#surprise bitch

[memesonnets]

Hi my name is Don Quixote of La Mancha the Knight of the Rueful Figure and I have a rueful figure (that's how I got my name) with purple bruised ribs and tall stature and gaunt features and hair turning gray and a rather hooked aquiline nose and large black drooping mustaches and a lot of people tell me I look like Amadís of Gaul (AN: if u don’t know who he is begone!). I’m not related to Lady Oriana but I wish I was because she’s an incomparable flowering beauty. I’m a knight errant but some of my teeth and grinders are missing. I have long lank limbs. I’m also a defender of damsels, protector of orphans, succourer of the needy, righter of wrongs, undoer of injustice, and I wander a magic countryside called the mountains of Spain where I’m in my first year of knighthood (I’m forty-nine). I’m a gentleman (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly armor. I love my great-grandfather's forgotten corner of the house and I cobble together all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a doublet of fine cloth with matching shoes and velvet breeches and a helmet, morion, visor, breastplate and backpiece. I was riding outside La Mancha. It was early morning so the rays of the sun fell obliquely and the heat did not distress me, which I was very happy about. A lot of giants stared at me. I put up my pasteboard visor at them.

[tiffany-chan123]

We thought it would never happen…We were wrong.

[hom3landr]

Madeleines

18+

After a hard day, Homelander enjoys his favorite baker's voice in his ear a little too much.

CW: Brief descriptions of gore

Homelander is seething as he leans against the alley wall. The heady scent of iron hangs thick in the air and gore from some unlucky pickpocket drips from his glove onto the dirty ground. The gruesome red mass of blood and bone that was once a human is still steaming in the cold night air. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a growl of irritation. His fingers leave a sticky crimson smear across his skin. Usually taking out his frustration on some random criminal helps ease some of the tension in his shoulders but he feels no better than he did before he put his fist through the man’s spine.

How dare Edgar? How dare he?

He stomps on the mutilated remains next to him for good measure, imagining it to simultaneously be every person who is dedicated to keeping him down. Starting with that uppity bitch Edgar appointed to the Seven without his permission. Who did she think she was? The way she stuck that camera in his face like he was some kind of zoo animal and smugly hid behind the protection of the faceless nobodies commenting on the screen like a bunch of shit flinging monkeys had his teeth grinding. 

He thought he’d straightened things out with Ashley after his little demonstration with Blindspot but apparently the universe seems intent on mocking him. He curses himself for draining the last bottle of milk earlier. He should have saved it. He couldn’t help himself and on top of everything else shitty about the day, he now has one less piece of her around. It took them a year to begin the renovations on her office and seeing it bare was an all too painful reminder of her absence. He wishes he didn’t miss her. She doesn’t deserve his love after what she did, the way she lied. But he loves her all the same. 

He sniffs, blinking away the sudden shameful tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He needs a win. 

He reaches down to touch his hip where the newly sewn pocket holds his phone. Ever since he gave you his number, he can’t seem to go anywhere without it. He had wardrobe redesign his fucking suit just so he’d have a place to keep it safe. The ribbon he still wears tucked into his waistband. A phone can be replaced if it falls out during a flight, the ribbon can’t.

The thought of you is finally what seems to snap him out of his bad mood. The kiss was two months ago but it seems so much longer. He remembers the warmth of your kiss and the softness of you against him on the couch as the two of you ate gingerbread and watched Christmas movies. He’d wanted to take you so bad, fuck you raw against the counter until you dripped with him, hoping that maybe it would take and give you your own little Christmas miracle. He’d had to take a break and jerk himself off in the bathroom just so he could think straight. Even now, his stomach flips at the memory.

He’d been a good boy. He’d behaved himself. He acted a perfect gentleman and there was no way you could have known his depraved thoughts when he swept you up to slow dance to a Frank Sinatra record. The singer wasn’t half bad actually, maybe he’d originally judged him too harshly. You’d blushed and swooned and when he had to leave he gave you one last gingerbread scented kiss, the stars reflecting in your eyes as you leaned over the fire escape to wave him goodbye. 

After that night things mostly returned to normal. With Transluscent’s funeral fast approaching and the new Saving America campaign about to take off, Homelander had been too busy to even think about seeing you. He’d catch you staring at him in the halls sometimes and his heart beat faster every time. Now that he knows you feel the same, he’s almost at a loss as to how to proceed and it’s easier to bury himself in his work where he can rely on dependable fantasy to get his fix of you.

But after the fucking day he’s had, he’s tempted to fly straight to your apartment and kiss you stupid.

Fuck

There’s an idea… no one said it had to be your mouth

His pants grow tight instantly at the thought and the rush of arousal is a nice balm to his wounded ego. It barely takes a second for him to unclick his belt and pull himself free. He groans lowly in relief as he strokes himself nice and slow. The blood still staining his glove provides an easy glide until his cock is standing at full attention and dripping onto his boots. He keeps his touches nice and light, a little tentative, the way he imagines you would. His free hand reaches for the ribbon, holding it to his nose so he can catch your scent. His cock twitches in his grip and he thumbs his slit as he arches into his fist.

He groans your name before releasing his cock to cup his balls, tugging gently to tease himself, imagining your face looking up at him as he plays with himself. The wall behind him cracks as he throws his head back in pleasure.

A tinny jingle breaks through the haze of his arousal and he immediately fumbles to get his phone out of his pocket, recognizing the tune he’d picked for you so he’d always know who was calling him. The ribbon is promptly tucked back away as he slides to answer the call. His cock feels even heavier in his grip as he anticipates the sound of your voice. It’s like you knew what he was doing. This was the first time you’ve ever called him and your timing couldn’t be more perfect.

The first thing he hears is the clang of utensils and he knows instantly that you must be baking. He bites his lip to keep from grinning at how predictable you are. He can almost smell the sugar through the phone.

“Hi! I hope this isn’t a bad time. I’m trying a new recipe from this french cookbook I picked up and I always get nervous the first time I bake something. I figured you could help me take my mind off things while the cookies are in the oven.” Your voice is so sweet and he has to pinch the base of his cock to keep from shooting his load like some pathetic schoolboy. It feels so illicit to touch himself while you are so innocently seeking his company on the other end of the phone. You probably have flour on your cheeks and your strawberry apron on and the thought causes him to throb painfully. He gives himself an experimental tug and his fucking knees almost buckle.

“It’s never a bad time for you to call.” He replies warmly, trying to keep the rasp of pleasure out of his voice so you don’t suspect. You go quiet for a moment and he knows you’re blushing. He bets that if he were there that the smell of you soaking your panties would be filling the room. You get wet so easily. He remembers your phrase from the second time he spoke to you. You have a “nervous disposition” apparently but he knows what really has you trembling and it’s something a lot filthier than a little anxiety. 

“Thanks, that’s very sweet of you to say. I meant to call sooner but Ashley has been running me ragged for weeks with all the prep work for the funeral. I’ve barely had any time to myself.” You reply with a huff and the clear annoyance in your voice has him both amused and indignant on your behalf. He’ll have to have a firm discussion with Ashley about being respectful towards your time. The thought that you could have been calling him for weeks has his teeth on the verge of grinding again so he teases the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock until he relaxes into the pleasure again.

“I can’t have you exhausted at work. I’ll talk to Ashley about giving you a break. You deserve to rest.” He coos at you as his hand quickly finds a rhythm that feels right. 

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I miss you.” Your voice softens longingly and he can picture the wistful look in your eyes perfectly. 

You want him so fucking bad.

He thrusts into his fist, briefly removing his phone from his ear and biting into the soft leather of his glove so you won’t hear him moan like a whore. He wants to be good for you. He wants to be your gentleman lover. He wants a romance like the old movies and he wants you to picture him that way. 

But fuck

You want him and it seems pointless to stand here and jerk off to your voice in a blood-soaked alleyway when he could be buried in your sweet little pussy. You’d get over your shyness once he was bouncing you on his cock until you were soaking and shaking so hard that he’d have to hold you steady. He’d take you on every surface until he was sure that he’d fucked all traces of your “nervous disposition” right out of you. 

He has to pinch himself again to hold himself back. He doesn’t want this to end so soon. He tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he gropes at his chest. He really wishes his suit wasn’t so fucking hard to get off so he could tease at his nipples and imagine you mouthing at him. He’d make sure you knew every inch of his body.

“I miss you too.” He answers truthfully, leaning back against the wall and bracing his feet wide so he can really fuck into his fist the way he imagines fucking you. 

Have you ever even had your pussy licked? He hopes not, he wants to see your face the first time you feel a tongue on your pretty little clit. He wants you to gush all over his face till it soaks into his suit and he can smell you for weeks after.

“Maybe once things calm down, we can hang out again.” You sound so hopeful and the soft noise of rustling fabric makes him realize that you must be fiddling with the hem of your shirt. You kissed him first and yet you still seem unsure of his returned affection. You still worry that his voice will turn to a harsh rebuke again.

“I’d like that. Y’know, maybe I could fly us to Paris so you can do some first hand research. A cookbook will only get you so far. I’m sure Vought could arrange a meeting with a pastry chef.” His cheeks flush as he imagines you beaming at him under the glow of the Eiffel tower, soft and pleased with him as he leans down to kiss you tenderly. You’d appreciate what he could do for you. He wants to do so much for you.

His balls tighten up at the fantasy and he finds it a little strange how the innocent scene has him closer to coming then all the filthy scenarios he could muster. 

“Oh” 

You sigh, and he can hear the flustered wonder in your voice at the thought.

Oh

With a strangled groan he comes, hot thick ropes of come covering his fist, his suit, dripping to the ground in milky white puddles that fuse with the crimson aftermath of his earlier rage.

“I’ve never been to Paris.” You reply breathlessly in a way that almost mirrors his own ragged panting. 

He takes a moment to catch his breath as he strokes the last remaining remnants of his pleasure out of his tender cock, whimpering at the almost too much ache of sensation.

“I guess it’s a date then.” 

_______

Later, once he’s back home and clean and snug in his bed, he sleeps well for the first time in weeks. He dreams of the Paris sky and the stars in your eyes as you look at him like someone you could love.

[theatomickatz]

daddy-o'dude lore is just "what if dude was listening to the happy days theme song when he crashed his car"

[jakobos]

Ithelia confronts Hermaeus Mora

[erinsangel]

surprise, bitch! I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

It's Enough, It's Enough - chapter five

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Jane x Guildford Rating: E Chapter: 5 / 6

Summary: Five times Jane and Guildford pretend to have sex, and one time it’s for real.

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four

She's been reading all along. Guildford doesn't know that. She didn't want him to think she wasn't prioritizing the texts on curing Ethianism, and she never wanted him to know that, despite their conversation about marital obligations on the first night of their honeymoon, she's been contemplating the idea of fucking him this whole time. And not just contemplating it, reading about it—which, for Jane Grey, is about as serious as you can get.

Every time she starts to surrender to what her body wants and Guildford stops her, it's embarrassing. Her own fault, of course; even if the eager way she leans in whenever his face comes near totally contradicts them, her words have communicated things like “As if” and “I want a divorce.” Despite her actions, it seems that he heard her from the start and decided to listen. He's not confused. Clearly, Guildford lives in a world where people say a thing and follow through, set their own rules and then abide by them. And Jane lives in a world where her spine dissolves like wet sugar when Guildford stands just a little too close to her. Or smirks at her. Or does anything with his hands, really. Or refers to her as his wife. That gets her too.

The books on sex are as unromantic as Jane imagines is possible. This is maddening, and also probably the reason she doesn't feel like they're helping. She wants to understand, but not like that, or that, or that—flipping through pages on anatomy (she's seen a diagram of a member before) and diseases of the genitalia and their proposed treatments (her eyes widen in horror at repeated suggestions to place plants she knows to be poisonous in extremely delicate areas). It's all just too clinical, and she usually loves clinical! She loves when books present things unemotionally, letting the facts speak for themselves! But that doesn't work for her here. As much as Jane reads about blood and stiffening and insertion, she feels as though she's seeing less than half of the picture. Nothing like the way she feels around Guildford is captured in these pages. Because of that, they're almost no good to her at all.

Getting attempted-murdered in broad moonlight is an unwelcome yet extremely effective distraction. Oh yes, she's considered scenarios that would lead to her waking up on her back in the warm grass, but it was always Guildford who had something to do with that, not Mary. It takes Jane some time before she's able to figure out why she can hardly breathe: the result of Mary's thumbs mashing her windpipe, or fear that someone with stronger thumbs (or maybe a sword) was sent after Guildford to dispatch him too?

But Guildford is alive. For now. Lately, Jane feels as though everything has only been “for now.” She is continually wrong-footed in a world of impermanence. They gain access to the rest of Mary and Seymour's letters, Mary steals them back. Jane awakens from failed assassination-induced unconsciousness, ready to tell Guildford what happened (or maybe that she's starting to understand that thing he sensed she didn't yet the last time they kissed), and he's already a horse. Nothing is certain!

Guildford's father counsels her towards certainty, but it's a certainty of his own desiring, not hers. Neither giving birth to a son nor naming Guildford King (though that's not the order Lord Dudley has in mind) could be easily undone—yet the possibility exists, with so many would-be killers darting about the palace. Regardless, neither action is one she wants to take. Except for maybe the bit about making the son. In this political climate though? Jane doesn't like the idea of using a baby as a tool, even if that is the gig, part and parcel of being a monarch. Again, it's too clinical, making her think of those books with their dispassionate descriptions of the marital act. Does everything in her life need a motive? Must she always pretend to be anticipating something five steps ahead? Will she forever be expected to enjoy scheming as much as the people around her? Why is certainty synonymous with power and never happiness? Can she not fucking live?

Even the project that gives meaning to her marriage, if not her life, is revealed to be pointless; Susannah visits and assures Jane there is no cure to Ethianism. Not being able to disclose to Susannah exactly why that's such bad news makes Jane ache. She needs a friend. She needs Susannah to ask how she is, like she did after Jane's father died. Jane has no clue how to impart this information to Guildford. Is there a way, if she wants to be kind? Can he care for her if she stops being his means to a cure? If she's just a person, full of flaws, letting him down? Is there anything real left between them without their deal? They've done so much pretending. They've built a version of themselves on the lies they've told, and Jane doesn't know whether there is another version.

Leave it to her mother to force the issue. With her usual disregard for what the consequences will be for anyone other than herself, she makes two statements: Guildford is a horse, and Jane is in love with him. Though Jane manages to storm out of the room, her thoughts lack the same decisiveness. It feels to her as if her mother has thrown a knife that skewered the fundamental truth about each of them, Guildford and Jane. He is a horse, and his identity obsesses him, steers him, rides him; everything he values is valued because of its potential to either cure his Ethianism or dull his suffering while he endures the condition that is consumingly hateful to him. She loves him, and the feeling makes her ignore trial, ignore failure; his need for what she is supposed to be able to offer sustains them both. Will he want her if he doesn't need her? Will she stop being afraid long enough to let him?

There are no answers to these questions that she could find in books. There are only her rushing feet—along stone corridors, and then shushing across the lawn. Jane doesn't know how to stop Mary trying to kill her, and she doesn't know how to get justice for Edward, and she doesn't know if Susannah is right about Ethianism or simply angry at what appeared to be Jane's dismissal of their right to exist as themselves. Night has come on and the grass is damp as her dress drags across it. With all Jane's unknowns, at last, she has her certainty: she does not want a divorce. She wants Guildford to stay with her, to be with her, and to be with him, and to let him see that she is afraid, but that she will stay, if he will have her.

It's all circling around her head, so that, when she finds her husband standing at the back of the stables, she isn't sure she even says hello to him before putting a nix on divorce and demanding he kiss her.

She doesn't say she loves him. She doesn't want to talk, she isn't ready. But she's here. Jane's presence is her grand declaration. After all her hesitation, all her needless care, she can't undress him fast enough—can't make him undress her fast enough. She always thought the decision to give in would be difficult, but it's easy, easy, easy. Guildford's mouth on hers is heavy like ripe fruit. His fingers trip over the fastenings that do her up, keep her together, but once he steadies himself, this seems easy too; she wonders if he's pictured it all before: studied her clothing in moments when she was distracted and imagined what it would be like to dismantle his queen's lace and brocade armour. Has he been reading her while she read books?

This, by the way, is what the books couldn't get right: the swoop in her stomach when Guildford pulls her onto his lap, the overwhelming affection in her when she feels him smiling against her lips. Suddenly, Jane registers sympathy for those poor authors. How could they have put this on paper? How could anyone? For all the things that are meant to be read and studied and learned, what's happening between Jane and Guildford, here, now, is only meant to be felt. To transcribe would be to dilute.

She isn't ashamed to be naked before him, and there's nothing clinical about the heat of his member pressed to her thigh when he lies down on top of her in this bed he's maintained in the stables. It smells like him, even here, where the scents of hay and wood and animal are strong. The scent of the bed is exhaustion and resignation, but also refuge. This is where Guildford is both selves, the one he wants and the one he doesn't. He comes here every night when he leaves her. This bed has held her husband when he deemed it unsafe for Jane to do the same. She has a sudden urge to find out what sleep smells like on him, when his body relaxes into the bed that cradles her now. How does he look entirely disarmed? Does being here now mean he'll let her spend the night? She doesn't say she loves him, but she strokes his back while he kisses her hotly and imagines stroking it again while he sleeps.

When the time has nearly come, Jane can tell. She panics. She admits it. And Guildford, who she has seen snide, self-assured, sarcastic, and short-tempered in daily life (or... nightly life), could not be more tender, more sweet. Jane wishes their wedding could have been like this, but in a way, this is a union, and one of their own choosing. He'll show her, no condescension. She'll let him, no injured pride.

He's barely hovering over her as his fingers trace up her thigh. Guildford's touch is so light it almost tickles like his leg hair does—a sensation she's surprised to find comforting, but it reminds her of their first bedding ceremony, his clever deception that spared them both some humiliation. She has always been a consideration for him. His pledge of thoughtfulness is there in his fingertips, in the parting of her, in the caress of the place the arousing fact of his body on hers has made damp. Jane grips his shoulders. Her hands flutter like confused butterflies up to the back of his neck as she trusts him and trusts him and trusts him. She writhes beneath him so much as he runs his careful fingers over and through and into her that he makes as if to climb off her, to give her room. Alight with a pleasure that feels like ringing the rim of a glass, Jane doesn't want room. She wants her husband right here, pressing her down, working her up. She winds her legs around the back of Guildford's calves and holds fast.

His tongue is in her mouth when she finds release in his bed for the first time. Though he drags his sopping fingers out of her, he continues touching her gently while they kiss. On her end, the kisses are nearly formless in the aftermath of the nervous burst that cascaded through her body, and yet Guildford's mouth is patient and forgiving. He grins when her lips meet his teeth, and licks at her, teasingly, when she attempts to slip her tongue into his mouth. Between her thighs, she feels his wedding ring. The smooth metal band bumps over her clitoris, scattering sparks which threaten to start fires; Jane bites her husband's lip to get his attention, then makes him watch her eyes as she rubs herself against the ring that says they are bound before God and England. There will be no divorce, her eyes insist. You were given to me as much as they gave me to you. When he's apparently unable to endure any more, Guildford grasps the base of Jane's skull and devours her mouth. She comes again when he sucks the tip of her tongue. At this rate, he's going to swallow everything her body can't contain.

If she's annoyed to realize she's unwittingly following her mother's advice—mouth closed, legs open—it's a distant annoyance, and it passes. Jane reaches a hand down between them, brushing warm skin on both sides. Their mouths slide apart until Guildford's lips rest against her cheek, not quite kissing. She stops to explore the hirsute path below his navel with her fingertips, lightly scratching her nails forward and back against the texture of his hair. On top of her, Guildford's breathing changes, rough and hitching, wanting her fingers right where they are, but also elsewhere. It's not dissimilar to intoxication, Jane thinks: this warm, loose feeling within her, the way her worries and reticence have left without conscious shedding. She reaches a bit farther (Hold anything firm firmly, and anything soft softly.) and wraps her fingers around his girth.

Her husband is patient, still—if tense—while Jane keeps his member lightly encircled in her grasp as she shuffles her legs apart. The cool sheet under her warm thighs is a relief that won't last. Smoothing her other hand over Guildford's hip, she guides him into the space she's made for him. She gasps when the blunt, wet end of him prods her. When he kisses her, she doesn't know if it's supposed to distract her, but his hand closes over hers and she feels everything.

Instinctually, Jane tilts her hips as he begins to insert himself. Her eyes go wide with surprise at the sensation it was impossible to prepare herself for (not that any of the male authors of those books even thought of soliciting a female perspective on the acts they describe). She can't help laughing at the strangeness. Guildford's (knife-slinging tavern lust-object) member (thick, rigid, twitching against her abdomen while they kissed) is inside her body! They're joined together! And it doesn't even hurt! Logically, Jane understands that this has more than a little to do with Guildford's unhurried fingers preparing her, but it's tempting to surrender herself to the illogical, to romance: it doesn't hurt because he never would, never could, hurt her. Gradually, Guildford sinks deeper. Breathing shakily, Jane bends her knees to hold his hips between her thighs, and then he's fully inside her.

But the end of that part is just the beginning of so much more. Jane loops her arms around Guildford's waist, spreads her hands on his back, feels his muscles go taut as he starts the slow, rhythmic process of consummation. This is their bodies in conversation. It's another way to know one another, and a transformation of them both; Jane can tell by his face, which hovers over hers, his eyes looking down at her with something he doesn't seem able to voice either. But it's there. It's there with them in this bed, in this stable, on this night when nobody told them what to do, or how, or why. Jane hears the soft grunts huffing past her own lips. Latin, Greek, Italian—now she speaks this. It's their own language, and apparently, she's fluent.

In a moment that passes before she can catch it, the sensation of Guildford thrusting within her evolves from feeling strange but good to very, very good. She can feel how wet she is, how steadily he's gliding through, and yet there's suddenly this friction. Her grunts crack open and become breathy cries. It's because she's squeezing him, from within. She's been kneading the muscles of his back, but her own muscles, there inside her, are at least as powerful. They have the power to make Guildford pant like an animal, his hips jerking shallowly against hers until she stops clenching. She offers a slack smile in return for his stunned expression, and then they surge together, grabbing each other's face as they kiss, fingers catching on chins and ears and hair already unkempt from one another's caresses.

Guildford begins rolling his hips into hers harder—not fast, but less restrained. Jane can tell there's so much more he'll show her, something raw she won't see this first time, suppressed so he can give her no more than what she's ready to receive. But it's thrilling to feel him letting go. Her back arches as she tries to meet him in his thrusts, and his curves, his forehead pressed somewhere around her collarbone. He exhales against her skin, hot gusts of air. When he widens his legs, braced up on his knees, it pushes hers farther apart too. There's nothing coy or secret now; her body is held wide for him, and she welcomes it. She digs her fingers into his hair and closes them in a fist. Guildford's lips rub against her skin as he cries out. With quick, mindless snaps of his hips, he finishes inside her.

Feeling as if she's just been awoken from the dead (but no, that was this morning), Jane's heart beats at a rapid pace. Her thighs are shaking uncontrollably. She's overwhelmed. She wants to both crush Guildford against her and shove him away so she can order her thoughts. This is what it feels like, then, to experience someone else's pleasure so close at hand and not achieve her own end. It'll be fine in a minute—he brought her off twice before—but right now, she feels insane.

But Guildford sees it—of course he does. He lifts his head and the hazy bliss in his dark eyes sharpens as he notes the state she's in. He grips himself on withdrawal, and Jane nearly has a fit at the thought of his fingers remaining down there, massaging between her legs again (oh, she wants it, but it might be more than her overstimulated sex can bear). He doesn't do that though. Her husband holds himself heavily on top of her and starts kissing her everywhere but her mouth. He presses his thigh between hers, just presses, and makes his meandering way down her neck, lips below her jaw, lips on her throat, lips where her hair's stuck to her skin with sweat, lips where her body has surely taken on the scent of his. He explores her chest. His mouth skims the breadth of it before going lower. When he gets to her breasts, there's tongue. Guildford licks her—the underside curve, the nipples stiff with sensation—and his thin necklaces hang against her ribs, catching the candlelight when she looks. Between his curious tongue and the pressure of his thigh, Jane shuts her eyes and shudders to quiet release.

She comes back to herself with Guildford stroking her hair.

They lie side by side for a while, not speaking. She wonders if he reads much at night, or if these hours are always kept for silent contemplation. She wonders if he feels as alone here as she does up in the palace.

The bed cools, but their legs are intertwined, and Guildford runs hot. Jane has just learned that, having never lain beside him before, except for the bedding ceremony, which shouldn't count. Anyway, they weren't naked then, and they are now. She feels a bit shy, but mostly, it's nice. He touches her just because, hand sliding down her arm. He touches her like it's the only important thing. Does he love her? She wants him to love her. She wants him to love her whether or not there's a cure.

They kiss when they think they're falling asleep, but the kissing wakes them back up. Their breathing grows rough and their mouths meet with increasing need. They grab at each other, pulling themselves into greater contact. Jane's aroused like she always is when they kiss, but the familiar throb is gone, replaced by the larger, more distinct ache that says her body knows exactly what it's missing—knows Guildford's size and shape.

Very softly, he asks, “Are you too sore?”

Jane shakes her head firmly.

She is kind of sore, but a strained-muscle soreness, a blunt, tired twinge. She knows pain of all varieties. She knows the difference between pains that will hurt more and less the next morning. Tomorrow, what she's feeling now might feel worse, but this is a special circumstance. Guildford is a special circumstance.

So, Jane hooks her thigh over her husband's hip. He groans to re-enter her. He's tired and pliant and starving for her after the time they've spent wanting and not having; he pours all this feeling into her, thrusts breaking against her like deep currents churned up into waves. She rocks with him. Her limbs fold him close to her, but his thrusts get wilder, and she pulls him over her again. There is no separation, she decides. No line between what is the human world and what the natural. She wants to know everything her husband is, especially when he takes her like this—taking her with him, it feels like, wherever he plans for them to go. Good, Jane thinks. You decide.

She likes being here. She puts herself in his hands.

—

Author's Note:

I'm doing the 5 + 1 out of order (this chapter is the + 1). Though Jane and Guildford have now had sex for real, there is one more instance of pretending in their future. It ain't over yet!

[denaliwrites]

Love Letters

Thirteenth Doctor x GN!Reader

Catch and Release Prompt: “Letters”

Summary: A "secret" admirer keeps sending you love letters.

Requests: Tentatively open-ish.

Tag List: @nyxiethesimp, @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce

Warnings: Canon-Typical Tomfoolery.

It had been a number of years since you'd seen the Doctor. The last you'd counted, it had been four. The years were easy to keep track of, at least, but you didn't bother with the months or weeks or days. It was all just... time, when it came to the Doctor.

It had been four years since you'd seen the Doctor. But that didn't mean it had been just as long since you'd heard from them.

It was custom for the two of you to leave each other letters when you were living your civilian life. The handwriting of the Doctor changed on occasion, but you could always tell it was theirs -- least of all because they were the only one who sent you handwritten notes.

It was as if by instinct the two of you knew when to check your mailbox, yet as if by irony you never managed to run into each other.

Well, at least until you did, anyway.

Four years and you hadn't seen the Doctor. The last time you'd seen him, he was a tall and gangly Scotsman. The person you encountered now... certainly was not that.

You weren't sure why you decided to check the mail when you did, but when you got there a blonde who certainly wasn't your usual mailperson was slipping a letter into your mailbox -- a letter with only your name written on it, in lovely flowing script.

The writing had changed again, but as ever remained unmistakably the Doctor's.

"Doctor?" you asked after her, curiously.

She stopped, as if daring to continue forward would physically pain her, then turned to face you. The grin on her face was wide, but strangely forced.

"Erm, no, sorry. The Doctor is... away. Just gave me an address and asked me to drop this in the mail slot."

"I can see the TARDIS on the street corner."

"Oh... really? You shouldn't do..."

"I can also just... tell. When it's you," you said apologetically. "You just have a certain... way about you."

"Ah. I thought I fixed that."

"You're not Scottish anymore."

"Or a man."

Well, you'd be lying if you said you hadn't noticed that. In fact, it was the first thing you'd noticed -- it was a pretty stark change considering that her every regeneration until then (that you knew of, at least) had been a man.

"I don't mind," you assured her, starting a slow approach towards her. She didn't move, but she also didn't seem entirely comfortable, so you stopped a few paces away. "In fact, I think you look great. Womanhood suits you. Especially that face."

"Oh... you --" She wagged a finger, but her smile had turned more genuine. "Don't go gettin' all flirty on me."

"Doctor, you're here to drop off a love letter. I think it may be too late to tell me not to get flirty."

She seemed to consider that, playfully bobbing her head left and right in thought. "Yeah, all right," she finally said, grinning. "You do have me there, I'm afraid."

[icteridcorvid]

Comicfury

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

JOHN: whooo….

JOHN: it is hot as hell in this funky ass hot ass room i’m in.

JOHN: [sees jack noir raiding his fridge]

JOHN: IS THAT THE GRIM REAPER??!?!?!???!?

[chinzhilla-main]

We could steal time, just for one day We can be heroes, forever and ever What d'you say?

911 hiatus rewatch 2.03 - Help Is Not Coming

[rosalie-starfall]

Me sitting here watching the new episode of What We Do In The Shadows and... Omg is that Kathryn Hahn I hear?! Kathryn is the voice of Wendy's!? When did that happen?

Update here is one of the commercials I caught:

[amesliu]

Safety Pins and Broken Hearts Chapter 13: The Breaking

[tiafrye]

Another Heart Day without you, muffin.

[ichigokeks]

Tong and Pong officially dating was not on my 2024 bingo card but yay!