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crown-ov-horns · 2 months

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Captured Angel

Michael Langdon x F!Angel!Reader

Contains: vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, elements of coercion, implied loss of virginity, blasphemy, hierophilia

“Good, you’re awake.”

A chill ran down your spine. You had awakened in an unfamiliar room. Your head ached, your wings hung limp, and your limbs were heavy. The air was soaked to the last thread in malice. It made you nauseous. Gritting your teeth, you dragged yourself up, your mind aflame with a single thought – you had to get out. You looked around, but before you could spot a way of escape, you felt a presence. Dark... Darker than the blackest night. Your heart froze in your chest, a taste of iron suddenly coating your tongue. Though you had not seen his face, you could recognize him anywhere. Seven heads. Ten horns. His honeyed voice left a cold, oily trace on your very soul as he spoke. You drew a deep breath, and spun around, to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes.

His lips crooked into a smirk. Holding your gaze, he moved towards you. You drew back.

“Get away from me, filthy Beast...” you snarled.

Deep down, you loathed yourself for the instinctive reaction. You were a soldier. You had a duty to stand your ground, and instead, you cowered. He promptly crossed the gap between you two.

“Ah-ah!” he scolded, clasping your chin “That’s not very nice, now, is it?..”

You grimaced. Michael Langdon. How ironic, for Satan’s son to bear your General’s name. The one who cast him out... You hoped it hurt the Evil One greatly. Michael caressed your cheek. You winced, and pushed his hand away. Sneering, he grabbed you by the throat.

“Why am I here?” you hissed through gritted teeth.

He glanced down at your heaving chest.

“You’re my captive” he purred “Isn’t it obvious?”

You swallowed. Struggling would only worsen your chances, you knew as much. His gaze darkened with hunger as he watched you – like a wolf, salivating at a wounded deer. Your guts had coiled into a tight knot, a sickly sweet taste coating your mouth.

“Why didn’t your bootlickers kill me?” you asked, not quite certain if you wished to know the answer.

A chuckle escaped his lips. The Antichrist’s lecherous expression made your blood boil. How dare the abomination touch an angel of the Lord, you thought. A strange sensation was budding between your legs, but you pointedly ignored it, just as you ignored the feeling of unease clawing at the back of your skull.

“That would’ve been a waste...” Michael tilted his head “They thought a gift would please me. They weren’t wrong...”

You snarled, attempting to pull away.

“Get your putrid hands off me!”

He tightened his grip on your neck.

“Hush” he coaxed in a mockingly gentle voice “I’m not going to hurt you, angel.”

“Vile creature...” you spat.

He pulled you closer. You bared your teeth, as your face almost crashed into his. Though you did not need air, the pressure on your throat was beginning to make you dizzy. Every nerve in your body screamed to fight - your muscles had tensed, prepared for combat. You might have broken away. Escaped this unholy place. You should have at least tried... But, perhaps because of the mist gathering over your mind, your legs trembled underneath you. You found yourself staring at his mouth. His breath brushed against your skin, warm and silken. Your pulse leapt into a frenzy.

Michael snuck his other hand under your clothes. The captors had stripped you of your armour, and taken away your sword, leaving only your linen tunic to cover you. His fingertips caressed your thigh, slowly creeping upwards. You held your breath as you felt him part the soft folds of your skin.

You had never been fondled like this before. Carnal pleasure was forbidden for your kind. You should be disgusted, you understood as much. Still, the electric-like impulse roused by his touch paralyzed you, preventing you from breaking his arm.

He stroked your entrance. You stifled a gasp, your intimate muscles tightened in anticipation. Your hole was beginning to well with slick. Taking your lack of resistance for a welcome, he slipped two fingers inside you. The feeling of his skin against your sensitive membrane made your head spin, and you barely held back from bucking your hips into his hand.

He let go of your neck, only to wrap his arm around your waist. Keeping you steady, he spread his fingers wider, straining you until it hurt. You shuddered. He massaged the velvety walls of your flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. Aware of how much satisfaction hearing your cries would give him, you clenched your jaw. His skin grazed against a certain knot of nerves, and you nearly sunk to the ground as your legs buckled from the bolt of stimulation. Still, somehow, you did not make a sound.

It only made Michael more determined. He fixated on your sweet spot, leaving you to desperately clutch the lapels of his jacket. His mouth lingered but a thread away from yours - you felt his heartbeat echo against your rib cage. He narrowed his eyes, and pressed his thumb to your clit. Overwhelmed, you drew a sharp breath.

“Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?..” he teased “What is it, my dear? What do you want, hm?”

He pushed a third finger into your dripping slit. You whined in pleasure muddled with despair.

“Speak up, angel” he demanded.

Virtue be damned. Something tameless had infected you. Caught in the furor of sin, you eagerly cast your innocence aflame.

“I...” you stammered “I want... I need you to ravish me...”

Michael threw you onto the bed, and climbed on top of you. Laying flat on your back, your wings sprawled open, you looked up at him, your eyes sweetly half-lidded. His knee shoved between your thighs, he ripped the front of your tunic open. You sighed as cold air brushed against your nipples. He placed his hands on your breasts, savouring the softness of your bare skin. His eyes aflame with lust, he took a moment to admire your flushed, helpless body. Biting your bottom lip, you pushed your chest into his touch. He grabbed you by the throat again.

“You’re mine” he snarled “Mine alone...”

Against your better judgement, you nodded. Your gaze wandered down to his crotch, causing your mouth to immediately water. Michael’s lips crooked into a sleazy smirk. He unbuckled his pants, and slipped his underwear down. Your eyes widened as his hard cock sprung free. Large, but not obscenely so. You pulled the skirt of your tunic up, leaving your aching cunt at his mercy.

He pinned you down under his full weight. You wrapped your arms around him, savouring the feel of luxurious fabric under your fingers. Like an animal in heat, you craved to feel him inside. His eyes locked with yours, Michael clasped your leg, and positioned himself more comfortably. You blindly caught hold of his member, helping guide it into your hole.

Your heart skipped a beat – you let out a moan as your membranes clamped around him. Hardly giving you a moment to adjust, he began to move. The sudden strain roused a twinge, but it soon was obscured by shattering pleasure. No longer holding back your mewls and whimpers, you sank your nails into his back. Should the expensive suit get ruined, it will be his fault.

Michael groaned, his teeth bared in primal satisfaction. Your response only encouraged him, and he quickly picked up the pace. Each thrust sent a shattering wave of pleasure through your fevered nerves. You wrapped your legs around his waist, welcoming them. He traced the tip of his tongue over your neck. You hissed as his long hair tickled you, overwhelming your senses even more. He purred, and nipped at your jaw.

“Kiss me” you demanded.

He obeyed, leaning down to press his mouth against yours. You parted your lips for him, and allowed your tongues to battle for dominance.

“Say my name” he ordered, upon pulling away.

“I can’t...” you gasped in horror.

“Your general isn’t here...” he growled “It’s just you and me...” he pressed his face to your temple “Say my name, sweetheart. Show the Beast how much you’re enjoying your downfall.”

He pulled his cock almost all the was out, then slammed it back in, roughly grazing your sweet spot. Your cried out, and sank your fingers into his hair. You didn’t want to think about her. You loathed to imagine her disappointment in you. But his presence eclipsed her face. Drowned it in the storm of ecstasy ravaging you.

“Michael!”

“Good girl” he praised with a grin.

Shock after shock of ecstasy tore through your body, setting every cell of it aflame. Your forehead was laced in sweat. Your muscles quivered from the tension. You were close. Very close. Turned feral by the pleasure, he grabbed you by the wrists, thrusting into you with merciless force.

“Michael...” you moaned.

You couldn’t stand it anymore. You arched your back, trembling and convulsing as a scream escaped your throat. Michael threw his head back with a snarl. You had grown painfully tight around him, prompting him to reach his own release. You felt him spill inside you – it was the strangest, most pleasant sensation you had ever experienced.

You collapsed into the pillows, limp and gasping for breath. He slumped down on top of you. For a moment, you allowed yourself to soak in the glowing haze of bliss. But, just when he had crept off of you, and was about to pull you into his arms, you leapt up. Using his surprise for your advantage, you climbed onto him – this time, you were the one to pin him down. You caught his gaze, and drew a dagger from underneath your ruined tunic. Afraid to molest their master’s gift, the devil worshippers had missed it.

“You will find the men who captured me, crucify them, and bleed them like pigs” you growled, pressing the blade against his throat “Do you understand me, Antichrist?”

A drop of blood sept from under the metal, glowing against his milky skin in a warning.

“Yes” he murmured, as his eyes blazed with adoration.

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demonbarberofbeepbeep · 1 month

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morning toddheads

#look he did have fun #he liked it #*walter white voice* he liked it. he was good at it #you know what i do think he loved her a little bit too #final scene is so sad #everything faaaaalllllsss apaaaart #i guess when i say i don't think sweenett is love #i do think they love each other in their ways #but the lie about lucy is so enormous #so central #to have lucy still alive and badly needing help #and have nellie continuously hide that from a man who is GRIEVING HIS WIFE #and trying to avenge her #it bothers me a lot #so i think the betrayal at her lying to him is multifold #it's not just you LIED to me #it's YOU lied to me #i thought you were on my side #all our confidences and tender moments had this lie beneath it #who are you #even #idk. i'm writing my fanfic and im in my feelings #their relatinoship is so complicated #what is love anyway #WHAT IS IS LOVE #baby don't throw me in the oven #in the oven #anymore #text post meme #sweenett

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liminalpsych · 15 days

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A very, very roughly sketched, unedited scene that wouldn't leave me alone this morning and demanded to be written (....oh hey @queer-ragnelle! I accidentally made a Lusty Month of May / May Day Parade contribution!):

The week they arrive at Sorelois. Perhaps even the day. Guinevere is half-mad with rage and grief, reeling from Arthur's betrayal, the loss of her marriage, of her court. It's the usurping of her entire life.

It makes her bold. It makes her want to be cruel. It makes her want to strike back or to take what she wants or to rebel in some small or large way. It makes her want to hurt Arthur in turn, or transgress since she has already been spurned from society and convicted for something for which she's innocent.

"There is something I wish to see," Guinevere says, there in the somber quiet of the receiving room with Lancelot, Galehaut, and Lady Bloie of Malehaut. An announcement to the air, undirected.

Lancelot responds first, of course, as expected. He kneels before her, the picture of earnest devotion. "Whatever you wish, my queen, I will strive my utmost to bring it to you."

Across the room, towering nigh to the ceiling even leaned against the wall as he is, Galehaut watches her with a carefully neutral expression. Unblinking, unsmiling, and there's the barest tightening around his eyes. He is wary of her still, and senses her mood.

The Lady of Malehaut is a different kind of unreadable entirely, lounging next to her with a spot of embroidery to keep her clever hands busy. Her full mouth is always a breath away from smiling, like she carries with her a trove of private amusements at all times. She observes from beneath half-lidded eyes, her needle flashing through cloth more by touch than sight.

Guinevere lifts her loyal knight's chin with a touch of her finger. His lips part, eyes wide and wondering. She smiles. "I want to you to give Galehaut a kiss."

Ah, if only she dared to watch Galehaut's expression in that moment! Yet she must keep her focus on Lancelot. His face pales. His breath catches in his throat. His pulse thrums against her finger like a trapped and frantic bird. "M-my queen?" he stammers, gaze darting side to side as if for an escape.

Her smile sharpens, serpentine. "Do you not wish to?"

"I— I am not—" He's breathing rapid and shallow now, on the edge of panic. It's a pretty quandary she's put him in, one with no known safe answer, and he's reeling under it.

(She feels more steady by the moment, her control re-establishing in the small sphere she still possesses.)

Galehaut steps forward. There's the edge of fury in his warning, in the creak of leather and the rattle of maille. "My lady," he rumbles.

Now Guinevere looks his way, and she lifts a graceful eyebrow at the storm in his countenance. Lancelot quivers beneath her touch, unmoored by the loss of her pinning gaze. "Will you tell me truly that you don't want this, Galehaut?"

He halts. His jaw works; the stormclouds thicken. He glares, proud and silent.

Guinevere laughs. It's a free, bell-like sound—as playful as a day a-Maying. Lancelot stills and his breathing steadies, soothed by her apparent merriment. She makes a show of taking pity on him, releasing his chin to stroke his cheek. "Do you wish to kiss me?" she murmurs, leaning closer.

His breath catches again, no different than before. He nods.

She kisses him, sweet and soft; he returns it with a small desperate sound against her lips. (It tastes like power.) He's breathless when she pulls away, and she smiles down at him, indulgent. "I know Galehaut desires a kiss from you as well," she says, "and he is the one who brought us together, yes?"

Another nod, and Lancelot seems more dazed than panicked now. Swaying towards her, and glancing shyly towards his boon companion, who draws a sharp bracing breath.

"It is not as if he's a lady," she says with a wink. "So it is not being untrue to me. And it is my request, is it not?"

"Y—yes, my lady...?"

"Do you not want to kiss him?"

"I..." Those expressive eyes flicker from her lips to Galehaut's and back again. His breath quickens again, but this time it is a little less panicked. "My lady, you ask hard questions," he says at last, helplessly.

She laughs again, darkened with satisfaction. "Kiss him, then," she commands, "and then tell me if you want to do it again."

"My lady," protests Galehaut, strained—oh, and there is longing so sharp that it is agonized, bare and naked in every rigid muscle and the aching furrow of his brow. He looks at Lancelot like a man starving. He looks at Guinevere like a man betrayed.

To give Galehaut what he so desperately desires, when he knows it is something she can take away at any moment? To receive a kiss from his Lancelot, but only on the order of Lancelot's lover-queen? For Galehaut to touch his companion in the way he desires, but only so long as Guinevere allows it, never knowing truly if Lancelot would have initiated on his own, never being certain of Lancelot's desire?

It's a power like none she's ever wielded before.

Lancelot stumbles to Galehaut on unsteady legs with a last hesitant glance over his shoulder. Guinevere smiles encouragingly and nods her approval. One last nudge—and still, Galehaut could refuse Lancelot. Galehaut is sworn to neither Guinevere nor Arthur; he needs not obey her. Galehaut could save the last unconquered edges of his heart and maintain this last barrier of distance. He could still refuse himself what he wants so badly.

Galehaut tenses, and Galehaut wavers, and Galehaut's heaves great draughts of air as if he's in the thick of a melee.

Lancelot reaches out, and Galehaut surrenders.

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tirfpikachu · 1 month

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hiiii gyns i have a date on SUNDAY!!!!! :D her name is precious (adorable!!) and she's soooo cute she's a writer like me and an anime lover too and just seems like a total sweetheart! it'll also be her FIRST DATE EVER????? 0w0 she has never been with anybody ever????? so the pressure is on for sure omfg... i want to make it super special for her even if we don't work out!! we're going to my fave froyo spot and then anime & weed back at my place!

she's also british and she sent me voice notes and her accent is SOOO ATTRACTIVE AAHHHHH and she's only looking for a serious relationship which is super attractive too!!! <3 we'll see how it goes, but either way we both agreed to be friends if the vibes aren't gay!

#lay text #she kept doing cute shy little laughs in her voicenotes it was soooo endearing :')#she's a fandom girlie like me which is so fun! she writes m/m smutty fanfics kjgdskgj #i'm nervous bc i was also my ex's first relationship and i don't wanna be an experiment or just whoever she found first or smtg??#bc ik when you haven't dated yet you're just excited to date #but i want to be chosen. and i want a love story forreal #so yeah i'm gonna see how things go and ask more questions!#i don't want to rush into the wrong thing y'know and i have very specific requirements and needs etc #she says she's more demisexual too so i want to go slow but i also do NOT want to end up in a mostly sexless relationship bc that suuuucked #so yeah i'm curious to learn more abt her!!! and everytime i go on a date i learn more abt myself too :]

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sentientsky · 3 months

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here, have a little angelfish ficlet (ft. lots of queer yearning. also. “be gay, do crime” vibes)

It's all the same; a slow, monotonous dragging of time through liminal space. There had never been room enough for shifting tides or changing winds—no room to stretch one's wings. Because Heaven, by its very nature, is antiseptic. Pure autoclave, all pressure and steam and the absence of touch. That's part of the deal. You want to keep the wings? The halo? Well, then, you have to learn to live under the fluorescent glare of a silent god.

It's all the same, save for the slippery red heat of Michael's heart hurling itself staccato against her breastbone. In truth, it’s a heart that doesn’t really need to beat—that doesn’t need to exist at all, save for her inclination to feel the heavy weight of it writhing in her chest. In a way she doesn’t quite yet understand, she wants proof. She wants to feel her pulse, feel it move in a way that leaves a mark, bruises flesh.

She sits with her hands folded, one pressed over top of the other. From afar, it might even look as though she’s praying (it might look as though she’s holy, still held firm in the Mother's grasp). She breathes in. Slow, tentative—as though the air might carry unspoken words out and away from her. There’s a certain chilling numbness that creeps up on you when you’ve lived this way for so long; a buzzing static that burns from the base of your skull, all the way down to the backs of your knees, your calves—the place where your feet hit the ground running (always running, always dying to get out even as you lean into the punches). It’s the feeling of living in the hollowed-out limbs of a corpse, of walking around with waxen, rotting flesh and a smile that stretches slightly too far to be genuine.

And yet, now, for once, her body is no longer whirring—no longer silently humming with agitation or the drive to propel herself forward and up, ever up. For once, she’s still, save for the thrashing in her throat. She breathes out. She rolls words around in her mouth: flashpoint, epiphany—whispers them like a prayer spoken to no one—lightning strike, catalyst. A thread pulled so taut, it cuts to marrow. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep the pace, hold the line. Adjust to the status quo. But the status quo has never looked so unappealing. Because, she realizes, if someone had asked her to paint the slope of a silver-blue throat, or the upturned palm of a scaled hand, she could do it with her eyes closed. She could do it in complete darkness, at the edge of existence. Of this she was nearly certain.

--- It had taken place in the corridors that stretch from one end of infinity to the next; a slicing wound driven between the ribs of the universe. And it had been innocuous, really—a passing glance, at first. And then an icy nod, the turn of a jaw towards the stale light. The brush of shoulders, and the ache that bloomed in her at the touch. Time wore on, kingdoms rose and fell. The sea drew towards the shore, Michael’s eyes drew towards a too-sharp mouth. In their own fragment of purgatory made heaven made something completely new, she and Dagon exchanged rasped whispers—hushed murmurings of a revolution.

The inferno in her gut grew, consumed, devoured. Years clawed past. It's important to note that angels, as imagined in most popular religious scripture, are exceptionally good at self-restraint. And for the most part, this is true. But those who wrote the holy texts never considered the canted slope of the devil’s mouth; they never imagined that the devil could be gentle, could press her palm to yours like a promise and speak new religion into being. And so, after what could have been eons or mere decades, they fell together, breath intermingling in the space that had become more sanctuary than abyss. Flashpoint, epiphany. It had been inevitable, really. Lightning strike, catalyst. They were two neutron stars collapsing in on themselves. Gravity, heat, the press of a sigh into her open mouth. The hunger that settled in the bottom of her gut. --- So when Gabriel walks into her office, head held high and grinning, Michael swallows it all down. She chokes it back, feels all the love she has for her demon lodge in her throat and stay there.

Of course, she could open her mouth now to speak and have it all tumble out onto the floor. She could Fall—had Fallen already, in a sense, the world pitching around her with the weight of all she wanted but could not have. The muscles of her back ached, wings flickering somewhere in the aether, thrashing like an augury. Like an omen. Let it ache, she thought. Let it wound me, infect me, take me down. If this is my destruction, so be it. Beneath the desk, the blade in her hand glittered like a piranha’s open mouth. Maybe Heaven needed a little shaking up, after all.

#i'm too tired to edit this properly so this is just me chucking a lil ficlet at your feet and collapsing into bed! good fuckin night #go sapphics go! i used she/her pronouns for both of them but i plan to mix it up more in the future #good omens #good omens season 2 #good omens 2 #go2 #good omens fanfiction #angelfish #michael x dagon #dagon x michael #ineffable administration #good omens fic #angelfish ficlet #angelfish fanfic #gomens #gomens 2 #good omens ficlet #my writing #long post

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burningblake · 1 year

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Chenford + you matter more (Post 5.12)

She falls back on her pillow, breathless and feeling as light as a feather. She tries to remember the last time she's felt this perfect after sex and her thoughts turn empty.

Tim rolls on top of her again, placing both his arms at either side of her head and leaning in to take her lips in yet another kiss. For a moment all she can hear is the deep breath she takes and their lips smacking, all she can feel is her chest arching into his.

He pulls back only a few inches and looks into her eyes. She places her palm softly on his cheek and he leans into it, leaving a soft kiss on her wrist. She stares at him, not remembering ever being loved like that. Ever loving someone like that.

His other hand slides down her thigh and she can't believe she wants more already. She arches her knee at his touch and hears a low sound deep in his throat.

They end up having two more rounds.

In the morning, she wakes up with her head propped on his chest, his arm around her, tangled with her hair. She only half-opens her eyes, closes them and smiles, a content sound coming from deep in her throat, rasped from the rawness of the morning. She shifts her legs and adjusts herself better into the shape of his embrace. He moves as well under her weight and she realizes that he is awake.

Her smile turns into a grin and as she turns her head upwards, it's reflected on his own lips. His eyes are half-open and raw from sleep. She props herself on her elbows and crawls upwards, so that her gaze levels his, her hair falling all over. His hands readjust onto her waist to support her new position.

"Good morning," she whispers.

His eyes become glazed. He lifts a little off the mattress and places a peck on her lips. "Good morning. Sleep well?"

"Like a bird. Though I could wish for a few more hours."

He smiles. "Me too."

She lifts her eyebrow. "Really? Cause you didn't seem exhausted at all last night."

His smile broadens. "You, on the other hand, were pretty exhausted."

She tilts her head in question.

"You snored," he explains.

Her eyes widen. "Did not!"

"You did. It was pretty loud."

She catches the playful light in his eyes and pokes him.

"You're a lying liar who lies!"

"Ow!" he mouths.

She tilts her head and flicks her eyebrows at him. He gives her an incredulous gaze before, suddenly, starts tickling her. She squeals and then starts giggling, as he rolls her over onto the mattress and climbs on top of her.

"Tim!" she yells amidst laughing.

When he stops, they're left staring into each other's eyes, their expression slowly turning sober. His gaze falters to her lips and she really wants to spend the rest of the morning rolling under the covers with him, but for one thing, she must have a bad breath, and for another, these few minutes is all she's going to have today to continue their discussion from yesterday. Because yes, there was no sense in arguing about it last night, when other, more essential needs demaned fulfilling. But now that the thirst is quelled a little, she wants to raise the subject again.

"Tim?" she starts.

He sees the seriousness in her eyes and inches backwards. "Something wrong?"

"Look, I know how much this job matters to you, and you might not realize it now, but you're going to resent me later, when—"

She's interrupted by his finger landing on her lips.

"Shhh," he says. "You matter more."

She can't help the smile that teases her lips, but she won't lose the argument yet.

"But—" she mumbles.

"Lucy, it's not going to be permanent. Besides, it might be a good change in pace for me to have a less stressful position for a while. It's been long since I've had a vacation from patrol."

She stays silent, waiting for him to lift off his finger. As soon as he does, she fires on.

"You are such a bad liar! We both know that you hate desk jobs. No, wait—" she puts her palm up, as he opens his mouth to protest. "It's going to be worse if you try to hide your true feelings about this just so you don't upset me. If we want this to work, we'll have to promise to be open about how we feel and not lie to each other."

Tim sighs.

"Promise me," she insists, pressing her palm on his chest.

Tim covers her fingers and nods. "I promise."

"Well?"

He rolls his eyes. "Alright, I admit that it's not my dream job, but baby, it doesn't matter. I don't care as long as I get to be with you."

She's lost all her power in this argument the minute he called her that term of endearment.

Her lips press into a smile. "Did you just call me baby?"

He grins. "Yeah."

She gives him a flirty look. "I kinda liked it."

His grin broadens and for a moment, her eyes are lost in the love she sees in his expression. She doesn't remember ever seeing him happy like this. And it still feels surreal to her that she's the reason behind it.

Tim's expression slowly sobers up as he leans into her ear and whispers, "You matter more, baby."

(masterlist)

#thanks!! been meaning to write a morning-after scene for 5.12 hehe #chenford #the rookie #chenford fanfic #tim x lucy #replies #anonymous #too soon to call her baby?#to all the people who've left prompts in my inbox i see you and i appreciate you #sorry for my turtle speed in fulfilling them but I promise I'm not ignoring you <3

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flyinglowdown · 7 days

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i have a dream. and that dream is cressida/eloise/lord debling

#bridgerton #OKAY OKAY BUT HEAR ME OUT!#eloise has her strong interests in women's rights and philosophical discussions and escaping the societal rules of the ton #cressida wants more than anything to have her OWN home and spend her time running it with people who value HER not her “value”#+ we can see so clearly how she's begun to change + become her own person around those who won't judge her (too harshly lol) as she breaks #Debling is such a free thinker and so committed to his work with the same passion Eloise has and wants freedom from the burden of his title #BUT MOST OF ALL someone who can accept him for who he is despite /not/ fitting in how he's “supposed” to #THEY HAVE SUCH POTENTIAL!!!#Cressida free to run a home #Eloise free from the marriage mart #Debling free to explore the world #Cressida + Eloise continuing to spend their time together while Debling is on his travels #And when Debling returns home there is so much newness for them both to learn about!! such steady warmth and welcomness for the two of them #while Cressida keeps the both of them engaged in the ton and going out to meet new people/have interesting conversations #even when they forget that's one of the benefits of the ton #and Eloise's wit and charm keep them both so entertained and in such vibrant spirits even when apart #you just kNOW Eloise's letters would be something else #writing at least once a week (w/Cressida's love + polite questions peppered in) even if they know they won't be delivered 'til the next por #I'M GOING FERAL!!!!!#is this what gets me back writing fanfic again lol #eloise bridgerton #cressida cowper #alfred debling #lord debling

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blackwolfstabs · 7 months

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30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 15

LET GO

"You have to let me go." - the hardest decision and one hell of a commitment.

inspired by the song "I Loved Her First" by Heartland

I was enough for her, not long ago. I was her number one, she told me so.

Tara was 20-going-on-21. She was growing up. She was moving on. She was independent and dependable. She was smart and courageous. She was everything Sam would ever hope for her to be.

Except not staying her little girl forever…

Sam remembered everything. Everything they ever had before it all changed, before their fallout, before she left. Ten years, five years, one year, all of the time wasted and estranged meant nothing. It didn’t hold a candle to the amount of memories she could talk hours about. She couldn’t tell you she’d been there for her baby sister’s whole life, but she could tell you anything you’d want to know about her. She remembered every fight, every smile, every laugh, every cry, every pain, every hug, every kiss, every “Sammy”—

Sammy… That’s a name she hadn’t heard in a long time. It was Tara’s name for her… Her special name. She had said that more times than she had said “Mama” or “Daddy”, more than she had said “Mom” or “Dad.” She had said that more than she had ever said any other name in the whole world. Now, she was just Sam, and that was fine. But she couldn’t forget what it meant to be Sammy. What it meant to be the one Tara would cry for in the middle of the night when she was being sleep trained and was tired of going back and forth from their parents’ bedroom. What it meant to be the one she hugged every day when she came home from school. What it meant to hold her hand at the doctor’s office or push her on the swing. What it meant to be adored and believed in, no matter how impossible the challenge. What it meant to be Tara’s Number 1…

“You’re my number one, Sammy! I love you!”

It’s not that Tara loved her any less or that she ignored her. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about her or was leaving so they’d never see each other again. They saw each other every day. They talked every day. They still said, “I love you” and “Goodnight” and “How are you?” to each other.

But it wasn’t the same.

There was hurt and scars deep in that girl’s eyes. Her smile hadn’t changed, but it hid a million tragedies. She was no longer innocent in the way that pain and suffering and fear were the worst in the forms of splinters, not getting the stuffed animal she wanted, or what might be hiding under her bed. Tara knew what it was like to have broken bones and scars permanently tattooed onto her skin. She knew what it was like to beg for mercy as she bled out and drag herself helplessly across a cold floor in hopes that a serial killer with a blood lust would have mercy on her life. She knew what it was like to shake so violently that it took mountains of drugs to sedate her and scream herself hoarse trying to fight for everything she had to lose. She knew what it was like to be so far gone that trauma was the only thing that pulled her back.

And then Chad came along…

And she still means the world to me, just so you know, so be careful when you hold my girl.

He and Tara were a match made that Sam never saw coming. When she had first returned to Woodsboro, she thought of him having grown up to be the stereotypical jock that you see in the movies. However, once he lost Liv and Tara lost Amber, something between them sparked. It was subtle, but Sam had babysat Chad long enough to figure him out as if he were her brother. She noticed the way he was careful around her younger sister, watching how he moved to make sure he never made her uncomfortable and how he was always there to watch out for her when Sam wasn’t around. Trauma had matured them both, as sad as that was to say, but in the same token, they bonded over that.

Sam respected how protective Chad was over Tara. How he was the one nearly caught in a fight when Frankie intended to drag Tara up the stairs and rape her. How he held the door for her and pulled her out of harm’s way whenever she tried to rush into danger. How he held her when she was hurting and kissed her goodnight. She knew she could trust him with her only sister, the person she cared the most about in this cruel world. And she would never love anyone more.

Tara was her girl, no matter who she devoted her heart to.

And if it was Chad, so be it.

Time changes everything, life must go on. I’m not gonna stand in your way.

Yes, Tara had grown up. She didn’t cry anymore when she fell down. She wasn’t clingy when they were in a new place. She didn’t ask for help with her homework or crawl into Sam’s bed in the middle of the night just because she “missed her”.

She was still young, but she couldn’t be tied to Sam’s side anymore. She had to let her go.

And she did. That night she had given Tara the knife, while she hung off the balcony, their bloodied hands clutching each other’s wrists like they were all they had to lose.

“You have to let me go.”

Since then, they had become closer as sisters but even more distant in boundaries. Tara was free, because she proved to herself and Sam that she could take care of herself. So, she went to college, stayed up late, walked to and from therapy sessions by herself, hung out with friends, hit up a movie theater every now and then, and just indulged in her collar-free lifestyle. She always told Sam where she was going and how long she’d be out, but she was alone in doing it. All her older sister could do was say, “Okay. Be careful. I love you.”

And in reply, she’d hear, “I will. Love you too.”

She had made a promise to Tara that she’d always be there for her, but she understood that she couldn’t keep her sheltered from the rest of the world. Tara had a tough background; she deserved the freedom, trust, and independence she had to go where she wanted, experience what life had to offer, and love who she couldn’t live without.

Sam couldn’t stand in her way any longer.

I loved her first. I held her first. And a place in my heart will always be hers.

But no matter where Tara went, how long she stayed away, and who she spent her days and nights with, Sam would always be the first one to love her. Sure, she may have gone to school with Chad Meeks-Martin. She may have shared her lunch with him. She may have raced him on the playground and gave him hours of her time after school when Sam would babysit both twins and Wes Hicks. She may have fallen in love with him. She may have kissed him and sat in his lap late at night. She may have pushed his buttons, and he may have pushed hers. She may have done a lot of things.

But Sam had always been the first one to do any of them. She was the reason Tara knew what all those things felt like and how they made her feel.

She loved her first, and no matter how old Tara was or where life took her, Sam would always hold everything she had of her baby sister in a special place in her heart.

From the first breath she breathed, when she first smiled at me. I knew the love of a sister runs deep.

The day she was born. Her first word. Her first asthma attack. All of her doctor’s visits. Her sleep training. The day she lost her first tooth. Her first day of pre-k. Her first day of kindergarten. Evey milestone Tara had in her childhood, Sam was there for.

As far as she was concerned, being the older sister meant being anything and everything for her baby sister, even if it was impossible. If Tara was scared, she wasn’t. If Tara needed a doctor on sight, Sam vowed she would get her to one by carrying her on her back. If Tara asked for one more bedtime story, one more hug, one more goodnight kiss, Sam would give it to her. Anything Tara wanted was hers, no matter how hard it was to get.

She never could stand it when her younger sister would cry, no matter the age. When Tara was a baby, she’d keep asking her mom why she was crying, convinced something was wrong when she was told that babies just cry sometimes. When she would accidently push Tara down while playing, she would beg her parents that it was an accident, that she didn’t mean to hurt her or make her cry. When Tara was being sleep-trained, Sam would cover her ears to block out her constant wailing when she would be put back into her room. She’d listen to her sobs and pleas, asking for one more hug or pull an excuse just to get her way. But when Tara would give up on their parents and started to call out “Sammy! I need you, Sammy!”, she gave in every time. Because when she saw her tears dry before she drifted off to sleep, happy that she was no longer alone, Sam couldn’t think of anything else in the world that was more precious than her existence.

And I prayed that she’d find you someday. But it’s still hard to give her away…

If only Tara could have always been that happy. If only she could have always stayed that innocent. But life was never fair to the ones that didn’t deserve its wrath.

However, it had given her so much to live for. Her degree. Chad. Her future. The rest of her life.

And as hard as it was to let her go, Sam knew she had to. For Tara’s sake. Because like it had been from the start, she’d forever do whatever it took to make sure she was happy.

Even if it was impossible.

I loved her first.

She knew from day 1 that she could never love anyone more than the baby girl with the most beautiful smile in the world. She would never want anything but the best for the baby girl with the most beautiful name in the world.

Tara Carpenter.

How could that beautiful woman with you be the same freckled-face kid that I knew?

And Sam had never been more right about anything in her life. Tara was gorgeous, and everyone thought so too. She’d come home from her college classes and go on and on about how many boys tried to get her number or make a move on her. Then, she’d proudly talk about how she’d turn them down and flash them her lock screen—which was of her and Chad celebrating New Year’s—as she walked by.

She carried herself with confidence, she said what she pleased, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, and she had no problem throwing a punch to someone who deserved it. Samantha couldn’t believe how much she’d grown from being that little girl that would hide behind her, because she was too shy. That little girl who would look up at her with the biggest eyes and brightest grin, saying “Sammy, guess what I did today?” The little girl that once thought she was the queen of the household, just because her big sister doted on her so much.

She was the same person who had done all that, but no one would’ve thought it.

The one that I read all those fairy tales to… and tucked into bed all those nights.

Oh, God, and how Sam would do everything a thousand times over, if it only meant Tara could stay little forever.

There were many times that their parents were working or having heated discussions in their room, so it would be up to Sam to read Tara her bedtime story or tuck her in. It became a routine, and she enjoyed it so much that she took it up to be her responsibility each night. They were both learning, so why not do it together?

She would always let Tara pick the book and choose how many times she wanted to hear it. Tara always sat in her lap or leaned against her with all her weight from the side. Sam never minded it when she’d shout out the words on the next page before she even turned it or the way she would insist she wasn’t tired—that she wanted to hear it again—even though she was yawning and rubbing her eyes.

And when Sam got her in bed and tucked her in, Tara would rehearse the same phrase she’d learned from one of her books, except she had her own little twist on it.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my Sammy, you’ll be.”

What Sam would give to hear that one more time.

And I knew the first time I saw you with her, it was only a matter of time.

But she would never ask to hear it. Tara was who she was, and she did her best not to look back. Not because of her childhood, of all those beautiful times she and Sam shared together, but because of the grief, pain, and trauma that had come in between then and now. It was a brick wall, a storm window, a tangle of strings that shaped her into who she was today.

Sam knew that, just like she knew moving on and giving her heart to someone new was all a part of Tara living and enjoying her life.

She had to accept it.

Tara wasn’t gone. She hadn’t left. She had simply grown up. They still had a ton of time to spend with each other and just be sisters. They loved each other like no other half-siblings could ever love each other.

They were Samantha and Tara Carpenter. The Carpenter Sisters.

And for a while, they had forever in their hands. That’s why it was so hard for one to understand…

That the one thing that was the best thing she could ever do for her baby sister was the exact thing she was the most scared of.

She had to let her go.

Someday, you might know what I’m going through…

“Can I see her?” Sam asked her mother, barely unable to keep her excitement in finally becoming a true big sister to herself.

She had only been 5 years old at the time, not knowing just how close she and her new baby sister would come to be. Not knowing how crazy and reckless their lives would become. Not knowing how putting their lives on the line for each other 20 years later would come to be of the same little girls that once thought monsters in the closet, thunderstorms, and the first day of school were the most terrifying things in the world.

“Mm-hmm,” Christina nodded as her husband picked up her oldest daughter and placed her on the edge of the hospital bed.

Sam saw her mother cradling the smallest human being she had ever seen in her arms as she leaned over to get a better view. And then next thing she knew, she was staring at the face of her new baby sister.

And her whole world stopped.

When a miracle smiles up at you…

“Samantha, meet your baby sister. Tara Carpenter.”

I loved her first.

i did not expect to write this so quickly, i literally couldn't stop typing (except for the times when i started crying and had to retreat where my mom wouldn't notice lol)

this was one of the hardest things i've ever written. if you didn't cry, your heart must be made of stone, because i'm lowkey a wreck after finishing this (unless the carpenter sisters' relationship doesn't hold any power on you, then you're not heartless, just vibin).

All my best ♡ - parker

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raininyourblackeyes · 1 year

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My cousin, a published writer, a well-known poet in my country and a literature professor, for whom I've always been no.1 support ever since her first attempts at writing in high school, told me that I must stop writing as a hobby because that's her thing and since I'm writing fantasy mostly my writing could never have any important artistic value anyways.

#what happened was that i was feeling really down these past few days #like mental health dead in mariana trench #and i went to visit her because she lives like 10 minutes away and has a cat i can play with #but yesterday morning a friend of mine made a fanart (i guess i can call it that) of a fanfic i am writing for the five of them #she sent it to me and said she's also working on an actual painting on a camvas of her fave scene from my original story #and i was so surprised and exicted #that's actually a too mild description #and when i was visitting my cousin i showed her the pic of the drawing on my phone and explained it to her and she just said ....ehh..#and started texting someone #i was sitting there feeling stupid and thinking wow you could have at least praised my friend's art sytle or something #and when i was getting ready to leave she asked me if i was aware my writing has no artistic merit and fantasy is trivial literature #so i should just stop wasting time on that and focus on developing my art style more for her future poetry collections #i do the art for her book covers #and added how we already have an established writer in the family so i should focus on my role - becoming a good pharmacist #and she knows how much i hate that i'm studying pharmacy like it's the no.1 cause of me hating the direction in which my life is going #finished it off by saying she feels like what she's doing in going to be really great and important on a large scale one day #and how she wants me to continue being her shadow that follows and supports her #i left went home and started at a wall for hours #i just feel so dumb for getting excited over a silly drawing of something not more than 5 people will ever read #i genuinely hate the idea of people reading anything i write so most likely writing will just remain a hobby for me #and now i feel like the most stupid person on earth and am this close to deleting all my word documents from both my laptops

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existencebringsonlypain · 23 days

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hey. Hey you

your writing is fucken amazing

thank you????? what prompted this?????

#really‚ thank you #that's what happens when you read too much as a little kid #i do fear i'm not the best at knowing what's in character for certain personalities but for the ones i can do‚ i can DO #probably because my mom is also a fanfic writer. and she made me write her a fanfic for her show at six years old i think #(a show i never watched. she just wanted more tumblr followers lol)#i should go back and find that fic‚ it was impressive for a six year old #asks #existenceunrelateds

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sisterofficerlucychen · 1 year

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i really hope that the day we get a chenford wedding that tim includes in his vows how he's always gone by the book and always been such a control freak but then he fell in love with his boot (cue everyone laughing and lucy rolling her eyes) and she's the only one he's always felt safe with stepping out of his comfort zone and ends it with "some things matter more" because he took that risk and then lucy whispers back with a sly grin "some things matter more" ♡

#the rookie #chenford #it's missing chenford hours y'all #i can see it so clearly too and it's making me emotional :-)))#like tim would just be beaming at her and she at him #and everyone else is teary eye #and nolan would probably be the officiant bc lbr the writers would find a way give him some role and it's not gonna be best man #or maybe bailey with her fifty different jobs would #THOUGH it'd be cool if grey officiated their wedding since he paired them up #angela would be the best woman and tamara the maid of honor #james would poke fun at nyla for crying and she'd say it's allergies #i feel like i'm starting to write a fanfic in my head lmao #BUT LIKE LITERALLY HIGHKEY SO EXCITED FOR THE DAY WE GET A CHENFORD WEDDING #that's like one of the things i'm positive would happen onscreen

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cosmictapestry · 3 months

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REQUESTS ARE OPEN AGAIN??? HELL YEAH IT FEELS LIKE MY BIRTHDAY <33333

may we have A37, please? 👉👈

A37. lucienne orgasm control

i have like five ahead of this one but listen..... listen......... i am in. the state of mind. for this one

morphienne prompt list + fills here

"Are you doing alright?" he asks her, conversationally, with three fingers stuffed in her cunt.

Lucienne makes a sound like a woman tortured, garbled and muffled by the couch cushions. She's on her belly, wrists bound with silken rope and tied to the arm of the couch, her hips in her lord's lap, ankles bound as well. She's naked, shivering and sweating.

Her lord is cool and calm and fully clothed. He shifts his fingers, flexing the middle between the ring and pointer, grinding so exquisitely that Lucienne can only tremble and will away a wail.

He stops, hums soothingly, fingers spread and stroking, his other hand kneading and petting the swell of one buttock. He's been at this for a while now, idly playing with her body, unraveling her softly. "Lucienne?"

She mumbles and shifts and manages, at length, in a voice wrecked with her choked-off moans, "it's good."

Lord Morpheus hums again, approving, and he grips her buttock to spread her open and watch the way her cunt grips his fingers as he grinds them out, then back in, twisting, torturous. Tears build in her eyes; she can feel herself leaking and spasming around him, can hear the squelching of his fingers. "You clench so tightly when you get close," Lord Morpheus murmurs. "Did you know that?"

Lucienne doesn't know if she's actually expected to answer, but luckily he seems satisfied with her muffled keening. He plunges his fingers and circles them, strokes her walls, then withdraws them entirely with an pronounced pop, leaving Lucienne bereft and open, fluttering. He rubs the pads of his fingers over her folds, parts them to spread her. The air is cool on the hot slick flesh that he plays with, tickles, dips his fingertips into. "But I don't think I'm ready to let you come yet."

Lucienne shakes and jerks and tries to rock back on his fingers, but he stills her with his unoccupied hand squeezing her hip, pressed her down on his lap. "Patience, Lucienne," he chides. His thumb circles her cunt, draws slick up to stroke over her arsehole.

An idea occurs to her. "Would you—" Lucienne swallows, focuses, finds her lord's hands have stilled while he listens. Her face burns. "Might you—spit?"

He hums quiet puzzlement, and, shoulders hunching up to her ears in embarrassment, Lucienne imagines it, and thinks he's quite unlikely to oblige. She jolts, then, when she hears him, and feels the coinciding hot splatter of his spit on her arsehole, feels it begin to roll. She's still reeling from the obscenity of the act when he swipes his thumb through the spit and pushes it inside her.

Lucienne's bound feet kick up and she gasps, whines, quivers as his thumb works in, softening the tightness of her insides, and his other fingers resume rubbing her folds. Lord Morpheus bends down, lays a kiss on the back of her neck. "Alright?"

Lucienne nods frantically. Sweet man, dear brave trusting lord, giving her just what she asks for, and she sobs and perhaps mentions her appreciation, and begs for whatever else he might have in mind.

He gives a little huff of laughter, straightens up again. Her arms are so tense they strain in their bindings, and her belly heaves with the easy slide of his fingers back into her. He pistons in and out of her arse, in and out of her cunt. She's so full, sparking with sensation, arching up, shameless and desperate—

And his other hand strikes her sharp and quick under the curve of her arse, makes her jolt and sob out a cry and clench and drool helplessly. Her glasses went from askew to missing completely at some point. She only notices now with her arse in the air and her nerves alight.

Lord Morpheus rubs the stinging heat of his handprint, murmurs soothingly to her. "You're alright," her lord whispers, then delivers another strike on the other cheek. She's so wet that when she writhes his hand nearly slips out of her. "Good girl, just try to stay still, you're alright."

This is how her afterlife ends, quite possibly. Tears and sweat dampen the couch cushions and the fabric drags roughly on her nipples and she tries to drag herself up on her elbows to escape some of the stimulation but he drags her back flat on his lap, thrusts his fingers in deep, moves them so slowly, not enough to finish her. "Is it too much?" he asks. Another tap makes her howl and struggle. "Do you want me to let you come?"

"Please," she begs, "my lord, my lord, my lord—"

"I would keep you like this," he tells her. He bends over her again, presses his head to the back of hers, his hair tickling her scalp and his breath hot on her neck. "Just so I could see it. You open up so beautifully for me, Lucienne." His little finger works its way into her cunt, spreads with the others so she can feel cool air inside herself. His thumb presses down and in, mercilessly, and she imagines she can feel it meeting his other fingers.

He works her like that for a few more torturous seconds. She is incoherent, mumbling, entire body sweat-slick and trembling-tense. "I'm going to let you come now," he says. As an afterthought, "what do you say?"

"Thank you," Lucienne manages, and again when his fingers move faster, and again when he licks the back of her neck, and again when he growls and moves his free arm to lie across her back and shove her down hard, pin her to him, and again while she kicks and squeals and fights and seizes and finally goes still and gushes, and she keeps mouthing it when she is beyond all capability for higher thought.

She floats, then, quivering in the aftershocks, soaked and whimpering and vaguely aware of continued stroking inside her that stills and withdraws and leaves her empty. Steady pressure holds her down, keeps her safe. "Almost took my fingers with you," she hears her lord say. His lips press to the back of her head, his hand pets her thigh. "You did not have to thank me, that was rather mean."

Lucienne snorts and giggles and pushes her face down into the couch and can feel him grinning. "I loved it," she mumbles.

#sorry about all the lucienne butt content?????? i'm having a moment.#idk i think lucienne deserves to get her brain turned off sometimes. she's got too much going on in there.#also ~dominant~ morph is very fun to write. he knows what he's doing he's just very self conscious about it #the sandman #the sandman fanfic #dream of the endless #lucid dreaming #morpheus #morphienne #lucienne the librarian #x #minors dni #btw if you do this to someone it takes a screenshot.

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