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libingan · 1 month ago

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— captain snugglebear.

there is something so funny about calling a very masculine man the cheesiest and corniest petnames

SORRY IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO POST ANYTHING IM ACTUALLY SO EXHAUSTED LOL

the bar was quiet, bathed in the warm glow of dim pendant lights and the soft hum of mellow jazz playing from a dusty speaker in the corner. it was the sort of place people came to for conversation, not chaos, and the perfect spot for task force 141 to unwind after a long mission.

soap was leaning back in his chair, a pint of ale in hand as he recounted a story to gaz, who chuckled quietly, his own glass half-empty. ghost, as always, was a quiet presence, seated at the end of the table with a small tumbler of whiskey, his posture relaxed but ever watchful. price was at the center of it all, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his beer untouched for now, his gravelly laugh filling the air as he chimed in here and there.

the door swung open with a soft creak, and you stepped inside, scanning the room until your eyes landed on the familiar group. you couldn’t help but smile when you spotted john, his cap tipped low, his commanding presence impossible to miss even in a setting as unassuming as this.

you strolled over, casual and easy, but with just enough pep in your step to signal that you had something planned. john caught sight of you first, his lips twitching upward in a small smile, but the moment you reached the table, you decided to crank things up a notch.

“hi, my precious sugarplum,” you greeted in the sweetest voice you could muster, sliding up next to him and placing a hand on his broad shoulder. “did you miss me, my wittle cuddle-muffin?”

the effect was immediate. soap froze mid-sip, choking on his drink as he struggled not to burst out laughing. gaz blinked at you, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief, before a wide grin spread across his face. even ghost turned his head slightly, giving the impression that if anyone could make him break his stoic demeanor, it might just be you.

price didn’t even flinch. his jaw tightened slightly, and he exhaled through his nose, but he remained calm, setting his beer down with deliberate care. “really, love?” he muttered, his voice low and laced with exasperation.

“oh, don’t be like that, snugglebear,” you cooed, leaning in closer, unbothered by the amused stares of his team. “i just couldn’t resist saying hi to my lovely babycakes.”

soap couldn’t hold it in any longer. he wheezed, slapping the table as he laughed, his voice cutting through the calm of the bar. “captain—babycakes?! och, that’s bloody brilliant!”

gaz joined in, shaking his head as he grinned. “mate, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

even ghost let out an amused huff, the corners of his eyes crinkling beneath his mask.

price pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about never bringing you near the lads again. but when he looked back at you, there was a spark of something soft in his eyes, a warmth that betrayed the stern exterior he usually wore like armor.

“you done embarrassing me yet?” he asked, though his tone was more resigned than annoyed.

“not even close, sweetpea,” you replied, grinning as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. “now, scoot over. i’m joining you.”

he sighed, shaking his head as he slid over to make room, but there was the faintest curve to his lips, a sign that no matter how much you teased him, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

soap, however, wasn’t letting it go anytime soon. “oi, cap,” he called through his laughter, “ye reckon we should start callin’ ye that on ops? snugglebear, aye?

price shot him a look that could have silenced a lesser man. “say it and see what happens, mactavish.”

you leaned in slightly then, lowering your voice so only john could hear. “aw, don’t pout, snugglebear,” you teased softly, the playful lilt in your tone enough to make his jaw tighten.

price’s eyes flicked to yours, the faintest glimmer of something dangerous sparking beneath his calm exterior. he leaned closer, his voice a quiet rumble just for you. “keep this up,” he murmured, “and i’ll make sure you regret it later.”

your grin widened as you tilted your head, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “promise?” you whispered back, your tone dripping with challenge.

his response was immediate. a firm pinch to your ass, quick but precise, made you jolt slightly, your grin shifting into a breathless laugh.

“cheeky,” he muttered, his tone low enough to make your stomach flutter. his hand didn’t linger, but the look he gave you—equal parts exasperation and fondness—made your heart skip all the same.

“you love it,” you teased, your smile smug as you leaned back, entirely unbothered by the flush creeping up his neck.

soap, noticing the subtle exchange, leaned forward. “what was that, then? somethin’ ye’d like tae share wi’ the class, cap?”

“nothing,” price replied smoothly, his voice steady as ever as he picked up his beer and took a slow sip.

you, however, were feeling bold. “just my teddy bear reminding me how much he loves me,” you said with a cheeky grin.

price exhaled heavily, tipping his cap lower to shadow his eyes as he muttered, “god help me.”

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 #cod #cod mwii #cod x reader #john price #john price x reader #price x reader

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 12 days ago

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Shimmer

20/12: Stockings and Sex Toys - modern!Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.2k~ | Warnings: use of sex toys, edging, slight degradation

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

A/N: did a twist on stockings cos why not

He can feel his jaw get tight with frustration just watching her. Prancing around in fucking stockings no less. The sheer, lacy ones he'd bought her for valentine's day.

Granted, she looked amazing in them. And she probably knew it. But it was getting all the wrong attention at the little Christmas party his mother had decided to throw, with half of fucking Westeros in attendance.

Well, little was the word she had described, anyway.

Every male eye was on her. And it was infuriating.

But no gaze on her made him more angry, than his brother, Aegon's. Simply because he was not afraid to make his opinions known. It was like every sordid thought made its way from his brain to his lips with no filter whatsoever.

Aemond sat at the bar, his fingers wrapped tightly around the tumbler of whiskey, the ice clinking softly as he swirled it. His gaze never strayed far from her. She was radiant, laughing at something Helaena had said, her voice like a melody over the low hum of the Christmas party, all violin music, laughter and the popping of expensive champagne. If he weren't so on edge, the space was so aglow, he'd be tempted to fall asleep. The lacy edge of the stockings he’d bought her peeked out when she shifted her weight, just enough to set every man in the room on edge.

The tight pencil skirt hugged her curves perfectly, paired with a soft, form-fitting top that dipped just low enough to be enticing. It was a simple outfit, but she made it look extraordinary, effortlessly captivating.

And everyone else noticed.

Aegon, perched lazily on the barstool beside him, was anything but subtle. He leaned back with a smirk, his eyes trailing her shamelessly.

“Gods,” Aegon said, his voice low but dripping with amusement. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s putting on a show.”

“Watch your mouth, Aegon.”

Aegon chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m just saying. She knows what she’s doing. You see how she crosses her legs when she sits? Makes the lace peek out just enough—”

“If you value your teeth, you’ll shut up now.”

But Aegon wasn’t done. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this. Watching every man in this room wish they could trade places with you. Even Uncle Daemon can’t keep his eyes off her.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered briefly toward Daemon, who was, indeed, glancing in her direction with a sly smirk, though pretending not to over the rim of his glass. That was the last straw.

Without a word, Aemond stood, his drink forgotten on the bar. He crossed the room in long strides, his eyes locked on her as she stood near the fireplace, chatting with none other than Cregan Stark, who was equally giving her eyes.

She looked up as he approached, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Hey, you—” she started, but Aemond didn’t let her finish.

He slipped a possessive arm around her waist, pulling her close. His lips brushed her ear as he murmured, “you’re coming with me.”

He didn't speak as he guided her up the grand staircase, one hand splayed on her lower back. She could feel the tension radiating off him, his eye dark with desire and anger alike. When they reached the guest room, she clasped her hands behind her back, feigning innocence as Aemond pushed the door shut.

“Sit.”

She plopped onto the bed, looking up at him with a playful, knowing smirk.

“You're upset,” she teased, crossing her legs, allowing the lace of her stockings to peek through again. She saw the flicker of his eye to her exposed skin. “Is it my outfit?”

“Don't play dumb.”

She leaned back on her palms, “or what?”

She saw the tight muscle in his jaw tick. He fumbled at the sleek black tie around his neck, yanking it off as if were personally strangling him, suddenly feeling his neck get hot. A few buttons followed, and then, with his expression still firm and hard on her, his attention directed to his sleeves, pulling them up his forearms and curling it onto itself, as if he were preparing to get his hands dirty.

Her eyes widened slightly, but her smirk remained, "don't look so mad, baby."

"Oh, I'm not mad."

"What then?" she asked lightly.

Aemond didn’t respond with words. Instead, he reached for the overnight bag he’d left in the corner of the room earlier. Her eyebrows arched in surprise as he unzipped it, pulling out a sleek, black vibrator.

Her teasing demeanour faltered for a moment, replaced by curiosity and a flicker of excitement. “You brought that with you?”

“I knew I’d need it,” he said. He stepped toward her, the toy in hand, his movements deliberate.

Before she could respond, he knelt between her legs, his hands trailing up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher. She gasped as his fingers hooked into the delicate lace of her matching underwear, tugging them down just enough to give him access. His lips followed, kissing along the inside of her thigh, making her squirm.

“Aemond…” she breathed, but he silenced her with a look.

“Lay back,” he commanded, and she obeyed, her heart racing as she stretched out on the bed.

He flicked the toy on, the soft hum filling the room and annoyingly, automatically on the lowest setting. He brought it to her inner thigh first, teasing, making her squirm under his touch. Her smirk returned, though her breath hitched.

“Still feeling cocky?” he asked, his voice low as he moved the vibrator closer to her centre, clicking a setting up, hovering just above where she needed him most.

She bit her lip, her hands gripping the sheets. “Maybe a little,” she managed, though her voice wavered.

“Good,” he said, finally pressing the toy against her. She arched her back with a gasp, her teasing demeanor melting away as pleasure overtook her.

Aemond’s smirk deepened as he moved the vibrator in slow, deliberate circles, keeping her on the edge without giving her the release she so desperately craved. Every time her breathing quickened, every time her hips bucked against him, he pulled back just enough to keep her teetering on the brink.

“You’re cruel,” she gasped, her voice a mix of frustration and need. Her hands gripped the sheets tightly, her body writhing beneath his touch. “Aemond, please…”

He tilted his head, his eye dark and predatory. “Please what?” he asked, his tone mocking. He slid the toy lower, letting it graze her most sensitive spot before pulling it away again. “I thought you liked teasing. Or maybe not when it's the other way around?”

She let out a soft whimper, her back arching as she tried to chase the sensation.

He dragged the toy down her thigh before bringing it back up, the vibrations steady but maddeningly light. “I could let you come. But I’m enjoying this far too much. Look at you,” he murmured, his gaze raking over her body. “Squirming. Begging. All because of me.”

But even Aemond had his limits. Watching her like this, hearing her beg, feeling the way she trembled beneath his touch, it was driving him mad.

When her pleas grew more desperate, her body arching into him, he finally relented, tossing the toy aside. “You want me to fuck you?” he asked, his voice low, rough.

“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his. “Now. Fuck the party.”

He suppressed the urge to grin. Fuck the party, indeed.

Aemond didn’t need to be told twice. With a growl, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, his hands already working to free himself as he finally gave in, pressing against her hot and waiting centre, eager to take him.

She tugged at her stockings, the lace now slightly askew, but he caught her hands, pinning them above her head with one of his.

“Leave them on.”

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@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

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oh-koenig-my-koenig · 11 months ago

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waking up in his bed

(cw: age gap 25/41, nsfw, mdni, marks, a bit of spit stuff, dry (wet?) humping, swallowing)

part before: hanging off König's shoulder

When I open my eyes up again, for just a moment, I don’t know where I am. My own confused image stairs back at me – right, the mirror on his ceiling! And I laugh to myself because it’s ridiculous. The whole concept is!

I stretch myself, yawning. Realising that I’m alone in the kingsize bed. I mean, it would be impossible to miss the big guy. I still feel his lingering touches, the way he held onto me as we fell asleep together. Reminders of the first time hooking up after the concert.

I’m somebody who normally can’t sleep in a tight embrace, but he was pratically latching onto me both times. Subconsciously in his sleep. Holding onto me, softly still. If it were possible for him to wrap himself around me completely, I bet he would’ve done it. His big arm resting over my torso, the forearm securely between my breasts, his hand on the side of my face. One of his legs strewn over one of mine. Almost like a human weighted blankie. And I still slept soundly.

I yawn and stretch again, until I notice a little piece of paper stuck to my arm. I peel it off and look at it.

That explains where he went off to, but it also makes him out be a liar, because I don’t believe I look anywhere near cute in the morning. Drooling into the soft pillow underneath my head. My hair standing off to the side. Probably snoring as well.

And I have to laugh as I see the little doodle in the right corner. Honestly, it’s a relief to see – considering the man’s many talents – that he isn’t good at everything. Drawing doesn’t seem to be his forte. But at the same time, this was painfully cute. The note, the doodle, everything. I giggle to myself and finally pull back the covers.

I assess the ‘damage’ while I get up: Booty hurts a little bit, probably from getting fucked into the hard wood surface of the bar. The muscles in my legs are a little tense, my shoulders and neck feel a bit stiff, and my pussy is a little bit sore (and deeply satisfied). The hickeys and the faint bitemark on my inner thighs bring a little smile to my face. It couldn’t have been clearer if he had written ‘König was here’ in waterproof sharpie on them.

I put on my shirt, still not daring to take one of his because of how it might look, and curse myself because I didn’t pack more clothes. It’s not terribly stinky or stained, but it definitely looked better yesterday. I quickly brush my teeth, my eyes darting to the shower, remnants of last night in the forefront of my mind before I go on a search for my panties.

I find them on the floor in the bar, the memories of yesterday flooding me, the forgotten cocktail still on the bar. He had to make another one, because the icecubes had already melted and the gin was warm.

I leave the cellar going up the stairs until I stand in the living room again, looking at the books I set aside yesterday.

There is another crystal tumbler on the end table, this one empty. Just one because we shared it.

The glass moving from my hand to his and back, while we were listening to music, talking. Cuddling on the couch. My legs splayed over his thighs, barely reaching all the way to the other side. His arm around my waist, his thumb painting little circles over my hip. My fingers tangled in his hair and digging into the scalp, massaging gently until he was humming quietly.

His mouth placed on the glass where mine was, just a moment before, taking another sip.

Lingering kisses, slow and sweet, turning into little sips of the drink being passed between us. Tasting him and the gin at the same time. A heady combination.

I felt myself getting sleepier and sleepier the later it got, until I yawned and almost fell asleep in his arms, then he finally got me to agree that we should head to bed.

I hear the front door open, the sound ripping me from my memories. I turn around, skipping in that direction.

König is standing in the hallway, taking off his shoes, a grocery bag in his hands. In his usual leatherjacket, shirt and… sweatpants? Casual black sweatpants. Yeah no, I totally feel normal about them. I can’t help but ogle him, because he looks like a wet dream, even in the most mundane outfits.

He sees me, his face lighting up in a grin. “No pants again, huh?”, he comments, his eyes dropping down my body.

I blush. “Uh, I can put some on, if it bothers you.”

He laughs. “Doncha dare hide that cute ass of yours.” He comes closer and leans down, dropping a kiss onto my mouth and his hand to my ass. Patting it twice, quickly and playful. “I almost didn't want to leave bed this morning...”, he whispers against my lips and deepens the kiss, for just a moment.

“I got your note.”, I say as we tumble into the kitchen.

He puts the shopping bag down on the counter. “Yeah, went to the supermarket. And I also got us some croissants from the bakery.”

“The little shop at the corner to Main Street?”, I ask.

“Yes.”, he smiles.

“Hell yeah, I love their croissants, they're the best.”, I exclaim.

“Baked goods, the only thing the french are good at.”, he comments pointedly.

“Oh man, you and the french.”, I laugh as I hop onto the kitchen counter beside the coffee maker. Watching him unpack the groceries and getting said baked goods.

He pulls one croissant out of the brown paper bag and hands it to me unceremoniously. I grab it and take a bite, the flakey dough bursting as my teeth cut through it. The little sigh that drops from my lips sounds a little too enamored, a little too enthused for just eating a croissant. He looks at me, his jaw dropping just a bit.

“What?”, I ask, still munching on the pastry dough.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head mumbling something that sounds a bit like "never thought I'd be jealous of a fucking croissant".

That makes me laugh. "Thanks for getting them, but you didn't need to get up early for that."

He shrugs. "I'm an early bird anyway out of habit, and I had to go out and buy some milk, because I forgot about that.", he explains, pulling said milk out of the grocery bag.

I look at him, a little confused.

"I drink my coffee black, so I never have any milk at home.", he adds, as if that was a given.

A grin stalks on my face. “Of course you do.”, I say pointedly.

“Now, what's that supposed to mean?”, he asks.

I tilt my head and pull my brows up, all like 'are you being serious?'. “Let's just say that I would have been way more surprised if the over 40-year-old metalhead, who has a car that looks like it's from the nineties, who still collects vinyls and CDs, who would rather drink his gin neat and who's biggest kitchen appliance is a barista coffee machine with all the knick-knacks – if he drank a latte in the morning.”

He laughs, the hearty sound making me all giddy. “Tell me how you really feel.”, he says, his eyes sparkling at me, while jokingly clasping one hand over his heart.

“Sorry.”, I say, grinning at him.

He waves it off. “Don’t be, I deserved that.” He gets some coffee beans ready, putting them through the grinder and then fitting the portafilter into the barista machine.

While the coffee drips down into the cup, he comes closer standing right in between my knees. “But, how about you, missy? Do you like a latte in the morning?” The little quirk of the corner of his mouth is telling me that this isn’t just some question about my coffee preferences. It’s one of his telltale signs.

“I do, but I feel like I'm missing the joke here.”, I say, looking up at him. Sitting on the counter, he still towers over me, more than a head taller than me.

He chuckles. “Well, ‘Latte’ is also another word for boner in German, so...” He sees the grimace I'm making and laughs some more, and I join in, while shaking my head. He steps away and repeats the process, getting another coffee ready.

"I'm starting to think that your language only has dirty innuendos and curses.", I remark, jokingly.

He grins. "That just might be my vocabulary." He pours some milk into a metal jug and froths it, adding the froth to the mug after the coffee is ready. Wincing at the shitload of milk he put in. "Here, a latte for the lady.", he says, while handing me the mug.

My eyes drop down of their own volition, as I take it from his hands. Openly staring at his crotch, where his sweatpants are clearly tented by his dick. And he comes even closer with the way I'm looking at him.

My gaze pans up again until it lands on his face, his expression stoic, as he’s pulling an eyebrow up, like he’s awaiting what I’ll do. I take a drink, tasting the coffee on my tongue. "Thank you. For the latte." Trying to hide my grin behind the mug. "Sir.", I add, cheekily.

He leans forward, placing his hands on either side of me, caging me in. The look in his eyes burning into me. I still grin up at him, but I feel like I'm in danger. In danger of getting devoured like one of those flaky croissants.

"You wanna say that again with your lips around my dick? Hm?", he asks and my breath halts. Thinking about yesterday again. When I sat on his bed, gagging around his cock.

"Maybe.", I whisper. He just leans down to kiss me and I can taste the bitter coffee on his tongue, as it strokes against mine. Slow and deep.

I put the cup down to the side before my arms reach up, holding onto his shoulders, his hair falling to the front, the tips of it brushing over my skin. I push some of it back, my fingers tangle in the long strands, while I answer his kiss.

He's not breaking away, still caging me in, even though one of his hands moves to my panties. The fingers toying with the hem, easily slipping under the fabric. My legs spread even wider, I squirm into his touch and our kiss gets messier, sloppier. His thumb finds my clit, softly pressing against it, and the light touch makes me needy for more.

"Fuck, please.", I whimper into the kiss, and I can feel his lips turn up into a smile. He breaks away, keeping up the constant brushes against my clit, kissing down to my neck.

My hand tries to reach for his dick, but he catches my wrist. "Just- let me.", he murmurs, pressing his hot mouth against my pulse point. Sucking on it softly. A needy mewl escapes me when his middle finger slips into me. Just one digit, not quite enough to fill me up, even with his big fingers.

Soft teasing touches, enough to get me worked up, but not enough to get me anywhere near finishing. And he knows what he's doing.

König pulls back, his lids hooded, his gaze intently on me, which makes me acutely aware of the expression on my own face, the O shape of my mouth. His finger is still moving inside me, the brushes against the most sensitive spot make me squirm.

I teether on the edge of an orgasm, until he pushes another one inside me, filling me up. His fingers move fast now, against my fluttering walls. Coaxing the release out of me and I come, pulsing around them. Leaving me wet and needy for more touches.

He pulls the panties over my pussy again, the fabric soaking up my juices in an instant. His hand clasps over it, softly massaging over it, until they soaked wet with my own juices.

König simply pushes his sweatpants down, pulling out his cock, letting it rest against my clothed pussy. Then he spits and a dollop of saliva drops onto my panties. The sound alone makes me whimper, while I lean back until my shoulderblades hit the cabinets behind me.

The spit runs down, right over the tip of his dick. He drags it through it, spreading the wetness on his length, soaking my underwear even more. Slow and deliberate, taking his time. The slick just being enough, so he can flit over it.

I groan at the sight, the filthy little move making me even hotter. He pulls up one eyebrow while looking at me, the smirk on his lips infuriatingly cocky. He ruts his hips forward, his hard dick pushing against my pussy lips and clit. The friction due to the fabric in between us, against my sensitive skin, is almost too much to handle, my hands gripping his arms, nails digging into his biceps.

His hands splayed on my thighs and he looks down, my eyes following his until we're both fixed on the spot where he is rubbing himself against me. The little hickeys on the skin next to it. His thumb coasts over the bitemark on my inner thigh, a faint imprint still showing up. He lifts his hand for just a moment, pressing a kiss to his pointer and middle finger and then pressing them onto the mark.

If I wasn't so wound tight from his teasing touches, I think I would've actually awww'ed at the little gesture, him kissing the bite better. Like this, I only sigh, grinding against his dick, searching for more friction.

He slumps forward, his forehead resting against mine. "Fuck, I need to be inside you.", he grunts, his words sending a shiver down my spine. He lifts me from the countertop, my legs wrapping around him.

"What, no magic condoms appearing out of thin air this time?", I tease him, my fingers stroking over his shoulders.

“The magician is out of props for such stunts.”, he grumbles. “And there will still be enough time to fuck you on every surface in the whole house.”

He hurries upstairs to the bedroom where he sets me down on the bed and we both scramble to get off our clothes. I pull my shirt over my head and fall into the soft mattress, watching him shed his. His dick is hanging out his sweatpants, half caught in the waistband, bobbing up and down with his movements before he lets the pants fall down to the floor.

He grabs a condom out of the pack that's lying out on the nightstand, the packaging torn at the front, and puts the rubber on.

My eyes pan up from the dark fluff of his happy trail, the tummy, the upper abs and his huge pecs, dark hair peppered over them. His nipple piercing. The broad shoulders, adorned with black ink that spans down his arms as well. Trying not to look at the parts where cuts and other scars disturbed the otherwise impeccable images inked into the skin.

He looks back at me, from underneath his eyebrows, one of them quirking up, as he climbs onto the mattress, his weight pushing it down.

I yelp and giggle, as he grabs me by the hips, pulls me into him, until the swells of my ass hit his thick thighs. My legs drop to the side on their own, and he takes that as the invitation it is, his hand pulling the wet panties to the side and just slipping into me.

We both groan as he settles deep inside me, the stretch of his thickness making my head drop back and my eyes roll back.

His hand catches my chin, softly digging into it. Making me look up as he sits back on his knees and slowly starts to fuck me.

“See how fucking pretty you are?”

His eyes are on me, on my face, while I look up at the mirror, focused in on the point where we are connected. Seeing how his dick pushes into me, until he's balls deep, his tip pressing up against my cervix.

Sliding out, inch by inch, almost completely pulling out. In again. I feel the stretch as my pussy takes him in. It's a tight fit, but I'm wet and dripping from how he worked me up.

And out. The feeling of emptiness only dissipates, when his hips snap forward, filling me up quickly, and a moan drops from my lips, the shape contorted to an O.

He starts to fuck me harder, his hand coming around my throat, his fingers closing around my neck, gentler than I would have liked. Pulling me into him while he pounds into me. His hand is other still grabbing onto my panties, the fabric aching as he uses it as leverage to move me into his thrusts.

Rip.

The sound of fabric ripping cuts through the otherwise soft erotic soundscape. The drowsiness drops out of his gaze, his eyes widen in shock, as he looks down, stopping his thrusts. "Scheiße, sorry.", he curses.

I laugh a bit while I shake my head. "Don't worry, it's just clothes.", sitting up on my elbows, reaching out for him. Needing him to continue.

He lets go of them, the fabric hanging from my hips, and leans forward, pressing a deep kiss onto my mouth in apology. His hand softly strokes the side of my face, his thumb caressing my cheek. Close, so close, his forehead resting against mine, as he rolls his hips against me.

He straightens back up, picking up his thrusts again. His arm spans over my whole body, the muscled limb covering half of me. I feel so small compared to him, the contrast so stark when I'm splayed out like this in front of him.

His hand moves down a bit and his thumb pushes against my lips. I lick it, play with it and then release it with a pop, but just a moment later two of his fingers push into my mouth again.

He sinks in deep, my lips closing around them. Two is almost too much already. I start to lick them, to suck on his fingers, hesitatingly at first, but the little sounds that drop from his lips spur me on.

He moves them in unison with the pushes of his dick into me. The combined touches making me lose my mind fast. It almost was like he was fucking me from the front and back at the same time.

I gag around him, spit coats his digits as I suck them off like I would another part of him. And I guess, he is thinking about that as well, the heat in his gaze intensifying.

The sight mirrored back to me – of his dick pounding into me, while his fingers are fucking my mouth all sloppily, pushing into the wet heat, my lips barely reaching the lettering on his knuckles, is getting me worked up.

From the way he's looking at me, his eyes fixed on my face, while I swallow him up, it's driving him crazy too. Groaning, as I take him deep.

Him, just him, fucking me. And me at his mercy. Full, so full of him. And I can't help but think about what it would be like to have him fill all of my holes. The thought alone sends a tingle of filthy desire down my spine and I hum around him.

"Fuck, look at you, taking me so well.", he drawls. His words, the soft growl in them, wash over me and I can feel the zap of pleasure deep, when he bottoms me out, his dick hitting the right spot again.

I come, my body arching off the sheets, my sighs and screams muffled by the fingers in my mouth, as my eyes roll back.

He doesn't stop, fucking me through it. My pussy squeezes around him, and while I still come down from the orgasm, I can feel his other hand grabbing my hip, holding tight. His fingers still in my mouth, stroking against my tongue. Sinking into my throat, the letters on his knuckles disappearing as he pushes further in, and I gag around them once again.

They leave my mouth, all of a sudden, and I take a deep breath. "Please fuck, I-", he groans. "I want to come in your mouth. May I?" The inflection in his voice is almost pleading.

I nod, the thought alone sending another shiver of arousal through me. “Yes.”, I answer breathlessly, still a little hazy from my orgasm.

He pulls back entirely, his dick slipping out of my pussy. I scramble onto my knees, while he gets up from the bed, standing in front of it.

Getting off the condom quickly, his hand running up and down his length, continuing to chase his release. My spit is still on the two digits that were just inside me, now slowly coating his cock.

I press a soft kiss to the tip that is leaking precum, tasting the saltiness on my tongue. Flicking it over the piercing. My eyes pan up, searching for his, before I take him a little deeper into my mouth. Sucking on his tip while he jerks himself off. Hasty and desperate. A rumbly moan shakes his chest, his eyes rolling back.

"Fuck, gonna cum.", he mutters, the words all breathy.

I hum around his dick, licking and sucking eagerly, when he spills onto my tongue and down my throat. I lick up every single drop, swallowing it all. He shakes and shivers when I don't stop sucking until he's spent.

I release him with pop, when his fingers grip my chin, and open my mouth to show him. "Good fucking girl.", he drawls, the praise washing over me, as I sit back on my knees. He crouches down a bit, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. Like he's waiting for something, but he doesn't say anything.

My cheeks blush red, as I remember what we talked about before. "Thank you, Sir.", I say, looking him straight into his eyes.

His answer is a deep satisfied sound, almost turning into a growl, as he leans forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss. Crawling into bed again, pulling me onto his front, until I’m strewn over him like a blanket that isn’t even big enough for the big man. He’s softly stroking my back, the touches comforting and gentle.

I push my cheek into his pecs, the hairs on his chest tickling the soft skin, and I breathe in his scent. The warm calming tone. I feel his upper body rising and sinking with every single breath of his, until we are in unison. The deep calmness almost carries me away, and I feel myself getting sleepy. I mean, we didn’t get a lot of sleep. And getting fucked liked this was tiring, although not tiresome at all.

In the silence around us, a thought of mine cuts through post-fuck haze.

“I don’t wanna go home.”, I whisper against his chest, after looking for the right words to say.

His hand stops for just a second. “Then don't.”, he answers simply, continuing his soft caresses.

I lift my head from his pec, looking at him. “Are you sure? I don't want to disturb your vacation.”, I ask.

“I'm not on vacation, I'm on leave.”, he explains. “And you're not disturbing anything.” A little reassuring smile is appearing on his lips.

“I didn’t bring much though. Not even like any more clothes.”, I say hesitatingly.

“Would it be terribly selfish of me to put you in my stuff to keep you here?”, he asks, the smile widening a bit.

I laugh. “I fear, I won't fit into any of that. I mean, I think I could build a tent to sleep in from the shirts you wear.”

“That's fair.”, he grins at me, pushing my hair out of my face. And then he kisses me again, sweet and slow, until I sigh against his lips.

“You have to stop kissing me like that.”, I say, teasingly.

His smirk drops from his face. “Why?”, he asks.

“Because it makes me want to sit on your dick again.”, I jokingly confess.

He starts laughing, his whole body shaking. “That can be arranged.”, he grins at me.

“But – we can’t stay in bed the whole weekend.”, I retort.

“We can’t?”, he pipes up, his question somewhere between a pouty joke and sincere query.

I think about it for a second. “Mmh, I don’t know. Might tire you out, old man.”, I tease him, sticking my tongue out at him.

His eyes light up, all of a sudden, I get flipped, the whole world is spinning around me. He is on top of me, his weight presses me down into the mattress. His thighs spread my legs for him, his dick lying over my tummy, already hard again.

He grabs another condom. “If you keep this up, we’re gonna go through the whole packet.”, he jokes, one side of his mouth topping up in a smirk.

“Is that a challenge?”, I ask, caressing down his chest, inching in on his dick, while he is still fiddling with the rubber.

He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head, stretching me out on the mattress, while I grin up at him, splayed out like that.

“If you want it to be…”, he whispers against my face, his lips kissing down to my neck while he pushes inside me.

The mug on the kitchen counter is still half full, the coffee now cold. I take a sip, relishing the milky liquid running down my throat. Sitting here at the kitchen island in just his shirt. The Dark Tranquility one he wore when we first met.

“What are you doing?”, he asks me, utterly confused, as he sees me. He put on his sweatpants again and they are as delicious as they were before. Especially in combination with his naked chest.

“Finishing my coffee.”, I explain, taking another long sip.

“But that’s… cold.”, he says, the disgust palpable.

“Yeah, I like it like that. I drink them lukewarm. At best.”, I explain, with full confidence.

“Woman, you drive me crazy.”, he sighs, then laughs, making himself another coffee. Fresh, hot and black. “One of these days, we’re gonna manage to drink the drinks at the temperature they’re so supposed to be enjoyed at.” The loud noise of the coffee maker cuts through my laughter.

“We can certainly try.”, I say, taking another sip from my blasphemous coffee.

“So, about your stuff.”, he starts, as he leans against the kitchen island. The mug in his hand is looking ridiculously small compared to him. Just like me.

“Yeah, my panties are kinda ruined now, too.” I say and shoot him a pointed look.

“I don’t have any panties that will fit you.”, he says, the corner of his lips quirking up.

“No shit sherlock.”, I remark sarcastically, lifting the shirt that is hanging from my shoulders. That’s almost reaching to my knees. You could fit three of me in there.

“We can go to your apartment, you can look after Mimi and get some clothes, and then come back here. It’s no big deal.”, he suggests.

I sigh. “You sure?”

He nods, just waiting for my answer patiently. While I contemplate if it was okay to stay here for longer.

“Okay, quickly, just to get some stuff.”, I agree.

When we go to leave, I notice that my shoes are neatly lined up, not at all how I left them, when I stormed into the house yesterday evening. Standing just right beside an old pair of his combat boots.

next part: painting his nails or more stuff in the Masterlist ~

#metalhead!könig #she likes the dark #könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig fanfiction #cod mw2 smut #könig smut #konig smut #cod smut #könig x reader #tw: age gap

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quietblueriver · 1 year ago

Note

For your prompts, Avatrice, "do you ever regret it?"

Canon compliant and angstier than originally intended but with what I hope is a hopeful-ish ending. Thanks so much for the prompt. <3 Haven't been able to write them in a while for some reason and hoping this gets me back to it.

Beatrice sloshes the amber liquid gently, working to cover the artisanal sphere of ice taking up most of the room in the glass. It’s a moderately successful endeavor, but to get it all the way over the top, she’d need to put more force behind her movement, which she won’t do.

She may be a sad, semi-drunk ex-nun, but she still has her manners. She's consuming outrageously expensive whisky from an outrageously expensive piece of crystal on an outrageously expensive sofa. She knows better than to put any of them at risk.

She takes another sip instead, giving up on her game for the moment and leaning her head against the leather cushion behind her, turning to face Jillian, who has finished with her own drink and is making her way to join Beatrice.

The ball of ice in her glass clinks against the wall of her tumbler as she settles on the other side of the couch, folding bare feet underneath herself. Her hair is down, not messy but no longer in its perfect updo, and Beatrice can see her shoes placed neatly against the wall near the small bar where she’d put together their drinks.

Dipping her head toward Beatrice’s hand, she asks, “Alright?”

Beatrice hums and nods. It tastes terrible, like smoky mud, and it coats her tongue and leaves a film in her mouth, burning at the back of her throat with every sip. She imagines it’s about as far from a lemon drop as one can get, which means it’s exactly what she wants right now—liquor that feels less like an indulgence and more like a punishment.

And if she has another glass or two, it may provide a separate kind of punishment tomorrow morning, although it’s not like she has anywhere to be, particularly.

She’s staying at Jillian’s invitation, unwilling to go back to Cat’s Cradle at the moment and uncertain, since she formalized her renunciation, what her place there would be if she were to return.

Mother Superion had been clear that she had one, if she wanted it, but she’d also said, voice filled with a kind of understanding that nearly broke Beatrice in half, “Take your time.”

So she is. It has been eleven days since Ava went through the portal, and Beatrice has spent most of those days with Jillian, making herself useful where possible, keeping up with her training, and disappearing every once in a while to sit quietly in a dark room and/or cry under the warm water of the shower until she can’t breathe. Jillian never asks where she has gone, and she returns the favor, continuing whatever task or project they are working on without comment when Jillian returns from an absence with red eyes and a raspy voice.

They’ve discovered in their time together that it’s easier for the both of them to eat with the other, and better for the both of them to avoid drinking alone, so their evenings have processed generally like this: an easy dinner in Jillian’s kitchen followed by drinks in her favorite study. They talk or they don’t, and as one or the other finishes a second or third drink, they reach tacit agreement to say goodnight, leaving glasses on the small table by the door for Jillian’s staff to handle so that they can repeat the process the next night.

Tonight is no exception. They’d had white wine with dinner, a bottle between the two of them at the bar in Jillian’s kitchen. They’d picked over a spread of bread and cheese and fruit with little interest but enough sense and determination to make it through more than half before packing the rest away. Now they’re sipping alcohol from Jillian’s impressive collection, settled into what have become their standard seats.

Nearing the bottom of her glass, Beatrice feels curious, masochistic enough to poke at her own bruises, so she speaks. “My father has a penchant for Japanese whisky. Or he did. I have no idea if it’s still true.” She takes another sip. “He taught my cousin all about it. Lined bottles up in his study. He took him to Japan for his sixteenth birthday for a distillery tour. I think he would have done the same with me, if I hadn’t been…” There are a hundred of her father’s disappointments she could use to finish that sentence. She shrugs. “Me.”

Jillian’s watching her, head tilted against the cushion to match Beatrice’s, glass resting on the arm of the couch.

“It was Ava who first got me drunk.” Her heart pounds as she thinks about that night, the press of Ava’s body against hers, her breath on Beatrice’s neck uneven with laughter. “Lemon drop shots.” And it’s almost easy to smile, to feel the phantom drip of liquor down her chin, see Ava’s head thrown back in delight.

“Sweet,” Jillian says.

“Hmm.” She takes another sip of whisky, coats the memory in the bitter present. “She wouldn’t let me start with wine.”

A snort. “I believe that.”

They finish their glasses in silence, Jillian standing and offering a hand, taking Beatrice’s tumbler back to the bar for a refill. Her eyes wander the room, catch as they always do on pictures of young Michael, framed drawings, shelves of colorful board books and thin paperbacks. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Goodnight Moon. A whole line of titles in The Magic Treehouse.

Following her gaze, Jillian says, “He loved those.” Beatrice takes her newly-filled glass back and Jillian arranges herself in her corner again, pulling a pillow into her lap, her shoulders a little less rigid than they were half an hour ago. “Read them over and over. He was so eager for adventure.” She meets Beatrice’s eyes and smiles, small and half-over before it can settle, which is how Beatrice knows it’s real. “They were similar that way, I think. Are,” she corrects quickly, but Beatrice doesn’t flinch at the past tense tonight.

Jillian keeps the present for Beatrice, a kindness she can no longer provide to herself—they had both seen the remnants of Michael’s body on that floor—and Beatrice is grateful, but she also understands the slip. Understands it more and more with each hour.

“Ava had a map. I have it now.” Tucked in her closet, something they’d brought from Switzerland. A fold-out map meant for primary school students that they’d found mixed into a bucket of postcards at the thrift shop Ava loved. “She put stickers everywhere she wanted to go. Different shapes and colors based on where each place was on her list. The whole thing was covered.”

Jillian’s lips pull up at one corner, and they ease back into quiet, Beatrice caught in memories of big brown eyes watching the countryside on a train ride, a red swimsuit, gasps and clapping hands at the farmer’s market. Ava, alive and so eager to stay that way.

She lets her eyes focus on the creased spines of Pirates Past Noon and Dingoes at Dinnertime, High Tide in Hawaii, thinks of gold stars and blue triangles on a brightly colored map.

She weighs the question, lands on yes, with a qualifier. “Please feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

Jillian turns her body fully toward Beatrice, resting her glass on a bent knee and raising an eyebrow.

“Alright. I will.”

Beatrice puts her glass on the table, pulls socked feet onto the sofa and wraps her arms around her knees. “Do you ever regret it? Letting them go, I mean.”

Jillian finishes her whisky in one long pull, sits the glass next to Beatrice’s.

“Every day.”

Later, after they leave their empty tumblers on the table by the door, Jillian goes to the shelf and pulls Dinosaurs before Dark, rests her palm on the cover for a moment before tucking it under her arm.

In her own room, Beatrice fumbles through her closet to find the box she hasn’t been able to open yet. She still doesn’t, not really, takes a deep breath and lets her eyes slide over the contents without processing them until she sees what she wants.

She spreads the map across her bed, straightening corners, and looks at the key Ava made in the bottom left, the hierarchy of colors and shapes. By the time she goes to bed an hour later, she has a list, a few possible first stops. She dreams of Ava and of places she’s never been.

#warrior nun #sister beatrice #jillian salvius #avatrice #wn prompt fic

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fixomnia-scribble · 7 months ago

Text

For @smittywing! Since we're sharing unpublished Criminal Minds snippets, here are Prentiss and Morgan, in December Season 7, getting gently toasted and trying to reconcile their friendship with Emily's undercover past. Derek interrogates, Emily rambles, Clooney snores in the corner.

December 18, 2011

They were drinking again, looking out over a slushy December night in Virginia. Morgan's place, because while Sergio was content with his box, Clooney couldn't wait. They’d taken Clue for a chilly walk, letting the dog amble at will and set the pace, while Emily told him stories about the haute doggy culture of Paris. And then, back home, Morgan had spun the cap off a half bottle of scotch and tossed it somewhere behind a desk.

“Sergio can hang tight until morning,” Morgan reminded her. In case she needed to talk and drink all night, and crash somewhere she didn’t have to keep one eye open.

"Nah, I do have to get home sometime tonight," Emily said. Lightly glowing on her second dose of two and a half fingers in a comfortably heavy glass tumbler, she stretched her toes for the mohair blanket over the arm of the couch, and pulled it towards her. "And I need to spend time with my boy. Garcia's stolen his fickle feline heart away. But this is good for now. Really good. Thanks."

She rubbed a careful palm over the top of her chest, under cover of tugging the blanket up over herself.

"You've been scratching again." Morgan told her, from his easy chair near the window. He’d never ask her to sit with her back to a window or a room, ever.

"I know I've been scratching again."

The brand was worse than the surgery site below. At least she could be careful, and scratch delicately around the tender skin, while she was awake. Even if she managed to resist the subcutaneous phantom itch of burned nerves, during the day, she still woke up some mornings with blood smears on her sheets and under her nails, and another patch of angry new scab. So much for proper aftercare. But then, getting branded on her poor left boob was hardly a body mod she would have chosen.

"Anyone touches you here, you'll think of me," he'd said, calmly and coldly, as her flesh smoldered under the iron's tip. He wasn't doing this for enjoyment. This was a means to an end. She was only a safe to be cracked. Until she cracked him, instead.

That's when he saw her clearly again, and set about killing her.

"You could get it fixed, you know, Em. Plastic surgery." Morgan reminded her.

"It would probably hurt more. Plus, I'd lose more sensation and a patch of skin from somewhere else. I think I'm going to let it stay. Bastard did a decent job, all things considered. Maybe I'll get it tattooed, make it my own. Think that'd be hot?"

"Tough girl." he returned, unfooled.

"It's mostly bullshit." she admitted. "You didn't see what a mess I was in Paris, when I had nothing to do but think and drink. But my past is part of me. I don't want to pretend anymore about who I was. Scars and all."

"You never had to."

"Yeah, I did. You would, too, if you'd been doing that kind of work. Derek, I was in deep cover. International covert ops cover. The kind you're never supposed to admit, even fifty years later. Trust - " she shook her head and lifted her scotch for a sip. "Trusting you had nothing to do with it. I trust you with my life. You held my life in your hands and wouldn't let go. I would do the same for you. God forbid it happen, but I would. But I couldn't speak about it. I still can't tell you everything we got done, how many conflicts we prevented before they had a chance to flare up. Even if it might help you understand..."

She heard Morgan sigh, and shake his head, leaning over his scotch. He was trying hard. Which spoke volumes about the respect that had grown between them in the relatively short time they'd known each other, and how deeply he'd let her into his guarded inner circle.

Of them all, Morgan and Reid were having the hardest time adjusting to her reappearance, she knew. Morgan, because he so rarely gave his trust, and Reid, because he trusted too easily. Reid was alarmed and confused and ashamed of his reactions to the whole bleak scenario. Her death, having to admit and learn to navigate his overwhelming grief, and now her reappearance. Of all the team, Reid was the one who needed to know he had some bedrock under his feet, in order to function in the world.

She'd try to get through to Reid soon. Probably somewhere in the open, where he could get up and walk away if he needed to, and not feel trapped or obligated to talk. Soon. Tonight was about mending fences with Morgan.

"Did Hotch know?" he asked, refilling his scotch. "There must've been some gaps in your resume."

"He knew I was undercover with the CIA, and he confirmed the dates I gave him with the Agency. He never probed farther than that." She managed a smile. "He did ask me how many languages I spoke. When I asked him if he meant idiomatically, academically, or just enough to cuss someone out, he shut me up."

"I guess being your mama's daughter had some uses after all."

"Yup." she raised her eyebrows and blew out a breath. "But you know - the more I think about it, the more I think Lauren kicked ass, and I don't mind remembering her. She stopped a terrorist from engaging in more than a few major raids, and made him think it was his decision. She never once broke cover. She kept a little boy from harm in the middle of hell, and put him in a safe place. And Dec…Derek, even in that insane world, Declan trusted us. We all kept him so safe, and gave him so much love, that it never occurred to him not to trust us. He let me..."

A small tremor started in her hands, and she set her glass on the coffee table before rolling onto her side, and tucking herself deeper under the blanket.

"He was only four, and he trusted me so much that he let me hold a gun to his head and spray pig blood all over his face and hair. All I told him was that we had to pretend he'd been in an accident, so that a really mean man wouldn't try to hurt him or his father. I told him it was like making a scary Hallowee'en movie to scare the man off. Louise was too frightened to say a word. I think she wondered if I was going to kill them both, no matter what I said."

The tremor set in deeper, creeping up her arms and through her middle, and she pulle up her knees and crossed her arms and pinned her hands in her armpits to stop it.

Morgan did not miss this. He didn’t comment upon it. "I think I just got something I needed to get," he said, leaning forward. "Prentiss, I'll tell you straight up, I was pretty shocked. Not that you'd been working at that level, but where you let it take you. Not just into Doyle's business, but - "

"Into his bed." she said flatly.

"See, I know you. I know you'll use whatever you can to fight a good fight, but I couldn't wrap my head around that part till now. It was Declan that kept you there. Not Doyle. Not really."

"It was Declan that kept me there," she agreed. "It's not a pretty business, my friend. You get that Lauren was an arms dealer too, right? That was my in. I didn't expect him to...to offer me so much access. He wasn't psychotic. He was obsessive, hypervigilant and manipulative, but he treated the people close to him like royalty. So yeah, you can say I fucked Doyle to get into his sentimental little heart, after I got into his head. I did that. I'm hardly the first to use sex, and I won't be the last, and I saved a lot of lives by putting myself there. And it wasn't all a lie. He really treated me very well. Does that make me a whore? Or just a damn good agent? Honest to God, I don't know. I could sure as hell name my price with him. Anything I asked for. He tried to give us a good life. But yeah, if there hadn't been Declan, I don't know how much longer I'd have stayed. I'd have had to fake my death sooner or later. Ian would never, ever have let me go. But with Declan there, I was almost his...Well. He thought I was…he was so little, it only made sense to him. How would he know anything else? But there wasn't much I wouldn't have done for him. So I stayed. Most days I just lived and breathed it all in. And occasionally reported in to my operator while I was supposed to be having my hair and nails done."

"My point is," Morgan said, slowly, "It's the mom-thing you got inside you. I've seen you go there. One of your babies is in danger, you turn mama-bear and get all eaten up inside until you know they're safe. That Kira. Honest to God, I think if her aunt hadn't been found, you really would have taken her in, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, like you and Ellie? You even had the paperwork ready to bring her across the country. I saw it. Cross-jurisdictional guardianship application, signed and witnessed. And I know she still e-mails you." Emily smiled at him, a little wet about the eyes. “That mattered, you know. Ellie knew you were fighting for her. That mattered, even if she found her home.”

"I do know. That's why I get it. I gotta be honest, I've been wrestling with the whole undercover sex thing, but you're right, it happens. I know it does. But hearing you talk about that kid - maybe it's just a handle I can wrap my head around, but I get it a little better."

"It wasn't any kind of Stockholm syndrome, you know." she cautioned him. "That’s a made-up bullshit thing some shrink came up with to get interviews. I knew what I was doing."

"Yeah, but didn’t it..." he paused. "Em, didn’t it wear on your soul? Or was it really just the job?"

"Fuck, yeah, it did. But maybe less than I'd like to admit. Women have been using sex as a power tool since the very beginning." She held his gaze. “It was a game I was trained to win and I won, Derek. D’you get that?”

“Except it wasn’t a game, and you lost nearly everything. And we lost you.”

“That’s also true. And I’m sorry for that part. Again.”

"I guess I've spent my career trying to protect women from being used like that, so it's...I just never knew anyone who...you know, worked at that level."

"High class all the way, baby." She raised her glass in a mirthless toast. Morgan didn't smile. She shook her head and tried again. "I'm sorry if it changes your opinion of me," she said. "But sometimes that's how the world is. If I hadn't consented freely and knowingly to be what Doyle wanted, he'd still be alive, there would be well-armed conflicts in parts of the world you don't even want to think about getting hot, and Declan would be training to be his successor."

"He is a pretty great kid." Morgan admitted, after a moment.

"And I hope he stays that way. At least now he has a chance."

"Tell me about Declan. From the beginning."

So she did.

#criminal minds #emily prentiss #derek morgan #lauren reynolds

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storms-path · 3 months ago

Text

FFXIV Write 2024: Day 24 - Bar

In another time and another place, another woman so similar to the Warrior of Light, but so very different, is sizing up a newcomer at her favourite watering hole.

Storm had seen her fair share of folks make their way through Hhusatawhi in her tenure as sheriff. The railway’s construction had brought a lot of would-be tourists her way, and while most of ‘em had come and gone without issue, there were some that thought to take whatever they felt like on their way out. Or get a little too drunk on the local moonshine and start a fight. Or get to thinking one of the locals would appreciate getting stolen away in the night.

This one was different. She held herself with an unusual grace, kept a wary eye on the people around her, and carried a gun large enough to make damn near anyone think twice about crossing her. She was also taller than some of the larger ‘tenders, overshadowing even the gruff Xbra’al who was at this very minute pouring her some of his top shelf swill. And she can hold her liquor, too. Storm couldn’t deny she was intrigued. Professionally, of course. Besides, she’d just been relieved by the deputy. She could afford a moment to chin-wag with a tourist.

Her heavy boots gave her away, but Storm wasn’t interested in stealth. Experience (and a chipped horn) had taught her not to sneak up on an armed woman. Thunder had been apologetic for weeks. Mom took one look at my horn and laughed her ass off. “Pour me a shot of that, before you go straining your back putting it back up there,” Storm said as she slid into a stool near the newcomer.

Dim though the bar was, she was still able to get a better look at the mysterious visitor than she had at the doorway. Marble-pale skin, eyes of jade, hair purpler than even Storm could claim, and a nose that was damn-near vertical. But it was the lips that caught Storm’s eye. The way they twisted into a slight, almost imperceptible smile when Storm took a seat near her. The way they glistened from the glass of alcohol that had recently passed between them. The way they-

Storm definitely didn’t flinch when the dusty tumbler was slammed onto the swill-soaked wood in front of her. “Try not to make a fool of yourself this time,” muttered the bartender as he took Storm’s hard-earned coin from her. Storm scowled at his back as he turned to put back the bottle.

“Go jump on a rusty nail, Stannik,” she muttered under her breath. Not quietly enough, apparently, because the newcomer chuckled softly and raised her glass in Storm’s direction. Storm hastily raised hers in response, hoping the darkness of the bar hid her blush. Not now, dammit! You’re here to scout her out, not invite her to bed! She should have called in Thunder. She would have, if her fool sister hadn’t vanished into the desert a few days back. She’d be back when it suited her, but it didn’t stop her family from worrying about her all the same.

“Stannik,” murmured the enigmatic woman. Her voice was softer than Storm expected, with a strange accent too. A mixture of Yok Tural and something else buried beneath. It was, as far as Storm was concerned, deeply unfair that she could get any more attractive. “That’s a Bozjan name, is it not?”

That caught mean ol’ Stannik’s ears. “You know of my homeland?” he asked? Storm had never heard him so gentle. The newcomer nodded.

“We get a lot of travellers in Tuliyollal,” she replied. “Had a pair roll through their lately with our new Dawnservant. One of them swore she’d had a hand in liberating it.” The newcomer smiled again, taking a swig of her drink. “Though to hear her companion tell it, they were simply the tip of the spear.”

Storm couldn’t believe it. Was Stannik, the brick wall of Hhusatawhi… crying? “Shit,” he managed between tears as he roughly wiped them away with a furry arm. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in years. Tell you what, you get another shot of that on the house.” He turned to face Storm, eyes full of murder. “Not a word of this to anyone else, sheriff.” There were few people in town Storm could honestly say scared her, but Stannik was one of ‘em. Though that was only because he’d been around long enough to see her and her sister before they’d even grown their scales and tails. More than once he’d spoiled her chances by spilling some childhood secret of hers to a pretty lady.

Storm nodded mutely, which was just barely good enough for Stannik. He turned back to his bottles. Storm gave the old man a fond smile behind his back. He’d been the first to endorse her as sheriff, and the first to offer his assistance with the abductions of last summer. Rumour had it he’d even given her parents a stay under his own roof until they found their feet, though neither he nor the senior Eagles would admit to it. Still, he was a good sort. A solid sort.

The scraping of glass across wood caught Storm’s attention. The newcomer had slipped into the seat next to her with a sly smile. Bold, this one. Watch yourself. “Sheriff, huh?” the woman said with a smile. “Guess I’d better watch myself around you.” Her smile was disarming, and infectious too.

“Ha. Just don’t go causing trouble ‘round these parts and you’ll have no trouble from me.” Storm raised her glass again. “Name’s Storm. Pleasure to meet ya.”

The woman raised her glass in turn, clinking it dully against the other. “Gem,” she replied. “Singing Gem.”

Storm had no idea what she was in for, as she had what turned into a very pleasant conversation with Singing Gem. If she had, she’d have turned tail and run right there and then. Or clapped the lawless Gem in irons. But she didn’t have the slightest clue. She didn’t even feel the jaws of fate snap tight around the pair, sealing their futures in blood.

But that is another place, and another time, and this glimpse into her grim fate is just that; a glance. And besides, Storm Eagle is no stranger to rewriting her own fate...

#ff14 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2024 #arashi washi #syngigeim usynlonwyn #behold: an AU!#also behold: my wife getting her prompt finished before mine #but joke's on her because i'm still publishing mine first #anyway welcome to an idea that may or may not become its own thing down the line #tentatively calling it the “Sunsets and Storms” au #but with the reservation to change it whenever i damn well please

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wives-natlho · 1 year ago

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Whiskey

CW: Sapphic PDA, trauma, alcoholism, verbal abuse

She watches the glass closely. It is lifted off the table gently. The ice cubes clank around, creating that unique, unmistakable sound. The amber liquid finds its way into the barely parted lips of the Sea Wolf woman sitting across from her. The thunk of the glass back onto the wood table awakens Jaye from her trance and she is snapped back into reality.

This time it's worse. Why is it worse? She can't figure it out. Coco's voice calms the rising tide of panic welling within Jaye's chest.

"Hey…"

Jaye looks up and locks eyes with Coco. She inhales through her nose and holds the breath, then exhales and smiles. She decides it’s time to say something.

"Whats wrong?" Implores the worried Roegadyn.

"Did I ever tell you my dad used to drink whiskey?" The honesty behind Jaye’s smile fades, but the smile itself otherwise remains on her face.

A lot of things suddenly make sense to Coco about Jaye’s behavior around alcohol. Her expression drops into one of deep shame and regret. "Oh gods… you should have said something sooner!" She reaches up to grab the drink and push it aside. She is stopped as Jaye places her hand on top of the glass.

"No, don't… I need to work through this." She leaves her hand on top of her partner's. "Can I talk to you about it? I don't need solutions quite yet… Just to talk it through."

Coco nods, and after a moment turns her hand upwards to lock fingers with Jaye. "Yeah. Take your time."

"Okay… Let me go through this. It's been a while so I'm gonna have to remember in pieces." Jaye closes her eyes and thinks for a moment and then begins recounting her past. "I would be comfortable, relaxing, and then it would start. The first sound was the glass against the countertop. A single thud."

Her heart rate begins to increase as the memories return. Coco grips her hand.

"Next was the ice cubes. Always two. 'clink, clink'." Her breathing increases. Coco wants to say something but simply squeezes the hand tighter. "Then the pouring. The whiskey hit the glass and the ice started to crack. It was faint but I could always hear it, somehow…"

Her eyes open and she stares at the tumbler of spirits on the table between the two. She watches the glass sweat, and she begins to perspire as well. Coco watches her closely, ready to help if needed. Jaye's eyes raise to meet her girlfriend’s. Coco’s eyes are calm. They are worried, but comforting. They carry peace with them, and they accept Jaye in every form, pain included.

"He would sit in a big chair and drink while he read his reports. The reports always made him mad." Jaye's eyes remain locked with Coco's, dancing back and forth between each iris, the pace steady, unsure if the panic attack is gone or not. "But…"

Jaye squeezed back at Coco's hand. "He never hit me. He never touched me. He wouldn't even get close to me. He'd scream and yell and throw things, but he never came near me." She looks up at the silent Sea Wolf and says, "I always wanted someone to comfort me, to hold me. Someone who would tell me I'm not alone. Someone close."

She closes her eyes and thinks of Athena, of the Savoury, and of her newfound home in Eorzea. She takes a deep breath in, holds it for a few seconds, and opens her eyes. The breath out brings with it a newfound comfort and relief, and is accompanied by the image of Coco in front of her. The flow of air blows the hair into and out of her face. The sunlight reflects off her glossy lips. Jaye decides it's time to make a new association.

She stands up and leans forward, across the small table. She takes her open hand, the one not currently interlaced with Roegadyn fingers, and brings it to Coco's cheek. She lifts up her partner's face and can tell the girl is obviously confused. Coco had been told earlier to just "be still and go with it" when Jaye is panicking. She takes that instruction to heart now.

Jaye leans all the way across the table and brings her own lips to those of Coco. The smell of the whiskey on her partner's breath hits her nose. She takes a moment to breathe in, and for the first time enjoys the smell of alcohol. The lips touch next. Jaye tastes the whiskey, and somehow doesn't recoil. She runs her tongue across, and inside, and tastes it even more. Coco begins to worry that this is happening in public and stiffens up a bit.

Jaye stops and smiles. Her freckles begin to hide, one by one in the rising red tide of embarrassment that visits her cheeks. She looks around at the other patrons in the Missing Member. It's a small venue, filled with women. There are many spectators. Her face grows redder.

Hands still interlocked, she gets up and rushes out the door, pulling Coco along. The taller woman has just enough time to leave a handful of gil on the table for their tab before being tugged along behind the blushed Viera. Uncouth tavern-goers begin to whistle and applaud as the curtain draws on the unexpected public display.

Jaye doesn't stop until the couple is by the water's edge, on one of the city's lower docks. She finally turns, still red in the face, and addresses Coco once more. "So it turns out I don't mind if you drink whiskey. Just… Bear with me if I need a reminder of why it's okay." The embarrassment doesn't prevent her from smiling, but does prevent eye contact.

Coco responds, "Not a problem. I don't mind this kind of therapy", as she moves in closer to continue the treatment.

#ffxiv #ffxiv roleplay #ff14 #ffxiv oc #final fantasy 14 #prose #sapphic #oc fic #oc fiction #spicy #ffxiv fic #creative writing #writing #fanfiction #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv fanfiction #Jaye Devale #Coco Natlho

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sseanettles · 3 months ago

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nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 8: the vigil, pt. 1 | 3.3 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where Gadling summons Death for a..."friendly" chat.)

In the dark, Hob poured himself a drink. Downed it. Poured another.

It was an old scotch that flowed from an old, dust-stained bottle as Richmond slumbered beyond the frosted window, blanketed in winter’s silence. And as he raised the fiery amber to his lips, he spoke an old, old language naught heard in centuries, spoken now only by himself and the dead.

“I know you can hear me,” he said and rooted himself in the burn as he swallowed. “Show yourself.”

There came the sound of wings and then eerie stillness.

“Hello, Hob.” A pause. “I like the new beard.”

Hob was about to start throwing dinnerware again.

“You like the—that’s what you have to say to me?! After everything?” The silhouette in the once-empty window met his ire easily as he rose from the chair beside Morpheus’ bed, still covered in the man’s blood and filth. His glass tumbler struck the coffee table like a judge’s gavel. “Explain. Now.”

The shadow followed his pointing, rock-steady hand to the sofa bed, and quiet reigned, save for the thud of Death’s boots as she passed from the snow-blurred glow of the streetlights into the room’s undisturbed dark.

Hob watched her come and tried not to break out in a cold sweat.

“What I said the last time we met was true,” she said and tilted her head to make out details of her once-brother’s face in the night as she neared. “The wake, the funeral—it was all real.” She met Hob’s eyes once more as she stopped an arm’s length away. He barely stifled the urge to step back. She seemed so much denser, so much sharper, so much colder than she had at the Faire.

She looked like her brother once had.

“The Dream of the Endless you knew is dead,” she promised and indicated the person buried beneath blankets, clothes, and ice packs. “That…is his second chance.”

She made to quietly pass Hob, to take a closer look at the bed herself, only to stumble back with a startled grunt as Hob’s palm slammed into her shoulder and shoved her away.

“Second chance?!” he seethed. His hand had gone numb, fading fast all up his arm, and he put it out of his mind like a deer staring down headlights. “You lot call that a second chance?!”

Death glared. When she stepped forward again, this time bearing down on Hob, he met her as she came.

“Do not raise your voice with me, Robert Gadling,” she warned.

“Oh no.” Hob shook his head; his lip curled in disdain. Stupid. Arrogant. Hiding his terror behind ill-earned belligerence as he always had, asking for it as he always had. “You get no goodwill from me this night.”

He was taller than Death. Broader than Death. Here, now, standing toe to toe with her, he was looking down into her face. His hand could encircle her wrist easily, though she clearly sported muscles of her own. She’d put up a fight, but victory would, in the end, be his. He had killed with his own hands before people of her size. It was easy, she…

…she with those bottomless eyes lined with black and with shadows that spread behind her like breathing lungs or wings shifting in wait.

How could he be so much smaller than something in this shape?

He gritted his teeth. His fingers ground against one another in their pale-knuckled fists; his thundering heart and the thirst for fight it carried on every beat sang in his ears.

Gwen was in the bedroom. Gwen was in the bedroom.

He had to stop. Now, while he still could.

“What did you do to him?” he ground out.

Death side-stepped him with deliberate care and held their eye contact as long as possible until she passed him by entirely in favor of Morpheus—just to make it abundantly clear to the man that she could do as she wished and there was nothing Gadling could do about it.

“We gave him life,” she answered. “Free from function, from obligation, from the family.” Her once-brother shivered and wheezed on the makeshift bed. Her lips pressed into a fine, grim line. “We gave him the freedom to write his own story, like he always wanted.” She shook her head, and her final words tasted as bitter as they sounded. “He chose this.”

“I don’t believe you,” Hob returned, closing the space between them again. “No one chooses this, I didn’t choose this—”

Death laughed, cold and sepulchral, and touched a hand to her forehead as her mouth twisted into a torn sort of smile. “My brother is not you, Hob.”

His jaw clicked shut. Death’s hand passed from the plane of her brow deep into her hair, and she sniffed a couple times as she fussed with her curls.

“We gave him what he truly wanted. He,” she pointed to Morpheus, “decided to wallow in his pride rather than face what was given to him. To take the easy way out, again. To give up.” Her eyes glittered. Hob found it hard just to swallow past the lump in his throat; to look at his friend would have been impossible. “He doesn’t get to do that, not anymore. Not after Nada, not after Orpheus, not after Hope, not after the Halls.”

Those names were not his to know, Hob knew. Not like this.

He memorized them all the same, filing each away in that part of him that collected things he would have been better off forgetting. Things like Lord Morpheus. Dream of the Endless. Oneiros. The King of Dreams and Nightmares. The King of Cats, too, apparently. Every honorific, every title spoken at that funeral now festered in his mind, and these new names joined them in that lockbox of contraband knowledge.

He wrenched his attention to his Stranger’s tortured form as Death recovered her usual self, from that vague smile to that even, lecturing-big-sister tone of hers to boot.

“I gave him your gift. Nothing more, nothing less,” she explained. “He chose to do this with it. And I’ll not let him shirk the lesson.”

The living corpse slumbered fitfully on, none the wiser to the conversation of comparable gods above him. Hob’s gut turned with that same, sickening twist, that hot poker of guilt and disquiet that severed and seared even as it drove deeper within him.

But I asked for the gift.

��You brought him back without his consent—”

“I did it with his consent.”

“The new him doesn’t count,” Hob hissed.

Death was unmoved. She regarded him with something close to chastising pity in her shadowed face.

“There’s no new and old, Hob,” she chided, no less firm for the kindness of her correction. “They’re one and the same—a semicolon in an ongoing sentence.”

If that’s so, how’s there two of them? Hob wanted to bite back. His teeth cut into the edge of his tongue instead, his jaw tightening and grinding in spasms of muscle and bone.

“Well,” he managed after a time, as frosted as the windowpanes. “Seems he’s changed his mind.”

“He hasn’t even stopped to consider what this is,” she returned, and Hob recognized the stance she was adopting from his students as they prepared to dig in on a point—that plant of the feet, the shift of the weight, the square of the shoulders as the hands came up to emphasize the voice. “I know I’m preaching to the choir on this, but life sucks sometimes. We fuck up, and we hurt people, and we do the unspeakable.”

God’s wounds, but her eyes were black holes, drawing him in and consuming all until there was nothing but this moment, her words, and the space between them. Morpheus was forgotten; Gwen was no more. There was only them and the truth only they knew.

“But we don’t get to just wipe our hands of it all and walk away from the consequences. I left him with the Prodigal, you know? I figured if anyone could help him through this, it’d be the one of the family who walked away from it all to live his own life. Morpheus,” she indicated her once-brother, pulling him into the vortex of an existence that was this argument, “refused him. So, then the Prodigal left him in Richmond Green. Near the New Inn.” She paused, just to ensure the words were sinking into the man’s thick skull opposite her. “Near you.”

Hob swallowed. His eyes burned; he dared not blink and blamed it on the hearth’s smoke.

“He…chose…this.”

This. Starving, freezing, burning. Wasting away under elements as uncaring as gravity and the turn of the Earth. Dying endlessly of a thirst easily slaked. Drilling his bones through his own skin from within not because movement was prohibited but because he couldn’t be bothered to move, raising a Petrie dish of infection and disease within his veins and lungs like devoted husbandry when all he had to do was go to a pub he’d been to before and ask after Gadling…

He chose this.

Hob’s iron will, that righteous, self-important indignation worthy of the stained-glass portraits high upon the walls of cathedrals, guttered like a candle.

Death watched the shift in him with exhausted eyes that assured him she knew his grief well, consoled him that his sudden uncertainty and distress was well-trod territory.

“You called my brother a coward, once.” The wind howled against the glass. Hob’s hand curled at his side. His fingers dug in on themselves, his grip tightening on the invisible, as he watched Morpheus burn from the inside out in self-immolation. The blizzard deepened. “You were more right than you knew.”

Hm, Hob Gadling said as he still refused to blink and focused oh so carefully on breathing.

For some time, hm was all there was to say. All the while, Death waited, patient in the dark.

“Will you ever take your gift back from him?” Hob eventually asked.

Death’s hands clasped, held loosely together at her lap by laced, black-nailed fingertips.

“If he learns the lesson and still wants to end, then yes,” she answered, “I will take it back. But no sooner.”

Hob took in the sunken cheeks, the skeletal eyes, counted the ribs he could see beneath the ice packs and the shuddering, rapid-fire breaths that stretched the skin between each fragile bone. He counted every jut, every hollow, mapped out the overwrought existence that should not be that currently suffered in his home. Death followed his attention and nodded to herself, glancing to her feet.

“Tell my little brother it’s time to quit the tantrum and get to work.”

Hob listened to her footfalls as they drew slowly away and bit his cheek in a flash of copper.

“Your whole family’s fucked.”

Death stopped. She stared at the window ahead as the worst snowstorm Richmond-upon-Thames had seen in a century raged frigidly on. She counted the flurries and the hands her various aspects reached for amid its cold: the forgotten, the unlucky, the despised…the ones who had burned one too many bridges as they fell so spectacularly between the cracks of the world and now paid the highest price it could demand.

“Why do you think we all eventually leave?” she returned in a soft voice that was impossible to read. “But I’m the big sister.” Death met Robert Gadling’s eyes over her shoulder, her face a back-lit shadow haloed by the streetlight’s glow as it refracted upon a million flakes of ice, softened by her hair’s concealing volume.

Her breath spilled in a fog from her lips, like a phantom’s sigh.

“I always leave last.”

And there came a pulse of a moment, a pause between the breaths, a skip in-between the beating of his heart’s chambers, when Hob saw in the entity before him something so frighteningly common—a single slip in the mask that stripped away the inconceivable and left only the human.

He saw the eldest girl in a set of nightmarish children without parents, a daughter struggling to stand at the head of a dysfunctional family that sought to cannibalize itself in the name of reputation and entitled duty, trying with the purest of intentions to fill the role of mother while needing one herself. He saw a child abandoned, a smile that hid a loneliness, a gentle hand that was self-serving in its kindness because it learned early on there was no love to come from inside its ghastly home. Tough love, manipulative, cruel love, had been the only kindness within those walls, the only language spoken by its siblings for it was the only language spoken by the parents. And try though she might have to bring the love of the outside world to those inside, to this day that callousness remained the only understood tongue among those abandoned, damned children.

And Hob understood.

Horribly, he understood.

“I do sincerely wish him the best,” she whispered. “He…” She chewed her lip, lingering for a final time upon the blankets and ice packs. “He was always my favorite. Good luck, Hob Gadling. We’ll meet again.”

There came a rush of wings and a sudden shadow as something outside passed before the streetlamp, and Hob Gadling let out a shuddering, long-held breath as the light returned and he found himself alone. He sagged forward to plant his hands on his own knees with a groan and gulped down air as if he’d just run a marathon. His body trembled; a cold sweat broke upon every inch of skin, and his spine both crawled and numbed, the bewildering clash of sensations spreading along his nerves like a freezing fire.

“Gwen,” he called—gasped? Whispered? He couldn’t be sure. His ears rang. “We’re clear.”

The bedroom door creaked open at a glacial pace, and Hob glanced at it as he straightened up, swiping a hand through his sweaty hair and trying to school his racing heart back to calm.

Gwen peered about the living room, her high school baseball bat clenched in her hands and cocked at the ready.

Hob blinked. And a slow, delighted grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Were you planning to hit her? With that?”

Gwen eyed her bat and faltered as she crossed the threshold, torn between maintaining her defense and recognizing the ridiculous futility of it all.

“I…um.”

Hob laughed, low and long and smiling all the while, and went to meet her.

“God, I love you,” he grinned and reached for her mighty weapon.

She rolled her eyes and let him grab the bat with one hand while the other went to her hip.

“Shut up,” she huffed.

He kissed her deeply, pulling her close by the small of her back, and then marveled at the bat in his grasp.

“Planning to clobber her of all things with a bat—”

“I said shut up!” She snatched it back, swatting him in the gut with it, and he laughed as he fumbled playfully for the length of wood until she relented.

His grin softened to a quiet, sincere smile that in time eroded away to exhaustion.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” she smiled in much the same way and gave him another softer, more fleeting kiss. “This is just the start, y’know?”

He sighed and drew her along into the living room with an arm around her waist and the bat hanging at his side.

“I know.”

“Should we take shifts watching over him?”

“Nah, love.” Hob pressed one last kiss to her temple and handed the bat back to her as they arrived at Morpheus’ bed. “He doesn’t know you, and I suspect a strange face in the middle of the night would go poorly for you both right now.”

She caught his chin as he moved to sit at his Stranger’s side, and Hob stilled as he allowed her to turn his head gingerly to and fro, examining the wounds their feral houseguest had dealt him in the tub.

“You’re already scabbing over,” she murmured. Her thumb swept over the deepest scratches, and only the barest twinge of pain registered along his weathered skin. Gwen sighed, and Hob almost leaned after her hand as her touch fell from him. “Here’s hoping he heals as fast as you.”

“Yeah…here’s hoping.” He squeezed her hand and tipped his head toward their room. “Go shower and get to bed, love. I’ve got this.”

She squeezed back and pulled away, Robbie’s touch drawing out as long as possible as his fingers caught along hers all the while.

“Don’t forget to call off work on Monday,” she warned as she retired. “Probably the whole week, if we’re being honest.”

Something clunked behind Hob’s harried eyes, something in that overwrought brain of his grinding and breaking altogether.

“Shit,” he blurted. “Final exams.” Gwen sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “They’re on Wednesday, and I haven’t got a TA—”

“Robbie.” She held up her hands to stem the flood of frantic words about to pour from his mouth as the remembrance of the rest of the world and his fragile existence within it collapsed atop his head. “We’ll handle it. Just…” She gestured helplessly to their living room, “buy what time you can.”

“Yeah.” He ran his hands through his hair again and grounded himself in the spikes of pain where he passed over the wounds from Morpheus’ nails. “Thanks.” She headed for the bathroom, and he called softly after her. “Gwen!”

She paused and turned back to him.

“I love you,” he said.

His chest ached with the depth of it. His eyes shone. Gwen smiled back, tender and soft.

“I know. Love you, too.”

The door clicked shut after her, the water began to run, and only the Immortal and his Stranger remained. Hob fetched the rejected bowl of soup from the kitchen island, forgoing a new spoon in favor of a couple more chunks of bread as any self-respecting soup-enjoyer knew to do and settled into the armchair beside his friend. He pulled one of the throw blankets from the basket between them over his legs and drew his socked feet up onto the thick upholstery. And as he finally allowed his body to relax, his aching muscles slowly losing their tension and his frayed nerves finally hitting the wall to collapse in bits on the floor, he poked at his meal.

It had since gone cold, but it was a puréed thing that Hob knew from centuries of experience would taste just fine either way. As he dipped the bread into the soup and brought it to his lips, he hesitated. He looked to Morpheus, to the shock of dark hair and the increasingly restful face that peaked from beneath it, replaying in his mind his earlier, abysmal effort to feed the man. He recalled touching the bread to those fragile, split lips, that very bit of bread that he now held at the ready before his own mouth.

He recalled dreams from centuries past…natural things, hungry things that had filled his darkest nights and kept him company through those loneliest hours.

He touched to his mouth that which had touched his, bit down, and did not look away.

He’d been right. The soup was just as good cold.

He made quick work of the rest of it before setting the emptied bowl aside on the table and shifted again in the armchair, pillowing his head on the backrest and his own arm until he was half-curled, half-draped in the chair with a clear view of his unconscious companion. The hearth continued to crackle and burn at his back, casting the room with shadows and soul-warming oranges and golden-yellows. And he allowed sleep to tug at him like an insistent child, lulling him into darkness. His Friend, his Stranger, was alive.

He was safe.

There was nothing more to do tonight than allow what came next to pass.

Lulling turned to drifting turned to plummeting like a stone, and Hob Gadling succumbed to the call of dreams.

#i am back from the hospital and have time to post again :/#nothing grows in corpses #fanfic #dreamling #fic #dreamling fanfic #dreamling fic #the sandman netflix

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imdoingwhateverisnext · 2 years ago

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Wine Glasses (mild crudeness warning)

I used to drink wine regularly and I just loved the glasses. I loved the little charms I could buy to differentiate the glasses from each other. I loved the way they looked, the way they felt to hold, the way I felt when I was holding them, I loved pretty much everything about them aesthetically. Functionality, well that is something else altogether.

I used to aspire to become a wine snob who had wine and cheese parties and gathered with like-minded intelligent people. We would discuss the mysteries of the universe and debate topics of the day, music, authors, history, and anything else thought provoking and worth talking about. Then I had 3 kids. I really took a shit on that dream with my then new reality.

The beginning of my disillusionment with wine glasses actually started when my oldest son Landon was around 11 months old. Wine glasses are breakable; pretty easily breakable as it turns out. They are top heavy, and dainty around the load bearing structure just above the base. It barely takes any effort at all to knock one over. A toddler nearby, well that is a disaster waiting to happen. When I cut my big toe breaking a glass, I had had enough. By the time my daughter was born, I was off wine glasses nearly completely. They had been replaced with the short wider whiskey glasses or plastic tumblers. I had even been known at times to use red solo cups to drink Merlot (don't judge me).

It seems counterproductive to me to make such a glass to hold a substance that will inevitably decrease my coordination to some degree. Wine glasses should look like those inflatable hamster balls that people run in, and should collapse as I drink it like a box of wine bag would. No mishaps, no breakage. Aesthetically not as pleasing, I will admit. I prefer functionality over aesthetics for a home with 3 kids in it.

Now that my nest is becoming more empty, I have wondered if I would ever go back to wine glasses. I have had better luck with tea cups, coffee mugs, whiskey glasses, plastic tumblers, and red solo cups.

I own two wine glasses currently. They are both red wine glasses, top heavy and tall. I only use them once every couple of years now. I occasionally take them out of the cabinet to dust them and put them back. Which is kind of pointless really, now that I think about it.

*Side note: You don't know happiness and laughter until you walk into a sliding glass door holding a red solo cup full of Merlot. The cup folds and splits itself and expels it's contents straight into the air and into the chest of the person carrying said cup. If that person happens to be wearing a white shirt, even better! "That door was really clean. Damn near invisible!" It was many years ago, and when it happened, no one saw it, but I felt it and lived through it. It was epic. It is the only mishap I have ever had in which I wish someone would have been filming it and I could re-watch it again in slow motion over and over. I bet it would have been hilarious to have seen. This is one reason that drinking alone can be sad.

#wine glasses are breakable #solo cups are also breakable #writing exercise #one reason drinking alone can be sad #No one saw my epic wipeout #maybe that is a good thing?

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twostepstyless · 2 years ago

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Hair of the Dog

Fic Advent Calendar Day 19

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Authors Note: Y/N and Harry get a little drunk at home to fight off their hangovers because that's always a good idea, not. Turns out their dog is an excellent dancer.

Reblogs, likes and feedback of any and all varieties is encouraged and eternally appreciated! Six fics left :( <3 - G xx

Word Count: 1.5k

SFW

———

How do you best cure a two-day hangover? You start drinking again. You can’t feel the hangover if you’re already drunk again. Hair of the dog, a tonic, a refresher, just a little pick-me-up and Harry and Y/N were ready to indulge. They had a lot of leftover alcohol and cocktail supplies left over from their holiday party a few nights ago and Harry was ready to take up his position of being her personal mixologist for an evening wrapped up in their little love bubble. They weren’t complete idiots though, before the first sip passed their lips, they took the dog out for one last walk and wee before they settled him down for the evening, locked up the house and blew out the candles, safety first and all, before they found themselves back in the kitchen with Harry throwing a mixture of liquids into the shaker. He garnished the glass with a sprig of mint and a strawberry he messily cut a slit into on the edge of the tumbler before sliding it across the counter to Y/N who was sat swinging her legs on one of the stools by the island.

She picked up the glass and took a sip, licking the sugar salt residue from her lips that Harry had dipped the edge of the glass into. Her mouth puckering from the sharp taste of the lime that adhered the sugar and salt to the glass as Harry waited with bated breath for her review.

“Well? How’s it taste?” He asked as he topped his own glass off with the same garnishes waiting for her feedback before he took a swig.

“Like it could give me alcohol poisoning,” she bared her teeth as she swallowed the strong drink.

“So…?” Harry asked, tailing off.

“Delicious and I hope y’can remember how to make it because I’ll want another one after this one is finished,” they clinked their glasses together before Harry connected his phone to their sound system so he could play their blended playlist of all their favourites.

***

“It’s a Bowie night, isn’t it?” Harry panted, the pair of them just having sang their hearts out to Under Pressure, Harry was always Freddie Mercury while Y/N took the role of David Bowie.

“Feels-feels… Jesus Christ,” Y/N wheezed, hands on her knees trying to draw in her breath, “it feels like a Bowie night,” she emptied the remainder of her fourth cocktail.

“S’a Bowie night,” he mumbled, picking up his phone and directed himself to the playlist that contained Bowie’s entire discography, not before he ended up opening the text thread with his mum and ending up on his Instagram app in a few drunken clicks trying to find his music app, squinting his eyes at the bright screen as if that would help him see any clearer.

“Think we could push a second round of Under Pressure until later though,” Y/N topped up their glasses with the mixture in the shaker, “I think m’lungs could collapse if I attempt that again so soon,” her not getting far enough to decorate the rim with the sliced strawberry before she shoved the fruit between her lips and held one up in front of Harry’s mouth to feed him. Eyes not breaking from his phone screen, his teeth bit in the fruit right near the stem that she held between her thumb and forefinger. The pink-red juice stained his lips and dribbled down Y/N’s fingers as she watched him with her teeth holding the plush of her bottom lip hostage as his jaw moved, chewing the fruit slowly. As the opening guitar to Moonage Daydream played over their speaker

“Wha’ is it?” he put his phone back down, using the back of his hand to wipe the strawberry juice from his lips.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Y/N all but whined.

“What?” Harry giggled as he wiped her sticky strawberry hands clean with a dish towel.

***

Harry had forgotten his cocktail recipe in the last few drinks, so the pair had opened a bottle of wine they had chilling in the fridge. Was mixing their drinks a good idea? Absolutely not. Had they done it anyway? Of course.

“Could y’no-” Y/N hiccupped, “not get on the counter tonight? We’re both a bit pissed and f’you fall I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Y/N pleaded with Harry as he leaned on the counter in front of her.

“Gimme a kissy n’you’ve got a deal,” Harry bargained, as Y/N wriggled to the edge of the stool and gripped his t-shirt in her hands to pull him level with her mouth as their lips pressed messily against each other’s. She sucked on his lower lip as Harry groaned against her lips as he broke away first. “Deal,” he whispered pressing his forehead against hers as he swayed them side to side, “no counters for Harry t’night.” He blinked slowly as he stood tall to look into her face, she had this sort of dreamlike, glassy haze in her eyes, her face was warm to the touch and her lips full. Each bat of her eyelids caused her lashes to fan against her under eyes and caused Harry’s heart to skip as they fluttered back open, revealing the slimmest circle of the colour of her eyes, her pupils blown out and dilated from the alcohol in her system. “This is our sixth Christmas-mas,” Harry stumbled over his words.

“Mhmm, good maths, baby, y’countings getting so good,” Y/N said, playfully.

“Oi, m’trying to be romantic,” Harry protested, nudging her in the slide, causing some of her wine to slosh over the sides of the glass she was holding and spill onto her. “Oops, sorry, m’heart,” he clumsily patted her down with the dish towel.

“Right Casanova, six Christmases, get on with it,” she tugged the towel free from his grip when he started swatting her with it rather than doing any clean up at all.

“Can’t remember what I was going to say, if I’m honest,” he giggled, his face was flush, cheeks tickled pink. “But probably something along the lines of I love the fuckin’ bones off you, and I can’t wait for all our Christmases,” he puckered his lips and pressed a wet kiss to her forehead with a loud ‘mwah’ paired with it.

“Even when we’re ancient and can’t be arsed putting a tree up?” as Harry hummed and nodded his head.

He leaned down and connected their lips again, “y’taste like wine,” he mumbled against her lips.

“Sorry,” she whispered and tried to pull back.

“Oi, didn’t say I didn’t like it, let me taste,” Harry said, gripping her chin, as he traced her lips with his tongue. Her hazy eyes slipped close, as she revelled in the push and pull as their lips worked one another. In Harry’s body he felt his heart plummet, not in a scary, pulled from under him sort of way, more like a graceful freefall, fluttering through his body like the wind carrying a feather, knowing she was at the bottom to catch his heart in her hands and look after it for the rest of time. “Hm, notes of peach, slightly floral and somethin’ a little bit smokey underneath,” Harry pondered with a finger on his chin to make him look academic as he described her like their favourite bottle of Pinot Grigio as Y/N snorted in laughter.

“You’re drunk,” she stated, obviously.

“Drunk on you,” his eyebrows wiggled.

“Gross, don’t ever say that t’me again or its sixth and final Christmas,” she joked.

“Come dance with me,” he held out his hand as ‘Where Are We Now,’ Y/N’s favourite Bowie song, started playing.

“Spinny, rooms went all spinny, don’t think I’ve got it in me,” she rejected his dance.

“Ugh boring,” he rolled his eyes playfully before shouting through the house, “Vinnie! Come dance with y’daddy,” listening for any movement from the golden retriever.

“Oh baby, leave him, he’s been such a good boy,” Y/N chastised as Harry ignored her completely.

“Vincent, I’ll give you a slice of ham before bed if y’come dance with Dad,” Harry called again, coaxing the dog from his spot in the living room with the promise of a late-night snack. “Here’s m’boy,” Harry cooed, dropping to his knees as the dog stood at his feet. “Y’gonna dance wi’ me?” Harry let Vinnie jump up against him and helped him settle his front paws on the tops of his shoulders, “there we go,” Harry praised as he started to sway on the spot as Vinnie tried to lick at Harry’s face enjoying whatever game his dad was playing with him. “Y/N/N, m’not being funny but look at him, our dog is so fucking talented,” Harry gaped, slurring slightly, as he allowed Vinnie to get a good lick against his cheek as Y/N finished the last glass of wine for the evening before getting on the floor with them, giving the dog a good scratch behind the ear.

“So talented,” Y/N havered, “Vinnie, y’can get two slices of ham and we’re entering you into a talent show, see if y’can follow in your Dads footsteps.”

———

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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littlelioncub43 · 2 years ago

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Business Before Pleasure

Summary: A newcomer wants to meet with you to talk business. Lloyd Hansen is a well known name in the arms and narcotics circles, and he has his sights set on your slice of territory. Lucky for him, you’re a gracious business partner.

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Mafia boss!Female Reader, mentions of Robert Pronge “Mr. Freezy” x Reader

Word count: 985

Warnings: Lloyd Hansen (he is a warning because he’s a dark, mean man [I love him for it]), suggestive themes, implied smut, swearing, misogynistic thoughts, mob related activities, drug mention, this is literally just plot NO porn (yet), my bad writing.

A/N: I literally had the hardest time writing this. I still need to learn the character and get better acquainted with him, his behavior, speech pattern, etc. But! I felt like Lloyd needed a proper introduction to the Murderer Monday rotation. This is in the same AU as Dark!Mafia Boss!Reader x Robert Pronge, so there could be some crossovers coming in the future. Let me know what you think! I dedicate this fic to @sparkledfirecracker. Thank you for your help with this, Lilo💖

Kisses💋

—K

The ticking of the vintage clock on the mantle echoed mockingly, the crackling of the fire added another layer of agitating noise. Lloyd’s grip of the crystal tumbler in his large right palm tightened as he watched the hand of the clock strike 11:45. You were late. If there was anything that Lloyd valued more than money, it was his time; and apparently you thought you could waste it. He’s never met you before, and so far, you weren’t making a good first impression. He hated doing business with women. They were far too emotional, complicated, and whiny for this line of work. But if he wanted to work on your turf, he was going to have to play nice.

To a degree.

Just as he tossed back the rest of the brown liquid in his glass, the wooden doors to your office opened. He didn’t bother turning to look at who was entering the room, thinking it was that butler with the stick up his ass asking if he wanted another scotch. If he was going to be anywhere near cordial, he was going to need another drink.

“Get me another one,” he shook the ice in his empty glass impatiently before setting on the coaster harshly.

“Now, is that anyway to speak to your host?” Your smooth voice cooed behind his leather arm chair. Lloyd’s head snapped around, all words die on his tongue as he drinks you in. The professional yet seductive curve of your work clothes had Lloyd’s belly burning with desire, but he quickly stamps it out. You walked towards your desk, setting your cellphone down before crossing the room. Your pencil skirt was tight around your legs, but you let your hips sway a little more than normal. Making your way towards him, you put a hand up when he begins to rise from his seat. “No, no, allow me.”

The casual dismissal of him has Lloyd’s jaw ticking with annoyance. You take his glass and walk to the bar cart to refresh it, pouring your own glass. If it were humanly possible, you would have a hole in the back of your head from how hard Lloyd was staring at you. Smirking to yourself, you return with his refill and hand it to him, taking the free seat in the arm chair next to his.

“Forgive me for being late, a few loose ends didn’t want to be tied.” Settling in, you sigh and take in the man in front of you. You knew his type: power-hungry, aggressive, ruthless, misogynistic, but very efficient. He reminds you of your little pet, Freezy. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t one of the most handsome men you’ve seen, but business before pleasure.

“So,” you said after a moment, “you must be Lloyd,” you didn’t allow him time to answer as you continue on. “I heard that you wanted to talk about possible business ventures. What did you have in mind?”

“I want to set up a supply line from Miami up into New York and Chicago,” Lloyd states clearly and takes sip of the scotch, “I could have arms distributors in some of your clubs by the end of the week, and dealers by the end of this meeting. I have everything set, just waiting for the go-ahead.” Lloyd straightens out in his chair, adjusting himself into a more nonchalant position. The smirk that you assume was meant to be confident shines in the fire with a smug glint. You could feel the arrogance rolling off of him in waves. “I know you’ve heard of me, and you know what kind of business I run, so I don’t think you’ll have any objections.”

“I don’t,” you agree and sip your own drink, letting him revel in the small victory for a few moments longer. Lloyd grins, relaxing even more now that he has you where he wants you. Women are just so easy.

“Now for the price, I think 20% per club should cover everythi—“

“40.” You interrupt calmly.

“What was that?” His eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, his head tilting to the side to angle his ear towards you.

“It’s 40% per club,” you repeat. You barely fight off a pleased smile when you watch his face contort in a twisted smile. A throaty chuckle forces its way out of him, it’s malicious but amusing nonetheless.

“I’m sorry—40 fucking percent? Are you fucking shitting me?!” He barks with an unamused laugh, his firm grip on the tumbler returning once more. You say nothing, merely watching as he winds himself up and lets himself go. Another dark laugh rumbles in his chest, his clenched fist coming to rest on his chin. “Oh, I should have known you’d be a greedy bitch.”

“Lloyd,” you set your glass down and stand up. Making your way over to his chair, you lean over him slightly, your hands on the arm rests. Lloyd’s scowl deepens and this time you can’t help but smile. He hated that you thought this was amusing, although he loved that he could finally get a good look at you up close.

“I know you’ve heard of me, and you know what kind of business I run. 40% per club is the flat rate for newcomers. Unless…” you trail off. You tilt your head to the side when you catch sight of his pinky ring, “we negotiate other methods of payment.”

Lloyd feels the burn of desire in his belly again, this time he doesn’t bother trying to ignore it. “Oh? Like what, Sunshine?” He purrs as he sits up straighter, leaning into you so your faces were only inches away. You hold his darkened gaze for a moment longer before you both share a sickening grin.

“I’m sure we can think of something.”

I no longer have a taglist! If you wish to stay up-to-date on when I post, follow @littlelioncub-library 💖

Dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics 💖

Reblogs, comments, and asks are always appreciated!🥰💖

#lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd hansen fic #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x mafia boss!reader #lloyd hansen x mafia boss!female!reader #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x reader #the gray man #the gray man movie #little lion literature #murderer monday drabble fest #murderer monday

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professionalbratqueen · 3 years ago

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Situationship Part 2/2

18+ only, please.

You've been avoiding your FWB Ransom during finals.

Pairings: Ransom Drysdale x female reader

Media: Knives Out

Warnings: OFCs in it for like a second, how rich people should tip but usually don't, manhandling, drug use, delicious cake, unprotected sex (oral - f rec), protected sex (vaginal), mention of slapping but no actual slapping, crying, hand feeding, not beta'd

Word Count: 3,022

Notes: If you guys want to like, comment, and repost, that would make my day. 😊 I tried to make the reader have no distinguishing characteristics but if you notice anything, give me a heads up, please.

Read it on AO3.

Part 1

Ransom ordered a whiskey at the open bar, checking his phone. A very short shadow stopped next to him and he looked to find Nita staring up at him with one perfectly groomed brow arched. "What?" he asked, raising both his own eyebrows.

She narrowed her eyes slightly and took his tumbler before he could bring it to his mouth, taking a sip and scrunching her nose. "Ugh. I hate whiskey."

Ransom took his drink back, snorting.

"I saw you made a friend."

He grunted noncommittally and Nita tipped her head to the side, effortlessly showing off the column of her throat and the diamond nestled in the hollow between her collarbones. "How long has that been going on?"

Ransom sipped his drink, eyes watching her over the rim. "You'll have to be more specific."

She hummed.

"I have a lot of friends."

She laughed and he winked at her, then checked his phone again while Nita ordered herself a martini.

"Have you asked him, yet?" Mitzi snatched the glass out of Ransom's hand, swallowing down the rest of the amber liquid and earning herself a glare.

Nita sighed at her friend and handed her the martini since she was so thirsty. "Calm down, we're getting there."

She took the martini with one hand and fluttered the other at Nita dismissively, turning to Ransom with a hissed, "Are you fucking that girl?"

Ransom rolled his eyes. "What girl, Mitz? You know I only have eyes for you."

Nita smacked Ransom's pec with the back of her hand, shaking her head, but Mitzi just cackled. "Oh, you are!"

He sighed heavily and leaned on the bar. "Who I fuck is none of your business."

Mitzi pouted. "It is when you could be fucking me instead."

Nita ordered another martini for herself. "Can you at least pretend you're not a slut when in public?" she asked her, sighing.

Mitzi laughed again. "Him first."

"Oh, like you're so fucking pure," Ransom grumbled at Nita. "You think I don't know you've been banging your personal trainer?"

Nita turned to Mitzi, outraged. "That was private!"

Mitzi shrugged, unconcerned, and finished her martini. "What? It's just Drysdale."

"I love you, too, Mitz," he muttered, checking his phone again.

She cooed at him absently, running her finger down his arm but her attention already waning.

"Well, who is she?" Nita asked, irritated. She got her second martini and stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. "Where is she from? What does she do?"

"Why is she in a hoodie and leggings at a party?" Mitzi interjected.

"At least they're Balenciaga," Nita pointed out.

Mitzi nodded. "Too bad those leggings are ugly as sin."

Nita sipped her drink, eyes on Ransom as he checked his phone yet again. "Waiting for a message?"

"A delivery," he sighed. "I won't hear it over the noise."

"A delivery for what?"

"Food."

Nita glanced over at the tables spread with finger foods, then back to Ransom. "Okaaaaay…"

He flashed her a smile that came nowhere near his eyes. "You're digging, Nita. You know I hate that. Mind your business like a good girl."

It was her turn to roll her eyes. "I'm just curious."

"You're a gossip, is what you are," Mitzi pointed out blithely, looking around for someone more fun than her two oldest friends.

The alert finally came through on his phone after a while and Ransom headed for the front door. Mitzi had long since wandered off to find a dance partner, so Nita followed him. A uniformed courier handed over a mint green box tied with a bow and Ransom handed him a fifty for a tip before shutting the door in his face.

"Is that from the bakery where you got my birthday cake last year?"

"Might be." Ransom headed into the kitchen with his prize and his shadow, collecting two forks and hooking two large bottles of Pellegrino through his fingers.

"Is it cake?"

"Don't you have a one-night stand to pick up?"

"Drysdale, you're the biggest whore in this room, don't lie to me." She stood directly in his path trying to keep him from leaving. "If there's cake, I want cake."

He sighed, put down his burden, and gave her an unimpressed look. "Honey," he started, bodily lifting Nita off her feet like she was a child, "we've talked about this. You're like one of those little fun size candy bars. You have no power here." He set her aside gently, letting her catch her balance on her ridiculous leopard print loubous before letting go. "I'm going upstairs now. Be good and find some poor boy toy to chew on." He picked up the box, forks, and bottles and headed upstairs, snickering at Nita's cursing.

The hallway upstairs was fairly quiet but he knew he'd still have to get the maid service in to sterilize everything; these barbarians would fuck on any surface as long as it was flat enough. He knocked on his bedroom door and only had to wait a moment until his girl opened it, peeking out through a crack, then opening it wider to let him in.

The room was already hazy with smoke and he took a deep breath reflexively. She was dressed in his clothing, which was always hot, although he'd need to get rid of those sweats. "Did you make a nest?" he asked, eyeing what she'd done to his bed.

She shrugged and bounced back onto the mattress, clearly intending on settling down again. Ransom quickly put his offerings on the dresser and lashed a hand out, catching her by the ankle. She went down against the bed with a little squeak and he pulled her back toward him. "Won't need these," he muttered, pulling the sweats off her in one quick yank.

She pulled the sweater down to cover her but got up on her knees at the edge of the bed. "We won't need these, either," she murmured and undid his pants, tugging them down until he kicked them and his shoes off. Her hands burrowed under the button-up he wore, scratching against his skin, and he opened and shed it and his undershirt quickly. Left in just his navy boxer briefs, he nudged her to go back to her little nest.

He grabbed the food and knee-walked on the mattress to join her. He peered at his laptop screen. "What are we watching?"

She took another toke from the pipe, holding her breath for a long moment before answering. "Lilo and Stitch." She started the movie again. "It's so soft and round," she mumbled under her breath and Ransom kept an amused snort inside. He settled against the pillows and handed her one of the Pellegrinos.

He held up the box with its pretty cream bow. "I brought you food."

She made little grabbyhands and he handed the box carefully into them, watching as she set it on her lap and untied it, opening the lid on a beautiful cake. Its frosting was palest pink with tiny buttercream violets all over it and borders of rosebuds on the top and bottom. Her gasp gave him a thrill of something he'd rather not think about.

"Oh, you got me cake," she said quietly, almost reverently.

He handed her one of the forks and she dug in immediately, going directly for one of the rosebuds on top. "Oh, my God, it's chocolate," she moaned around her mouthful and Ransom had to adjust himself in his underwear. When she got to the filling, she gave a sound he'd heard her make several times when they were fucking and his half-chub went full. "Is this mocha?"

He smirked. "I know what you like, princess."

She smiled at him, eyes clear, face bright, and Ransom was alarmed to feel his heart thump extra hard. Before he could say something to dispel the feeling she leaned into him and gave him a kiss, closed-mouthed and sweet. "Thank you."

She went back to eating her cake, opening her Pellegrino to drink. She turned her little cartoon back on and smiled at the screen, looking happy and relaxed in a way he was pretty sure he'd never seen before. When she'd had her fill, Ransom put the box on the side table with the forks and the drinks. She cuddled up to him and he put his arm around her.

They both smoked some more, until the room was misty and she ended up sprawled on his lap. He put two fingers under her chin and tilted her face up to him. The kiss started slow and easy, tasting of chocolate and buttercream. His tongue slid past her lips and retreated before she mimicked him. She shifted around in his lap, teeth catching on his bottom lip sharply before letting it go.

He kissed and nipped his way down her neck, sucking over her pulse just hard enough to make her squirm, not looking to leave a bruise. The last time he'd left a mark, they'd had an explosive argument and she'd accused him of trying to claim his territory. His hands wandered over the cashmere of the borrowed sweater, playing with her nipples through the fabric and smirking when she gasped.

He spread her out on her back, pushing his sweater up over her chest and spreading her legs wide enough to get his shoulders between them. He kissed along her tummy, nipping over her belly button to make her squeak, then moving downward. She smelled like his body wash and it was driving him crazy. Her pussy was already glistening with arousal and he thumbed gently over her clit, watching her shiver. She stared down at him, eyes slightly unfocused.

The first stroke of his tongue went from her opening up to her clit, circling there lazily for a moment before going back down. He slid it inside her before licking back up and taking her little bud into his mouth and sucking gently. Her back arched and she let out a whine, fingers tangling in his hair. She pulled on it, then grabbed two fistfuls and pushed his face to her more tightly, lifting her hips.

He flickered his tongue against her rapidly and listened to her cries as she bucked her hips, grinding against him as much as he'd let her. He sucked again and her head fell back, a soft groan leaving her throat. "Ransom…"

The sound he made was nearly a growl and he redoubled his efforts with his tongue. He liked hearing his name on her lips, even when she was angry and they were fighting. Hearing it now, with his mouth on her and her nails scratching his scalp in desperation, was almost euphoric.

He focused mainly on her clit, knowing better than to try going after her G spot again after what he'd done earlier. She liked it rough but she got sensitive after. The one time he'd tried it again too soon and she'd actually pulled hair off his head and then slapped him when he sat up. Fun in certain circumstances, but not then.

He rubbed her hips when she started shaking and just let the edge of his teeth barely touch her clit. She curled up and forward over him, still clutching his hair, and shouted his name as she climaxed. He slowed, then eventually stopped, pushing her back so he could sit up again, breathing hard, face wet, hair sticking up every which way. She slumped back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.

He tried (and failed) not to sound too smug when he said, "You good?"

She flopped a hand in his direction, shivering. He rubbed a hand over her tummy, up her abdomen, and between her breasts. "It's okay," he murmured, self-satisfied, "take your time." Her hand came back up, this time flipping him off, and he laughed. "Oh, well, if you insist…" He ditched his boxer briefs and then yanked the sweater over her head, leaving them both naked.

She screeched in surprise and smacked at him half-heartedly. "What the fuck, Ransom!" He laughed and got a condom out of the nightstand, slipping it on before he dragged her up for a kiss, hands wandering where he pleased.

His girl got with the program quickly, her own hands exploring his chest, tweaking his nipples, then smoothing down to–there was no other word for it–pet at his abs. He laughed softly into the kiss and she bit his bottom lip in retaliation.

He pressed her back down onto the bed, nudging her legs out and up so her knees were almost at her shoulders, hips settling in the cradle of her own, and cock nestled in the slick little valley between her labia. He tipped his head to deepen the kiss and rocked a little, sliding against her and bumping her clit gently with his glans. She moaned softly and reached down, grabbing his ass with both hands and squeezing.

Ransom squirmed at that, loving how she could submit one second and the next, she was trying to drag him harder and faster against her. He broke the kiss to lick and kiss around her ear to that one super sensitive spot she had just behind the lobe. He gave it a sharp nip, then immediately sucked hard at it and she went wild under him. One hand left his ass to scratch at his back, a cry leaving her lips that was all kinds of frantic.

"Ransom," she gasped, really digging her short nails in on his ass to make her point, "don't tease!"

He huffed at having his fun curtailed but pulled back, getting up on his knees and grabbing his cock, feeding himself into her cunt. They groaned in unison and Ransom let his head fall back on his shoulders. She was silken, tight, and so goddamn warm inside. He rocked his hips a few times to reach the end of her. She held still for him, hands curling around her own thighs to keep her legs up. Her mouth was slick and shiny, red and puffy from their kiss, eyes locked on him, all pupil.

He rocked a little more, a little faster, her own lubrication easing his way the more he moved. Her breathing changed, started coming in little pants that matched the rolling rhythm he was building and Ransom watched her let her legs go, arms reaching up to brace on his headboard. He slid his hands up the backs of her thighs to keep her where he wanted, changing his angle minutely every few minutes.

He knew he was close to what he wanted when she gave a tiny moan with her panting breaths, eyes blinking closed for a long moment. His strokes came faster now, and he shifted just the littlest bit more and she sobbed, back arching as much as it could in this position. He grinned down at her devilishly and started speeding up, repeatedly nailing that one spot, high up, almost to her cervix.

Her moans gave way to cries and he let one thigh go to play with her clitoris, teasing at first before he began rubbing it directly. Her eyes widened and she got louder and louder, her pussy fluttering around him tellingly. She almost screamed when she came, riding it out with a series of whimpers Ransom wished he'd had the forethought to record. She clamped down on him like a damn vise and he cursed, letting his head fall back again and gritting his teeth to keep himself focused.

Ransom fucked her through it and kept going, even harder now, faster. "Good girl, baby, good girl. Gimme another."

She whined and shook her head, face flushed and hairline beading with sweat. "No, no, nooooo–ah, Ransom, fuck!" He was back to rubbing her clit, harder than he did for anyone else and so fast his wrist started cramping at the angle. She writhed under him with a shriek, squirming like she was trying to get away from him.

"You can do it, I know you can," he murmured. "Fuck, you're so fucking tight, princess, so wet, come on, give it up, one more…" He hammered that spot inside her, watching tears starting to slide down her face. "Come on, come, fucking come for me, be a good girl…"

She went absolutely silent and her body arched, every muscle locking as she came again. Ransom groaned at the grip of wet velvet, so tight his eyes crossed for a moment. "Oh…good fucking girl," he panted. Her body unlocked all at once and she collapsed against the mattress with a sob, still crying with aftershocks. He fucked her through it, chasing his own end now and held her hips to him in a bruising grip when he came, thrusts slowing, pausing now and then to just press as far into her as he could.

He pulled out gently and rolled off her when they were both done, disposing of the condom. When he came back, he pulled her to his chest and rubbed her back as she cried, hiccoughing through it as she came down. "Shh. You're okay, you did it. Such a good girl."

She clung to him and snuggled, wiping her tears away after a handful of moments. "That…that was…"

"Yeah," he answered, awed this time instead of smug. "You good? Want some water?"

She sniffled again and nodded, smiling up at him. He helped her back into the little nest, opening her Pellegrino for her and helping her drink from the big bottle. Her hands were shaking so he fed her little bites of chocolate cake with a fork, petting her hair as she came down all the way.

Eventually, she couldn't keep her eyes open and put the cake and bottle on the night table along with the laptop. Easing her and the pillows down and settling next to her, he pulled the covers over them and cuddled her close. He very carefully didn't think about how much he wanted this to be a regular thing as he fell asleep.

#situationship #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale #chris evans #my writing #knives out

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hopeamarsu · 2 years ago

Text

Whumptober Day 3: Hairs Breadth from Death

Whumptober masterlist

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x gn!reader

Rating: Mature

Word count: 792

Warnings: Mission gone wrong, uncertainty, saying goodbye, sad and ambigious ending

Summary: Jack had been waiting on you to return home from a short mission but a call from Ginger turns all hope into despair.

Gun to Temple | “Say Goodbye.” | Impaled

There is nothing more that Jack Daniels appreciates more than a good glass of whiskey (preferably from Stateman though he sometimes indulges in bottles imported from Islay), a fire roaring in his library and a good book in his lap. Warmth from the fire easing some of his aches while the drink warms him up from the inside. A true spot of heaven in the middle of Kentucky.

The only thing missing is a fine companion by his side, but that will be remedied once your mission ends. Jack is a patient man, he can wait until then. And your mission is an easy one - low stakes - so you should be done in a few hours. Then he can have you in his arms again, basking in the nearness of someone he loves by his side.

He takes a sip from the crystal tumbler before returning to a world unknown. A world of beasts and men and fearless warriors saving the world sounds right for tonight and it’ll make time go faster. Flipping a page, Jack allows himself to be swept deeper into the story. The fire clicks and crackles softly in the distance, casting the orange glow around the room but he hardly notices.

Jack’s left his Statesman glasses on the side table, a habit of the past to keep them near his person at all times, but when they start vibrating gently he doesn’t pay any attention it at first, too absorbed in the novel. When the vibrating continues and grows more insistent, he turns his head quizzically. He’s not on call, why would his glasses indicate an incoming message? Curious, Jack places a mark on the page and picks up the glasses.

“Hello Ginger. Who do I owe the pleasure of your call tonight?” Jack drawls when the image of Ginger appears in front of him, the bluish tint around her holo flickering lightly. She is dressed sharply, not a single thing out of place. Except for her expression which seems displaced on her beautiful features.

“I’m afraid I have bad news, Agent Whiskey.” Her tone is wobbly, matching the uneasiness in her eyes, and Jack is immediately on guard. Sitting up from his relaxed position, Jack’s eyes narrow and his gaze focuses on the dark-skinned woman who has saved his hide far too many times to count. In seconds, he’s gone from relaxed to alert.

“Tell me, Ginger.”

“It’s agent Gin. There’s been an…” She hesitates a moment, eyes flickering across multiple screens in the distance, reading something not visible for Jack. When her round eyes return to him, there’s a heavy sadness in her voice. “An accident.”

The air is sucked out of Whiskey’s lungs, a sucker punch in the gut that takes it all out. He feels like doubling over, cradling his stomach as heavy set of anguish wreaks havoc inside.

You are Agent Gin.

The accident happened to you.

He repeats his words in a growl, demanding more information, already moving away from the library and towards his wardrobe to dress. There is a sense in him that tells him to be in the headquarters as soon as possible. He throws the door to the master bedroom open, almost taking it off its hinges in his hurry.

Ginger’s words become jumbled a little, her own emotions taking over, but she powers on, detailing what they know already. Multiple lacerations, possible internal damage, suspected brain injury after you had cracked your head in the battle. Gunshot wounds? Maybe, they don’t know yet. But what they do know is that the team has airlifted you and are en route to Stateman infirmary. It’s bad enough to warrant the operating team in full on stand by.

“Alpha gel?”

“Not good enough, too much wrong internally. Using it would interfere possibly with other injuries,” the denial is another punch in the gut and Jack stumbles over some of his boots. He stops frozen, his jeans still unbuttoned. This can’t mean what he thinks it means.

“Are you calling me in to…” He swallows hard, his voice cracking and bleeding like you must be in that medicopter right now. No, he can’t think of you bleeding out now, he must remain calm. He closes his eyes, banishing the memories of a call similar to this all those years ago. He can’t fall apart now.

“...say goodbye?” Jack finally manages, his voice tight like a string on a guitar that’s been tuned far too close to snapping. His hand shakes violently as he drops to the ground and dry sobs break free from his lungs, the sound of an animal wounded echoing in the wardrobe, when Ginger lowers her head and whispers the final blow.

“I’m sorry Agent Whiskey. I am.”

#Mwhumptober #whumptober 2022 #nro.3 #say goodbye #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels x reader #kingsman fanfiction #agent whiskey #whump #ambigious ending #hopeamarsu #whumptober2022

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kmclaude · 2 years ago

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writing: Her Baby Brother's Confession.

someone once sent in an ask along the lines of au where annemarie lives and plays bad guy, forcing (”””forcing””””) tiefer on jehan....i never completed it but here’s all of what’s written feat, creepy domestic annemarie/tiefer

Annemarie Tiefer spent more time at her brother's home than her own. "Family's important to me," was the default answer, with a dash of "that place has too many bad memories," and an embarrassed little laugh to anyone who pressed the matter — and while there was some truth to the latter, Emilein Tiefer knew his sister swung by the small rectory for two less than godly reasons whenever she had the chance.

"What happened to all the good stuff?" she whined as she dug through his liquor cabinet, stark naked in the kitchen.

"I seem to remember you drinking all of it," came Tiefer's reply from the hallway. He was in pajama pants and still toweling off his shower-damp hair as he stepped in the kitchen. "Oh come on, can you at least put something on?"

"You know I like sleeping naked." It came out whiny, petulant, like she was seventeen instead of fifty-seven.

"You're staying the night!?"

Annemarie shrugged before grabbing an unopened bottle of whiskey near the bottom shelf, making sure to bend over as far as possible. "My new boytoy can't take a hint," she answered, straightening up, "Here's hopin' he gets it the sixth time I ain't 'round when he calls." She collected two tumblers from the cupboards and placed them on the counter with the bottle. "Anyway Fr. Prude, not like you ain't seen this all before."

Tiefer rolled his eyes and went to the freezer, grabbing the icetray and handing it to her, watching her pull out the ice cubes and add them to the glasses. "If you're gonna keep hangin' around like this," he said as he replaced the returned tray, "you're gonna hafta act more like my sister than—"

"Than your lover?"

Tiefer shot her a dirty look before chucking the towel on his shoulders at her, which she wrapped around her waist after making a face at him. She stepped closer, her hands finding their way to his hips.

"C'mon. We're the only ones here, Em."

"For now."

"Oh?"

"I'm watching my godson tomorrow."

"Oh." She dug her nails into his sides, pouting.

"He'll be spending the night. Between the funeral and the new kid, his mom needs a break, so I'll be watching him more often now."

"Still!" She smiled, a too-practiced tic that never seemed to meet her eyes, and tugged him closer. "Tomorrow's tomorrow, tonight's—"

He pushed her away. "A good practice run for you so you don't slip up in front of Jehan."

Annemarie huffed and returned to making their drinks. "Whatever." She poured herself two fingers. "Don't see what's so special 'bout your ex's brat."

"My best friend's son, Anne."

Her lips pursed, as if she were about to say something, but instead she poured her brother three fingers — "You're so much more manageable when you've had a few," she had complained to him one night after he gave her a black eye and she'd pulled a gun on him and held it to his temple while he ate her out — and held out his whiskey. "What a family man you are."

"Oh fuck off." Tiefer took the offered drink.

"Best. Friend's. Son." She clicked her glass with her nail on each word, measured and slow. "Is that all he is?"

"You know what Nathan meant to me."

"I wasn't talking about Nathan, Emi."

Most would take his reaction — widened eyes, the slightest flush, a tightened grip on his glass — as a man trying to keep his cool, keep from backhanding her into the counter for what she was implying, but Annemarie saw it for what it truly was:

Her baby brother's confession.

* * *

Annemarie Tiefer knew Jehan Prêtre, son of the late-as-of-last-fall Nathan, newfound big brother, and most importantly her little brother's favorite godson. Only godson. She knew him OK enough, having been around him — never alone, though, and never for long, as Nathan had kept a civil distance with her, though whether that was for Tiefer's sake or because they had slept together once (after the incident, after Tiefer left town) he had never told her.

But that was all well and good: everyone had secrets and she had come to accept, even appreciate, that, and her and her brother's little façade of everything being tolerable between them had given her some access to the boy under the guise of family — just like that next morning when Tiefer left her sprawled in his bed and returned with the glum little almost-eleven year old (Annemarie had done as told and wore clothes for once.)

"Hey kiddo," she called out from the kitchen.

"'lo Miss Anne." He ran the words together so they sounded more like Mizzanne. It was cute. She could see the appeal. He did take after his daddy.

"You hungry? I'm making pancakes."

She knew him just enough to see a bit of herself in him — eldest kid, dead parent, stuck with a burden of a baby brat, grieving terribly but having to roll with every punch life threw — and, if she played her hand just so, she'd know him enough to see a bit of him in her too.

But first, she had a little favor to do for her baby brother.

* * *

She watched the boy slump in his chair like a doll with cut strings and smiled.

"What'd you give him?"

Annemarie looked up at her brother who stood in the doorway, stripped down to his slacks and a white undershirt, his clerical shirt and collar nowhere to be seen. "Oh you know," she shrugged, "li'l a this, li'l a that." A little butter and extra syrup went a long way in masking the taste of crushed sleeping pills.

"Is he—"

"Oh, don't tell me you're growing a conscience now."

"Fuck off," Tiefer huffed, eyes still on Jehan's slumped form, the slow, steady rise and fall of his skinny shoulders, the peek of his slender collarbones under his t-shirt.

Annemarie didn't miss the hollow hunger that clouded his gaze. She'd seen the way he looked at him, even tried to wring something of a formal confession out of him herself last night, her body against his, her fingers in him and him in her, but he denied everything. It didn't matter: she'd seen the shock of being known.

Finally, in the quiet of the room, he managed to speak: "I do love him."

"I know."

"And I don't want to hurt him. Not like..."

His gaze flickered to her then back to Jehan. Not like you, he had meant to say and they both knew it.

Deserved or not, it hurt. "Of course, honey, of course." Bubbly. Dismissive. "That's why you have me."

Tiefer did not look exactly comforted by her, but allowed her all the same to approach him, hands cupping his cheeks, stroking down his jaw, his throat, brushing his bangs from his eyes as she came closer and closer and too fucking close, her lips against his, warm and wet and teeth biting down, biting hard, against his lip, demanding he let her in, let her take over.

He tried to pull away but she held him still until he let her in, let her rape his mouth until, as with all things, she got bored.

"If I'm supposed to be forcin' you on him, you can't look too happy."

"I know."

"I'll have to rough you up. We hafta make it look real."

"Like you need an excuse."

Annemarie smiled softly — a hesitant sadness flickering there before she scowled and, drawing her arm back, backhanded Tiefer across the face.

#writing #my writing #weird incest siblings are weird #fhcaoos #au i guess #kmclaudeart

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tomtenadia · 3 years ago

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Thicker than blood - 2

Here we are with another chapter.

CW: death, language, autupsy

---

Aelin woke up with a groan. She looked at the clock and saw it was three in the afternoon. Her windows with high tech glass were still obscured. Still three hours before it was time for her night shift at the morgue. There was a day doctor to cover, but she was in charge and she was the only one allowed to perform autopsies.

She was about to go back in bed when someone knocked at the door. A grunt left her mouth. Who dared so much?

Aelin pushed herself out of bed and walked to the door and flung it open. On the other side stood a woman in a deep red hoodie, sunglasses and a tumbler filled with what was definitely blood.

“Lys,”

The woman walked into the room and plopped on the sofa, enjoying her drink “you look like hell.”

“Gee Lys, thanks for the pep talk.” Aelin perched on the armchair.

“Where were you last night?”

“Around.”

Lysandra was the only person who knew her little secret. The reason she trusted her it was because her friend in the past had loved to indulge too. But Lys, being now engaged to Aedion, had to behave. If people knew that the lead of the big blood project was engaged to a woman who drank from humans, it would be a disaster. So as soon as the engagement became official she had stopped. She loved Aedion and would not jeopardise his career.

Aelin on the other hand, loved living in the shadows and keep her life private. She made appearances at her parent’s big events, but for the rest of the world she was Celaena Sardothien.

“Aelin?” She knew that tone.

“Fine. One weak human. And he was only drunk. By the time I got home it had already worn off. Bad hunting night, last night.”

Her friend lifted her sunglasses and her green eyes landed on her. And all of a sudden it reminded him of another set of green eyes.

No, she was not going there.

“Aelin, this is a risky game.”

Aelin stood up and went to the fridge and grabbed a blood bag. She didn’t even bother pour the liquid in a glass. She just flicked open the cap and sucked from the cannula.

“A positive, my favourite…”

Lysandra laughed.

“Synthetic blood is not too bad. Aeds had managed to add agents to imitate the real tastes according to the blood type.”

Aelin scoffed hard “You keep drinking that slush, I’ll stick to the real thing.”

“Aelin…”

“What? Dorian at the blood bank gives me my weekly stash.”

“Do you repay him in fucks?”

Aelin drank from her bag “Hey, he is the only vampire I know that I am willing to fuck without having to put a bag on his head. And he feeds me.” What she didn’t tell her friend was that the previous night she had met the only vampire she really wanted to fuck till the end of days. It was a shame he was a cop. If she thought again about his hands and what they could do to her she would have to take another shower. Before Lys scented her arousal she stopped her train of thoughts.

“Aelin, I am not joking. I don’t want to see you end up in a government facility. Please.”

“Then stuck me in a prison and let me drink all of the bad guys,” she growled “I know what I am doing…”

“I love you, you know?”

Aelin nodded and felt bad for snapping at her friend.

“You still coming to the gala on Saturday?”

She had forgotten about that.

“You mum and dad are expecting you.”

“I will make an appearance.”

She loved her parents, well, her mother mostly. She was just beyond tired of them, Rhoe in particular, trying to push her in a life that did not belong to her.

“When does your shift start?”

“Six.”

“Fancy if I keep you company till then?”

Aelin climbed off the armchair and landed near her friend “I have one new smutty novel that we can read together…”

Agent Whitethorn parked in the underground car park of the HQ for the paranormal unit. The building, being occupied by vampires for the vast majority, had a lower level car park that allowed its immortal occupants to reach the upper level in safety. All of the offices had windows with high tech glass that would obscure as soon as the sun started to rise and would turn transparent at night. The few humans working in there had to adapt to work in a perpetual night.

He locked his car and went for the stairs. His office was on level five.

Once there he opened the door and found his boss sitting at his desk, his feet comfortably on the surface “Lorcan, don’t you have your own office?” His hand pushed the legs down.

“Rowan, how was your night.”

He took his place behind the desk and removed the coat “Quiet.”

“Really?” The dark-haired man leaned against the wall with crossed arms “nothing happened?”

“Nope.”

“What the I am paying you for, Whitethorn?” A file landed on Rowan’s desk. He flicked through it and froze. A murder. The victim was a human woman called Kaltain Rompier. She had been found in an alley. Drained of all blood.

“This happened in the university area,” he said in an angry tome “You sent me to patrol the clubs district on the fucking opposite of town.”

“Look at her hand.”

Rowan looked closer and spotted the stamp of a club. The Vaults. He spent the night sitting on the roof of that club. Fuck.

“She was in a club, she drank and took who knows what else, a vamp might have followed her and had a midnight snack. According to the human cops she had been reported missing a week ago by some classmates.”

“The district is big. It might have happened while I was in another corner.”

Or while you were busy fantasising about mysterious women with blue eyes.

“You are going back tonight and keep your eyes peeled this time.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “The Galathynius are having a huge gala next Saturday to show off some of their new projects. We have been invited.”

Rowan groaned internally “I’ll take double district duty.”

Lorcan snorted “You are coming, Whitethorn. I’ll have Gavriel to cover your shift.”

“When will you stop punishing me?”

“If I am going, you are coming too. I will not be the only one to suffer.”

His growl intensified.

“Cheer up Rowan, if you are lucky you might even get laid.”

Rowan grabbed the pen holder and threw it at his boss but it landed on the door behind which Lorcan had disappeared.

He tried to work but his mind kept going to the dead woman. The case far too familiar and all of a sudden he knew he had not been chasing shadows. This murder followed the same patter as Lyria’s.

He went to his filing cabinet and extracted Lyria’s file. He placed the photos side by side and stared at them. He hadn’t looked at those photos in a year. Seeing her dead body had been enough.

Both bodies had been dumped naked on a dark street. And then he noticed something he had never spotted before, on the inside of their arm there were marks that looked like IVs. He remembered that night and it had been too late for the paramedics to do anything. For neither of them. They had been completely drained. He closed Lyria’s file and looked at the one for Kaltain. Apparently her autopsy was scheduled for that night. He grabbed his coat and ran away.

Aelin got to work and found a body that according to her notes had top priority since the police was investigating the case and needed her report very quickly.

She wore her gear and went to the table with the victim. She grabbed doctor’s report and discovered that the woman had been DOA. The paramedics had just declared the death. She did all the pre checks required for documentation and started taking all the measurements needed.

At first sight it seemed she had been drained of all blood. The first thing Aelin noticed was that the woman smelled funny. And not the weird scent of soon after death that human usually did. No, it had a chemical component to it. She stashed that detail aside for a second and went to examine the body. She started with the head and as she inspected the neck she felt a laceration. Blunt force trauma enough to knock her out but not to damage the skull. Slowly she pulled back the sheet and exposed the naked body and she grimaced and what she saw. Her chest was a mosaic of healed cuts. Her fingers traced the lines and they felt like knife cuts. Far too precise to be anything else. She took a few notes and continued her inspection. On her right arm she noticed the marks of what could be an IV and surprise hit her again. She had been DOA. No action was taken by the paramedics. She brushed the puncture signs and they felt old. Around one of the marks the bruise were still there. The vein had collapsed and another point of access had been used. She took a few more notes and continued her examination. The woman’s entire body was covered in those cuts. What the fuck?

Aelin went back to the neck and could not find canine marks. If it had been a vampire she should find the twin marks somewhere. Usually on the neck.

Aelin moved to her legs and grabbed a syringe to draw blood. She reached the woman inguinal area and skilfully drew blood from the femoral vein. She’d need urine too but that had to wait until she had her open. Toxicology tests were definitely required.

She was about to start the internal autopsy and cut the woman open when the scent of pine and snow reached and a moment later the silver haired agent was in front of her. His hair was disheveled as if he had run there.

He froze when he spotted her. Even with her contacts and without her cloak he could recognise her. When his nostril flared she had her answer.

“You.”

“Get out of my morgue.”

“What are you doing here?” He asked advancing dangerously.

“I work here, asshole,” and flicked the scalpel in her hand “I am the friggin ME.”

She saw his surprise.

“I need to be here.”

“No, you need to get the fuck out and let me perform the autopsy in peace.”

His jaw clenched hard. Oh so the bastard was not accustomed to take no for an answer.

“Did you notice anything strange?”

Aelin stopped and noticed a folder under his arm.

She nodded and pointed at all the cuts on her body and the IV marks on the arm.

“I was about to open her up. She smells funny.”

“What do you mean?”

Aelin sighed and took a step back “smell her, dumbass.”

He glared at her and then sniffed her near the neck. It was true the woman had a strange scent that he could not place.

“Any idea?”

“Some sort of chemical or drug. I need a toxicology test to confirm it.”

Aelin walked away and came back with a pair of long scrubs for him “put this on. You don’t want to cover that expensive suit in goo.”

She let him get dressed and grabbed her scalped once more and proceed with a Y shaped incision on the torso.

“I hope you are not squeamish, agent.”

With a scalpel in her hand she traced the incision on the woman’s body and after she was done she started peeling back the skin exposing the ribcage.

Aelin grabbed the electric saw and started cutting through the bones to remove the ribcage.

“Now, let me see what secrets do you have for me.”

“Do you always talk to your cadavers?”

Aelin groaned and turned to him, the saw in her hand and a murderous look in her eyes.

As soon as the abdominal cavity was exposed she noticed the liver. It had signs of necrosis. She wrote down a few notes and moved down to the bladder to take a sample of urine too. While she worked the agent stood silent at her side.

“When you’ll have the results?’ He asked her two hours later after she finished taking all the samples she needed.

Aelin removed her glasses, coveralls and set the thick folder aside “I have to run a lot of pathology tests. It might take me a few days.”

He groaned “Can it be sped up?”

She turned and glared at him “No it can’t.”

“I need the results as soon as you have them.”

“This is a police case, not yours. My findings are going straight to them.”

He grabbed her arm “you do not understand.”

Aelin pushed his hand away “I do not give a fuck.”

He slammed the file on a corner of the autopsy table.

She grabbed it and had a look at it. The woman, she remembered her. And as she flicked through the case file she noticed a lot of similarities with the woman on her table.

“Her name was Lyria. She was found dead in a back alley, discarded like a piece of trash. Same marks as the woman on your table. She disappeared for two weeks before turning up dead.”

She looked at him and noticed a strange light in his eyes, was that sorrow?

“Now, a year later a similar case. Same MO. These two cases are connected.”

“My report will be with the police.”

In a burst of anger he grabbed her and turned her pushing her back against the closet.

Aelin snarled and grabbed her scalpel “I do not care who you are, agent. This report will go to the police as it is still their case. If you want info you go to their HQ and beg.”

“You do not want to piss me off.”

A smirk blossomed on Aelin’s face and the hand with the scalpel moved dangerously close to his neck “Neither do you, agent.”

Rowan pulled back and grabbed his file and walked out of the room.

Aelin let out a scream of frustration as soon she was all alone once more.

TAGS:

@rowaelinismyotp @swankii-art-teacher @courtofjurdan @whimsicallyreading @themoonthestarsthesuriel @aelin-bitch-queen @bruiseonthefaceofhumanity @acreativelydifferentlove @mis-lil-red @thegreyj @sailorsassley @leiawritesstories @clairec79 @morganofthewildfire @sv0430 @heartless--aromantic @autumnbabylon @rowanaelinn @backtobl4ck @susumaus98 @gracie-rosee @mybloodrunsblue @tanvee1231 @avenrebekah @whoever-you-choose-to-love @theywillnotsingforme @universallytreepost @black-daisy-water @goddess-aelin

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #aelin x rowan #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #vampires #vampires au #Lysandra #throne of glass fic #throne of glass fanfiction

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