he ever just chose to do so.

But the cunt won't even pick his head up. He's buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Is he fucking crying? Butcher wonders for a second if it's possible that he's actually fucking done it. Actually hurt him. Maybe a plug of C4 won't kill him but maybe it'll make him feel the hurt? A whole assortment of images races through Butcher's mind. He wants to try everything now. His crowbar, a bat studded with rusty nails, maybe the same bottle but a Molotov cocktail this time. Payback for thinking he can just force Butcher to indulge him, to make every night about getting him off. This opens up a whole new world of possibilities.

But Homelander stirs and starts to sit up, and Butcher winces and his teeth are set on edge when he can hear the crunching sound of glass grinding against glass, and tiny green shards start dropping out of him as Homelander tilts to sit back on his heels.

"That was— amazing…" Homelander whispers, breathless. His hands are folded demurely in his lap as if he didn't just orgasm to being diddled with a bottle of Heineken. "You want another beer?"

"No!" Butcher says, sounding more emphatic and more disturbed than he intendedto let on. "No, you sick fuck."

"Does your hand hurt?" Homelander asks, and it's without any impatience in his tone, maybe even a note of real sympathy, completely ignoring the insult just lobbed at him. Before Butcher knows what's happening, Homelander leans down and licks the hand that had just been spanking him. Butcher jerks it away defensively, but Homelander follows it licking it, laving each finger with his tongue before leaning into it with his brow ridge, then his nose, rubbing himself into it. It feels soothing and takes away some of the sore feeling, Butcher is loath to admit.

But he needs to regain what little control he has in this arrangement. "You want me to pet ya? Then lie back where you belong," he says. It's gratifying to see the supe cunt immediately obey him. He stretches himself back into his former position, and Butcher kneads the flesh of his ass.

"We can do the bottle again if your hands hurt," Homelander says, sighing contentedly and breaking the rule– looking back at Butcher with a look that is disturbingly similar to fondness.

"We can," Butcher agrees, trying to ignore the glass that's spilled out on the sheets and forget the crunching sound the bottle made when it snapped in half at the neck.

(AO3 link)

[jolenes-doppelganger]

hi! so I have this idea that won't leave my mind about a fanfic/story between lady jessica x fem! reader. basically reader is part of one of the great houses and she married duke leto because of a political alliance. jessica was already leto’s concubine and paul had already been born too.

the relationship between reader and jessica was never the best one. jessica always had this pet peeve with reader, maybe jealousy because she was married with leto, but reader never wanted to be married with him and never had romantic feelings for him too.

they relationship began to change when they come to arrakis, specifically when they are left in the desert to die (is “saved” by the harkonnen also because he is a member of one of the great houses).

jessica sees the reader as the only thing left of what she called home, then she starts to develop feelings. reader already had some “strange” feelings for jessica, like a devotion/admiration to a goddess.

– s

ps: i’m the same person who requested the jessica x fem! corrino reader.

[Hi Anon! Keeping me busy, I see :)]

Riptides

Lady Jessica x Fem! Duchess Reader

Summary: The past haunts. It puts things both bad and good into perspective. Whether it is to mend or to separate, that is entirely up to the doer.

Warnings: None, just overall angsty. (Hurt + Comfort).

A/N: This work is contrived of ‘ficlets’. Plain text moves linearly, set in Dune II after Jamis has been killed. Italicized text does not move linearly, pertaining to snapshots of the past. R is the sister of Lord Fenring, not shown in the movie. (This is not a white or perceived to be white character, it is as self-insert as possible). I also did my best to lean into realism, (less R admiration of Jessica, more conflict), as it is more my style. !!! I really, really, really, really like exploring true characterization or playing around with characters, so this is a very angsty fic !!! (Alia steals the show, again).

Word Count: 4.2k

Paul was an uneasy sleeper. Looking at Jessica as she twitched in the Fremen tent, you realized just where he had gotten it from. Jessica was coated in sweat. Paul was the furthest away from you. It was a sad truth that neither of them ever really warmed up to you. And how could you blame them? The marriage to House Atreides was nothing you’d ever asked for. It just was. But Jessica couldn’t understand that. And you wouldn’t try to make her understand that. Perhaps if things had gone differently from the start, perhaps if you’d been given the opportunity to make her acquaintance before you were dragged to the marital bed… None of it mattered.

Jessica twitched again, an unpleasant dream. The duke was dead. Your protection was gone, and by some miracle you’d made it with the other two out of the desert and into the path of the Fremen. Paul had fought for his right to live, Jessica had bested Stilgar, then killed Jamis to protect him and his mother’s right in the Fremen, but you? The best you had was the Bene Gesserit training given to all noble women of high ranking houses. A Sayyadina, like Jessica. It put you in a poor place with the Fremen.

“Hnnmm-” Jessica jerked.

You looked at her, analyzing her facial expressions. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up, lunging.

“Jessi-”

Her hands gripped your shoulder as she pushed you down, prepared to strike. The dim light of the eclipse halted her motions.

“Oh.” she gasped.

Her blue eyes were wide, and afraid. It must have been a hell of a dream.

“All this time and I still forget there’s three of us.” 

Loud voices came from inside the Duke’s chambers. He’d called you here, supposedly to meet with Jessica. Your earlier interactions were never pleasant, she was clipped with you.

“Jessica, please. She is a political ally and another route of maintaining peace upon Arrakis.” Duke Leto reasoned with his concubine.

“And a force of contention in this house! She is slow to learn the Fremen ways, slow to develop relationships with the house staff, and worse, her closest friend is a teenage boy.”

“Paul is close to her age it is reasonable-”

“Yes. They are close in age. I wonder why that is.”

Duke Leto didn’t answer, rather he opened the door, gesturing you inside. You wore thin, flowy clothing, similar to the clothing worn in House Fenring. It was far less conservative than Jessica’s, and you supposed that was a mistake in and of itself. The Duke paid no attention to your clothes. One night to seal your marriage, as was custom. The Bene Gesserit had already decided you would not bear an Atreides child. You slept with him the night after your period had ended. No child would have been conceived, no heir above Paul.

“There are three of us in this marriage.” Leto spoke. “For better or worse, we need to remain as one unit,” he made a circular gesture with his hands, “And that cannot happen without work to build the cohesion between the two of you.”

Jessica’s eyes were bright, intense, her mouth drawn into a thinly concealed scowl.

“Lady Jessica,” you began. “If it is my friendship with Paul that worries you, I will end it.”

Jessica gave one last look at her Duke, leaving before she had spoken a word to you. 

Jessica crouched in the sand, taking refuge from the heat in a cluster of boulders. You couldn’t blame her, she was nauseous. The babe produced nausea as it was, but the sight of water collection from several still living Harkonnens couldn’t have made it any better. She looked green, practically, having thrown up in the sand. Stilgar had scooped it into a bag, attaching it to a pack. No waste. But the lack of water wasn’t going to help her.

“Jessica.” you murmured, crouching beside her on the ground. “Here.”

You exposed the straw from your suit, offering it to her.

“I can’t accept it.” Jessica shook her head.

“It’s a gift for my future step-daughter. You can and you will.”

Jessica didn’t really mean it when she refused the water. She knew you’d press the issue, and she’d accept. She needed the water, and you could do without a little water for a little while. The only issue was that it required bringing her face close to you, which she did. The water was warm. The same temperature as your body, but it did the trick. She drank a few mouthfuls of water, more than she needed, but you didn’t object. She’d take what she could get from you, although her mindset was starting to change.

“The young Lady Fenring, sister of Lord Fenring.” Reverend Gauis Helen Mohiam drawled. “The Bene Gesserit have secured you a marriage…”

So that was what she was here for? A marriage was reasonable, you were of the age to be used to further the Bene Gesserit breeding program. 

“There’s a catch.” the Reverend spoke, holding her hand up to prevent you from assenting. “The union is childless.”

Your mouth snapped shut. A childless marriage? What kind of a thing was that? The Bene Gesserit was better off training you to be a junior reverend than marrying you to a man without birthing a child. What of the breeding programme? What of the needed changes to be made to the bloodlines with the Atreides resistance?

“You will be our spy. There are many eyes upon House Atreides, but we need eyes from inside.”

“What of Lady Jessica, your reverence?”

Helen Mohiam chuffed at that.

“Lady Jessica has served her own purpose since she fell in love with her Duke. One of my best pupils, one of my worst failures. You are young, unswayed by the love of men, swayed by the approval and service to your sisters of the Bene Gesserit. You will serve us well there.”

Taking a breath in, you nodded once.

“I assume Lady Jessica is not to be made aware of this?”

“Lady Jessica should never know of the master you serve. Your duty is to play the role of a jealous wife. Distance between Jessica and you is the only way our intel can be confirmed. Do not get close. Never, ever, give her reason to suspect you are anything but madly in love with the Duke Atreides.”

“You never cried over my father.” Paul murmured to you, sitting on a dune during nightfall.

It was peaceful tonight. The dunes of Arrakis were calm, without wind whipping over the sand, without the whirr of Harkonnen machinery.

“The Fremen don’t waste water. We are Fremen.”

“No. Before. In the tent we slept in before Duncan found us, you did not cry. You were scared, and upset, but you…”

“I never loved your father. I was his wife in name and rank. But I never loved him.” you admitted, not looking at him.

Paul went quiet. He was a deep thinker, like his father. An inner monologue that only they were privy to playing in their head at all moments, a monologue that very rarely came to the surface.

“I knew your father for six months. We were married in a time of great uncertainty for your house, a time of great uncertainty for the Bene Gesserit and Landsraad. There was no time to love him. But I respected him.”

Paul gave a bob of his head. There was sand in his hair. You reached over, shaking it clean. His hair was getting long.

“You need a haircut.” 

“The Fremen don’t all have short hair.”

“Long hair on the warmest part of your head, the head that is most directly exposed to the sun, is a poor idea. Give me your crysknife.”

“It’s ceremonial.” Paul corrected, offended. “And Jessica has long hair, as does Chani.”

You sighed. That it was. They were only drawn when someone was to die, or when handed down from one individual to another. It would be borderline sacrilegious to use it for a haircut. Chani had thick hair, like the Fremen, and Paul had thick hair too, but he was complaining of headaches, from adjustment to the desert climate, you assumed.

“I’m cutting it off.” you decided.

One of the fremen had an iron knife, generally used for cooking. You cut Paul’s hair, leaving the top of his head longer and the sides short. You bagged the hair.

“Do you want to keep it?” you asked the boy.

“Hair doesn’t hold water.”

“It’s said to hold memory.” you murmured. “Do you want to keep it?”

Paul shook his head. He had enough memories in his head to remain unbothered with those from a scrap of hair.

“I’ll keep it.” Jessica murmured, reaching forward for the bag of hair.

She tucked it away in a pouch on her stillsuit. She seemed equally sentimental as she was a bit sad.

“I had a trimming of his baby hair.” Jessica murmured, brow furrowed. “It would have been burned with the rest of Arrakeen.”

You looked up at her, and then nodded once. A box of sentimental items was something you and Jessica seemed to share. Both went up in flames with the Arrakis city. The only thing left of your lives before being the both of you and Paul. Jessica settled beside you, sitting on the dune with you. She was deep in thought, and for good reason. The past was a territory she chartered regularly, for better or worse. 

“Were we ever competing for Leto?” Jessica asked, voice soft, and yet tinged with a scratchiness caused by water retention.

The thought itself was a sad one, and a bit difficult to answer. The Bene Gesserit order had dictated that you play the role of the devoted spouse. It was under their orders that you’d romance Leto, vying for his attention, for his trust, for his innermost thoughts; those that were not as secret as he may have believed. Perhaps you’d played a role in the downfall of House Atreides? No. Not perhaps. The information you’d provided the Reverend Mother had led to the Emperor’s decision to exterminate House Atreides. Of course you had never known it was the plan of the order, but… How much of the fall of House Atreides were you responsible for.

“I…”

Tears sprung in your eyes. Tears you couldn’t cry, a waste of a body’s water. And yet your chest ached. The muscles in your throat contracted painfully, and you blinked rapidly to dispel the tears. Tension grew in your lungs as your body fought against sobs.

“Oh.” Jessica said.

Oh.

Oh? That was all?

Leto rolled in his sleep, wet breath ghosting over your bare shoulder. You’d assumed he’d leave after the marital act, returning to his bed with Jessica, but he hadn’t. Rather, the man had slumped over into the bed, closing his eyes and letting out a weary sigh, as if to say ‘it’s done’. There was wetness between your thighs; wetness that you weren’t responsible for. Sure, you’d forced your body into being wet enough to take the Duke of House Atreides, but this particular remnant was not yours. It disturbed you.

The cool of the washroom felt heavenly, and you were grateful for the stone walls and the shades over the windows. Castle Atreides was wet, the rain of the ocean planet keeping a humidity in the air that would corrode traditional drywall. Not that the staff didn’t keep things spotless, but in most other circumstances, one could have fretted over black mold.

“What are you doing?” a deep baritone voice ghosted in the bathroom.

You were in the middle of scrubbing your skin clean, trying to rid yourself of the act.

“... Bathing.” you answered the Duke Leto.

He stared down at you for sometime.

“I shared the post-coital bath with Lady Jessica on our first night.” he mused.

“I am not her.” you replied, voice taut with a bit of discomfort.

Leto nodded, and without waiting for permission, he stepped inside the bath with you. It was a show of equality, giving you what he had given her. But it was wrong, in a lot of ways. You didn’t deserve his equality, even though the Bene Gesserit tasked you with taking more than equal share of his love.

“Does my age bother you?” Leto finally broke the silence.

“No.” you answered quickly. “It’s not about age, it’s about-”

“-Duty?” Leto cut you off.

You nodded once. The Duke of Caladan was attractive. No question about it. A chiseled jaw, a firm, strong build and commanding manner, he looked good for his age. Better than some men your age. There was appeal in his maturity, but appeal was besides the point.

“Should I expect this again?” he asked. “Should I expect to begin… Conception efforts?

The very words made you want to crawl out of your skin, and it was apparent on your face. So apparent was your discomfort that Leto let out a raspy laugh, shaking his head.

“So that’s a no.” Leto answered his own question.

“The Bene Gesserit wish that Paul remain the sole heir to your house.”

“They won’t have you bear even a daughter?” Leto asked in confusion.

You took a breath. Discussing the aims of your Sisterhood was not something you were allowed to do, but something Leto was confident enough in doing. It was because of Jessica. She had given him too much power, too much knowledge. Hence why he questioned you with such brazen authority.

“The aims of my Sisterhood are not to be discussed with my husband.”

“Well then I expect the same.” Leto darkly murmured.

The same? The concept baffled you. To speak about the Bene Gesserit to your husband was, by nature, against your orders. And to speak of your husband to the Bene Gesserit was your duty. 

“I… Cannot give you that.” you murmured.

“I will annul the marriage.”

The thought frightened you. For you to lose the marriage to House Atreides was of the highest failure. You would lose so much. Political rank, status in the Bene Gesserit… It could mean exile.

“Please, this is my duty we are discussing. I wouldn’t even be married to you without the Bene Gesserit.” you tried to explain.

“No, no you would not. And I wouldn’t even need the political stability from this marriage if it wasn’t for the Bene Gesserit. If you damn me with your meddling, I have no choice but to damn you.” Leto spoke, authoritarian commands reverberating off of the wall.

He was your husband, yes. But this was the Duke of Caladan and House Atreides you were talking to. He was a powerhouse, a force that could do just short of bending wind to his aims.

“I have a people to protect, a son.” Leto continued, eyes ablaze with ruthless determination. “You are new to this house. If it comes between choosing my son and my family’s protection over political stability, I will make that choice. Now promise me that you will not speak of me to the Bene Gesserit.”

“Duke Leto...”

“Promise me!”

His voice echoed off of the stone walls, crashing into you again and again. Your lower lip trembled. Duke Leto Atreides was not a bully, but he was a father. And sometimes those lines could blur.

“I promise.” you whispered, eyes wide and afraid.

Duke Leto visibly slackened in the tub, taking a deep breath in and releasing it. 

“I’ve scared you. I will take my leave of you, if that is what you wish.”

You gave one small nod, and Leto stood, leaving the tub and exiting the washroom. Perhaps if he’d maintained that iron grasp over you from the first night, perhaps if he’d inspired love, devotion, trust in him that Jessica had been privy too for over a decade… Perhaps if you had kept your promise, none of this would have happened.

The sietch was quiet. Unnaturally so. Jessica could feel the humidity with every breath she took. She hated it, for a myriad of reasons. Namely because it was like some perverted, hellish imitation of the humidity of her home Caladan. Not one breath she took had the cool taste of salt, all of it stank of bodies. Her stillsuit was a natural filter, and it sucked the moisture off of her skin, mostly. The residual moisture to cool the body made her feel itchy. All the time.

Paul was sleeping. He was an unusually light sleeper, always had been. But in the Fremen ranks, he slept deeply. It meant something, his relaxation, but Jessica was too bereaved to care on this particular night. Bereaved by the loss of Leto, the loss of her home world and safety, but also by the second body that lay beside her. Jessica was disturbed by the Duchess Atreides, former Lady Fenring, not to be confused with Margot Fenring. Paul had brought up a point, about her crying. The Duchess had never cried, not once. The despair of the burning city of Arakeen, the death of Duke Leto, the confusion and panic; none of it had brought a tear to her eye. But that simple question over competition had brought out an almost haunted reaction from her, and fostered a sadistic fascination inside Jessica. Jessica knew the language of the body. She knew the cues and the faces one might make in different emotions, she’d been taught this. The duchess had been ashamed. Guilty, crippled with some unseen burden. Perhaps it was time that Jessica dug into that.

“I can hear you’re awake.” Jessica murmured, reaching up to stroke a hand through her companion’s hair.

The gesture itself was false. Jessica wasn’t intending to be kind, or comforting at this moment. She wanted answers.

“I can’t sleep.” came the response.

Jessica hummed at this, turning her body to rest against [Reader]’s, spooning the young woman from behind.

“Why?”

You could feel Jessica’s breath on your neck. It was fainter than Leto’s had been. Everything she did, every movement or question the woman asked, it was dissected by you. A game of analysis, the both of you brushing hands in tender show of affection while each sheathed a knife under their sleeve. It was an exhausting and all too familiar game. And perhaps one worth burying, along with the dead.

“It’s my fault that Leto is dead.”

Jessica stiffened, and you could hear the audible slowing of her breath. 

“Explain.” 

There was no time to gather your thoughts. Not these thoughts, anyways.

“The Bene Gesserit tasked me with reporting information regarding House Atreides and their affairs. I told them everything about the Duke, about Paul and about you. For six months.” you admitted, voice growing progressively unsteady as you continued.

It was so difficult not to cry, and you were consumed by grief, guilt, shame. Too consumed to pay attention to the cues Jessica gave as she processed your statement.

“Do you think we didn’t know?”

The sentence was so soft spoken, you almost didn’t catch it.

“What?” you whimpered.

A hand cupped your face. Tenderly, without an ulterior motive.

“Did you think that Leto and I did not guess that you were reporting information back to the Bene Gesserit?” Jessica repeated, voice gentle.

“But I promised him I wouldn’t.” 

Jessica smiled, a soft, achingly sad smile.

“Yes. You promised him, a false promise given under coercion through fear and threat of political exile and potential deposition. I was a Bene Gesserit first, you must remember this. Your loyalty to the Sisterhood was something we factored in, everything we did under your eyes was, in essence, filtered.”

Filtered? They’d been showing you a reality that hadn’t been true? Your breath caught as you processed, hardly breathing as further thoughts raced through your head, memories crowding outward. Did this mean that you never knew them, for all this time? That you never knew your Duke? The man you were wedded to, the man you could’ve loved… You’d never even gotten a fair chance at love with him. Jessica had stacked the odds in her favor before you’d even begun playing the game. Not one moment of affection from him could be trusted, some of the memories you were just now learning to cherish, it had all been a lie.

“No, no, don’t waste your water!” Jessica whispered, desperately trying to prevent you from crying.

It was too late. Tears streamed down your cheeks, salty and concentrated with all kinds of neurotransmitters and other various compounds. Jessica, for her credit, thought fast. Her lips pressed over your cheeks, working quickly to collect the moisture.

“No…” you sobbed.

Jessica cradled your head with one hand, holding your body to her with the other. This was the grief she’d been searching for, the pain. And it wasn’t as satisfying as she wished it could have been. Sure, the games she’d played against you had been for the good of her family, for the good of Atreides, but it wasn’t easy hurting people. It wasn’t easy throwing them under, like a riptide ghosting over the shores of Caladan. But for better or worse, the outcome was the same. You’d both lost things in the feud, in the deceit. Jessica had lost her husband, a husband outside of traditional binds, a husband of the soul. You’d lost your livelihood, your innocence, your… 

As Jessica held you in her arms, she realized just how alike the two of you were. How different things could have been if you met under different circumstances. Jessica didn’t have many allies now. No political connections, no ties to the desert planet and peoples. She had a son, fifteen and burdened with a peculiar, tortured purpose. Jessica had a fetal daughter, stirring and swimming about as she developed, too young to know the danger that awaited. And finally, Jessica had this woman in her arms. A Bene Gesserit, a powerful young woman whom Jessica could work with. An ally, perhaps. A companion, most certainly. A reason to move forward with haste.

“Jessica.” she heard you whimper.

Leaning down, Jessica smiled softly, cupping your face. There was a tear on your upper lip. 

“Yes?”

Another tear fell, but Jessica would wait to collect it, wait for you to speak.

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

She leaned down, collecting the freshly fallen tear on your cheek, and then lower. A soft kiss, the brush of her tongue over the wet upper lip concealed with the plush of her mouth.

“I’m sorry too.”

Her head dipped to yours, and for the first time, Jessica could feel a twin heartbeat, low and rapid. Alia’s tiny, six week heart had begun to beat.

Epilogue

“Alia!” you shouted, chasing after the toddler.

Even with Alia’s higher consciousness, she was young, rambunctious, and as fond as her mother is of games.

“Can’t get me!” Alia squealed, darting through the sietch, moving so fast you could hardly keep up.

The little tot was small, blonde haired as Jessica would have been at her age, and fast. But the robes she wore, the robes of the Sayyadina, were a bit too long for her, meant to grow with the little warrior child. She tripped, and went sprawling over the stone floor of the sietch. Alia cried out, breath immediately speeding up in her body’s attempt to formulate a reactionary cry.

“Oh, honey.” you spoke, wrapping the toddler up in your arms.

Her brown eyes were wide and teary, and she did her best not to sniffle. Alia was, after all, an adult in the body of a child. But that child’s body was filled with child emotions and feelings. Falls hurt a lot, and this fall was probably the worst Alia had experienced so far.

“Hurts.” Alia whimpered. “Can’t… ‘M gonna cry.”

You chuckled, kissing her soft cheeks as the child tried not to cry. You found the scraped knee, gently kissing that too. Soft footsteps came behind you, and two hands encircled your shoulders as Jessica crouched down.

“Did someone fall?” Jessica asked, tone sincere and non-patronizing.

“Yes.” Alia stuck out her bottom lip.

Jessica chuckled, gently taking Alia from your arms. Both you and your companion gently worked to bring Alia down from the pinnacle of tears, soothing her sore knee with kisses. Alia was adorable like this. It was the only time she ever let the two of you baby her.

“Mommies?” Alia asked. “Love you.”

You both smiled, taking terms kissing over her face as she squealed in delight. It was a soft moment during tense times. 

“Alia, should we attack Momma with kisses?” Jessica fake-whispered to Alia.

“YES!” Alia screeched, little hands grabbing at your face as she kissed all over your face and hair. 

Jessica was right with her, holding you in place and kissing over the bridge of your nose, your cheeks, your chin, your neck. And as Alia pulled away to giggle, she snagged your jaw in her hands, pressing a firm kiss to your lips.

“Eww!!!” Alia whined.

Jessica chuckled, and you both doubled down, kissing each other more passionately to mollify the little toddler beneath you. But as you pulled away, you both felt Alia’s hands on your faces, and a wry grin on her tiny cheeks.

“Mommy’s turn!”

Both you and Alia pounced on Jessica, covering the usually stoic woman with kisses until she shrieked with laughter. Time healed a lot of wounds. And the past was something you cherished, almost as much as you cherished the present. Alia made sure of that.

Tags: @ilovehotactresses, @marvelwomenrule, @coffee-is-my-oxygen, @bjoerkumlaut, @lovelyy-moonlight

[Send a message/ Ask/ Comment on taglist found on pinned page to be added!]

[cha-melodius]

firstprince +💚

💚 true love's kiss / magic kiss / healed (I said no more than 500 words and of course this is 589 lol. Sorry for the cliffhanger; I just can't help myself. send me a heart and get a ficlet)

When the summons comes, Henry refuses to believe it’s real.

It is, course—heavy paper, dark ink, embossed seal. Your assistance is respectfully requested concerning a matter of some urgency…

Henry doesn’t read the rest. He knows what it says. The whole world knows what it says. Every since the American President’s son was cursed and fell into a deep and unending slumber, which was supposedly only able to be cured by true love’s kiss, there’d been a steady stream of hopeful girls through the White House. Still, Alex remained stubbornly asleep. Henry hadn’t heard of any men being invited, though, which is one reason he’s convinced this was a mistake.

“The palace staff must have mixed up our mail,” he tells Bea, trying unsuccessfully to shove the invitation at her.

Bea just gives him an exasperated look. “It has your name on it.”

“Then someone at the White House made an error in addressing it.”

“Because ‘Beatrice’ is so close to ‘Henry’. Happens all the time, really. The other day I got a polo club invitation meant for you.”

“Really?” Henry asks.

“No,” she huffs. “This is for you, dumbass.”

Henry stares down at it, chewing his lip. “But why me? Out of everyone else?”

“You didn’t hear?” Bea asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Hear what?” He’s been actively trying not to read news about Alex’s condition, actually.

“It’s supposed to be someone he’s touched before. Otherwise, he’d still be awake. Someone must have remembered you two shaking hands in Rio.”

“But Alex hates me,” he says plaintively. This is, of course, the other reason this must be a mistake.

“So, now’s your chance,” Bea tells him with far too much mischief sparkling in her eyes. “Go lay one on him, and he’ll never remember.”

“Bea,” Henry gasps, horrified. “I would never—”

She rolls her eyes at him. “It was a joke, Haz. But the fact of the matter is that you don’t have much of a choice. Think of how it would look for international relations if the Crown refused a request from the President.”

And so, Henry finds himself with sweating palms and his heart in his throat, staring down at the most beautiful boy in the world as he lays sleeping in his bedroom at the White House. The First Family are all wan and sallow as his interminable condition wears on them, but Alex himself looks vibrant, as if he’d just nodded off. Perks of magic sleep, Henry supposes. A terrifying woman in stilettos and pencil skirt gives Henry instructions that he barely hears, then they all file out to wait.

Henry wrings his hands and twists his signet ring and shifts on his feet, knowing he can’t put this off for much longer. He’s not sure what he’s more terrified of—that it won’t work, or that it will.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” he murmurs. For the past, for this, for what may come.

He leans in—and hesitates. The aroma of cinnamon strikes him, drawing him in like a gravitational field he can’t escape, and he sways closer. When their lips brush, Henry feels it—not the kiss, but the fire that it kindles under his skin, the flame that flashes down his spine and out to his toes, the inferno that sets him alight. It’s too much, it’s going to burn him up—

Alex’s lips part and he gasps, long eyelashes fluttering as he wakes, and Henry stumbles backwards. He stares at Henry, rubs his eyes, then looks again.

“It's you?!”

[cultofdarkwood]

*grandma voice* In my day there was a video of a man coming out of anaesthesia being filmed by his wife and had no idea who she was so he started hitting on her, only to choke up when she tells him she's his wife.

That but Narilamb (or dealer's choice)

hold on thats hilarious, one sec. hope u don't mind i changed it a little bit :3

-> rules to request a ficlet here!!!

-

When Narinder opened his eyes, all he could see was red. Sharp red light illuminated the dark shadows, giving shape to dark wooden ceiling arches high above. The blinding light faded, and something pulled from his throat, gurgling and churning.

A dark liquid flowed from his lips, the harsh tugging leaving his throat sore and mouth dry. He coughed, turning over onto his side as the chanting within the darkness began to cease.

"Narinder!" A voice called. There was a clop of hooves on wood, approaching, loud, before a cold rush of air flowed over him and the face of a beautiful stranger leaned over him. White wool curled over their soft, grey cheeks, a pitch black crown nestled between two dark, tall horns. Their eyes were red, a deep color that reminded him of spilled wine.

They were speaking to him, he realized. This gorgeous stranger with soft clouds of wool, dressed in a striking red robe that complimented both their wool and dark grey fur, was speaking to him.

"Narinder," they said, worrying their bottom lip between sharp teeth, and oh, what another beautiful detail about them. "Narinder, are you okay?"

"I must have died," he said in a hazy voice, "for there is no living creature that can compare to the beauty of one such as yours."

Somewhere insignificant, there was a snort, and a hastily covered giggle. The beautiful stranger looked surprised.

"Narinder," they said, unable to tamp down a smile of their own, despite their worry. "You did die."

"Oh," he said. "Does that make it impossible for me to court you?"

There was another hastily covered laugh from somewhere else. He cared not from who or where, focused entirely on the beautiful stranger holding him in their arms. Since when had they drawn so close and touched him?

"I- I mean, I suppose you could," the stranger said, laughing to themself as well. "But, Narinder, we are already married."

"Oh," he said again, looking at the stranger, then down at their hands.

"Nari- Narinder!" the stranger laughed as he struggled to look, sitting up on his own and grabbing their left hand. He stared at the metal band upon their finger, his face twisting up.

"Oh," he said once more, his voice choked with tears, "I have no chance at all."

Unable to help themself, the stranger with white wool burst out laughing. Their laugh was one of fondness, laughter so full of love that Narinder couldn't stop his devastation from spilling down his cheeks.

"Kallamar," the stranger called, beautiful, loving delight in their voice. They took their hand from him, gently cupping his face and wiping away his tears. "Kallamar, help me get him to the healing hut please. Disciples of mine, send everyone back to their duties."

"Who is that?" Narinder asked, sniffling pathetically, paying no attention to the soft, gentle hands helping him up. Instead he clung to the stranger, leaning on them as they led the way from the dark building. "Is that your spouse?"

"Hah! Absolutely not," a voice beside him spoke. It was watery and high and soft despite its nasal tone. It didn't belong to the beautiful stranger, so he ignored it.

"No," the lamb said, gently grabbing his hand as they ducked inside another building. They lifted his hand and showed it to him, sitting him down on the bed and smiling. He wore a metal band on his finger, one that matched the band on the lamb's hand. "Narinder, you're my husband, my darling."

"That resurrection ritual did a number on him," the other voice, supposedly Kallamar, said, and there was a rustling of baskets and the clinking of glass bottles. "I've never seen him so... so... well, like me."

Narinder looked up at the lamb, and found they were no longer a stranger to him. The wetness on his cheeks, instead of devastating, now left him feeling mortified. The lamb smiled, their free hand cupping his face.

"Ah, there you are, my love," they said, attuned to his recognition. They kissed the top of his head, between his ears, and despite his embarrassment, he couldn't help but melt into the affection.

"What happened?" he asked, wincing at the way his voice cracked with previously shed sorrow. "Resurrection? Why do I find it difficult to recall..."

"A new side effect," the lamb muttered with a sigh, kissing the top of his head again. "You died, my love, and I brought you back. Kallamar?"

"I'll figure it out," the other voice grumbled, and Narinder finally tore his eyes away from the lamb to glance across the hut. A pale blue squid was pulling down several bottles from a high shelf with his tentacles, reading the labels and setting them aside in a growing pile-up. "I've not failed yet."

"Who is he?" Narinder asked, and Kallamar fumbled the bottle he was holding, glancing over his shoulder to stare at Narinder. A second later, the hand on his cheek gently turned him away, and he was face to face with the lamb again, that beautiful lamb.

"He's your brother," they said patiently, their thumb gently stroking the fur of his cheek. "He's going to help you get your memory back. Right, Kallamar?"

"I already agreed," Kallamar grumbled, and there was another clink of glass.

The lamb smiled, gentle and sweet, nuzzling their nose to Narinder's. He melted into the affection, his tail curling as a purr started up in his chest.

"Don't," Narinder started, unsure of what he wanted to say but saying it anyways. "Don't leave me alone."

"I won't," the lamb agreed. "I'll stay with you."

[relicunth]

JayVik firefighter AU marriage proposal ficlet

I am obsessed with JayVik marriage proposals, so I’m typing this up because I got the idea randomly. Timeline-wise, this would take place after a while, when Jayce and Viktor would finally get their heads out of their asses and confess they can’t be apart from each other.

Jayce had never seen Vander quite as livid as he was at that very moment. He would have felt sorry for the young, recently-married couple that were catching the full force of his yelling, if he had not agreed with his chief.

They had gotten the call from Viktor. Someone had called in that an outdoor wedding was using torches for atmosphere, during the hottest and driest July rural Piltover had ever seen.

“You’re kidding me,” Jayce had said, covering his face in disbelief as he heard Viktor’s voice on the other line. They had been officially together for about two months now, after years upon years of dating and breaking up, but never being quite capable of letting the other go fully.

“I wish I was, lásko. Never underestimate the stupidity of the masses.” Viktor’s voice from the other line still made Jayce’s spine tingle, the loving term of endearment giving him goosebumps. “No fire has started as of yet, but take out one truck to be certain. Maybe you could use to hose to blast some sense into them.”

“Now that would be something. Don’t think I’d ever get the chief’s permission.”

Just as Viktor was about to respond to that, a voice from his side of the call interrupted. Hushed voices spoke, before Viktor became the sole speaker again.

“Change of plans, lásko. One of the torches has caused a fire. You’ll have to take every truck available, in case the fire spreads across the forest.”

Jayce was shocked. It would only have been a matter of time, but he had hoped he would prevent a real fire from happening. He turned as Caitlyn rushed past him to get her equipment. “I have to go, mi vida. Could I ask-“

He was cut off by Viktor. “I’ll pick up Ellie after school, my sweet. Just come home safely.”

Even though Viktor had accepted that Jayce could never give up being a firefighter, he was still sick with worry every time Jayce got called. Jayce knew that, and tried to calm him down as much as possible. Oddly enough, that predominately worked when he was as realistic as possible. Having a real grasp of the situation calmed Viktor down. Supposedly it was because he knew Jayce’s skill level and as such could gauge his probability of survival. He truly was the smartest man Jayce had ever known.

The fire itself had been contained just in time, but not without any dangers. Ekko had become stuck beneath a tree trunk on his way to save a civilian. A grandmother of the bride who could not get to safety in time.

Granted, Ekko had been forbidden by Vander from taking that path. It would be to dangerous and the fire had almost been under control. Ekko had scoffed and disobeyed orders, because he had been thinking for some time now that his chief was deliberately trying to keep him out of harm’s way as a favor to his best friend Benzo, who also happened to be Ekko’s father.

Jayce did not blame Ekko. It was risky, but an elderly lady like that could not have lasted much more. Thankfully, she had survived. Ekko would be fine, too, but he had some nasty burns around his torso. “Battle scars,” he had called them.

Jayce was shaken from his thoughts right as Vander stopped yelling. The couple was distraught, the bride crying her eyes out while the groom was still shaking. He doubted they consciously registered anything Vander was saying.

This one had been a shocking one, Jayce could not lie. It put things into perspective for him. Maybe it was the fact that they had to save a wedding, what should have been the happiest day of the couple’s life. Maybe it was him still living in domestic bliss with Viktor, finally committed to making it work, coparenting Ellie and spending all of their free time together. Maybe it was seeing Ekko under that tree. It was likely a combination of all three. Whatever the case, Jayce was rattled a little. He wanted to go home to his little girl and the man he loved. Kiss them both and tell them he was safe.

His shift was done by the time they returned to the station, so Jayce took a quick shower in the changing rooms. He tried to get clean before going home as often as possible. He knew Ellie would become scared when he was covered in sooth and smelling like fire. She did not fully grasp what it meant that her father was a firefighter and he did not care to bother her with that until she was older.

“What’s gotten into you, Golden Boy?” his sister, Caitlyn, said to him as he got out of the shower, a towel draped across his waist. Changing rooms were not separated by gender, only the showers were. Not that she would have cared if she had seen him naked. Personal boundaries had a been a thing of the past for years, with Caitlyn being a lesbian. Jayce was still bisexual, but he had not once thought of Caitlyn as anything more than a little sister.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been quiet. You’re the most high energy guy I know. When you grow quiet like this, somethings’s wrong. And chances are, it’s about Viktor.”

Jayce chuckled. “Not just him, also Ellie. It all felt like too close a call. What if I had been where Ekko was? It’s all put things in perspective.”

“Put what in perspective?”

“I think… I want Viktor to formally adopt Ellie. And I think I want to marry him.” Saying those things out loud, only confirmed his feelings. He wanted nothing more desperately.

“Marry him? Jayce, I think you might be losing your mind. You’ve been dating for like two months!”

“Two months since our last break-up. Viktor and I have been together basically since we were 16. Even when we were apart, there was an invisible string holding us together. I want this. Maybe he does too?” In truth, Jayce had been entertaining the idea for a while now, but after the rough call they had just returned from, he was convinced he needed to talk to Viktor as soon as possible.

Caitlyn smiled. As annoyed as she usually was when he complained to her about Viktor, she ultimately was still rooting for them. They were perfect together, horrible apart. Jayce went to prison arguably because he was so heartbroken after Viktor left him that he stopped valuing his own life. He hardly ever stopped smiling when they were with each other, talked about him constantly.

Jayce knew he was ready for this.

As he drove his pick-up into his driveway, the door opened and his Ellie ran outside.

“Papa!” she screamed as she rushed into Jayce’s arms, her black hair in cute pigtails that bounced around as much as she did. His baby girl was truly a ball of energy.

“Mija! Am I happy to see you! Did you have fun with Viktor?”

“Yes! Papa Viktor took me out for ice cream!” Ellie calling his Viktor her papa gave Jayce a warm, fuzzy feeling. He had been as much almost all her life, which is why Jayce wanted to ask him to adopt her in the first place.

Jayce carried her in his arms as he entered his house, being greeted by Viktor in one of his shirts on top of his own casual slacks. He was holding a mug of tea, ever the lover of hot drinks even in this heat.

“Thank you, mi vida,” he greeted his love, kissing him softly.

Viktor only smiled. “She’s been a dream, like always. Welcome home, lásko. I’m glad you are safe.”

Jayce was as well. He breathed in deeply. Time to do this. Jayce put his daughter on the ground and told her to go play. “Me and papa Viktor have to talk about something important.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow as he handed Jayce a mug of tea of his own. They sat on the couch. “Am I in trouble?”

Jayce was suddenly very nervous. “N-No! But maybe… I am?”

Viktor leaned forward, a faint glimmer of nerves in his eyes. Viktor was good at keeping his facial expression neutral, but Jayce could read him like no other. He wanted Viktor to not be nervous, so he decided to just come out and ask.

“I… I love you. And Ellie does, too. You love her, and you love me. I hope.” He chuckled, but continued when Viktor only chuckled nervously. “I wanted to ask you if you would… maybe be open to formally adopting Ellie?”

He kept fidgeting nervously, but looked Viktor in the eyes as he posed his question, eager to hear his response. Viktor’s mouth hung open. He put his and Jayce’s mug on the table in front of them and turned to fully face him.

“Jayce… I would be…” He turned his face away to wipe away what looked like a tear. “Well, I suppose ‘honored’ is too small a word. I love your daughter, Jayce. It would mean the world to me if she could officially become my daughter as well.”

Jayce, releasing a breath he did not realize he was holding in relief, lunged forward and enveloped Viktor in a hug. “I love you, mi vida. Thank you!”

Viktor kissed his temple, before pulling back. “But only if Ellie wants this as well. I know she is only five, but she deserves to get a say in this.”

Jayce grinned. “Of course, but I doubt she’ll disagree.”

They called her and asked her to sit with them. She climbed onto the couch and promptly put herself in between them. “What is it, papa?”

“Well, Viktor and I have been talking. We were wondering how you would feel about Viktor maybe becoming your papa as well?”

Ellie looked at them confused. “What do you mean?”

Viktor chuckled. “Well, you know I am not your father by blood. But your daddy and I were thinking that maybe we could go to the mayor and ask him if he could make a new law that says I get to be your father as well. Would you like that?”

Jayce smiled. Viktor was so incredibly good with Ellie. He was still a realist, still tended to be serious. But the way his voice softened when he spoke to her, never unkindly, warmed Jayce’s heart. Even the clunky way he tried to make difficult topics digestible for a child caused his love to spread all throughout his chest.

Ellie, for her part, was still confused. “But you already are my papa, right? You have always loved me just like daddy! Even when you and daddy were no longer in love!”

Viktor chuckled. “There is your answer, then. Let’s get this arranged as soon as possible. Thank you, Jayce. I cannot put into words how much this means to me.” Warmth radiated from his eyes. He seemed truly happy.

“But daddy, does that mean you’ll marry papa Viktor?”

Viktor, who had reached to grab his mug of tea, choked on his drink. Jayce wanted to laugh at her question, but the fact that he had actually been thinking the same thing - and worrying about Viktor’s response - caused him to only chuckle politely.

“Well, mija… That was actually going to be my next question to your papa.” He looked up and locked eyes with Viktor, who had turned a deep crimson.

“Excuse me?”

“Well…” Jayce started. “I don’t have a ring yet. But I had a rough day at work today and it made me think about some stuff. I have been an idiot, V. For years and years, not daring to commit to you. Scared of what would happen if I didn’t come home. But now that we’re finally together, I don’t ever want want to let you go. You’re my world, Viktor. And hers, too. I know we’ve only officially dated for two months now, but it feels as if we’ve been together since high school. I’m ready for this, V. I can only hope that you are, too.”

Viktor tended to pride himself on his ability to keep his composure at all times, but Jayce could see the shock in his eyes, surprise clear on his face. “It boggles the mind how you think. No ring, nothing prepared. And here I thought romance was dead.”

Jayce blushed. “I know, I know. I’m going to do things properly after I get a ring. But I wanted to know first if you were open to the idea.” He stood up, a wave of confidence deciding his next step.

He went down on one knee in front of Viktor, smiling at the way Ellie giggled. She had no idea what was happening, but she knew it was important. He took Viktor’s hand in his. “Viktor, will you please marry me?”

Viktor shook his head, chuckling to himself. “You are impossible, Talis. Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

Jayce, once again feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, jumped up and enveloped his love in a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, mi vida!”

They kissed each other fondly, eyes shut as they both relished in the feeling of just having gotten engaged.

Ellie made a gagging sound. “Daddies, stop, that’s gross!”

They both laughed as they pulled her into their hug. She giggled as they showered her with kisses.

“Mija, it turns out papa Viktor and I are going to be married.”

This made the little girl jump, screeching in joy. “My papas are going to he husbands!”

As she jumped up and down on the couch, Viktor trying his best to try and catch her if she were to fall. Jayce leaned back. The exhaustion he had felt after his day at work had been completely washed away.

When he looked at his family. His unique, loving, family. He could not help but smile.

Once he had gotten his head out of his ass, Jayce had become the happiest man alive.

He could not wait to see what the future was going to have in store for them.

[wisteriasymphony]

Smudges - HPAU!Claudrien Ficlet

(This was voted on by the lovely people over in the Claudrien Nation community! Thanks guys :3 )

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

There had really only ever been two people that Claudia felt like she clicked with here at this stupid fucking wizard school.

 ...Well, 'people' was generous. 

She knew she had to take what she could get—Decent Slytherins were few and far between, and the ones that she might've had an actual chance at tolerating were scared away by the fact she'd tried to burn someone's face off within the first week. Claudia didn't particularly mind being known as 'the smuggler' or 'the firebrand', either, so long as it kept the wrong people from trying to fuck with her. 

Unfortunately, her first friend seemed drawn to these qualities like a moth to a flame—Adrien Agreste. Ravenclaw, with blood supposedly as pure as freshly fallen snow. He paid absurd amounts of money for muggle ballpoint pens, and somehow decided that was enough to make her his closest confidant. He was constantly scribbling down formulas and made-up incantations on whatever rolls of parchment he could carry ("Aren't they all just made up?" she asked once. "Exactly!" was the only answer she ever got). At first, Claudia was worried that he didn't realize socializing with her would make him a pariah, but it seemed like he had always been that way despite being pureblooded and actually quite pretty. Adrien was always mumbling to himself, always distracted with the latest experiments, and he couldn't approach a girl to save his life. 

Plus, he was always—ALWAYS—covered in ink. 

Safe to say, he wasn't nearly as much of a jackpot as his attractiveness would make him out to be. No larger friend group, no greater connections, just another fellow outcast. 

It was only a few weeks later, though, that Claudia gained her second friend. She didn't have the slightest idea how that cat had gotten into her room, but he had. Skinny, black, with bright green eyes that could probably stop a deer in its tracks. He lingered on her windowsill for a moment, simply watching her, before slowly creeping inside. 

"I didn't know you got a cat," Maya Kapoor had asked, once the cat had found its way into Claudia's lap. "What's his name?" 

Claudia squished the kitty's head between her hands, watching his ears flatten out. "I asked, but he didn't tell me." 

The Slytherin girls had a special way of giggling when Claudia said something that only a muggleborn would think. Wheezy and whispery, like they were only pretending to operate on the idea that she couldn't hear them. All behind hands or over shoulders. 

"Cats can't talk, Perreault," Maya replied, giving her a smile with too much gum and not enough sincerity. "Seriously, when has an animal ever talked to you?" 

As if it wasn't unreasonable for her to think animals could talk when there was shit like flying broomsticks and living chocolate animals running around. But shouting about it wasn't worth it. 

"I just assumed I wasn't worth talking to."

Maya shrugged, reaching in to touch a finger to the cat's back. Despite acting so friendly to Claudia, he froze, crumpling up further into her lap. Maya frowned, but ultimately ignored the slight.

"So you're gonna name him, right?"

The cat's head is cradled in her hands, and she stares into his eyes, pursing her lips as she thought of a name. Kitty? No. Cat? No. Blacky? Absolutely the worst possible idea. Maybe it'll sound less stupid if it's French, she thinks. Hopefully nobody will notice. 

"Chat Noir," she said, biting her lip so she wouldn't add an "..I think" to the end. Chat Noir's eyes seem to sparkle as she said this, burrowing his chin deeper into Claudia's hands. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"Hey, Claudia! You're not busy right now, right?" 

Adrien had another one of his contraband pens held between his pointer and middle fingers, shaking it in a way that kept the barrel of the pen hitting against the joint in his thumb with an erratic clack-clack-clack-clack. In any other case, Claudia would be worried about his pens getting confiscated if he used them so openly, but Adrien had a habit of using them too quickly for it to even matter. 

("κᾰρπός Πασιθές" was one of the first spells he'd crafted, finding that Ancient Greek was better for softer, longer-lasting charms. Still, not a day went by without him pointing his wand at his wrists and whispering that phrase to stave off the inevitable carpal tunnel he'd spend the rest of his life fighting.) 

"I mean, I have class in a few minutes, so yes," she lied. –It was true that she had class, but Madam Capitval had a grudge against Claudia for her tendency to set things on fire, so she had no intention of going. "...What the hell do you have on your face?" 

Adrien smudged one of the shaky lines of ink on his cheek with his thumb, and the sight of the ink on his hand turned his face that usual bright shade of red. He shuffled all of his scrolls of parchment into one arm and began to viciously rub off the marks, turning away before Claudia could possibly decode what he had fallen asleep on—A love letter. It would be sent to her soon enough anyway. He couldn't bear to not send them himself, just because half of the joy was watching her read it. 

"I-it's nothing! Just, uh— More of those– M-more notes on Casting Language Reforms, nothing you'd want to- you'd be interested in." 

Claudia didn't believe him for a second, but she also didn't entirely care. She continued to walk in the opposite direction of her next class, and even still Adrien continued to follow her. 

"What spell do you need help with this time?" she finally asked, letting a smirk peek through. Adrien took a rather deep breath as he finally let himself speak about it to someone. 

"I looked over that textbook you disguised as an Herbology tome. I think, with the proper tests, I can create a spell that alters the—what was it called—'fructose' and 'glucose' levels in fruits and vegetables.”

"Couldn't you just make up a spell that makes things sweeter?" 

"That's the thing- It's too broad!" Adrien grabbed Claudia by the shoulders, a rather wild look in his eyes as he continued to ramble. "The beauty of this experimental magic is that I can change just the tiniest component rather than the whole. Imagine the kind of possibilities that opens up. For years—for centuries we've merely taught magic, but never before have we deconstructed it this thoroughly!" 

Claudia was glad she didn't have to worry about sharing any Magical Theory classes with Adrien. 

“—Besides," he added, "I was hoping that I'd be able to use the experience to do things like make potions easier to digest. Stuff you can't normally sweeten." 

...It was getting close to the full moon anyways, now that he'd made her think about potions. Claudia had been hoping to try and brew some Wolfsbane herself, if she could actually focus long enough to figure out what she needed to do to make it. Potions were the hardest thing to wrap her head around, even more so than the boring lectures and bullshit systems. It didn’t help that she wasn’t exactly the most well-liked Slytherin. 

Claudia sighed, finally stopping in her place. 

“Okay, I’ll do it. But you have to help me get mandrake leaves for my next potions project.” 

Adrien had more than enough—He’d been trying to automate brewing Wolfsbane for weeks—but he bit his lip before he would admit that out loud. It wasn’t him who was going to supply the potions, after all: It was Chat Noir. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Claudia let the side of her head dig further into the forest floor. She’d gotten far enough away to not worry about anyone seeing her, and likely not worry about hurting anyone else either. Not like felt she would want to even if she could—any bloodlust would have to fight against the pain she was already in. It hurt to move, it hurt to think, it hurt to breathe. Her clawed, furred hands clutched her twisting stomach as she stared out into the gaps between the trees.

There were times where she wondered if the Wolfsbane worked at all. Maybe it was supposed to make it totally painless instead of just a little. Maybe it was supposed to give you enough energy to help you get away from people right before the transformation happened, instead of having to sneak out hours before and just wait in the woods until you felt the tingling of fur growing on your back and whiskers sprouting on your face. Hell, as far as she knew, maybe Wolfsbane was meant to stop the transformation entirely. Nobody had ever told her.

The loneliness was the worst part. Claudia had nothing to really do but talk to herself, imagine what the rest of her life would be like if she had to skip town every full moon. She didn’t know any other werewolves, and she’d been sent off to school because her parents didn’t know how to handle it. The hope had been that she’d at least be able to tell somebody, but… nobody wanted to talk to her as it was anyways. Maybe even less so if they found out.

A small noise echoed out in the silence of the dark. Claudia lifted her head to take a better look. The noise happened again.

A thin black cat broke a branch as it made its way towards her.

It was ridiculous to think that Chat Noir had somehow been looking for her. Maybe the cat had just found her by accident or something of the sort. Still, Chat Noir trotted up to her with wide green eyes, somehow able to perfectly recognize her despite her monstrous form.

Chat Noir bonked his forehead against Claudia’s snout. She wished she could talk or pet him, but the fatigue was too strong. Still, Chat Noir didn’t seem to mind, and just curled up beside her like they were back in her room on her bed again.

It would make for a very embarrassing story down the line, Adrien thought to himself, but he supposed it was worth the trouble.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[honeyynymphh]

These fics are mostly Copia focused and I write him as dom with an acerbic and mostly terrible personality. All readers are fem!reader and are not named. I do not use Y/N. If you like Vincent Price, you may like my Copia. Please read warnings for each fic! 18+ MDNI

Inflight Meal

Papa IV x FemReader Rating: E As an air hostess you are used to strange people, especially when they have their own private jet. but this was definitely the strangest one. AO3

Tear You Apart

Papa IV x FemReader Rating: E Chapters: 2 of 2 There were four things you had not expected when you had decided to break into the old abbey on a particular full moon: 1. That it would actually be inhabited 2. That it would be inhabited by people performing a satanic ritual 3. That you would end up being chased through the woods by a satanic madman 4. That you would enjoy it AO3

Nocturnal Me

(Dracopia)Papa IV x FemReader Rating: E The Haze is open from sunset until sunrise every day of the week. Some people, like you, order a margarita with a silly little cocktail umbrella shoved in it and a slice of lemon. Others order the AB negative and should drink it quickly before it congeals. AO3

➸Corrupted/Evil Papa IV

there’s total depravity (standing right in front of me)

(Dark) Papa IV x FemReader Rating: E As a maid, I tended to pass by unnoticed. Nobody really cared who made their beds or cleaned their clothes—as long as it was done. And I should have just done my job and left. But I didn't. And now I was stuck here at the mercy of the Fourth. AO3

Nothing Ever Lasts Forever

(Corrupted) Papa IV x FemReader Rating: E “You still wear his paint.” Not a question. Just a statement. He hardly ever asked questions. There were orders, demands, requests—not to be denied. “He is dead, sorella.” The Emeritus line is finished. There is a new Papa now to serve, but you are hesitant to throw your loyalty and love aside. But he gives you no choice. AO3

A Discordant Melody

Cardinal Copia x FemReader, Papa IV x FemReader Copia and Papa are two separate characters Rating: E Chapters: 1 of 2 “Maybe this place is cursed.” I wrapped an arm around Copia’s and pressed myself close, delighting in his warmth and the way he smelled. It reassured me and I pressed my lips against his cheek. “You will have to keep me very close, darling, lest some ghoul tries to steal me away.” I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped my lips and I smiled when I noticed the tips of his ears had gone pink. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad—and it wasn’t as if we were staying here. Inheriting an old abbey in a supposedly cursed town, what could possibly go wrong? AO3

➸Daddy Dom Papa

La Principessa di Papa

Papa IV x FemReader Rating: E After days of being sick in bed, you’re feeling restless. But Papa is always there to look after his little principessa. AO3

Il Cuore Della Principessa

Papa IV x FemReader Rating: E Overworked and exhausted, Papa insists you take a break. AO3

➸drabbles/ficlets (not on ao3)

listening to Papa read while you lie on his lap (sfw, 600 words, any Papa)

Copia comes home late to find his princess asleep on the couch (mostly sfw, 800 words, Papa IV

➸ Misadventures in the Ministry (Series) This series involves the same reader. You don't need to read them in order but it’s better if you do. This reader is not the sharpest sacrificial dagger in the abbey but she does her best.

Freshly Squeezed (Part One)

Cardinal Copia x FemReader Rating: E A secret passageway. A far too ditzy curious reader. And a very naked Cardinal. Hmm. AO3

A Lesson in Heroinism (Part Two)

Cardinal Copia x FemReader Rating: E They say Cardinal Copia is a vampire but you don't believe that…do you? AO3

The Wager

Cardinal Copia x FemReader Rating: E A new Sister of Sin, you feel you are not living up to the expectations of your new church and seek out confession to unburden yourself. Little do you know, that the Cardinal has something he needs to confess to you. AO3

The Mark of the Beast

Cardinal Copia x FemReader Rating: E Chapters: 2 of 2 An imposter has apparently been hiding in the abbey, and there is only one way to prove you're part of the congregation. And that is to submit yourself to an examination to find Lucifer's mark upon your body. AO3

a little nightmarish, a little maudlin (good golly go get this kid some laudanum!)

(Dracopia) Cardinal Copia x FemReader Rating: E Chapters: 2 of 2 A storm hits while on your way home from a party and your coach breaks down. Surely the church you passed by will offer shelter until you can safely return home? AO3

Our Merge Is Eternal

(Vampire) Papa III x FemReader Rating: M Chapters: 2 of 3 Something is not quite right, it makes her stomach twist with a sick sort of anticipation. She should stay right here, she should not leave the library—she definitely should not follow the Cardinal. But if she doesn't, she will never know. Her mother always said curiosity killed the cat, but Cora knew satisfaction brought it back. (on hiatus)

[spidersfanfics]

Seeing Stars

Venom x Eddie | Domestic Fluff | Ficlet

I finally watched Last Dance and thought too hard about domestic Symbrock, oops. Also the canon is really nebulous here, don't think too hard about it. I just thought this would be cute.

"What are we doing?" Venom asked out loud. Eddie had come out onto the balcony of their apartment that night after dinner and had been standing there, looking up at the sky for several minutes now. Venom did not appreciate the silence, nor did he quite understand what the point of this exercise was. So here he was, his head protruding out of Eddie’s shoulder from a mass of inky tendrils. He tilted back and forth, trying to follow Eddie’s gaze. "Are we looking for something?"

“I’m just stargazing, buddy,” Eddie laughed as he turned his attention to Venom’s antics. “It’s been a long day. I wanted to get some fresh air and calm my mind a little. That’s all.”

Venom turned to face Eddie and tilted his head in confusion. "Stargazing?"

“Yeah, look,” Eddie pointed up at the sky at a cluster of stars, “You can’t really see that many here in the city cause of all the light pollution. But that really bright one right there? That’s the north star. And you can follow it up to see the Big Dipper.”

"The what?"

Eddie scrunched his face up, trying to figure out how to explain. “A really long time ago, humans decided to connect the stars in the sky to make pictures,” he said, tracing the shape in the air with his finger. “They’re called constellations. You see how if you start with the north star you can see a sort of square and a tail? Like a spoon. That one’s called the Big Dipper.” He moved his hand a little, “There’s a smaller one too, the Little Dipper. But sometimes people call them bears instead of spoons. Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.”

Venom squinted a the stars for a moment then laughed. "Humans are silly. There are no bears in the sky. Don’t they know there is nothing between those stars but empty space? Endless darkness."

“Yeah well, we hadn’t gotten advanced enough to figure all that out yet when we made these up,” Eddie shrugged. “Besides, humans like telling stories. It’s in our nature. There’s probably a story about the bears or something.” He drummed his fingers against the railing of the balcony and scanned the sky again. “Some of the constellations get extra special meanings by being part of the zodiac,” he told Venom.

"Zodiac?"

“A set of twelve constellations. Everyone gets to be represented by one of them depending on when in the year they’re born. Supposedly they determine things about your personality.” Eddie chuckled and looked over at Venom, expecting more snarky comments about the absurdity of humans.

To his surprise however, Venom was looking at him with an expression of happy amusement. As if he found the concept somehow endearing. "The stars are magic to humans?"

Eddie made a noncommittal expression, “Ehh, kind of? Like I said, this all comes from a long time ago.”

"What does your star say about you?" Venom asked curiously.

Eddie frowned and looked away. “Oh uhh, I’m pretty sure I’m a Virgo. Which would be… the sign of the virgin,” he coughed awkwardly though Venom didn’t seem to pick up on the reason for his embarrassment. “It means I’m supposed to be detail-oriented and hardworking and stuff. I dunno, it’s all just for fun really.”

"What about us?" Venom insisted. "What is our star?"

“Do you have a birthday?” Eddie wondered, “Although, I guess we can just use the day we met. That was near the end of May, wasn’t it? So you would be…” He pulled his phone out to do a quick search, “Ah, Gemini. The sign of the twins.” Eddie chuckled, “That’s fitting, isn’t it? It’s like duality, two becoming one.”

"Like us", Venom grinned and leaned over to nuzzle against Eddie’s cheek. "Why do you know so much about stars?" Venom asked as Eddie reached over to pet him on the head.

Eddie shrugged, “An old girlfriend was big into astrology. I just remember bits and pieces.” He laughed at the memory, “It’s funny, we met because she wrote the horoscopes for a newspaper I was writing for. But even though she was the one coming up with them, she was still totally convinced by the whole thing.”

"Old girlfriend", Venom mused, "Anne?"

Eddie shook his head, “No, no. This was way before I met you.”

Venom thought about this for a moment and frowned, "Before…" He drooped slightly below Eddie’s height and looked up to make intense eye contact. "We do not like thinking about before you became us." He said solemnly.

For a moment, Eddie could only stare in surprise at the sudden serious tone of Venom’s voice. But then he broke out in a laugh. “Oh buddy,” he said warmly as he reached out to stroke Venom’s face again. “We have the rest of our lives to make more memories of us. You don’t have to worry about my past.”

"Good." Venom purred, leaning into Eddie’s touch. "We like us."

“I like us too,” Eddie sighed, and as much as he hated to admit it, it was true.

There was a long silence as Eddie went back to looking up at the sky. Until eventually, Venom spoke up again. "We still do not understand this stargazing thing though", he confessed.

Eddie laughed, “Go back inside,” he suggested.

"But that’s boring too."

“Then look through my eyes.”

Venom considered this for a moment then melted back into Eddie’s body, leaving no trace of him left outside. Eddie felt Venom’s consciousness settle back into his own, fitting neatly in place. He blinked as Venom’s gaze shifted to line up with his own until they were both looking up at the same sky, seeing the same things. Venom fell quiet again, though he was quicker to speak up this time.  "To us the stars were never something to be admired," his voice rumbled in Eddie’s head. "They are too much light in our darkness. They would be better off eaten or otherwise extinguished. That is what we thought before."

“And now?” Eddie asked out loud, speaking softly as sleep began to beckon him back indoors. "Now we see the stars as you do," Venom’s voice too was uncharacteristically soft. "And they are beautiful."

[sholiofic]

3 Sentence Ficathon ficlets, part 1

Originally posted here, for 3 Sentence Ficathon on DW.

1. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7326294#cmt7326294 any, any, to bee or not to bee, that is the question

"And that is certainly a question that only you would ask, Pierce," said Winchester dryly, as the bee hummed around their heads in the OR; no one had a hand free to swat it without contaminating a glove.

"To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," Hawkeye quoted on, "or take up arms against a swarm of insects," and at that point he ran out of the part of the speech he could (mis)quote from memory, at the same time as Margaret ran out of patience and freed up a bloody-gloved hand to snap the pest neatly out of the air with a clamp.

She tossed the insect into the bucket at her feet for used sponges with a deft snap of her wrist, to the sound of general appreciative cheers and Hawkeye's cheerful announcement, "Upstaged from stage left! I never was any good at Shakespeare anyway."

2. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7184982#cmt7184982 Any, Any, I love you now like I loved you then

It was a three-hour flight and an hour's drive for Margaret to the 4077 reunion, and the entire time she was thinking, I shouldn't have come, I shouldn't have come; it was going to be one of those experiences (like the one college reunion she'd scraped and saved to attend, like seeing Lorraine again) that only impressed on a person how impossible it was to recapture the magic of a bygone time.

But then she was there, basking in Hawkeye's ready affection and Radar's smile and Charles's quick, barked laughs and the way that BJ's daughter ran around to everyone hugging their legs as if she'd found an entire hotel conference room full of long-lost relatives, and Margaret stayed up late into the night drinking with the whole group in the hotel bar; and somehow, for all the changes in all of their lives, it really was just like no time at all had passed.

Sometimes, it turned out, you really could go home again.

3. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7240278#cmt7240278 any, any, the sight of one's own blood

Missing scene for 4x19 'Hawkeye'

It was strange, Hawkeye had his hands up to the elbows in other people's blood all day every day, so he couldn't say why the sight of the red swath of his own blood on his palm shocked him so badly when he lowered his hand from his head.

Well, that would explain the shooting pain in the side of his head and the way his eyes kept struggling to focus and the deeply woozy feeling that gotten a lot worse at the sight of his own blood smeared all over his hand.

He usually tried as hard as he could not to dwell on his deep-down conviction that, one way or another, he was going to die in Korea -- but now the truth of that conviction was all over his hand, and all he could do about it was what he always did: talk and talk and talk because that way his mouth was doing something other than screaming and he didn't have to think about any of it as long as there were still words to keep him busy.

4. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7124822#cmt7124822 any, any, cooking as a metaphor for love

Cooking in the tents was, technically, a violation of protocol, but so were a lot of other things that went on the tents (sex, distilling alcohol, etc) -- and so, the nurses made fudge that never set properly and shared around spoonfuls to anyone who'd been nice enough to them lately to deserve some, and Trapper once figured out an impressively edible four-ingredient mug cake recipe for Hawkeye's birthday (baked in a tin camp mug on the stove; Hawkeye shared it four ways with Trapper and Henry and Radar), and Hawkeye and BJ between them wrote off to Charles's sister for the recipe of a fruitcake that the Winchester clan supposedly made every New Years, collected as many of the ingredients as they could and made something which Charles claimed was nothing at all like fruitcake, ate three pieces and gave the rest to the Korean orphans.

(Margaret's experiment in making preserves for Colonel Potter was never to be spoken of, although the smell and the stains lingered for months, but she meant well.)

In a place where nothing was as anyone wanted it to be, there was a certain kind of pleasure in making a favorite recipe with only half the ingredients, and sharing the results, which were almost but not quite better than the food in the mess -- but it tasted better, somehow, than it had any right to.

5. https://threesentenceficathon.dreamwidth.org/4438.html?thread=7237974#cmt7237974 any, any, bone fracture

"It's not broken," Charles said, holding Hawkeye's hand lightly with a deft surgeon's touch, fingers pressed gently on each side of his hand where the blow from a stretcher handle had connected and the bruises were already coming up. The entire area ached and throbbed, but (to Hawkeye's annoyance) it turned out that Charles had as light and careful a touch as his work in surgery suggested, with a sureness of purpose and a matter-of-fact demeanor that was somehow reassuring: Charles knew what a surgeon's hands meant, as much if not more than anyone here, and even no longer than they had worked together, Hawkeye already knew that Charles wouldn't lie for the sake of making anyone feel better.

"We'll see what the X-ray says," Hawkeye said, but he felt some tightly wound-up part of him unclench.

[toyouhellohowareyou]

Bad End Links - Aconite Concept Ficlet

So some of you may have seen Zarvasace's new project:

Bad End Links/The Hand That Holds the Sword

And noticed I'm on the co-conspirator list. Aside from yelling suggestions in the chat I wrote a couple of snippets as whatever the authorial equivalent of concept art is.

Here's an early one for Aconite. (Not entirely canon compliant now)

⊱✿⊰

He thinks his mistake had been wanting to live. That maybe in some crucial moment he had hesitated, held back, not properly displayed that Courage he supposedly epitomised. Zelda had escaped, and he had been taken. A reversal of fates. He hoped she was well. He hoped she didn’t think of him.

For a while he had fought, then for a while he had broken. Now he merely… capitulated. Was there something he was waiting for? A chance he would seize? He didn’t know. He liked to think some of that bravery resided in him still, but so do all cowards.

The cuffs don’t pinch so much anymore, don’t scrape away fragile skin if he runs. He is thinner and they have not bothered to make a new set. They still work just fine to restrain him when they… so why would they bother? Every time they grip the belt around his waist, every time they pull the collar around his neck it is a little looser. One day maybe, he’ll fade to nothing and slip away like a ghost.

If he could find the courage.

His feet are tough again. He walks on the sharp stones, on the tree roots and fallen boroughs. A tiny defiance, to make this one part of him rough and ugly.

He knows every corner of the garden.

He dreams of burning it to ashes.

[cod-dump]

That tarantula ficlet gave me an idea; Soap is terrified of creatures that have more than four legs. Centipedes and millipedes are the worst. And so is the camel spider, the whip scorpions and the Jerusalem cricket.

Once, Soap had a centipede crawl next to his head and he was so badly startled that he cried and had a panic attack.

Four legs was the maximum amount of legs any creature was allowed to have. Any more than that is a crime against nature.

Soap has been good about hiding his fear of bugs. Or so he thought. Everyone notices when he disappears when something like a roach shows up in the rec room. How avoids old, dank, spaces. He always covers the rear while out in the wilderness (as to avoid walking into spider webs and so if a bug lands on him he can get rid of it before someone notices).

Soap thought he had been good at hiding his fear, but then a soldier ‘accidentally’ dropped a cup of crickets they were carrying on his lap. He sat there, frozen. Then they started jumping and he screamed so loud that their entire camp thought they were under attack. When Gaz came running over, gun drawn and ready to fire, someone had to explain to him what was happening.

“Sergeant MacTavish is freaking out over a cricket. We’re not under attack!”

Gaz blinked as he watched Soap run off, screaming in Gaelic. Gaz had to go fetch him and calm him, bringing him back to the camp. Though Gaz has tormented Soap plenty of times over the years that they’ve known each other, at least Soap was able to laugh at whatever he did. He was twitching and dusting himself off as if there were crickets crawling all over him.

“Go sit in my tent. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Gaz made sure to tear apart those who thought it was funny. And he also made sure that Price and Ghost knew about what happened. They had their suspicions that Soap was afraid of bugs, and hearing that his fear was used against him made them angry.

The three soldiers who were mainly responsible for dumping crickets onto Soap had a warm welcome from Ghost… who tied them to chairs and proceeded to dump all sorts of creepy crawlies onto them. Whenever they finally were free and tried to tell Price about what Ghost did to them, Price just stared at them blankly.

“That doesn’t sound like Lieutenant Riley.”

For months afterwards, the three kept finding bugs in their beds, clothes, drawers— They couldn’t escape the things no matter what. While every soldier on base was terrified of getting in the crossfire and receiving Ghost’s wrath, Soap was utterly charmed by what the man was doing.

“I could kiss you!”

“Why don’t you?”

“I have no idea if you still have bug germs on you and I’m not about to take any chances.”

While tormenting Soap with bugs was deeply frowned upon, Ghost chasing Soap after supposedly touching bugs wasn’t.