#watch lace turn out to be a silk worm or something

[anonymous-utility]

I like the theory that Lace is the Pharloom version of a kingsmould, but made out of stuffing instead metal.

#silksong #hollow knight #hk hornet #silksong lace #lace is such a fun design to draw #watch lace turn out to be a silk worm or something #listen i just like the Lace is void theory because of the potential of hornet going though a crisis because of it

[whocaresimnothere]

Echoes of Obsession: Yandere Alastor x Reader

The air in Hell was heavy with the scent of sulphur and decay as you made your way through the labyrinthine streets, the shadows of twisted spires casting ominous silhouettes against the blood-red sky. Despite the oppressive atmosphere, you carried yourself with a sense of purpose, your steps echoing against the cobblestone pavement.

It was on one such night, amidst the flickering glow of dimly lit lanterns, that you caught the attention of Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon. Clad in his signature pinstripe suit and adorned with a devilish grin, he emerged from the darkness like a phantom, his crimson eyes ablaze with curiosity.

"Ah, what have we here?" Alastor's voice cut through the night like a razor, his words dripping with charm and intrigue. "A lost soul wandering the streets of my domain. How delightful."

You regarded him with a mixture of caution and fascination, drawn to the enigmatic aura that surrounded him like a shroud. Despite the warnings whispered in the dark corners of Hell, you couldn't deny the allure of Alastor's presence, the promise of adventure and danger beckoning like a siren's call.

"Forgive me if I seem forward, my dear," Alastor continued, his grin widening into a predatory smile. "But I simply couldn't resist the opportunity to make your acquaintance. After all, a soul as captivating as yours is a rare find indeed."

Despite the warning bells ringing in the back of your mind, you found yourself unable to resist Alastor's charm, his words weaving a seductive spell around you. With a hesitant smile, you accepted his offer of companionship, unaware of the dark path that lay ahead.

Little did you know, your fateful encounter with Alastor was only the beginning of a twisted courtship that would plunge you into the depths of obsession and despair, where the shadows of Hell would close in around you like a suffocating embrace.

*********************************************************************************************************

As days turned into nights and nights into a seemingly endless cycle of darkness, your interactions with Alastor grew more frequent, his presence becoming an ever-present shadow in your life. At first, his attentions were flattering, his words honeyed and his gestures seemingly innocent. But beneath the surface, a darkness lurked—a darkness that threatened to consume you whole.

"You're quite the fascinating soul, my dear," Alastor would murmur, his voice dripping with honeyed charm as he gazed at you with a predatory gleam in his crimson eyes. "There's something about you that simply captivates me."

Despite the warning bells ringing in the back of your mind, you couldn't deny the allure of Alastor's presence. His charisma was undeniable, his charm a potent elixir that left you intoxicated and craving more.

But as Alastor's behavior grew more erratic and possessive, a creeping sense of unease began to gnaw at your insides. His once-charming demeanor gave way to bouts of jealousy and rage, his affections bordering on the edge of madness.

"You belong to me, and me alone," Alastor would declare, his voice laced with a dangerous edge as he watched you with possessive eyes. "No one else can have you. No one else will ever have you."

At first, you attempted to brush aside your growing unease, chalking it up to the peculiarities of Hell's denizens. But as Alastor's manipulation grew more insidious, you couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of dread worm its way into your heart.

The shadows whispered secrets of Alastor's true nature, warning you of the danger that lurked beneath his charming facade. But try as you might to resist, you found yourself drawn deeper into his orbit, unable to break free from the gravitational pull of his obsession.

"It's for your own good, my dear," Alastor would soothe, his voice like silk as he reached out to caress your cheek with a gloved hand. "I only want what's best for you. Can't you see that?"

His words were like a siren's song, luring you deeper into the abyss with promises of love and protection. But deep down, you knew that Alastor's affections were anything but pure—that his love was a twisted reflection of obsession and possession.

It wasn't long before Alastor's possessiveness turned into outright manipulation, his every word and action designed to keep you tethered to him like a puppet on a string. You found yourself trapped in a twisted dance of desire and deceit, your own emotions playing against you as you struggled to untangle yourself from Alastor's suffocating grasp.

Yet amidst the chaos and despair of Hell, a glimmer of hope remained—a flickering flame of defiance burning bright in the darkness. With each passing day, you resolved to break free from Alastor's clutches, to defy the shadows that threatened to consume you whole and reclaim your autonomy in a world ruled by madness and obsession.

*********************************************************************************************************

In the depths of Hell, where shadows twisted and whispered secrets of madness, you found yourself ensnared in a deadly dance of deception with Alastor, the Radio Demon whose obsession knew no bounds.

As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into an eternity of darkness, you struggled to maintain a facade of compliance while plotting your escape from Alastor's suffocating grasp. Every smile, every touch, every whispered endearment was a lie—a carefully crafted illusion designed to keep you tethered to him, to feed his insatiable hunger for control.

But beneath the mask of obedience, a fire burned bright—a flame of defiance that refused to be extinguished. With each passing moment, you honed your cunning, biding your time until the opportunity presented itself to break free from Alastor's clutches and reclaim your freedom.

Yet amidst the chaos and despair of Hell, Alastor's hold on you only seemed to tighten, his manipulation growing more insidious with each passing day. His words were like poison, seeping into your mind and clouding your judgment as he whispered sweet promises of love and protection.

"You're mine, my dear," Alastor would murmur, his voice a seductive melody that echoed in the recesses of your mind. "Forever and always. There's no escaping me."

But you refused to be caged like a bird, your spirit burning bright with the fires of rebellion. With each passing day, you plotted and schemed, laying the groundwork for your eventual escape from Alastor's clutches.

And then, one fateful night, as the shadows danced and the echoes of madness filled the air, the opportunity presented itself—a fleeting moment of weakness in Alastor's carefully constructed facade.

With a heart pounding with adrenaline and determination, you seized the chance, slipping away into the darkness like a phantom in the night. Behind you, you could hear Alastor's enraged screams, his promises of vengeance echoing in the empty corridors of Hell.

But you paid them no mind, for you were free—free from the chains of obsession and manipulation, free to forge your own path amidst the chaos and despair of Hell's eternal night.

As you disappeared into the shadows, a sense of liberation washed over you—a feeling of triumph amidst the darkness, as you vowed to never again be ensnared in the deadly dance of deception with Alastor, the Radio Demon whose obsession knew no bounds.

"You cannot escape me, my dear," Alastor's voice echoed in the darkness, a chilling reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. "I will find you, no matter where you hide. And when I do, there will be no mercy."

But you paid his threats no heed, for you knew that you were stronger than the darkness that sought to consume you—that no matter what horrors awaited you in the depths of Hell, you would face them head-on, armed with nothing but your courage and the knowledge that you had escaped the clutches of a yandere's obsession.

*********************************************************************************************************

In the wake of your daring escape from Alastor's clutches, the air in Hell crackled with tension and anticipation. Every shadow seemed to whisper his name, every echo carried the echo of his rage as he searched for you with a relentless determination.

But you were not afraid, for you had faced the darkness head-on and emerged victorious. With each passing moment, your resolve grew stronger, fueled by the fire of defiance that burned bright within your heart.

And then, one fateful night, as the echoes of madness filled the air and the shadows danced in the flickering light of torches, you came face to face with Alastor once more.

There he stood, his crimson eyes ablaze with fury, his form wreathed in the darkness of his own making. But despite his formidable presence, you did not falter, for you knew that you had already won the battle for your freedom.

"You thought you could escape me, my dear," Alastor's voice echoed in the darkness, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked in the shadows. "But you were wrong. You belong to me, body and soul. And I will not rest until you are mine once more."

And with that, your world went black.

#alastor x reader #yander alastor x reader #x reader #yandere #hazbin hotel #radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel

[freya-fallen]

Beastly 6/17

CWs: talk about sibling incest, politics. let me know if I ever miss anything

Word count: 2820

Part 1 Part 5 Part 7

The dress is the single fanciest thing you’ve ever worn in your life, and maybe the most expensive, too. Considering the cost of ODM gear, that’s saying something. It’s a pale pink, the skirt and bodice are mostly constructed of a material Zeke calls ‘silk.’ The process of making it apparently involves worms, but you wonder if you’re misunderstanding, and decide to look into it later. There’s a lovely lace overlay on the sleeves and parts of the bodice as well, and it’s wispy and delicate. Ribbon accents and flowery additions make the whole construction look like more of an art piece than something to wear, but Zeke assures it’s a perfectly normal, acceptable dress for an event such as this.

It falls above your ankles, and you have matching shoes a shade or two darker, with the barest hint of heel to give you a lift. That difference makes you nervous, but you walk in them for your brother, and he nods confidently, and say’s you’ll be fine.

“Why is there so much of it?” you ask as he laces you into a corset. It’s a comfortable one, Zeke assures you, the most comfortable one he could find. And since you’re still working on gaining weight, there isn’t much to pull in and shape, as it were. 

You also don’t understand the need for a skirt under your skirt, but it helps the dress stay flared out around your legs, so that’s something. It’s interesting to watch the flowy material move with you. 

“I’m not so good with hair and makeup, sweetheart. Sorry about that.” Your hair is pinned up, but there are none of the flourishes you’ve seen on some of the upper class women the few times you’ve been out. Not that it bothers you; this is already more than you’re comfortable with.

A hint of blush and lipstick are all you put on your face, but Zeke says, “You’re pretty enough without anything, anyway. I just want you to be comfortable.”

You think you’re done, but he grabs your forearm (which is covered in a long, pale glove), and turns you around. Zeke hushes you when you start to ask, “Wha—”

A cool weight settles on your chest, and you look down to find a pearl pendant set in gold. You touch it, feeling the shape of it through the material of the glove.

“There. Now you’re ready.” He stares down at you with something fond and pointed in his expression, something like avarice, though that doesn’t seem quite right. “It’s a shame to have to add this.”

“This” is the armband, for which you proffer your arm. 

Zeke has on a dress uniform. It’s strange enough to see him outfitted so formally, since at home he’s in a button-up and trousers at most. It’s stranger still to see the ribbons and badges of his achievements written across his chest. You often forget your brother is a high ranking member of this country’s military.

“Are you ready, Miss Yeager?”

“Yes, sir.” 

He takes your arm and escorts you out.

You— or, rather, the Warriors— have been allotted a vehicle for the event. It’s a large enough automobile for you and Zeke to fit comfortably, but you can’t imagine how you’ll all make it work.

“They’re already waiting for us, sweetheart.”

You turn to him inquisitively.

“Four passengers and a driver are about all a vehicle like this can carry, so I had them arrive first.

It’s your first time in one of these contraptions, and there’s a roil of nerves in your stomach. Zeke lays a large palm over your knee and rubs his thumbs in small circles to sooth you. When your stomach twists, you must make a face, because he chuckles dryly.

“Figures you would get motion sickness.”

“But I’ve ridden horses dozens of times.”

He smirks. “That’s not quite the same thing. Don’t worry; it’s perfectly normal. And you’ll feel better once we get there.”

It’s a thankfully short ride. Zeke gets out first, after thanking the driver, and assists you out and up. There are few people mingling outdoors, but one or two greet Zeke genially enough. The others are dismissive as soon as they catch sight of the red bands that denote your Eldian blood.

Pieck rushes over as soon as you step inside. Her long hair is back in a neat bun, and her uniform is a little different from Zeke’s, but she looks somehow more authoritative in it despite her diminutive build.

“Oh, just look at you,” she gushes, taking your hand and having you spin to show off your dress. “You look so pretty. A proper young lady, and everything. Pock is gonna have trouble staying grumpy with you around.”

Your brother hones in at the mention of the younger Warrior. “Why would her presence change his mood?”

“You know how he is around pretty girls.” She waves dismissively.  

“Hm.” Zeke steps up to you and lays a hand against your lower back. “Well, he’d better not try anything.”

Your brother guides you further into the large, open room. When someone in generic black and white attire proffers a platter filled with tall glass stemware, Zeke plucks off two and hands one to you. 

“What’s this?” Little bubbles pop and fizz in the pale gold liquid, and it looks like nothing you’ve ever had before.

He smiles. “Sparkling wine. You’ll like it.”

“Alcohol?” You haven’t had much in the past; you’re too young to have had much exposure, and what you’ve managed to try has tasted like piss (so others insisted). You carefully sip from the flute, and the taste is light, refreshing, but sharp. It’s effervescent and sweet, and your tongue tingles from the way it dances on its way down. You swallow another mouthful, and decide that it’s good.

“Don’t drink it all at once, especially before you eat anything,” Zeke warns genially. 

He takes your arm again, steering you through the room as he makes his rounds. “That’s an ambassador from a country in the west. I haven’t met him personally, but I’ve seen his picture in the papers. And that young woman with him is the youngest daughter of the vice chancellor. Oh, that—”

You nod along, but much of the information goes over your head. To your understanding, this is a dinner to show off assets of the Marleyan government to foreign dignitaries. That’s why your brother and the other Warriors are here; the Titans are an intrinsic part of their military might. 

“And this, of course, is Commander Theo Magath.” Zeke brings you to a halt adjacent to a small cluster of important looking older men.

Magath is a man of average height and build, with short dark hair and pale eyes. He turns to Zeke, glancing over you and your brother before greeting, “Chief Yeager.” He nods to Zeke, then says, “And Miss Yeager, it’s good to meet you while you’re awake.”

You frown, which makes Zeke chuckle. “The commander saw you when I brought you off the ship, sweetheart. You were dead asleep in my arms.”

“Oh. Um, well, nice to meet you, sir.” It’s a rote greeting, because you’re blushing and unsure of how to handle this situation.

This is the man who commands your brother and the other Marleyan Warriors. He’s the one who sent Reiner, Annie, and Bertholdt to the Walls. He’s a man capable of evaluating young children on whether they should someday die before they’ve had a chance to live. 

He’s also of the same rank as Commander Smith, and he carries his rank in his bearing just like the commander of the scouts, regardless of his smaller stature.

The low ranking soldier instilled through years of training wants to snap into a military mindset, but you’re wary and uncertain, and so you try to keep as neutral as possible.

The old man studies you with a keenness honed through years of practice. “You look well, Miss Yeager. Zeke has been taking care of you, then?”

“Yes, sir,” you respond. “He’s been very good to me.”

Theo Magath nods thoughtfully, then touches your arm above the red band. “You seem to be less undersized than when I saw you last. You must be drinking your milk.”

“I don’t let her skip meals,”Zeke interjects before you think of a reply. It’s strange to feel the touch of someone else, and you’d have thought a Marleyan would be opposed to this interaction with an Eldian. “And I try to make sure she has all the food groups represented.”

“Do you have a family, commander?”

“I’ve always been too busy with my duties,” he says, unperturbed by the personal question. He turns back to Zeke. “Have you met the ambassador from Sava?”

“Can’t say that I have,” your brother responds, and the commander directs his attention to a darker skinned man in a crisp tuxedo.

He’s introduced to Zeke, and you listen to the men for a moment. The Savan ambassador has a lovely accent, and you think you could listen to it all night.

Alas, a familiar figure appears at your elbow and plucks the empty flute from your fingers.

“You should eat something.”

You don’t look at him as you mutter, “Leave me alone, Reiner.”

“Come on, let me take you to find food,” he says, as though  you’re not trying to ignore him. “Zeke.”

Your brother pardons himself to direct his attention to you and the other Warrior. “Good evening, Reiner.”

“I want to take Faye to get something to eat.” The teen indicates your emptied glass. “I don’t think she should be drinking on an empty stomach.”

“That’s mighty thoughtful of you. What do you think, sweetheart?”

You sigh.

“Oh, come now, honey. Reiner is being a gentleman. Go with him for a bit, eh?”

“Fine.” He cups your cheek and favors you with a smile, then hands you off to the junior Warrior.

“So,” Reiner begins as you round a corner toward a long table. It’s filled with foodstuffs, a good half of which are completely unrecognizable to you. 

Your mouth waters as the scents permeate your nose, but you wish you weren’t here with the large blond at your side. “Don’t,” you warn.

He scowls at you and redirects the both of you toward a little area sectioned off by elegant curtains. “What’s your deal?” he demands.

“What do you mean, what’s my deal?” you mock. “You’re a traitor. You betrayed me and the other scouts.”

“No. I was a Warrior first. I was doing my duty.” 

You want to chew your lower lip, but remember the lipstick just in time. “I don’t care.”

“If you don’t care, then why are you so angry?”

“I didn’t say I don’t care about your betrayal, I said I don’t care about you and your stupid Warriors.” Each word is a spat of venom. “Now, please just leave me alone.”

His brows twitch as though unsure of whether to frown or not. “I care about you. I’m worried.”

“That.” You point in his face. “That’s what I mean. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t care about you? That’s a bit hard, especially when Zeke is practically throwing everything in our faces every chance he gets.”

You scoff. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” He pushes in closer, and you can feel his hot breath, smell the wine on it. “You forget that I saw what happened. I know what he did to you.”

“You don’t know anything.”

Reiner tilts your head up, fingers tightening when you try to pull away. “I know you wouldn’t have had sex with him if you’d known who he was.”

“So?” you retort. “Now, I know. You don’t need to keep bringing that up.”

“He knew the whole time, remember? But he still did it.”

You try to push past him, but Reiner is unshakeable as a mountain. His grip doesn’t even waver on your jaw. 

“And the way he’s been acting, I feel like it’s not over.”

You swallow down the wave of terror his words send lancing to your gut. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you murmur, but your denial feels weak as it leaves your tongue.

“He is, isn’t he?” Reiner’s thumb strokes as though to make up for his cruel grasp. “I can help you. I’ll speak to Magath or—”

“Don’t.” Your eyes close against a deluge of heat welling at the corners. “Don’t you dare.” You draw a ragged breath. “Please, Reiner. Just leave it alone.”

His gaze bores into you from so close, and you can feel how it seeks to strip you down despite how your own is closed off and hidden. “He shouldn’t be doing this. You know that, right?”

“He’s my brother,” you entreat. “He’s the only person I have. Please, don’t take that away from me because of your own fears.”

He sighs and steps back, his hand dropping from your face. “Okay. But if you ever change your mind…”

He sounds so defeated. Your eyes bat open and you watch him turn toward the party. “Are you ready to go grab some grub?”

“Sure.” You take his arm and let him lead you back to the long table.

There are small plates of white ceramic on either side. Reiner hands you one and keeps one for himself. He explains what everything is as you reuse the food, what he knows, anyway. There are piles of olives, platters of cheese, little sticks with slices of meat and vegetables held together. There are figs, slices of ruby citrus that glitter like gems, and crackers and breads in neat stacks. You didn’t know there were so many varieties of finger foods, of fillings for sandwiches, or fruit or meat or…

“Now, who is this lovely young lady?”

You turn toward the sound of an unfamiliar voice. It’s dignified and smooth, and fits the person it belongs to perfectly. He’s average height, slim, with long blond hair falling like a curtain, and a neatly trimmed goatee.

Reiner stiffens, and lays a hand on your arm protectively. “Lord Tybur. This is Zeke’s Yeager’s younger sister.” He gives your name almost hesitantly, then adds, “This is William Tybur.” 

The name means nothing to you, but the man is surveying your form with interest written in his clear blue eyes. “I’d thought I could recognize most of the honorary Marleyans by sight, but I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

“No, sir,” you murmur, but you feel so uncomfortable at the title, because you’ve never interacted with nobility. Are you supposed to call him ‘lord’ or something? 

Your uncertainty must show, because he chuckles kindly and extends his hand. “Willy is fine, my dear. While I am an Eldian noble, as an honorary Marleyan, you may overlook the title if you wish.”

Your cheeks flush hotly. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—” Your eyes dart to the lack of an armband. “I’m not— I didn’t—”

His expression becomes thoughtful. “You don’t know the Tybur family at all? How unusual. How exactly did that come about?”

“I’m not from here,” you say softly. You’re allowed to talk about this, right? It’s known that Zeke recently traveled to the island, and he never told you you shouldn’t talk about it. “I didn’t know Zeke, either.”

“Ah. A Paradis Eldian. I hadn’t known anyone returned with the Warriors. We must talk sometime, you and I, on affairs within the Walls.” You nod nervously, agreeing just because you don’t know what else to do. “The Tybur family chose to side with Marley, you see, so we’ve been granted certain rights and privileges. I’m sure the two of us could have some fruitful conversations, since my family has been separated from the nobility for a century.”

“I don’t know much about that kind of thing. I’m just a peasant,” you admit, but he smiles.

“I daresay you know more than I do at this point.” He glances at Reinert, who is watching the exchange with keen eyes and a suspicious nature. “Are the two of you an item, then?”

You answer before Reiner opens his mouth, a vehement statement. “No. Reiner just offered to escort me to the food.”

“We met while I was there,” Reiner adds. “We’re close.”

“Not particularly.” You shoot a glare at him.

“If that’s the case, perhaps I could escort you for a bit,” Willy Tybur suggests.

It’s then your brother reappears. “I believe that’s my job, Lord Tybur.” His voice is cool, but not enough to be considered rude. “Thank you for making sure she got food, Reiner.” The younger man nods and steps back for Zeke to take your arm in his. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“Oh, okay.” You nod to Reiner and murmur, “Nice to meet you, Lord Tybur— Willy,” blushing as you fumble.

“You as well. Chief Yeager, Braun, I’m sure I’ll see you both again soon.”

#aot #attack on titan #zeke yeager #zeke yeager x reader #zeke yeager x sister reader #zeke yeager sister #manipulative zeke yeager #marley warriors #reiner braun #willy tybur #darkfic #aot darkfic #eren yeagers sister #eren yeager twin #aot incest #incest fic

[l-r-christian]

Can I requests a Ploy!Mikaelson boys and Platonic!Rebekah x Black!Reader? Where reader owns her own business and spoils them and Hayley is surprised because she thought Elijah was single.

Oh yes powerful rich black woman are my fucking favorite!

Warnings: Mikaelson boys being simps, Fluff, Y/N ain't having any of Hayley's pettiness,

A/N: my girls with natural hair please remember to wrap your hair in a silk or satin scarf because I forgot one morning and spent hours untangling my curls.

Y/N had came home after being a month away for work and as soon as her heels clacked against the stone floor and her sweet scent hit the vampire's noses. The boys were gone leaving behind a confused Hayley with a smirking Rebekah who got up to follow with the hybrid.

Hayley saw the Mikaelson men helping a gorgeous woman with her bags as Hayley saw the woman had glowing light chocolate skin, loose long curls down her back. The woman was dressed in a short pencil skirt with a navy blue botton up tucked into the skirt that showed off her curvy hips with white heels that made her ass look even great in the skirt. Elijah was helping her remove her coat and Kol was bringing in her bags with Klaus.

From what Hayley could tell the black woman was working for a company of some sort and didn't miss the way the three men shamelessly stared at the woman's ass when she bent over digging in her bag for something.

"Rebekah, who is that?"

"Y/N L/N, their lover and my best friend." Rebekah said noticing how her brothers were staring at the hem of Y/N's skirt that rode up a bit giving them a peek of the garner belt straps holding up her thigh thighs.

"Wait what?" Hayley choked out staring at Rebekah as Y/N had stood straight walking pass her loving men to Rebekah.

"You know they are pouting now?"

"They can wait or else they won't see the little lace number I am wearing." Y/N said making the three stand straight. Y/N giggled holding up a small bag to Rebekah.

"A gift?"

"I got something for each of you as an apology for being gone too long." Y/N said as Rebekah peeked in the bag smiling seeing it was a new pair of earrings. Y/N looked at Hayley smiling at the hybrid before returning to her men pulling gifts out for them too.

Hayley couldn't believe what she was seeing watching the Mikaelson men become somewhat submissive. No scratch that...the men were submissive to the woman seemly bending them to her will. Hayley watched them follow after the dark skinned woman as if she was the only women in the world.

"Rebekah, are they always so....submissive with her?" Hayley asked frowning when Y/N paused to kiss Elijah who responded back right away.

"No. But to keep that black beauty they worship her." Rebekah says walking away leaving a jealous Hayley behind. For the next few days whenever Hayley was at the Abattoir the hybrid saw how the Original men followed Y/N around getting her things or just sitting with her.

It was a chilly morning when Hayley came by and saw Y/N sitting in one of Klaus's Henley's and pajama pants with a clay mask on typing away on her laptop. Hayley noticed that she was on speakerphone talking to someone and Anderson.

"Just be sure that the work gets done." Y/N said hanging up her phone as Hayley stepped in as Y/N got up and cleaned off her face and sat back down.

"Can't do your own hair?" Hayley made a off hand comment looking at Y/N's hair wrapped up in a silk scarf as if she had just gotten out of bed.

"I can but it relaxes Elijah when he does my hair so I try not to."

"Where is Elijah? Out doing your dirty work like Kol and Klaus?"

"Ran out of hair products and as for Kol and Klaus. They said something about helping Davina ring in a few witches."

"I am surprised they are with woman like you." Hayley said making the black beauty look at her.

"I'm surprised that Klaus and Elijah even slept with a woman like you." Y/N said not in the mood for Hayley's petty comments. Y/N was no fool as she saw how Hayley looked at Elijah even though she was married.

"I am back my love." Elijah said before Hayley could say a word walking in kissing Y/N's cheek and placed down the bag.

"Hello Elijah.....you went overboard with buying products didn't you?"

"No. Just made sure you weren't going to run out." Elijah says taking off the silk scarf and got to work with her hair.

"Don't you think it is a bit worrisome that they drop everything for that woman?" Hayley asked Camille one night as she was having drinks at Rousseau's. Camille huffed as she met Y/N and found the woman gorgeous and cute how the Original men followed her around.

"Well no. I mean they are really really in love with her."

"But Elijah was going to wait for me." Hayley said as Camille frowned pouring the hybrid another drink.

"A hundred years is a long time to wait for a woman. Don't forget Elijah would have to wait until you are done mourning for Jackson."

"So him being with a woman that won't most likely live to 80 is better?"

"I was planning to turn but go off I guess." Y/N said walking in placing her bag down on the bar and Camille smiled at her. Hayley looked Y/N over seeing her dressed in a every professional dress with red bottom heels her hair in braids.

"Your usual whiskey?"

"Yes please Camille."

"Long day?"

"I have been dealing with the board of directors all day." Y/N said as Hayley frowned wondering why secretary would deal with a board of directors.

"Well you are an C.E.O and you can't hide in your office all day." Camille said shocking Hayley as her head snapped to the woman next to her.

"If I knew that I wouldn't have accepted the position."

"Then I wouldn't get brag that my wife is a powerful woman that could bury my enemies." Klaus's voice reached Hayley's ears as the Original hybrid walked in.

"Nik, I don't have a ring yet so why call me your wife?"

"That I am sorry for but Elijah insists that it be prefect." Klaus teases back before kissing the woman. Y/N giggled against his lips as Klaus hands rested on her hips.

"PDA? Is it because the guy at the end of the bar?" Y/N teased running her fingers though Klaus's hair pulling a deep groan from the back of his throat as he buried her neck. Hayley was surprised with how affectionate Klaus was to the human woman.

"Maybe." Klaus muttered letting her turned around to talk to Camille. Hayley just couldn't believe what she saw of Klaus just being a loving boyfriend.

"Hayley is quite the woman." Y/N said to Rebekah as both women were watching guests of the ball that Klaus and Elijah was throwing for the Factions. Y/N was dressed in a strapless and backless mermaid dress of a color that made Y/N's skin glow as she looked gorgeous.

"She is. I am still surprised Hayley managed to wormed her way into their beds."

"Hmm she stills have a thing for Elijah even though she is married." Y/N said sipping her drink watching Hayley with Elijah who was only being polite.

"Oh you noticed too?" Kol's smooth voice reached Y/N's ears as his arm wrapped around her waist placing a kiss on her bare shoulder.

"I did. Need something Kol?"

"Yes, I would like to dance." Kol said as Y/N chuckled letting Kol take her out to the floor to dance knowing Elijah would get jealous.

"Exuse me Hayley." Elijah said walking away headed over to Y/N and Kol asking to cut in which you allowed. The more Hayley hung around the more she saw just how much the Mikaelson men loved Y/N and saw how the woman spoiled them.

"Rebekah where is Elijah?"

"Den but I would recommend to be quite." Rebekah says walking out the Mikaelson home to meet up with Marcel. Hayley walked into the den finding Elijah asleep on the couch with Y/N asleep on him and Kol sleeping his face buried in her back and Klaus sleeping in a chair. Hayley frowned leaving not before noticing the ring on Y/N's hand as the hybrid didn't want to hear nor see the happy news when they woke that they were marrying.

#L.R writes #mikaelson x reader #mikaelson family x reader #elijah mikaelson imagine #klaus mikaelson imagine #kol mikaelson imagine #rebekah mikaelson imagine

[wondernimbus]

everything you didn’t say — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

summary: reader has secrets of her own. a party at the malfoy manor reveals them.

a/n: i had to rewrite this bc im dumb n my first draft didn't save which was Very upsetting but anyways i hope you like it :'') 

“Well, don’t you look dashing.”

Draco’s eyes snap up in the mirror.

[Y/N] is standing in his doorway, having somehow opened the door without him noticing. She has one shoulder leaning on the doorframe, arms folded over her chest, eyebrows raised. There is a glint in her eye that Draco knows all too well; that of playfulness, of fondness. One he has long since associated with safety.

He breathes out a short laugh. “How long have you been standing there?” Draco asks, ringed fingers deftly resuming to work on his tie, but he isn’t having much success. He feels far too jittery, and as a result he keeps accidentally knotting it, only to unwind the silk and try again, over and over like some messed up routine.

Watching her through the mirror’s reflection, he sees [Y/N] step into the room. She’s wearing a plain black dress; lace sleeves, collarbones in display, the silver necklace he’d given her hanging around her neck.

“Long enough to find out that you’re a grown seventeen year old who doesn’t know how to tie his own tie.”

Draco still has it in him to roll his eyes, to let out a short-lived laugh. “I do,” he mutters, yanking a little at the fabric in frustration. “It’s just..”

[Y/N] swiftly pads across his room to join him at the dresser, a tiny grin playing across her lips. Standing in front of him, she gently knocks his hands away so as to work on his tie herself.

“Nerves?” she says quietly. The grin on her lips falls slightly as she fixes her gaze on his tie, hands quickly working to loop the loose ends together.

Draco inhales sharply. His palms are clammy, his heart is beating too fast inside of his chest—to say that he’s dealing with nerves would be an understatement.

”You could say that,” he decides, curling and uncurling his fists at his sides. When she looks up to meet his gaze, he tries for a weak smile, if only to quell the storm inside his heart.

”It’ll be fine,” [Y/N] tells him with a pursed smile. She’s done tying his tie. Her hands move to rest on his shoulders, which are covered with his suit jacket. His mother had insisted he wear it, just as her own mother had no doubt insisted [Y/N] wear her dress; it is somewhat of a special occasion, after all, although what they are celebrating is hardly something that neither draco nor [Y/N] feel too ecstatic about it.

”There’ll be drinks,” continues [Y/N] with a lilting tone, thumbs smoothing over the creases of his suit. “And..”

She trails off. There isn’t really much to say.

”Dancing?” Draco suggests half-heartedly.

There is one brief second in which their eyes meet, and both of their lips are already beginning to quirk up at the corners, and then the next they are both breaking out into laughter. And it’s not the kind that hurts your stomach or has you pounding your fists on the ground, but it’s laughter nonetheless—a little rigid, a little heavy-hearted, but it’s just as relieving.

[Y/N]’s shoulders wrack with subtle giggles. “Yeah,” she agrees, nodding. “And I suspect Greyback will be giving a motivational speech.”

Draco feels his lips tug up into a crooked grin. “Hear my aunt might skip out on the party. She’s got knitting to do, you see.”

Both of them let themselves paint a picture inside their head: the infamous, untamed Bellatrix, sitting in a quiet corner with a quilt in her lap, humming a little tune to herself.

[Y/N] throws her head back in a loud laugh, and this time it’s not quite as tense. Draco watches her, laughing quietly on his own, and suddenly his heart doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

He watches as the last of her giggles dissipate, and she is smiling down at her shoes again, and then back up at him.

“We’ll be okay,” she tells him softly, once more reaching out, but not to tie his tie or to smoothen out the creased fabric of his suit, but to card her fingers through his hair the way she knows relaxes him.

Staring down at her—holding her gaze, which is warm and comforting and reminiscent of simpler times, like when she would sneak into his bed at Hogwarts and they would whisper and laugh quietly into the night, taking care not to wake up any of his roommates—Draco allows himself to breathe. To feel like himself again; a boy in love and nothing more.

”Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes, leaning forward to lean his forehead on hers. “Yeah, we will.”

—

Gatherings at the Malfoy Manor were usually a grand event; peacocks would mill about the lawn, some wandering past the large castle doors and into the drawing room, where the guests would stroke their feathers in admiration with one hand and hold a glass of the finest mulled wine in the other as they spoke among themselves, laughing and boasting offhandedly about the ancient living room set they'd imported from France or their children's future careers. Sometimes one would have enough courage to bring up the notion of arranged marriages, only for Narcissa Malfoy to turn them down and say that Draco would choose for himself when the time came, veering the conversation away towards things like ministry connections.

Parties happened often back then—not as much to celebrate as to fill up the overly large halls of the manor with pointless chatter—but things have changed. It’s been a while since the Malfoys last opened their doors to guests.

Does this count as a party? Draco wonders to himself, watching Death Eaters filter into the drawing room, some wearing sickening grins and others looking dead inside.

There are no more wandering peacocks. No more music, no more friendly guests eager to wed their children into the Malfoy family. There are only murderers. Death Eaters. There is laughter, but the kind that has Draco feeling uneasy.

Things have changed. Draco wonders if it's for the better.

He knows he and [Y/N] can't hide here forever—at the edge of the shadowed banister overlooking the entrance hall—but they stay there for as long as they can, until his grim-looking mother comes up the staircase and beckons for them to join the party.

Party. Ha.

So Draco and [Y/N] trail after Narcissa, who leads them into the drawing room, where most of the Death Eaters have gathered. No peacocks, no music, but there is wine, and almost everyone is clutching a glass of it.

He feels [Y/N]'s fingers graze against his. Looking over at her, she sees him staring placidly in front of her, meeting no one's gaze, but she seems to feel his eyes on her—so she turns her head to the side, and Draco sees her facade slip away for the smallest of split seconds as the look on her face softens and she gives him this small, reassuring smile.

He can almost hear her voice inside his head: we'll be okay.

Draco swallows. Nods just a fraction of an inch.

People clap him on the back as he passes, congratulating him and [Y/N] for a job well done at fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. Draco nods mutely and lets [Y/N] do the talking—she has always been better at keeping her composure, masking her true thoughts.

"Could never have imagined it," cackles Alecto Carrow, marching up to them in the middle of the large room. Her cheeks are already tinged pink with intoxication, voice a higher pitch than usual. "Most I expected from you lot was.. well, nothing, really. Doubted you could even fix a dresser, much less a whole bloody cabinet!" she shrieks with laughter, some of the wine from her glass spilling onto the floor.

[Y/N]'s gaze is stony. "Thank you."

Alecto’s nose wrinkles, her chortles dying down. "Thank you?" she repeats. "S'that all you have to say?"

For a brief, horrifying moment, Draco almost thinks [Y/N] is going to bite back with a sarcastic remark—but things have changed and there is a mark on her arm now, so instead she says, flatly, "It wasn’t an easy feat." A slight pause. "We’re just as surprised as you."

Alecto grins. She seems satisfied. "Well, 'course it wasn't an easy feat, or at least for you." She takes a big swig out of her glass. "Could’ve done it myself in ten minutes, isn't that right, Amycus?"

Her brother Amycus snickers but doesn't reply. Draco knows it's because he doubts Alecto's claims just as much as they do; she doesn't seem capable of writing even a bloody paragraph on her own.

"Well," says [Y/N]. "We appreciate your.. praise."

Draco almost snorts. It’s uncharacteristic of her to be so formal, and most of all to take the high road when being insulted. He knows that if things were different, if their lives weren't on the line, she wouldn't be standing here at Draco's side—no, her wand would be at Alecto's throat.

But that little bit of humor quickly fades when Draco finds Amycus staring at [Y/N], uncouth eyes roaming from her lips to her exposed collarbones, the skin hiding just underneath the lace of her sleeves, the dress hugging her figure—

Draco feels anger flare up, hot and heavy inside of his chest. Unconsciously, he finds himself stepping forward, urged on by that unpleasant feeling worming its way into his stomach, curling his hands into fists, tinging the tips of his ears red as his fingers edge closer to the wand inside his pocket.

¨What are you looking at, boy?¨ Amycus sneers, meeting his gaze.

Draco thinks, at that moment, that magic would hardly be fit to put this ugly brute of a man in his place—no, he´d much rather use his fists, pummel them into that crooked nose of his until he kneels at [Y/N]’s feet and begs for her forgiveness, because no one should look at her like that—

[Y/N] is whispering something, but he can´t hear it through the blood rushing in his ears.

But all of a sudden, Amycus’s gaze changes. He is no longer looking at Draco; rather, at something over his shoulder, and then he is bowing his head, eyes downcast.

All it takes Draco is a brief glance behind him to realize why.

He hears [Y/N] now: he’s here. He’s here.

An odd hush has fallen over the large room. The cause is easy to pinpoint; the Dark Lord has appeared at the entrance of the large drawing room, bringing with him a familiar sense of foreboding as everyone’s breath seems to hitch. It’s funny, in a sick way, how easily the atmosphere has shifted from something like ease to suffocating tension. How Alecto, who had been cackling into her glass of wine just moments before, now looks like a dog called to heel. How Amycus has torn his hungry gaze away from [Y/N] to instead stare down obediently at his feet. How Draco’s own parents, who stand a few feet away from the Dark Lord at the entrance, have their lips pursed and their hands clasped in front of them in submission.

Draco would laugh, but he is one of them now, and his head is hung just like the rest of them.

¨My, my,¨ says the Dark Lord, tone soft. ¨What a lovely party.¨

It had been he, the Dark Lord, who had suggested the idea of a celebration to revere in Draco´s and [Y/N]´s success. Not out of fondness, of course, but out of sheer spite for the Malfoys, caused by Lucius’s failure at the Department of Mysteries. This party was just another part of his little mind games; not only had he forced their son, Draco, to let Death Eaters loose inside Hogwarts, but he was now forcing them to celebrate it.

But why is he here?

It had been he who proposed the party, but no one had expected the Dark Lord to actually come. He had other things of actual importance to attend to: things that involved torture and kidnap and blackmail. He was on the brink of taking over the Ministry of Magic, and thus was a busy man—the Dark Lord only goes where he is needed, and not to pointless parties.

Draco swallows.

So why is he here?

¨It is only right, of course,¨ Voldemort continues, his voice still so oddly soft, like he´s addressing children, ¨That we celebrate the success of our young Death Eaters. The task I gave them was not an easy one, I’m afraid, and yet they prevailed, in the end, and proved themselves to us.¨

He wonders if Voldemort has spotted him and [Y/N], and feels bile rise at the back of his throat. Draco doesn´t want him anywhere near her.

Just leave, Draco thinks to himself, his teeth gritted so tight he hears how they scrape inside his skull. Just leave.

“I must admit, a few months ago I had my doubts.. but now here we are, applauding them, congratulating them for a job well done, treating them as one of our own.. welcoming them.”

“Draco.”

[Y/N] has inched closer to him. A moment later she feels her fingers weaving through his, squeezing his palm so tight Draco knows without having to look that her knuckles have turned a ghostly white.

He squeezes back, thinking that she might just be as surprised as him. Just as nervous.

It’ll be okay, he tries to tell her without saying it out loud. He´s too scared to speak. It’ll be okay.

¨And yet even as we toast to their names..¨

Draco keeps his head down. He can hear the sound of Voldemort´s robes rasping against the floor as he moves about the room.

But that is not the only thing he hears. Cold sweat trickles down the side of his temple, because in the Dark Lord’s voice he hears an edge. He senses danger.

A thought bounces around Draco’s skull as he fixes his gaze intently on his shoes: why is he here?

"Even as we welcome them with open arms.. as we let them walk among us unharmed, revered, almost, for their bravery..¨

¨Draco,¨ [Y/N] repeats, a little louder this time but only for his ears, and if the room wasn´t so quiet he wouldn´t have heard her ragged, almost panicked breathing, but it was and he did. 

He senses uneasy movement from behind him. One of the other Death Eaters.

¨Despite our kindness, one of them dares to turn away from us. One of them dares—¨ The Dark Lord´s voice grows colder, angrier, losing control and then all of a sudden softening again after a pregnant pause; ¨One of them dared.. dares to feed information to the fools that call themselves the Order of the Phoenix.¨

Draco hears the collective murmur of surprise that ripples through the room.

“Draco.” [Y/N]’s grip on his hand, if possible, tightens.

¨One of them dares betray us.¨

There is a brief moment of confusion on Draco´s part. He turns his head to look at [Y/N], brows furrowed as he struggles to make sense of the Dark Lord´s words.

But then Draco meets her eyes. Sees the look on her face.

¨I´m sorry,¨ she whispers, and realization hits him like a burst of icy cold water.

¨Seize her,¨ Voldemort says coldly. When Draco looks up, he sees that he is halfway across the room but his gaze is fixed on them—on [Y/N].

Amycus and Alecto are the first to move. They drop their glasses with no hesitation, sending them to the floor where they break into a hundred tiny pieces, and grab [Y/N] by the arms. She resists, wrestling in their arms, but the string of words that leave her mouth aren´t curses, nor are they pleas to let her go; no, they are apologies, repeated over and over again like a mantra as she desperately holds Draco´s gaze—”I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry.”

He watches as they yank [Y/N] across the floor, towards the Dark Lord, away from him. His lungs have stopped working, his heart is pounding wildly somewhere inside his throat, and [Y/N] is being roughly thrown at the Dark Lord´s feet—

Draco can´t breathe. His mind is buzzing, blanking out to a field of white, noise and heat colliding and melting until he can´t think through the blood rushing in his ears.

“Pity,” the Dark Lord whispers, gripping her chin harshly, jerking it up so that she would look at him. 

“I thought you'd proved yourself to be worthy of my praise, but instead it seems you've proved yourself to be rather the opposite—“

She snaps her head away. “Fuck you.”

“You, my child, have proved yourself to be a fool.”

“You´re never going to win.”

The Dark Lord seems unfazed. A grin splits wide on his face, stretching his lips into an uncannily amused grin as he stares down at the girl at his feet for a few seconds before nodding—and then turning around, twirling his wand in his hands—when had he pulled it out?

“And now, my brothers and sisters.”

Draco doesn’t feel his feet move underneath him, but they do.

“Lo and behold what happens to ungrateful fools who turn us away believing that they are saving the world, when in fact they are ruining themselves.”

Everything happens so quickly that Draco barely has any time to react; Voldemort raises his wand, and it seems to almost shine in the light as he points it directly towards [Y/N]—the Dark Lord´s mouth opens, the spell resting on the tip of his tongue, [Y/N] at the opposite end of his wand—

“No!”

It’s as though something inside of Draco has snapped, like he is being jarred awake. He doesn´t think—just darts forward with no real goal in mind other than to put himself in between Voldemort and [Y/N], but then there are hands grabbing at his arms, holding him back—

“Let go of me!” his tone is feral. He jabs his elbow into someone´s stomach, trying desperately to wrestle himself free, but the more Death Eaters he rips off of him, the more take their place. “[Y/N]!” he is breathless. “[Y/N]—”

The Dark Lord is going to kill her. He´s going to bloody kill her.

“Draco,” he hears his mother´s voice but doesn’t see her—he´s too busy thrashing wildly in the arms of whoever has hold of him, yelling out profanities and curses and [Y/N]´s name; “Draco, come. You don´t want to see this.”

“Let fucking go of me!”

But then the Dark Lord´s voice cuts through the havoc—¨Let him stay.¨

“[Y/N]!” Draco shouts, gritting his teeth. There are tears in his eyes; he doesn´t realize they´re there until they´ve fallen and he tastes them on his tongue. “Don´t touch her! Don´t fucking touch her!”

But the Dark Lord is, once again, unfazed. He turns his gaze to Draco but doesn´t lower his wand. “Watch, my child,” he says, voice ringing throughout the room, cold and unforgiving. “And pay close attention. This is what happens to cowards. To fools. To ungrateful scum.”

[Y/N]´s back is turned to Draco, and maybe it is better that way, because when the Dark Lord raises his wand, he doesn´t have to see the light leave her eyes.

Draco feels the entire world slow down. A single thought appears inside the ruined mess that is his mind, almost as if it’s mocking him—[Y/N] has always been better at masking her true thoughts. At hiding things; even from him. 

We’ll be okay, [Y/N] had told him.

She had lied.

¨Avada Kedavra!¨

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#harry potter #hp oneshots #harry potter imagine #harry potter imagines #harry potter oneshots #harry potter x reader #harry potter oneshot #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x y/n #harry potter x you #draco malfoy #draco x reader #draco imagines #draco imagine #draco oneshots #draco oneshot #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy imagines #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy oneshot #draco malfoy oneshots #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco x you #draco x y/n

[thatesqcrush]

The Request

Rafael Barba x f!reader. CW: somnophilia/sleeping beauty syndrome; CNC (con-non-con); pregnancy; lactation; language; smut. I think that covers it all. ⚠️READ AT YOUR OWN RISK ⛔️

WC: 1.3K

Dedicated to the anon who said my writing sucks and that I was ruining Barba.

**

“Cariño, I don’t know about this.”

You look at your husband, your eyes exhausted and weary. “Rafael, I am forty one weeks pregnant. It is 100° degrees out. I have never been so uncomfortable in my life.”

“If the baby doesn’t come by the weekend, you’ll be induced.” Rafael replied matter-of-factly.

“I don’t want to be induced. That’s not part of the plan.” You sighed irritated as you sat back onto the couch. You raised your swollen feet onto the ottoman.

“And this is?” Rafael asked as he tied his tie.

“It's recommended by the doctor!” You exclaim. “I drank the tea, I ate the spicy food. None of it works, except sex.”

“We haven’t been able to have comfortable sex in the last month or so. I don’t want to hurt you. Or the baby.” Rafael gently explained as he sat next to you and took your hand in his.

You gave him a small smile. “I know that. And you wouldn’t. This is why I want to do this. I trust you. Totally and completely.”

Rafael grimaced. “It’s just in my work…”

You tilted your head. “Amor, I am giving you my very eager and enthusiastic consent. Please fuck me so this baby can come out. It’ll be a good way to book end the pregnancy. Ending how it started.”

Rafael looked at you. You could see the wheels turning in his head. “Let me think about it.”

You clasped your hands together and let out a squeal. “That’s all I ask.”

**

Rafael couldn’t focus at all at work. All day he was off game - he was glad he didn’t have any court appearances. All he could think about was your proposition: to fuck you in hopes that it’ll kick start labor. But it wasn’t just about the fucking. It was to do it while you slept. You figured you’d be more comfortable and relaxed. It was something you had read on one of those ‘moms to be’ boards and the idea had wormed its way into your mind. You were relentless in your pestering.

Rafael rubbed his face and took out his cellphone. He texted you quickly.

[Are you sure you want to do this?]

Three dots appeared and then your reply came through.

[Absolutely]

Rafael took a deep breath before replying back.

[Okay]

**

You wanted to do it organically. Not on a planned evening. You knew if it was planned, you’d be too eager and excited to fall asleep. It was up to Rafael to decide and initiate. He did his research one late evening while you slept soundly beside him.

You had gone to bed even earlier that night, having complained of generally feeling uncomfortable and fatigued. By the time Rafael made it to bed, you were sound asleep. He tried to give you a little shake to see if you would awaken, but instead you just nuzzled into your pillow more. Unlike him, you were a heavy sleeper.

Rafael stripped his clothes, clad just in boxers. He piled them neatly on a chair before climbing into bed. He let out a shiver at the cold air. Even the bed sheets felt cold against his skin. As it had been so hot as of late, you’d been running the air conditioning basically 24-7. He left a table side lamp on. Through the dimmed light, he braved himself to touch your back. You wore one of his worn Harvard shirts. The material was soft and familiar. He garnered more confidence and slipped his hand under, feeling the smooth silk of your skin and then moving it to the front. Rafael used his other hand to free his cock from his boxers. He began to stroke himself, working his fist over his cock. Rafael thought for sure you’d stir when he began to roll and pinch your nipples. Instead you just let out the softest moan.

His cock now hard, Rafael scooted closer to you and began to rut against your ass. His hands began to massage your breasts more fervently before moving down to your thighs. You sighed in your sleep as he massaged your flesh. His hand made its way to the soft nestle of curls, finding your clit. He began to rub in gentle circles, relishing in how wet you were becoming in reaction. His fingers slid through your folds, spreading the wetness that grew. Finding himself now really into this, he grabbed your leg and hoisted it over his hip. Rafael pressed kisses along the nape of your neck and shoulder as he continued to play with your pussy. He reveled in how soft and wet it was becoming, your arousal beginning to drip. His cock was aching, red and needy for you. Pearls of pre-cum dribbled from the head of his cock.

Shifting his hips, Rafael slowly pushed his thick cock into your hot cunt, biting his bottom lip as he bottomed out in a gentle yet firm push. His hands moved back up to your tits, squeezing hard enough that droplets of milk began to leak. He continued messily playing with your breasts as he began to thrust into you. He kept his thrusts gentle and steady, enjoying the way your pussy tightened around him, gripping his length as he pulled out.

“Fuck.” Rafael gritted. He had to use his will to not completely let go. Soft and gentle thrusts were the name of the game. Rafael moved his wet hand to your cunt again, making his fingers more slick with your arousal.

You began to moan again, this time with more encouraging gusto. Rafael realized you must have woken up but he figured he’d just continue with the scene. He knew if he knew you were fully awake, it’d take away from the fantasy.

“Go back to sleep, cariño.” Rafael whispered in your ear as he began to fuck you harder, his hips snapping against your ass. You moaned even more.

Rafael went back to playing with your tits, squeezing harder, with more milk dripping out. All of it felt filthy and taboo and this apparently awoken some side of him that he didn’t know he had. The sounds of wet and skin on skin filled the room. Eventually, Rafael’s breathing grew harder and he gave in to his carnal desperation, fucking you with gusto.

“Rafael, oh fuck!” You cried out, no longer caring that you were fully awake. And neither did Rafael, as he began to rub your clit harder. You let out a cry as you came, you pussy clenching around his cock, milking Rafael for all that he was worth. Rafael let out a deep guttural groan as his slammed into you one, two, and then three more times before stilling. Thick ropes of creamy white cum painted your walls before seeping out where you were both intimately connected.

You turned your head to Rafael’s. You were still laced with sleepiness, but you longed for his lips on yours. Rafael slipped out and turned you, so you were facing him fully. He kissed you, his tongue entangling with yours as his hands went back to your breasts. He kissed his way down before taking one of your tits in his mouth, lapping the sweet milk your body had to offer, while his hand went to your clit, now overstimulated, once more.

You let out a gasp, squeezing your eyes tightly as you came again. Rafael let out a groan as you gushed around his hand, soaking the sheets. Rafael removed his mouth from your breasts and then kissed you brutally hard. You pulled away, your eyes wide. “Rafi - that was my water breaking.”

Rafael’s eyes widened at the realization of your words. He gave you a big grin before pressing a quick kiss on your lips. “Okay, let’s do this.” He helped you out of bed and you went to your closet to change quickly. You slipped a clean shirt on and watched as Rafael scrambled around.

“See mi amor, I told you it would work.”

**

FIN.

[Tags] None.

#rafael barba fanfic #rafael barba fanfiction #rafael barba smut #rafael barba x reader #law and order svu fanfiction #rafael barba x you

[boxboysandotherwhump]

The new boy in town.

Tags:  @salamancialilypad  @whumpfigure @albino-whumpee @comfy-whumpee  @ashintheairlikesnow   @haro-whumps   @moose-teeth @vickytokio​ @yet-another-heathen​ @orchidscript

Chapter 2

CW: body-shaming/ insults, discrimination/ dehumanization of mutants, an insect gets hurt, a nearly fistfight ensues

Heat thrummed through Gideon’s bones and throbbed in unison with his building headache. His patience had shriveled up like dried fruit under the torrid summer sun while this horrible lavender scent clung to his hair,  his skin, his clothes, making him dizzy.

It became stronger on the village outskirts, Gideon realized as he hurried after Director Sahin. The man ascended the crooked stone staircase effortlessly, his moss-green robe billowing behind him. His artfully decorated spear swayed with every step he took, not brushing a single leave. The only thing rustling through the underbrush was the wind and the creatures living there.

A twig caught in Gideon’s black curls, while the Director rambled on about the virtues of disciplinary work. How it encouraged the growth of one’s character, or some shit. The twig broke off with a quiet snap, painfully pulling at his scalp. Gideon’s mood dropped even lower. It was going to be a nightmare to fiddle all those shitty branches and leaves out of his hair later on.

He was seconds away from losing his barely-held composure. 

The only thing keeping him from bursting at the seams was the promise he’d whispered into his brother's grave, a last farewell bedded beside a corpse. 

Gideon had come to this godforsaken village to learn how to fight and survive in the forest, not to become some obedient little soldier boy! But in order to do that, he had to get cleared for training again and out of suspension.

If he had to play the director’s errand boy for a day to achieve that, so be it. He had endured worse.  

“Haaah, here we are.” Director Sahin inhaled deeply, arms falling wide. “Finally. My dear friend’s farm. Tell me, young Gideon, is it not simply beautiful?”

Gideon shrugged. “‘S’ okay.”

Granted, the house did look cozy, resting encircled by giant roots with its warm brick walls, but those gigantic snails everywhere sent a shudder down his spine. If he had to touch those slimy monsters he-

The farm’s sliding doors opened before he could utter a protest, and a fine-boned, middle aged woman emerged, followed by a huge man with a greying beard.  A boy, probably his own age but significantly shorter, held the door open for them.

The older woman’s lips curled into a crooked smile as she caught sight of Director Sahin, whose whole face had lit up. Dark eyes shining. 

“Moira. My darling. Please do not tell me you are about to leave? Not when I looked forward to seeing your beautiful face again.”

Gideon suppressed a gag. Moira crossed her arms, smile growing sharper. Her eyes held a warm twinkle as she spoke. “Eric; charming as ever.”

The man behind her stepped closer and huffed:  “M happy ‘ter see ya too, Eric.”

“Oh Ansgar you flatter me. But I must confess, I am not here solely for tea and a chat-“

The Director rattled on and Gideon’s focus wandered to the girl that had stepped out the door behind a blonde woman. A fancy grey blouse hung off her thin shoulders, nearly covering the  lace trim of blue silk short. A stark contrast to the more practical attire favored by most villagers. But that wasn’t what caught Gideon’s attention, no, he had seen all sorts of fancy getups up in Berlin -in the city's upper ring that is- what drew his eyes to her, was her face.

Its left side was oddly deformed, her pale skin uneven like a creased silk sheet, drawing her left eye down and her full lips up. She mouthed something to the boy, smiling, earning a smile from him in turn.

“Ah yes may I introduce: Gideon, my newest student.”

Having lost most of the adults’ conversation Gideon tuned back in just in time, to give them a curt nod.

“I will send him to collect the salve after the feast, then,” Director Sahin announced, please as can be. 

“Wonderful.” Moira clapped her hands. All back to business brusqueness.  “Sahar will appreciate not having to deliver it for once. Right?”

The other boy snapped to attention, green eyes wide and fingers twitching like the hands of a pianist. A grateful smile rose to his face and he nodded.

Oh great, so Gideon had to take the trip up here twice. 

They descended the stairs, lined up one after another on the narrow path. Sahar right in front of him, following the strange girl. He had avoided Gideon’s eyes as he squeezed past him, careful not to touch, probably scared off by his uniform. The school’s emblem, embroidered on his stainless white shirt, proudly declared him a scout in training. Deadly. Fearless. The little farm boy definitely did better not to mess with an insect slayer like him.

The girl came to an abrupt halt, frozen in the woodland’s shadows before it gave way to the dusty hill road. Gideon nearly collided with Sahar, when he heard it.

A primal, bone chilling hiss tore through the hot afternoon air, rattling through his very core. 

Every hair on his body stood, muscles tensing, on edge just like his fraying nerves. 

He knew that sound. 

Even though he’d heard it only once before. On the crusade from last-stand-berlin to the village, where he had seen the beast it belonged to lurk on the riverside, watching them.

He would never forget a spider’s hiss. 

And there one stood, right in front of him, its eight thorny legs towering high above its ugly head. The spider’s giant yaws worked, rubbed against each other in agitation. Its razor sharp fangs glistened in the sun.

A man sat atop its massive, hairy body, scar-faced and clad in a straw cape that was fastened to a beetle’s shell armoring his left shoulder. Shimmering in iridescent hues of blue and green. The man did not smile as he glanced down at them. A silent challenge was edged in the hard lines of his rugged face.

Tense static filled the air, an almost tangible thing that bit at Gideons fingers. It wormed its way into his bones, crawled over his scalp.  

He almost, almost, flinched when Director Sahin shouldered past him, spear drawn and followed by the other man. Both planted themselves right in front of him and the others.

The intruder’s scar stretched with the rise of his eyebrows, eyes slitting in a lazy half-grin.

 “Hey, there. Hold your horses. Before someone does something he regrets later.”

“That a threat?” Ansgar grunted.

Moira ducked past him, face twisted in a furious scowl as she spit. “Oh, something other than entering our village on a damn wolf-spider you mean?!”

The corded muscle in her boney arm flexed as she shook her fist at the man, unveiling a wrath behind her primly dressed form that no one would have wanted to fall victim to.

He, however, just leaned closer, smile stretching into a shark-tooth grin. “Gutsy, are we? I like that.”

Director Sahim stepped up beside her, spear held in a steady grip. “How could you make it past our InD-Units with this monstrosity?! God show you mercy if you did something to-”

“What do you think I am?!” the intruder drawled, hands raised in mock offense. “A monster?! Only reason I got past your insect defenses was this baby here.”

Gideon had to stand on his tiptoes to catch a glance of the small round device that sat embedded into the spider’s head, partly hidden by the man’s straw cape. A little red light blinked in a steady rhythm above three buttons, which the man was careful not to touch as he rapped his knuckles against it. 

“Renders her absolutely obedient. All natural instinct turned off. See?”

He unsheathed a knife from a holster strapped around his leg and its steel blade shimmered in the sun before he rammed it in one of the spider’s eyes, plopping it out with a nauseating plitch. The spider endured its master’s violation in utter stillness, only its yaws twitched, creating this awful hiss in their never ceasing movement.

 “She’s docile as a lamb.”

“And how exactly is that supposed to work?” the girl inquired, meeting the man’s stare with a calculated cold composure. She ignored the incredulous look the blonde woman gave her, as she mouthed: “Charlotte, what are you doing?”

The intruder's mouth twitched.

“Man, what do I know, Missy?! I’m a mutant hunter not a scientist.” He leaned closer, eyes narrowed, fixed on the girl's deformed face. Venom spiked his words, dripped from his tongue like acid. “My expertise lies in chasing down freaks.”

The condescendingly cruel way in which he spoke, wielding words like a weapon meant to pierce and twist where it hurt most, reminded Gideon oddly of his father. Anger welled up in his chest, buzzed down his legs and made them move. He planted himself right between the girl and the intruder.

How dare he compare someone to mutant scum?!

“Tsk. Mutant hunter?! You’ve ever even seen one? Or are you just talk? Threatening girls?!”

“Gideon.”, Director Sahim hissed, squeezing Gideon’s shoulder in warning as he tried to pull him back. 

The man gave them a wry smile. “No no. Let’s hear him out. Have you ever seen one boy?”

“Yes.” Gideon spat, unable to reign his emotions back in. “They’re hideous monstrosities.  And I’m going to find and kill every single one of them.”

The man burst into violent laughter, shoulders shaking and head thrown back, nearly losing his balance under the force of it.

“You do have guts, I give you that. But also lots to learn. Do you really think a girl can’t be a mutant? Monster’s come in all shapes and sizes, boy.” His eyes wandered back to Charlotte.  “Just ugly, that’s the whole lot of them.`` 

The blonde woman gasped, searching for words to shoot back, but falling silent as she noticed Charlotte’s expression. 

Red blotches burned on her face, rage twisting it into a vicious scowl. The afternoon sun set her copper curls on fire. Ready to spew fury and flames, she opened her mouth but Sahar was faster, his small voice piping up.

“Char- Charlotte is… is no- no mutant and and and she’s neither ugly nor weak. And and and people who talk about, talk about killing others for no- no, no reason are… They’re the- the real monsters.”  

His fingers fiddled with his shorts, tapping and twisting in the dark, worn linen as he stumbled over his words. His big green eyes jumped from the rocky street to the spider’s fangs, lingered on the intruder’s face before landing on Gideon. They narrowed as he all but spat the last words in Gideon’s face.  

“The hell you just said?!” Gideon’s nostrils flared. How dare this little runt run his mouth about things he didn’t know shit about!

Crossing his arms, Sahar forced himself to hold his ground against Gideon’s furious, wide eyed stare.  “You you, you heard me.”

Gideon heart hammered in his throat, pumping liquefied fire through his veins. His hands twitched.

“I give you one chance to take. That. Back.”

The boy’s trembling fingers dug into his forearms, knuckles whitening as he lifted his chin.

 “Never.”

A roar tore from Gideon’s throat as he leapt forward. Rage burned through him like a wildfire, ready to ignite everything his fist would come in contact with.

Beating the selfritousnes out of that stupid stammering farmboy was the only thing that mattered now. Everything else blurred to background noise. Even the stranger on his shitty spider. 

In that frozen second between charge and impact, Sahar’s  feet moved. His body tilted to the side. Dodged Gideon’s blow. Effortlessly. He bounced back. Landed on the first stone step and uncrossed his arms. Ready to defend himself. His fingers had stopped twitching.

That little runt had nerves! 

Gideon broke into a sprint.

“You sure are good at dodging!” He swung his arm back. “Try to handle this!”

Muscles flexing Gideon readied for impact, only for his arm to be janked back. A  large hand had wrapped around his wrist. Stopped him mid punch.  Craning his neck, Gideon stared up into Ansgar’s stern face.

Fuck he’s fast?! 

“Looks like ya still got lots t’ learn about respect ‘n self-discipline, young man.”

Director Sahin sighed, eyes still locked on the intruder, who watched the spectacle with a lazy kind of interest.

Ansgar released Gideon’s hand and turned to Sahar. His grey eyes glistened like ice shards. “Same goes for you. Ya disappointed me, Sahar.”

Sahar blinked up at the man, eyes round and full of disbelief.

“Wh-what- what, what do you, do do do do- what do you  mean?”

“I haven’t trained ya to run off ‘n start mindless fights. I tried to teach ya discipline ‘n how to survive these woods.” Ansgar’s voice did not waver and every word made Sahar shrink into himself. His fingers tapped a hectic distorted rhythm over his leg

The intruder snickered, “someone’s a stuck up,” earning Moira’s venomous glare. 

“But- but I didn’t- he he he he he was, he was the one who-“

“Enough,” Ansgar thundered. “Don’t argue with me. If ya want a beatin’ so bad I’ll give ya one later. And now back t’ the farm. Ya grounded for the week. No fest. No nothin’!”

Sahar crumbled under the man’s anger, head ducked between his shoulders as the first teardrop fell. It trickled down his trembling jaw, painting a glistening path on his warm skin.

Voice reduced to a shaky exhale Sahar nodded,  “yes, sir.”, and stormed up the stairs.

He had just vanished between the thick bushes, when the intruder broke out into a new laughing fit.

#whump #whump writing #mutant whumpee #crying whumpee #insults #fighting #post apocalypse #post apocalyptic #whumpee #some flowers have teeth #sahar #gideon #charlotte #sahar tries his best #gideon the angry bean

[cherrywoes]

002 | CONTROL

002.

Strong language, some sexual references.

YOU DIDN'T SEE USHIJIMA for over a month after that particular incident. Between your various promotions in Brazil, Paris, and Venice by Akaashi's requests, you had no time for homebound work much less returning to Tokyo for a brief siesta with the man who was plaguing your dreams. He was a menace even when he wasn't there with you—not that you were necessarily complaining. Just the thought of him got you off faster than anything else you could have produced in the heat of the moment, and it surprised you every time the aftershocks wore off and you were trying to catch your breath.

If it were anyone else, you would have been ashamed every time thoughts of that photoshoot kept you awake until three in the morning or blindsided you in the middle of company meetings while Akaashi was briefing you on how you should do your runway turns and pauses for the crowd to show off the ridiculous slits in the gowns he'd designed for a summer collection.

Ushijima Wakatoshi was a different breed of man entirely, you'd give him that much.

Gnawing on the cap of your pen, you tapped your fingers on the corner of your desk and eyed the reference photos Akaashi had sent you so you would know how you would be appearing on the runway. A lot of them were primarily focused on shoulders, knees, calves, and hips, with an unusual emphasis on the curvature of your neck. You scribbled down a note to start your neck exercises to make sure the skin was taut and smooth before the show and, as an afterthought, sadly crossed out sugar from your diet plan.

Sometimes you hated your dietitian's planners. Your meals were planned out from morning to noon, with small snacks in between usually of protein shakes and fruit with a limited amount. While you sometimes cheated and drank soda or ate oatmeal with enough sugar to sink a battleship, you usually stuck to your diet even if it was something you didn't like—you eyed the plate of asparagus, spinach, and salmon sitting on your desk that you'd poked around at but had yet to eat. You'd most likely skip the meal entirely and replace it with something else later.

Before you could close your laptop for the night and squirm out of the designer shirt and pants you wore, the gaping slash from neck to navel leaving you chilly, a facetime call popped up on your screen, reading 'Annoying Ass Cat' or, simply, Kuroo.

You answered without a second thought. You hadn't had time to see either him or Kenma like you had wanted besides intercepting their bills and paying them yourself, even though the gamer was cautiously making his way back into the scene much to his fans delight. You would pop in the chats whenever you had the time, the time zone difference manageable for you. While it was 2PM in Tokyo, it was 6AM in Venice, right as you were waking up and eating breakfast, so you'd watch and interact with Kenma while you got ready for the day. Kuroo was there sometimes or was at work depending on the day, but you were happy to see your boys were okay even if it was through a gaming stream.

"[Name]!" Kuroo exclaimed as the screen came up, revealing your bare face and the backdrop of nighttime over Venice in the window behind you. He was sitting somewhere in the kitchen and you could see Kenma poke his head from around a corner when he shouted your name. "How's Venice? No, how was Paris? Your Instagram was full of pictures there especially."

You laughed and set your pen down on a notepad. "It's really beautiful here, I promise. I prefer Venice over Paris though, there's a tranquility here that Paris just doesn't have. But I only have one more show before Akaashi's letting me fly home for a while."

"That's good, me and Kenma miss you," he said with a wide grin. You watched the shorter male nod in agreement behind him and add,"I miss playing COD with you and ignoring Kuroo."

"Hey!" said male gasped, offended.

"I miss you guys too." You smiled and leaned back in your chair, picking the pen back up and twirling it between your fingers. "Kenma, have you gotten rid of your… uh… worm problem?"

He scowled at you briefly when you snorted at your little joke. "Yes, I have. The doctors said I should be perfectly healthy by next week."

"Finally," Kuroo guffawed. "I'm tired of thinking they're gone and then have them come right back and you get sick again."

Kenma just shrugged. You laughed lightly and opened your mouth to comment on the new clothes Kuroo was wearing since they were from Akaashi's collection when your phone pinged with a message.

"Who's that?" Kuroo asked when you reached over to pick up your phone, flipping the screen face up to scan the contact name. He watched your eyes slowly widen and a dark blush creep up your face, darker than he'd ever seen it in normal lighting, and a strangled squeak force its way past your lips. "[Name]?"

You worried at your bottom lip, glancing at the name 'Ushijima' sitting innocently in your notifications and then back to Kuroo and Kenma, who were both silently waiting for your answer to who it was. You could tell them, of course, and you would feel guilty for it—because Ushijima was your best kept fantasy, as much as you'd deny it, and the incident at the beach wasn't something you wanted to share with either of them. They were your best friends, but you had to draw the line in the sand somewhere…

And you were drawing it at Ushijima Wakatoshi.

"Akaashi has a dress he wants me to model," you choked out, ignoring Ushijima's text and opening up Akaashi's contact to pull up the risque dress he'd sent you when you landed in Venice. It didn't bother you but you needed an excuse for the flush on your face; Kuroo wouldn't know the difference. It was a bright orange number, more akin to two banners of silk wrapped around your throat and taped to cover your breasts and angle between your legs, held together by a heavy jeweled belt. You held your phone up to the laptop camera and heard Kenma let out a surprised grunt. "I know. It's not his usual work, but he wanted something for summer and… well. That's summer."

Kuroo seemed appeased by your answer, at least. "I think you could pull it off. I'll have to watch the show when it airs."

You felt relief too soon. If there was anything you didn't want either of them to do it was watch this particular show, filled with more skin and silk and nudity than you'd ever show them in polite company, your current shirt aside. It was almost like showing yourself to two overtly awkward boyfriends and expecting them to ignore you, which they wouldn't, and try not to evoke certain reactions, which they would. But you couldn't exactly tell them that, now could you?

"Way to inspire anxiety," you said, instead, fingers hovering over Ushijima's unread text. You sorely wanted to read it, but you couldn't in front of them. It felt too secret, too intimate, even though you hadn't exchanged another word with the man besides the text he'd sent you as you had left the shoot that day. "If I trip and fall it's your fault."

Kuroo grinned rakishly. "I'd bet on it."

You spent a few more moments talking to them before excusing yourself for bed. It was midnight where you were and you were getting drowsy, but the thought of Ushijima's text was enough to get you going. You would probably crash later, but your curiosity was killing you.

With a few air kisses to them both, you ended the call and stared at your phone lying on your desk, as if such a simple piece of technology didn't have the capability of turning your emotions upside down.

"Here goes nothing," you mumbled and opened the text, holding your breath and your hand over your mouth.

'Congratulations.'

Underneath he'd attached an image, and it took you a few minutes to realize what you were looking at. The main piece, which he was referring to, was a glossy magazine cover with you plastered on the front in Akaashi's lingerie line, where you'd been seated on a throne, given a scepter, and a crown that was tastefully askew on your head. You had the same photo printed and framed in Akaashi's office, one of his favorites, and your first front cover for this magazine. The magazine was laying in his lap, legs spread in what looked like an expensive leather chair, and you just barely made out the toe of his shoes and the pinstripes in his pants. You did see Nox's ear in the top corner, making you giggle just a bit.

You felt just a little pathetic at analyzing every facet of the innocent photo, but you assured yourself that you were just curious and you could learn a lot from how someone took photos.

'Thank you,' you typed back, then pulled your lip between your teeth. What else to add? 'I didn't think you'd see that, haha.'

Too nervous to watch him potentially reply, you tossed your phone on your hotel bed and pulled on your pajamas, ignoring the ping of his text back while you pulled your t-shirt over your head. When you were comfortable and felt somewhat more calm, you burrowed underneath the heavy hotel sheets and opened the text.

'Why wouldn't I?' He'd written. 'You're very eye catching, [Name]. Although that isn't what I texted you for.'

Anxiety hit you like a truck.

'Then what did you need?'

You gnawed on your nail, careful not to leave marks on the filed tips, and watched as three little periods popped up as he typed his reply. He took his time, that was for certain, and you were expecting a paragraph by the time he'd finished, but to your surprise—your heart fluttered and dropped down to your belly when you read it—it was just one simple word.

'You.'

You never regretted falling asleep more in your life. Somehow you'd gotten too comfortable and your eyes had slipped closed against your will. You'd slept until your alarm woke you and you'd sworn it was just a dream, except you nearly spit out your black coffee when you went back to the texts that morning. You felt bad about not replying, but soon it left your mind in a flurry of silks, chiffon, and lace and the chaos that was Akaashi's fashion show.

The next time you thought about those texts, it was on your flight home to Tokyo. You'd had a few glasses of champagne to celebrate not tripping on the runway, much to Kuroo's disappointment, and had typed a reply without a thought to the consequences of replying over a week later.

'Why me?' It was simple but you'd lost the nerve to type anything more. You'd have to have more to drink to type up anything more than that. Surprisingly, he was awake so early in the morning: a glance at the clock revealed it was 2 A.M. What was he doing awake so late?

'Why not you?' Was his reply, as if that explained anything.

Frustrated, you downed the rest of your champagne and requested for something stronger from the flight attendant. She blinked at you in surprise, but went to retrieve a bottle of whiskey like you'd asked while you typed up another alcohol fueled reply.

'You don't even know me,' you typed, nails clacking against the screen,'and other than nearly cumming on your leg in front of fifteen photographers, I don't know you either.'

With a huff, you slammed your phone down right as the flight attendant returned with a bottle of high grade whiskey. You drank straight from the bottle instead of using a glass, praising the perks of flying first class, and watched as Ushijima's response lit up your phone.

'I know more about you than you think, [Name].'

Eyebrows furrowing, you sat back in your seat and stared at the screen, dumbfounded and a little buzzed.

'What the hell does that mean?'

He never answered you after that. You pounded back the rest of the bottle in less than an hour and curled up on the couch near the back, knowing fully well that you'd wake up nursing the worst hangover known to man. You never did handle alcohol well, or at all. But you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Ushijima Wakatoshi was an infuriatingly handsome enigma wrapped up in a quiet, stern package with a dash of mischief that seemed rare and unseen. You wanted to unwrap this mystery and with every interaction he just seemed to add more layers, more mystery to himself, so much so that you couldn't help but wonder who he really was, or what he wanted with you.

By the time you got back to Tokyo, it was six in the morning. The airport was unusually empty and besides the paparazzi catching you and snapping a few photos of your "airport outfit"—a loose Gucci Oxford button up (which was Akaashi's and somehow made it into your bag, probably after he'd given it to you when you spilled tea all over yourself last week) half tucked and draped over a pair of leggings with tasteful ladders cut into the thighs and knees—and shouted several questions at you even though your hangover made you want to beat the hell out of your skull.

"[Name], you look awful." Ayano greeted you at the exit, wearing designer everything from head to toe and looking exceptionally glamorous for it. You could faintly smell men's cologne on her and automatically assumed she had been on a date—or was just finishing up a hookup, judging by how she'd tried to fix her makeup and failed. "Don't you have breakfast plans with that famous dietitian?"

"Who?" You squinted into the dawn sunlight and fumbled for a pair of sunglasses in your purse, slapping them on your face with a grimace. "You mean Iwaizumi Hajime? One, he's a sports dietitian, and two, I'm only doing it to track down where the hell Oikawa went so I can wring his pretty little neck."

"That sounds like an unexplored kink," Ayano teased. She snickered when you slapped her lightheartedly; she seemed much better off being able to go home earlier than you had. "I'm joking. I don't know where exactly in Argentina he went. I'm sure if anyone knows it's Iwaizumi."

You hummed in agreement. "Which is why I need you to figure out his schedule so I can jump in on his breakfast or lunch."

She sighed. "I knew there was something you weren't telling me."

"But you love me," you grinned, blowing her a kiss and hopping in the passenger seat with renewed gusto despite your pounding headache.

Ayano stepped into the driver's seat a moment later with an even more exaggerated sigh. "Unfortunately."

Thirty minutes and a few well placed bribes later, you had a printout of Iwaizumi's schedule from Monday to Sunday, with even fine details written in the margins. You flicked the paper out and pushed your sunglasses up, holding it up against the sunlight so you could read and block it at the same time.

"Breakfast at Onigiri Miya," you read slowly, eyebrows raising. "Orders the plain Onigiri and soy sauce with water to drink; later has a twenty milligram protein shake and salmon patties for a snack. Who wrote this, a superfan disguised as a pseudo secretary?"

Ayano groaned and turned the music down at your observation. "Are you going to go or not?  Because we're here."

Your gaze darted forward to look around. "Where?"

She gestured to the small building she'd parked outside. "Onigiri Miya."

It was a cozy little shop, you'd give that. Ayano had allowed you to change before dropping you off, so now you wore a pair of Louboutins, a stylish pair of washed jeans, and the same button up but tucked in tight underneath a plain Chanel belt. A few of the morning customers eyed you as you walked in, but to your surprise no one was at the counter.

You spotted Iwaizumi Hajime out of the corner of your eye while you waited, completely oblivious to your presence and enjoying his Onigiri and soy sauce. The schedule had been right after all. You pursed your lips and turned your head back to face the menu, except there was now a man standing in front of you—and judging by the way he was looking at you, he recognized you, his eyes slightly wide.

"I—Uh—How can I help you?" He blustered, running a hand through his yellow hair. His nametag read 'Miya Atsumu' and underneath, scrawled in permanent marker, was an angry 'Part-Timer'. "Would you like to know the specials for today?"

"No thank you. I'll take the plain Onigiri, please, and water." You smiled and took pleasure in the way he blushed all the way to the roots of his hair. He was a handsome man, you had to say, if a little awkward.

"Sure thing!" Atsumu put in your order and you paid with your card. When he went to the back, he said,"Switch!"

You tapped your fingernails against the counter and observed the scratches in the cheap tile. When you looked up again, a bored grin on your face, you felt your stomach shrivel up and try to escape to the floor at the familiar face before you.

"Terushima Yuuji," you said sourly, grin fading to a harsh line. "What a surprise."

"[Name]?" He had the balls to look surprised to see you standing there—and really, he should be. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of you since you'd ended things with him when he cheated on you several months ago. "Wow. You look… good."

"Of course I do." You scowled and held out your hand. "My change?"

"Oh. Uh… Here. Three sixty." He dropped it into your waiting palm. "What are you doing here?"

"What? Am I not allowed to be here?" You questioned, your voice acidic. Your plan to ambush Iwaizumi was put on the back burner so you could rip Terushima a new one. Seeing his face after all this time made you want to beat him to a bloody pulp. "Whatever. Give me my Onigiri and I'll leave."

"But—"

"Goodbye." You twirled on your heel and headed for the door to sit outside where you weren't in the same room as him.

What you weren't expecting was the warmth of soup being tossed at the back of your head, or the feeling of hands clawing into your hair.

Six years of Taijutsu training kicked in and before you knew it, you had a girl sprawled out on the floor, her nose streaming vermillion rivers and her lip swelling up to concerning proportions. Your knuckles burned with the force and before you could nudge her body away, Yuuji leaped forward to check on the girl with panicked eyes.

"Babe?" He shook her, only receiving a groan in reply. "Answer me!"

Oh, this day just couldn't have gotten any worse could it? And it was all Oikawa's fault.

003.

MASTERLIST.

TAGLIST: @momowhoo | +++

Feedback is appreciated! 💕

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyū!! #ushijima x you #ushijima x y/n #ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima wakatoshi

[theyreonlynoodlesmike]

Hello, how would the vampire boys react to their s/o in lingerie?

I may have had just a little bit too much fun writing this ask. I hope you enjoy!!!!!!!!!

Warning: NSFW (duh)

The Lost Boys x Fem!S/O in Lingerie

David

It’s pretty hard to tease David. He’s the type that even if you’re succeeding, you’ll never know. He’s too calm, too controlled. He knows how to control his emotions, and you can never seem to get the reaction you want out of him

David loves corsets. He’s from a time where they were the pinnacle of fashion, and, while he understands why they eventually got replaced, sometimes he wishes for the days when it would be commonplace to wear them

You’d told him to come over to your house for the night, and, when you slipped away to the bathroom, he didn’t ask any questions

When you stepped out in one (a victorian-esque one if you really want to impress him) and a pair of stockings, you knew you had David hooked. You two were in your room, and he was most likely looking around, touching your stuff, and rearranging it just ‘cause he thinks it’s funny when he knows where things are and you don’t

You call from behind him to get his attention, and he turns around. He stops. He stares. He may even fumble with whatever was in his hands at the moment. David doesn’t say a word, just looking you over and appreciating the sight in front of him. 

He’ll lick his lips, put whatever he was holding down (slowly, of course, he doesn’t want to seem too excited), and just point to your bed. “Sit. Now.” He’ll be right in front of you in a matter of seconds, and he grab your chin as you sit on the edge of the bed. He’ll tilt your head up, making you look at him right in the eyes as he unbuckles his belt. He’ll tell you, “Is this what you’ve been planning? Naughty, naughty girl.”

He doesn’t want you to take it off, even as he’s fucking you into the bed. He’ll smooth his hands over the material, and tell you just how much he likes it. He’ll tease you about how it makes your tits bounce and how small it makes your waist look. He’ll say, “I should make you wear this all the time, kitten” right into your ear as he buries himself inside you

When you two are done, he’ll tell you about some of his fantasies. You as an upper class lady, and how much of a scandal it would be if you were ever caught courting someone such as himself. Let alone having sex before marriage. He’ll definitely want to roleplay a bit after you show it to him, and he wants you to call him “Sir” like a good lady of the time would

He’ll seriously try to convince you to start waist training afterwards

Dwayne

Dwayne isn’t exactly the kinkiest guy in the world. He likes slow, passionate sex. Sometimes, he’ll be a little rough with you, but he likes to use sex as a way to show how much he cares

Dwayne likes slips and robes. They’re modest enough that they leave some things to the imagination, and he likes watching them come off more than anything. The feeling of silk under his calloused hands? Yes, please. Matching underwear and panties? He’s in heaven

You break out the lingerie for your anniversary. It’s a special night, and Dwayne had pulled out all the stops. It would only be fair if you gave him just as much effort in return. 

He knows something is up when you excuse yourself to the bathroom, and he waits patiently on your bed

When you walk out in a slip (all decked out with a lace trim and everything) and a matching see-through robe, Dwaynes breath hitches. He’s not a man of many words, but that speaks enough 

He stares, and he watches you walk towards him. He doesn’t say a word, and simply reaches out to touch. He’ll slide his hand over the silk, and gently pull you closer by the edge of your robe. A rare smile spreads across his face when you shrug the robe off and let it fall to the floor, and Dwayne is sitting up and on the edge of the bed so he can pull you closer

He takes his time, running his hands up your legs slowly to watch how the material bunches up. He’s careful as he takes it off, slow enough that you think he almost doesn’t want to, and reveals a matching lace bra and panties underneath. The look he gives you and the shaky breath he lets out is more than enough to tell you what he’s thinking

Still, he’ll murmur how gorgeous you are, how you’re an angel sent from heaven, a goddess among men, and call you any compliment he can think of

If he wasn’t in love with you before, he definitely was now. He whispers the words to you over and over again, and how you’re perfect for him. Perfect, in general

Dwayne slowly strips you of all your undergarments, giving you soft, lingering touches and kisses all over your body. It’s your special night, so foreplay was going to last for hours anyways. He fucks you nice and slow, and kisses you so hard you think he’ll forget that you need to breathe

When you two are done, he’ll grab it for you so you can sleep in it, and you roll your eyes. He’s definitely not sneaky, and, the moment it’s back on you, he’s pulling it off again for another round

Marko

You don’t have to do much to turn this boy on. He’s a master tease, and he knows exactly how good you look in anything. He’s gotten aroused just from seeing you in one of his crop-tops and a pair of boxers, so he’s not really asking for much

A sexier than normal bra and panties are enough to make him drool. He likes something pretty and aesthetically pleasing, like a push-up bra and a matching pair of panties. G-string, thongs, boyshorts, he doesn’t care. It’s all gonna end up getting taken off anyways!

You decide to randomly wear something nicer than normal one day. Why wait for a special occasion when there’s no time like the present? Plus, Marko loves surprises

So, when you two are in the middle of getting down and dirty and he pulls off your shirt to reveal a push up bra? Handsy, handsy, handsy. First thing he does is grab. Expect both hands on your tits and his face in your neck, because damn, woman, what are you trying to do to him?

Marko is so focused on what you’re wearing on top that he doesn’t even think of what you could be wearing on the bottom. You have to keep him from taking off your bra so you can give him the full effect, and worm your way out of his grasp. You stand up for the rest of the big reveal, and, the minute you’ve shimmied out of your pants, his mouth drops

He’s leaning back on his arms, and he just takes a moment to appreciate just how hot you actually are. The second his mind kicks back in, he’s grabbing you and pulling you into his lap

While Marko usually likes to be in full nude, he makes an exception. He wants to see you ride him with the outfit on, so he can “enjoy the view”. He simply pushes your underwear aside so he can slip inside. He holds your hips and stares at you the entire time, his head down by the pillows and his mouth slightly open as he watches you work

His hands trail over you, and he’ll snap the waistband of your panties against your skin. He’ll reach up and grab a handful of both of your tits, and then pull the bra down so he can sit up and have easy access

The second you two are done, you’re surprised the outfit made it this far without getting ripped off of you

He tells you that you should definitely wear this set more often, and he even asks if he can go with you the next time you go shopping so he can pick out the next one

Paul

When it comes to him, it’s less about what you wear and more about what you don’t. He likes seeing some skin, and you bet your ass his hands are touching anywhere you decide to reveal some

All the boys are sexual, but Paul takes the cake. If you two aren’t doing it, he’s suggesting it. If he’s not suggesting it, he’s thinking about it. And he’s always thinking about it. All you have to do is look at him too long and he’s asking you if you wanna go find a private place

That’s why, on his birthday, you decide to wear a black harness underneath your clothes. Just a black harness

He’s been making jokes the whole night about what he really wants for his birthday, even after you gave him a new guitar-pick and a bracelet. He loves the gifts, but everyone, everyone, knows what really is on his mind. It’s why the boys didn’t even bother trying to follow you back to the cave

The minute you’re alone, Paul is trying to rip off your clothes. You have to sit him on the couch, and his hands are twitching when you step back to give him a show. You warn him that he has to wait, that this is his big present and you don’t want him to ruin it. He has to sit on his hands so he doesn’t grab you and just rip your clothes off himself. He even whines about “opening up a present is half the fun” and you roll your eyes

When you’re out of your clothes and just in the full body harness, Pauls eyes widen and he grabs you. He pulls you down onto the couch, and he’s giggling to himself as he plays with the straps and runs his hands over all of your exposed skin

He doesn’t even bother kissing you and instead just wraps his mouth around one of your exposed nipples. You’re not even wearing underwear so foreplay be damned he wants you now

He can’t help himself, and, even if there’s barely anything on you, he still ends up ripping it off. You whine because Paul, this was expensive and he reminds you that he’s the birthday boy so he gets to do whatever he wants. He’s been a brat all night, but you can barely complain when he’s fucking you so hard you can barely remember your name

When he’s done, he lays half on top of you and plays with the shreds of the straps. Now that he’s no longer in the heat of the moment, he realizes that may have been a mistake. He buys you a new one (one that’s somehow more revealing than the last) and you wear it on special occasions. He even buys you some in different colors just to match the holiday

He tries to argue what can be considered a special occasion because no, presidents day is not a sexy holiday, Paul

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagines #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys paul #the lost boys david #marko the lost boys #paul the lost boys #the lost boys dwayne #the lost boys marko #dwayne the lost boys #david the lost boys

[heart-of-tempered-steel]

𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 // {fred weasley x ofc} preview

As soon as his gaze slid down from her slender shoulders to her neatly folded hands, he saw it.

Her hands, he mused, were small and delicate looking and usually when they were at rest when she sits, are folded neatly one atop of the other. Like bird wings.

Now, her hands were anything but resting. They were slightly fluttering.

As if something ruffled their feathers.

Summary: Fred starts to see through the cracks on the mask she wears and realizes that it wasn’t just a mask... but a full suit of armor as well.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Seri Waldren (OFC)

**Additional Note**: Face claim for Seri is Lee Ji Eun as Jang Man Wol

Warnings: Almost none except for a bit of slightly one-sided angst with a hint of enemies to friends to lovers as well as an ofc (but PLEASE give this a chance before scrolling past!!! I really worked so hard to get everything in place here! 🥺)

His eyes are a deep hazel like his twin.

However, Seri thinks to herself, staring at his side profile as he faced the fireplace, the flames casting a warm glow over his features, that in this light at least, they held a hint of mahogany in them. With the way that the light was catching in his eyes, she can see that it brought out the dark red undertone in them. She gives him a once over—steady gaze tracing his features from his hair to his eyes.

Orange.

Red.

Brown.

Like the fallen leaves that drift with the autumn breeze.

And before she thinks better of it, she is pulled into a memory.

Like the forest floor at that time when the sun was setting and its dying rays peeked through the canopy to shade everything a warm copper and bronze—the earthy smell of dirt with a hint of petrichor from last week’s rainfall; laughter echoing through flying swirls of leaves, recently scattered from a pile.

Mug of hot cider, freshly made, warming you up inside and out. Its warmth spreading from your fingertips to your head as its heady aroma of apple and cinnamon wafts up to your nose and fills you.

Pairs of strong yet gentle arms holding you—comforting you. A melody, sweet and tender as the arms you’re held by, drifts into your ears and lulls you with its lullaby.

Soft wool tickling your cheek as you nestle yourself further into the warm embrace, letting the song carry you over into a peaceful slumber. Here, you are content.

You are safe.

You are not alone.

You are loved.

And just like that, she is consumed. The sudden onslaught of the memory hurtling towards her like a tornado of broken glass, pieces of what was once a precious and tender reminiscence, now in shatters. Jagged, sharp edges were simultaneously slashing, ripping, and embedding themselves into her heart; threatening to shred through every soft layer of tissue to raw and bloody scraps.

She nearly recoils from the emotions that was all at once churning and burning her from within, fighting to keep the tempest within her contained. If she does not get a hold of herself…  

She. Will. Fall. Apart.

Seri instantly turns away from Fred and lets her hair fall to the side of her face like a black curtain between them as she attempts to silently reign in her tumultuous emotions.

Her companion hears a barely suppressed, sharp intake of breath and turns his attention to her. He finds her face turned away, seemingly focusing on a spot just off to the side of the fireplace. Or at least he assumes she was staring at a spot. Her long black hair effectively blocking off his view of her face.

Her figure was stock still except for the slow and methodical breaths he can see her quietly forcing herself to take. She still held the same posture on the carpet as when he came by the fireplace to sit next to her. Back straight, legs tidily folded underneath to accommodate for the sleeping gown she was wearing underneath her silk robe, and hands resting on top of her lap.

That was where Fred found the slight difference in the way she was holding herself. As soon as his gaze slid down from her slender shoulders to her neatly folded hands, he saw it. 

Her hands, he mused, were small and delicate looking and usually when they were at rest when she sits, are folded neatly one atop of the other. Like bird wings.

Now, her hands were anything but resting. 

They were slightly fluttering.

As if something ruffled their feathers. 

One hand still lay on top of the other but the other hand beneath was tightly curled into a fist. Its tightened grip causing her hands to faintly tremble. He had an inkling that if the other hand on top was removed, he would see the white knuckles she was making as she dug her manicured nails into the palm of her hand.

It lasted for only a moment and it was gone as soon as he saw it. As if she could feel his gaze on her, she took in a last deep breath and slowly unfurled her hand back to how it was. But it only took that one passing moment for Fred to know... that something was wrong.

“You alright, princess?”, he let out in a soft voice, his tone laced with concern.

She felt it.

Yes, she could tell he was worried over her. And not just because she was a born empath. No. She didn’t need to rely on that part of her to know that. His voice was—so gentle and soothing. Yet, it held such an intriguing blend of both boldness and apprehension to it that it didn’t want to make her pin the person who was asking under a glare of disdain. Usually, with the kind of rumors and reputation that garnered around her, there were mostly only two types of people in her life who would ask about her well-being with feigned compassion: reporters and suitors from highborn pure-blood families like hers.

One wanted to use her to stamp their name on the cover page of every magazine and newspaper.

The other wanted her hand in marriage for her wealth and, out of their archaic and medieval beliefs, to secure the continuation of their family’s pure-blood lineage.             

But both were attracted to her by their uninhibited ambition.

Both wanted a piece of her to claim for themselves.

The empath part of her can sense an oily power-hungry leech like that from a mile away, eyes closed.

Although now, the empath in her was sensing something entirely different from the red head beside her.

There was concern, yes. But there was also sincerity… genuine sincerity for her and—

Oh.

There it was. Buried beneath a bundle of his nervousness and the abrupt need to reach out to her...

Kindness.

It was kindness…

 And no. It wasn’t the pitiful kind of kindness that would be offered to her with condolences every time her parents’ deaths were brought up in every one of her mandatory but rare social outings. This kindness that she was sensing from him was pure and so unrestrained that it took her aback. Maybe even perturbed her a bit.

She was sensing this from the young man. The very same young man, who, along with his twin, would set off pranks to soak up the chaos they ensued. Resulting disruptive inconvenience and bodily harm to others be damned. Unapologetic and destructive, the two laid waste with their antics on and off the school grounds. Fred Weasley, one of the loud, cocky, and rambunctious devil duo pranksters of Hogwarts…

Was sitting next to her worrying about her well-being.

And Morrigan knows, with the kind of tempestuous and vitriolic relationship that they started off with—almost a week after she transferred from Ilvermorny, she’d never thought that he’d show her, let alone be capable to have this side of him. Perhaps, it was a good thing that she was already sitting down because reconciling these two sides of him was leaving her a tad disoriented.

Despite that… she lets herself welcome the feeling. She lowers her defenses a bit, letting its tendrils wrap around her senses in a warm cocoon. His earnest need to ease her out of whatever unsettled her—so honest and guileless, centers her while it melts away and soothes any residual pain that the painful memory left in her heart.

So different.

A/N: *tenatively pokes her head into the fandom* hey there! 👋 I hoped you enjoyed this “little” preview of my upcoming fred weasley drabble! I’m a newly minted fan so I wasn’t sure how my fic would fare among you older and OG fans so I decided to just post a snippet of it and see how many of you would be interested in my little project. tbh I wasn’t that into the harry potter fandom for most of my life. I did ofc watched the films when I was younger and ended up with a Daniel Radcliffe crush tht lasted up until I became a Hiddlestoner.

But other than tht I didn’t really consider myself as a potterhead.... until one rerun marathon film series drew me back into its clutches and not only got me to start reading the books but also gave me a newfound appreciation and love for the Weasley twins (especially Fred 😉). the twins deserved a better ending than tht btw. heck. almost half of the characters were done dirty by the end of the series 👀

Anyway, I didn’t expect to fall so hard for the twins considering the massive crush my 9 year old self had w/ harry potter lol. those sneaky twins really have a way of worming themselves into your heart without you ever noticing it! Now, it’s been almost two months since watching the movies and I’m still overwhelmed with all the feels about those two 😩. so this fic/drabble was sort of a cathartic release of all my pent up emotions for them. tbh this just started off with me just wanting to describe the aesthetics Fred was giving me but well... all my feelings spilled out. oops 😬

the title is based on a great song that I stumbled on YouTube called “It Takes A Lot to Know a Man” by Damien Rice and I think it fits the dilemma of Fred and Seri finding out that there’s more than what the eye can see with each other. but that’s enough of my rambling for now 😅. If u made it all the way here, congratulations! And thank you for checking out my fic! I really do appreciate the time you spend reading this as well as any feedback you can give 🙏 (the more detailed the better!) Please reblog/like if you enjoyed this as well! I really appreciate it if you could share this with some of ur friends/mutuals it really makes all the sleepless nights working on this worth it!

Also let me know if there are any grammar errors too (bc I’m def sure there are some floating up there) I’m more of a fanfic reader than a writer so this was a BEAST to get out for me!

P.S. I’m also planning to have a self-insert/reader imagine version of this and any future drabbles of this series in the future since I know how some people feel about ocs 👀

Taglist: @firewhisky-kisses @yourssuccubus (who expressed great support in helping me write this! Thanks, u two ❤️ I hope it was worth the wait!

#fred weasley x seri waldren #fred weasley #fred weasley x oc #fred weasley x reader #harry potter oc #seri waldren #fred weasley imagine #james phelps #lee jieun #lee ji eun #harry potter #hp fic: italtks #hp fic: it takes a lot to know someone

[pit-and-the-pen]

But what if...Jk...unless...

A dream fic (with a little liberty but basically the same vibe) for @thoseofgreatambition. Hope it’s everything you want :)

I got carried away since I really do love writing for George..... 

--------------------------------------------------------

I was sitting on my bed at the safe house, it was just a little past sundown when I got a knock on my door. 

“Y/n?” A voice from behind the door calls. 

I folded over the corner of the book I was trying to read and set it down. I walk over to the door to open it and standing behind it is George Weasley in all of his glory. 

“You got a second?” He sounds serious. I instantly start to panic but swallow it down. 

“Yeah of course. Is everything alright?” Even I can hear the stress in my voice. 

“Oh yeah. Don’t worry everything is fine. I guess. As fine as they can be...considering..” A breath escapes from my mouth. Deflating. He’s trying to make it into a joke so it must be semi-serious. 

“What’s up?” 

“I want to do something a little stupid. And I need, one, you not to get upset, and two you to go with me.” I roll my eyes at this melodramatic tone.

“George whatever you need. I’m in.” 

“Don’t agree before you hear it.”

“Merlin, George just spit it out.” I say getting slightly impatient.

“I need to go check on the shop.” He rushes out.

No. Absolutely not. Not a chance in hell. I have heard a fair share of stupid things come out of this mans head but this by far has to be the stupidest thing he has ever thought of. 

“You said you wouldn’t get upset.” Hurt is laced into his voice. 

“You didn’t say it was that stupid.” My tone is clipped. 

“I said a littl..”

“Little. Not damn near suicidal.” I stare him down with a gaze that would put Molly to shame.

“Look. I just want to grab some things. Ya’ know, and make sure the place is still standing. It’s really important to me.” George went straight to pleading. He knew I couldn’t say no if it was that important to him.

I looked up at the ceiling like it would suddenly come and strike me down. I wasn’t that lucky. 

“Fine. I will go on this death mission with you. Just because I know you’d go with or without me.” I sigh. 

In the next moment, I’m getting picked up off of my feet. Smothered in a giant hug from George. 

“Thank you.” 

“Thank me when we get back. Preferably with all of our remaining parts.” I say, still not used to the hole on the side of his face. Just another reminder of what is out there waiting for us. 

I regret saying yes the moment I agreed. Damn George and him knowing I can’t say no to him. 

---------------------------

“If you don’t stay still. I will just just cut it all off.” I shout at the man doing his best impression of a worm for me currently. He just continues to laugh  “Stop it or I won't go.” He laughs harder at my attempt to be stern but stops squirming. I am currently covering up his signature red hair, turning it into a dark brown. Going right into the belly of the beast was one thing, his bright red hair would give us away and I wasn’t going to rely on a cloak to cover it up if we got caught. Mine was currently a bright white that made Malfoys’ look brassy. Hopefully it would be enough if we were to get stopped, not that I think the person stopping us would be the ‘ask questions’ first type. A few more flicks of my wand and all the red is covered. I dye his eyebrows for good measure and he really does look like a whole new person. “Okay done.” I say tucking my wand away into my cloak. 

“That should hold for long enough to get us there and back.” I say, my mind reeling at all the things that could go wrong. Just to check on his stupid store. George’s work ethic was one thing I admire about him, but it really did know no boundaries. 

We manage to sneak out of the boundaries of the protection spells around the cottage. I looked up at the dark sky for the first time in what felt like months. For being on the beach, I really did just hide away inside. 

We apparated to just a few stores down from the shop, just in case there was anyone waiting inside it. It would give us time to either get out or to prepare for a fight. 

I grabbed George’s arm tightly as we walked down the abandoned and destroyed street that used to be crawling with life. The windows all blown out or boarded up, glass crunching under our feet as we walked what used to feel like a second home. I had to swallow back tears. Just seeing this type of destruction in a palace that used to feel untouchable. 

George seemed to sense my mood change, and might even have been feeling it himself and squeezed the hand that was wrapped around his arm. To anyone that looked we probably just looked like a very out of place couple. The store was in view and to say it was eerie would be an understatement. The giant moving statue outside of it, still and lifeless. Seeing that sent a chill down my spine and was really threatening my self control. Other than just being dead, it looked pretty untouched. One window in the front was broken but that could be easily fixed. I tried to focus on that. It was rebuildable. Maybe we all were. 

Suddenly I got the feeling we were being watched. 

“Shit.” I swore when I saw someone walking towards us. I pulled George closer and picked up our speed. I felt his other hand twitch towards where his wand was tucked. Taking a deep breath, I pull him towards me and give no time to think about it before I push my lips against his. My heart stops beating the moment I meet the softness. With how much he bites at his lip I would expect them to be rough but it was like touching a cloud. As sweet as a sugar quill. He lets out a surprised gasp and I expect him to pull away or maybe even push me off. Be disgusted. His hand comes up to my face and I brace myself. Instead he just grabs my cheek, his other hand leaving his wand and wrapping around my waist. I can feel the heat of his skin through my traveling cloak and it warms up my whole body. My heart flutters in my chest, it’s only because we almost got caught. Yeah that’s it. Not because I’m currently kissing the man I’ve happened to have a crush on since year 4. 

Whoever was calling to us clearly decided it wasn't worth breaking up the apparent happy couple and I can hear them mutter something under their breath as they walk out of sight. 

After a few more long seconds I go to pull away. When I open my eyes, I find his warm brown eyes staring back at me. 

Silence hangs in the air, heavy and full of a spark. My whole face heats up as I’m waiting for him to chew me out. Call me crazy. Say that I’m the biggest idiot ever.

“Finally” He says in a husky voice like silk. He uses the hand that’s on my cheek to pull me back to his lips. I swear my heart stopped altogether at this point. It’s soft and sweet, everything I ever dreamed it would be. Except so much better because I knew it was real, this was really happening. I smile against his lips and pull back. 

“You’re telling me. Now let's go grab whatever was so important that it was worth risking our lives”. 

His hands dropped from my waist and intertwined with my hand. It was at that moment I knew I would do anything to protect this man.

#george weasley #angst #but make it cute #second wizarding war #hogwarts #harry potter #george wealsey imagine #george wealsey x reader #request #ask and you shall receive

[toxophilitis]

Daddy’s Little Girls cont.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lynette felt weak but very wonderful when Olive helped her back up onto the couch. She felt very giggly good as she sat and talked with the sexy woman.

"That was so great!" Lynette said. "I never thought I'd like eating pussy, but once I got started I just couldn't stop. You sure do have a big clit, Olive. Do you think mine will ever be that big?"

Olive was leaning back comfortable on the couch, with her eyes half closed and her legs spread apart. Her cunt hair was matted down from Lynette's kisses and from her own over flowed juices, and her cunt could be clearly seen. Her cunt had long, thick, deep pink lips, and between them was the tip of her clit that Lynette had sucked on with such gusto. Her tits, big and globular, hung down heavily. Lynette sat close beside her, looking with pride at the woman she'd learned so much from, and whom she'd satisfied just as much as she'd been satisfied herself.

"Exercise, that's what does it," Olive said. "Lots of fucking, lots of sucking, and someday your clit will be as big as mine."

"But I'll never have tits as big and nice as yours. Could I touch your tits again?"

"Be my guest. But don't expect to get anything out of it. After this morning with Russ and this afternoon with you -- you sexy doll -- I'm bushed."

"Such big tits," Lynette sighed, lifting and fondling her two tanned tits, gently fingering their big brown nipples.

"Believe me, you're better off with tits. Big tits like mine can get in the way. On the other hand, big tits like mine attract men. But even with your sweet tits, you've managed to attract hell out of my boyfriend. He wants to fuck you, Lynette. And he knows how to fuck a gal, believe me."

"Why would anyone want me when they already have you? Is it okay if I touch your clit again?"

Olive obligingly parted her legs wider and said, "It's time you had a real man's cock in you. Russ is okay, but he doesn't really know what he's doing yet."

"Is your clit getting bigger? Oooo, it's so nice and slippery and warm! And, Olive, it tasted so good!"

"I'll make you a deal," Olive said. "I'll arrange for my boyfriend to show you a really good fuck if you'll help me with a nice sex party here."

"Sure," said Lynette. "Whatever you say Olive? Could I just taste your clit one more time? I've got to go home and cook dinner for Betty and Mark, but before I go, could I just taste your clit one more time?"

Olive gave her permission and Lynette kneeled on the couch. As she bent over the big thatch of hair on Olive's cunt, Olive fondled and squeezed Lynette's tits warmly. The tip of Lynette's tongue was tickling the tip of Olive's clitoris as Olive said, "You get your cousin Betty over here with me tomorrow, and I'll take care of the rest of it. Then I'll give you some real fucking, and if you take to that as well as you've taken to cunt-kissing, you'll be one of the damnedest sex pots in the world."

When Lynette went home, Betty and Mark were already there. They were on the couch in front of the TV, holding hands and sitting close together looking with smug satisfaction at, Lynette. Lynette was dying to tell Betty what had happened to her that afternoon, but of course it was no time to do so when tattle-tale Mark was there. Instead Lynette started dinner, looking forward to telling Betty later, when they were alone in her bed. Lynette might also demonstrate some of the things she'd learned from the next door neighbor.

Betty insisted that Lynette serve them dinner on the couch, where she fed Mark his meal bite by bite while he sat there with the same smug grin on his face. Betty kept kissing and hugging him all through dinner and continued to do so while Lynette cleared the dishes away. Mark kept trying to put his hand inside Betty's blouse or up under her skirt, and Betty kept giggling and pushing it away, and then whispering into his ear. It wasn't even nine o'clock when they got up from the couch and said they were going to bed, once again warning Lynette that if she said anything at all about what had gone on at the house, they'd get her in a great deal of trouble. And it was Mark's bed they went to, and Lynette was again left alone.

She put on her pajamas and sat down to watch television. She was feeling very good. It didn't bother her a bit to pass by the door of Mark's bedroom and hear her brother and cousin giggling away. Promptly at ten o'clock she turned out the lights and went to bed, but before she had fallen asleep, she heard a tapping at her window. Olive Cook was out there, smiling and motioning her to raise the window.

"Hi," she said, leaning her arms and her big, heavy tits on Lynette's windowsill. "I was sort of expecting you by for another visit."

"I didn't want to bother you."

"You'd never be a bother to me. Mind if I come in? I wanted to tell you it's all arranged for Betty's coming out party tomorrow, if you can get rid of your brother."

Lynette helped Olive in through her window. The brunette was wearing the thinnest, sheerest, altogether sexiest black lace negligee Lynette had ever seen. She sat down on Lynette's flouncy pink bed and told her about her plans, holding Lynette's hand as she did and eliciting many soft giggles from the red-haired teenager.

"It sounds like a super plan!" said Lynette. "And it's just the right thing for Betty."

"You sure do look pretty in those green pajamas, Lynette. Me they made out of silk?" Olive asked, feeling the material from Lynette's knee to her groin.

"That's an awfully nice negligee you've got on," Lynette responded. "Real sexy."

"Your skin looks best on you," Olive said, an she began opening the buttons of Lynette's pajama top. "I sure would like to play with your tits before you go to sleep, honey. Do you mind?"

Olive shivered and moved closer to Lynette, and began sucking on her tits. The woman's hands were very hot on the girl's tender flesh as she felt the contours of Lynette's waist and eased her pajama bottoms down over her hips. She moved up to fondle the times she was kissing. Lynette was quickly becoming excited, but in her inexperience, she was afraid to make a move. She felt her cunt getting wet and her ass getting itchy and her tits swelling up in Olive's mouth, while, the warm, slithery tongue of her newest and dearest friend swirled and lashed at her pebble-hard nipples.

When Olive at last sat up, she looked more aroused than Lynette felt. She was panting and her eyes were glinting as she said, "Lift up your hips, pretty baby, and let your lover get these pajamas off?"

Lynette did as she was told. Olive's hands were all a tremble as she stripped the girl. Olive flipped on Lynette's bedside lamp and had the girl stand before her, as she sat on the bed and ran her hands over Lynette's slim body, gazing up at her adoringly.

"You're the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world. If I had any sense, I'd keep you all to myself."

"But you promised," said Lynette. "Your plans for tomorrow, and then getting your boyfriend to fuck me."

"I know. I know. And I'll keep my promise, unless you let me out of it. Unless I can prove you don't need any other kind of fucking but the kind you cap get from me."

"Tongue-fucking? That's great. But I think I'll always like cock-fucking better."

Olive grinned and pulled Lynette down on the bed beside her. "Those aren't the only ways to fuck. I know another way that you'll like even better. I'd show it to you, except it's so bad."

"Bad?"

Olive nodded her head. She hugged Lynette and kissed her mouth and tits and said, "It's so bad I ought to be spanked for even telling you about it. But it's so good you'll forget all about wanting a cock in your cunt when I've done it to you."

"Then you'll do it?" said Lynette. "Now?"

"Sure. If you'll spank me first."

"Spank you? Me? Spank you? What for?"

Olive fidgeted about, still caressing Lynette's naked body. "A nice spanking gets me in the right kind of mood. Especially when it's done by a pretty thing like you. You don't have to do it if you don't want to. But if you do... look out, cause then you'll get a fucking that will make you forget all about big old cocks."

Lynette just laughed. "Oh, that's silly. How could I forget about something I think about all the time? But if you want a spanking, I'll give it to you."

Olive shivered hotly and stood up. She slipped the straps of her lacy black negligee down and let it fall, and the moment Lynette saw her big, naked tits she forgot about spankings and fucking and everything, till she'd liberally kissed and sucked Olive's tits. Olive was hard-pressed to stop Lynette's kisses. But when she did, she had Lynette sit well back on the bed. Then she lay stomach-down across the girl's thighs.

"Gee, you have a nice bottom, Olive," said Lynette, as she felt her naked ass cheeks. They were so very round and soft, so beautifully shaped, reminding Lynette very much of Olive's tits. Olive's ass was almost blubbery in its softness, but each time Lynette took her hands from her ass, they bounced back to their perfectly spherical shape. They were big, and they were so very soft and nice that Lynette could quite easily part them widely with the fingers of her hand.

In the very bottom of the deep groove between Olive's tanned ass cheeks was her asshole, a deeply puckered orifice, delicately tinged with brown. Olive moaned and writhed on Lynette's lap as the girl touched her asshole. "That's the first place I ever got fucked," said Lynette, and she pushed her finger inside.

"Ahh! Oh, my God! Oh, you angel!" Olive gasped, twisting and turning on Lynette's naked thighs and clutching hard at the bedspread.

"Do you like to be fucked in the asshole?" said Lynette, worming her finger in and out of Olive's tight asshole, pleased at the way she was making Olive excited.

"Ur-r-rgh! Ah-h-hgh! Jesus... Christ!" Olive muttered, writhing still harder on Lynette's lap.

"I like it best right here," Lynette told her, and taking her finger out from Olive's asshole, she inserted it and one other in Olive's very wet cunt.

"Ur-rgh! Ur-rgh! Ur-rgh!" Lynette could feel each of Olive's very rhythmic moaning as well as hear them, for each time Olive moaned her belly got hard as a rock against Lynette's thigh. Lynette giggled softly and kept working her fingers around in Olive's fever-hot cunt, and then massaging her.

"Still want me to spank you?" she asked.

"Uh! Oh-h-h! Yes!"

If she wanted a spanking, Lynette was willing to help her out. Olive's ass cheeks quivered and shook under the forceful blows of Lynette's open hand. Olive was all but tearing up the bedspread with her fingernails and toenails and teeth, apparently in great pain, but still raising her lovely ass up for more of Lynette's hard spankings. Lynette kept it up till her hand was sore and Olive was up on her hands and elbows, whimpering and moaning and rubbing hard at her big, hairy cunt.

"You've had enough now?" Lynette said.

"Ur-rgh! Ah-h-h! Oh-h-h!"

Lynette slipped out from under her and went to the closet, where she got a section of the fishing pole her father had given her for Christmas. It was nice and limber and about a foot and a half long. As Lynette laid it smartly across Olive's lovely soft ass cheeks, they seemed to do an enchanting dance.

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!

"Eek! Oh! Yes! I love you! I love it!" screamed Olive.

"Keep quiet or Betty and Mark will hear." Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!

"Mmf! Nng! Mrnf! Mmf! Mmf!"

"That's better."

Olive's ass was all red and raw. And her finger must have been sore, too, for several times Lynette's fishing rod had cracked against them while Olive was up on her elbows and knees, madly rubbing at her cunt and her asshole. But Olive showed no signs of team at all when Lynette tossed aside the fishing rod and jumped onto the bed beside her. If anything, the very brisk spanking had increased her ardor for Lynette, for she dragged the girl down beside her and covered her giggling face with kisses, saying, "Good God, what a beautiful spanking! Now you're going to get a fucking you'll never forget! It'll change your life." Olive grabbed a pillow, which she placed under Lynette's ass.

"M-m-m-m. Mm-m-m-m. Beautiful!" Olive said through her kisses, at the sight of Lynette's red-fringed cunt sticking up into the air. Olive's glowing, hot ass remained high in the air as she kissed Lynette's cunt in a fever of passion. She twitched and jerked and moaned as Lynette pinched and patted her ass.

"This is nice," said Lynette, lying back and stretching languorously under Olive's sucking kisses. "It's real nice. But I thought you were going to fuck me."

Olive stopped kissing Lynette's cunt and said, "You bet your sweet ass I am! Spread your legs and hold still... for now."

Lynette's long, slim legs were spread wide open, and Olive kneeled between them, rapidly rubbing her black-thatched cunt as she did so. Olive's hair was in disarray and there was a wild look in her eyes, but she was still a lovely sight to behold as she moved cunt forward, her big tits swinging toward the eager, smiling girl.

"Now hold your cunt lips wide open. Like this." Olive showed Lynette how, parting her thick, crimson cunt lips widely with her finger and thumb, fully exposing her outlandishly big clitoris.

Lynette followed suit, spreading out her tight, pink cunt lips and fully revealing the sweet, tiny nubbin of her pretty clitoris. "I still wish mine was as big as yours."

"It's big enough. Hold still."

Lynette was able to hold still, but Olive was not. She was in such a state of agitation that her hips were twitching and shaking as she carefully lowered her pelvis down on top of Lynette's, looking avidly down as their cunts came together like widely parted mouths.

"Ah-h-h," Olive sighed, as their clits made perfect contact, made more perfect still by the circular movements of Olive's hips. "There! Isn't that the greatest?"

"Feels nice!"

"Let's fuck!" Olive said, and she began to move her body.

Olive's fine body was arched back like a bow to make better cunt-to-cunt contact. Her position gave Lynette ample opportunity to play with her lovely, big tits. This, plus the clitoral contact, already had Olive in a lovely state of constant orgasmic pleasure, a state which Lynette was quite willing to share with her.

"Oh, Olive! It does feel nice! And getting better all the time!"

"Nng! Nggg! Ahh!"

Their cunts were squelching together wetly, very hot and very open. Olive's clitoris was rubbing wetly and directly against Lynette's while Olive continued to cum and cum.

"I'm on fire! My cunt's on fire!" said the gasping, sweating Olive, fucking the supine girl with ragged vigor.

"Your clit feels as big as a finger!"

"UR-R-R-R-RGH! Oh, R-R-R-R-RGH!" Olive's orgasms became too intense for her, and she suddenly toppled off Lynette's thrusting body. Rolled up in a ball on the bed, she continued to cum by herself as she clutched at her cunt with both hands. Lynette spread her knees and squatted down over Olive's contorting face, taking full advantage of Olive's raging passion as she rubbed her cunt against Olive's hot mouth. Finally, Olive collapsed in exhaustion.

"That was just super," said Lynette, when her passions were sated and Olive was lying on her bed in a smiling daze. "I like cunt-fucking a lot, but I'd still rather have a cock in my cunt. You better go now, Olive. I want to get plenty of sleep so I'll be ready for Betty's party tomorrow."

Lynette had to help Olive out the window, and the naked brunette walked unsteadily home.

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 20

Masterlist

Summary: Five hundred years before Feyre Archeron is born, the world is much different from the one she lives in. Humans are slaves, seen as little more than animals by the Fae who rule. But things are beginning to change. Talks of rebellion is spreading and on the Continent, some Fae territories begin to consider the potential gain of War. All it takes is one spark and everything will explode.

----

The Autumn Court is beautiful, but its beauty is a strange one. The forest is full of colours, so vivid that Miryam barely knows where to look, yet the entire land seems laced with a scent of decay.

Absentmindedly, Miryam tugs at the sleeves of her dress, wishing she had brought something warmer. The Autumn Court is not cold by any means, but Miryam was born in a desert country. Next to her, Helion waves a hand and she is immediately warm.

“You okay?”, he whispers. Miryam nods, but he still gives her a questioning glance. “You seem worried.”

Well, what can I say? My lover is just meeting with one of Hybern`s deadliest generals and trying to seduce her. So yes, I may be slightly worried.

Before she can think of an excuse, though, the guards pull open the huge doors to High Lord Beron`s Forest House and she is able to step inside, Helion half a step behind her.

The wealth that greets her inside would be enough to make most people stop and gawk. Golden chandeliers, silk carpets on the walls, doors made of pure gold. Miryam only gives her surroundings half a glance before she continues walking. She does her best to ignore the guards trailing them, staring at her. All of them are High Fae, there is not a single faerie in sight. Mor`s warnings are ringing in her ears and make her senses go on high alert.

The walk to the throne room seems endless. Helion links his arm through hers and leans in to whisper into her ear, “A joyful place, right?”

Miryam smiles and nods. “Have you been here before?”, she asks.

“Once or twice.” Helion is grinning, but there is a tension in his face. Strange. Miryam doesn`t know of any tension between him and the Autumn Court, but she isn`t stupid enough to ask here, where the guards are sure to report their words back to Beron.

Finally, they reach the throne room. Two guards open the door for them and Miryam walks in, head held high.

High Lord Beron is sitting on a throne made of antlers at the end of the long throne room. His red hair looks like living flame, the red aura of his magic is glowing brightly around him. There is a cruel cast to his mouth, though, that has Miryam become even more cautious.

Miryam steps forward and inclines her head. “My Lord. Thank you for inviting us.”

Beron doesn`t reply. He just watches her. Sneers. Miryam holds his gaze.

“Look at that”, he finally drawls, “Is the Alliance running short of proper politicians, or is there another reason they are sending a child to represent them?”

“My Lord, I am-“, Miryam begins, but he cuts her off with a wave.

“I know who you are, girl. Don`t take me for stupid.”

She bristles. “If you know my name, then perhaps you should use it.”

“Careful”, Beron hisses, “I am a High Lord – I do not allow half-breed filth to talk down to me.”

Helion takes a step forward, but Miryam holds out a hand to stop him. She says, “And I am the emissary to the human-faerie Alliance. You`ll find that I do not take kindly to being insulted, either.”

Beron studies her for a few seconds. “A witch alright”, he says with a smile that sends a shiver running down Miryam`s spine. “We shall discuss business later. But first, allow me to show you the pleasures my court has to offer.”

He claps his hand and a band starts playing. Courtiers begin milling around. Beron turns to one of them without sparing Miryam another glance.

Helion laughs and links his arm through Miryam`s to lead her away. “Could have been worse. Do you want me to stay with you, or-“

“Go enjoy yourself”, Miryam says. She remembers Mor`s warning, but she doesn`t want to look weak in front of these people and hiding behind her Fae companion will certainly be seen as a sign of weakness.

Helion winks at her and vanishes amongst the assembled Fae. Miryam spends the next few minutes in tense conversations with courtiers who either look at her like she is a piece of dirt staining their pretty palace, or a particularly pleasant meal. Typical High Fae arrogance.

Finally, Miryam has had enough and pushes her way through the crowd to a quiet corner. From there, she has a good overview of the throne room. She spots Helion almost immediately. He is talking to a pretty Autumn Court female with red hair. Or rather flirting with her. He keeps casually touching her arm and smiling with enough heat to make the female blush. Only after a moment does Miryam recognize her as the Lady of Autumn. Indeed, Beron is watching the pair as well, his lips pressed together into a thin line. What in the Mother`s name is Helion thinking?

Miryam is about to go over and do her best to prevent a disaster when she gets the weird feeling of being watched. She looks around the room until her gaze settles on a young Autumn Court male whose aura marks him as the Heir of Autumn. Eris. When he notices Miryam`s attention, he smiles slightly and dips his chin. She frowns in return and he begins making his way through the crowd towards her.

Once he is standing in front of her, he bows to the waist. “May I have this dance, my Lady?”

“I`m sorry, but I do not dance.” At least not with you, you pig. It is a struggle to keep the disgust out of her voice. She tries not to think of Mor, or the part this male played in her suffering.

Eris smiles. “Make an exception. You won`t regret it.”

“The lady said she doesn`t dance.” Suddenly, Helion is standing next to her again. “You heard her.”

Eris smirks. “A pity”, he says and stalks off.

Miryam turns to Helion. “Thank you”, she says, “But I-“

“You could have handled yourself. I know.” He grins. “I would have expected nothing else of Miryam Godsblessed.”

“Oh, don`t call me that.” Bad enough that the soldiers keep whispering that name behind her back. Miryam sighs. “Well, I`m still glad you`re here.” She nudges him in the side. “How is flirting with our host`s wife in front of his entire court helping this diplomatic meeting?”

Helion gives her one of his dazzling smiles. “Oh, it is absolutely vital.”

Miryam arches an eyebrow. She doesn`t buy that swaggering bullshit for one second. Something is bothering Helion, she can tell. But before she can find a subtle way to ask, Lord Beron`s voice rings out over the crowd.

“Helion!”

They both turn to face the throne. The High Lord is holding out a letter.

“Your uncle is asking for your presence in Day. There appears to be an emergency.”

Helion frowns. He barely skims the letter Beron hands him, then turns to Miryam. “He says it`s important.”

“Go. Just don`t forget to pick me up later – if I get stuck in Prythian because of you, I`ll be pissed.”

“Thank you”, Helion says and rushes out of the room.

Miryam returns to her corner. It doesn`t take long, though, for trouble to find her. Eris Vanserra stops in front of her, an expectant expression on his face.

“What is it?”, Miryam asks.

“You still owe me a dance”, the male says, smirking.

“I told you: I don`t dance.”

“I don`t believe you. Why won`t you dance with me?”

Miryam hesitates, then says, “I`m friends with Morrigan.”

She wonders if she imagines Eris flinching. A second later, his arrogance is back. “A pity”, he drawls, “I thought you had class.” Miryam bristles, but he just laughs. “Come on, now, I`m your host`s son. Refusing to dance with me might be considered a slight.”

The worst part is, he is right. There`s no polite way for her to refuse. So Miryam grits her teeth, takes the hand he offers her and lets him lead her to the dance floor.

She almost immediately regrets it. Being this close to Eris, having him tough her, makes her skin prickle. His hands are on her waist, pulling her closer. Miryam`s first instinct is to push him away, but she can`t do that – it would be a political nightmare.

“Not so bad, is it?”, Eris drawls.

Then, he leans in closer until she can feel his breath on her neck. Miryam doesn`t think she`s breathing. She wonders how her feet are still moving when she is all but frozen with fear. Too close, too close, too close.

“Now, you listen to me”, Eris whispers into her ear, his voice so soft she can barely understand him, “And if you want to survive this night, I`d suggest you do exactly as I say. This is a trap.”

----

Jurian awkwardly sits down on a rock next to Clythia, but he makes sure that there is still lots of empty space between them. This female is a general in Hybern`s army. She slaughtered countless humans – his people – without mercy. If his spy`s reports are anything to go by, her sister and her delight in torturing humans before ending them. Yet, he is sitting next to her like nothing is wrong. His every instinct is roaring at him to draw his sword and just kill her.

“I know you`re hesitant”, Clythia says, breaking the silence.

“Not so much hesitant as confused.” And repulsed. “I got the impression that you don`t hold humans in the highest regard.”

Clythia waves a hand as if dismissing the comment. “You`re different. Not at all like the other mortals. They are worms, but you…”

It doesn`t seem to occur to her at all that Jurian might mind her insulting his people. That he might not want to be considered an exception or spend so much as a second in the presence of a female who considers his kind to be less than animals.

“What about me?”, he asks, hoping that his tone doesn`t show his anger.

“You belong with me.” At least she doesn`t say belong to me, but Jurian isn`t sure if she sees a difference. “I`ve seen it – seen it long before I ever heard your name. We will be together.”

She says it with such certainty that Jurian shivers slightly. If she`s a seer and she`s seen them being together… No, she has to be wrong. Or maybe she`s lying. This can`t be his future.

He pulls himself together. He`s a soldier, for Cauldron`s sake. This is just another mission. He shouldn`t let it get to him.

“Well”, he says, “what an interesting future. You may have heard, though, that I am in a relationship. Happily.”

Again, that dismissive hand wave. “Inconsequential.” Clythia smiles. “I`ve been a seer for three centuries now and believe me: The future does not lie.”

Jurian briefly considers her words. She is sure of herself. Obviously believes that she has won already. Jurian knows opponents like that. They are usually arrogant and don`t look past the first impression. Easy enough to trick. Even better, she doesn`t seem to consider that Jurian might be seriously opposed to the idea of this relationship.

As if to prove him right, Clythia puts her hand on his leg.

Jurian makes himself give her his best lazy smile. “Why don`t you show me what that future`s going to be like, then?”

----

“That`s not possible”, Miryam whispers. She keeps dancing, keeps her face neutral, even as her mind begins to race. “I`m a guest in his house – he wouldn`t dare harm me.” Not even Ravenia, for all her cruelty, ever broke that rule.

“Continental rules”, Eris replies, “They don`t hold as much sway here. And he doesn`t need to harm you himself – he can just stand by as others do.”

“Why?”

She can feel Eris sigh. “Is that really the pressing thing to discuss? We only have minutes!”

But Miryam still hesitates. She doesn`t trust Eris. He might well be lying and if she acts on his words only to find out that he was tricking her, it will be her who jeopardizes this alliance. If she acts and turns out to be wrong, it will be the biggest mistake she ever made as an emissary – it might cost her any standing she has within the Alliance.

“Why?”, she repeats.

Eris groans. He twirls her around, then pulls her close again. “The Loyalists offer quite generous terms – far better than anything the Alliance could give us. Your head is the asking price. I assume you know why.”

“What`s the plan?” Miryam has to keep from glancing around in the room to look for anything that seems out of place.

“That letter to Helion was forged – they wanted to get him out of the way. A group of soldiers will arrive to take you away in… five minutes.”

Miryam curses. If he`s saying the truth, she is really and truly in trouble. “What do I do?”, she breathes.

“On my note”, Eris says, “you will shove me away. Make a scene. Then, you storm out of the room. You need to go down two flights of stairs. There is a carpet with a huge deer on it. Behind it, you find a hidden room. Wait for me there.”

Miryam nods. They keep twirling around each other. Then, Eris pulls her close again.

“Now”, he whispers.

Miryam doesn`t hesitate. She shoves him away from her as hard as she can – which, given that he`s Fae and she`s not, barely makes him stumble. Around them, people stop dancing to stare at them. Miryam darts forward and slaps Eris. (She can`t quite contain a feeling of satisfaction at the surprise on his face.)

“You bastard”, she hisses, “How dare you touch me?”

She turns around to glower at the Fae who are snickering around them, then turns to Beron who is watching her from his throne.

“I need some fresh air”, she snaps.

Without waiting for a reply, she stalks out of the room. The guards at the doors do not stop her.

Instead of trying to go to the meeting place, Miryam lingers by the door. She paces like she is simply a female annoyed at some male`s behaviour during the party, but keeps shooting glances through the doors. She can`t leave – not without being absolutely sure that this is indeed a trap. It might be reckless, but anything else would be political suicide.

She doesn`t have to wait for long. Only a few minutes pass before a group of people appear in the middle of the throne room. All of them are armed and bearing the Black Land colours. Miryam stumbles back a step as she recognizes the male at the front.

Artax.

For a second, Miryam is frozen with old fear. Then, her instincts kick in. She spins around and runs. Thank the Cauldron, none of the guards reach out to stop her. Miryam dashes down the stairs. She already took the first flight when she realizes that she is going to lead Artax straight to the meeting place and if Eris isn`t waiting, she will be done for.

So instead, she turns to the right on the first landing and sprints down the corridor. She hears steps following behind her, almost lazily. She has nowhere to run and they know it. Artax probably enjoys the chase. She needs to buy herself some time, but how is she supposed to do that against the head of the Witcher`s Guild?

Miryam dashes around the next corner. The guards follow her with their eyes, but don`t move. Apparently, Beron`s twisted view of guest`s right means that his guards won`t touch her.

The next corridor is empty. Then, out of nowhere, a female steps into her way. She is dressed in servants` colours and marked as a faerie by the antlers poking out of her brown hair. It is too late for Miryam to jump aside – she crashes straight into the female. They both go crashing to the ground.

“Sorry”, Miryam gasps.

She pushes back to her feet, but then, she pauses. The female had to have come from somewhere. Indeed, there is a small door in the wall, almost invisible. The servant`s corridors, of course – those existed in the Black Land as well. Steps are approaching from behind. Miryam pushes the door open and slips through. She pulls it shut behind her the moment Artax rounds the corner.

The corridors much smaller and darker than the huge hallways of the palace. Miryam keeps running. At each crossroad, she takes a different turn. Soon, she is completely lost, but she can still hear steps following her. She looks back over her shoulder to see if Artax is already in sight, and –

Suddenly, the ground is gone from under her feet. Miryam barely has time to yelp before she is falling.

She lands in something soft. Clothes, Miryam realizes. She is lying in a pile of clothes. High above her, there is a hole in the ceiling – likely used by servants to dump the laundry into. Miryam quickly rolls to the side and presses herself against the wall.

It doesn`t take long for Artax` face to appear in the hole. Miryam doesn`t dare breath as he looks down onto the pile of clothes. After what seems like an eternity, he continues on the corridor. Miryam sags with relief.

Even though she got rid of her pursuers, it takes Miryam almost an hour to get to her meeting place with Eris. The Forest House is a maze and Miryam has to avoid anyone who might see her. She has just begun to believe that she`ll never find the hidden room when she rounds a corner and comes face to face with the carpet.

She pushes past it and into the room beyond. The carpet falls back into its place and a flame flickers to life – right in front of her face. It illuminates Eris`, who pushes off the wall he was leaning against.

“Finally”, he hisses, “I thought you had been caught.”

Miryam is shaking, but manages to glare at him. “Just take me out of here, please.”

“Not so fast”, Eris says and takes a step back. “First, I`d like to discuss my conditions.”

“Your what?”

“Well, I´m risking quite a lot by saving you. It would only be fair if you were to repay me.”

Miryam glances towards the door. She is sure Artax is still searching for her, and if he finds her here… “What do you want?”

“A favour”, he replies, “to be decided later.”

“No.” How stupid does he think she is? “You could ask anything. I won`t do it.”

“It will be within reason. And I don`t see how you have much of a choice. You can stay here, of course, but you`ll find that you`ll have a hard time winning this war if you`re dead.”

Miryam hesitates. Damn that male, he is right. “Nothing that harms the war effort”, she says.

“Alright.”

“And I won`t sleep with you.”

Eris snorts. “I honestly don`t know where you get the idea that I´d have an interest.” He holds out a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

There are steps approaching outside. It might just be guards – or it could be Artax.

“Yes”, she says and takes his hand. As soon as their fingers touch, he winnows them away.

They land in a forest that looks as old as this land. Miryam is shivering in her too-light dress. She doesn`t know where she thought Eris would take her, but she certainly didn`t expect this.

“Where are we?”

“The Middle. I´ll send word to Helion that he can pick you up here.”

Miryam nods. Something about this forest seems off, but she tries to tell herself that it can`t be so bad. She survived the trek through half the Continent on her own – she should be able to last a few hours here.

“Why?”, she asks, “Why save me?”

Eris gives her that insufferable smirk of his. “Your death would have been a waste. Alive, you may yet be useful.”

“Of course”, Miryam mutters, “How could I believe you`d ever help my for any reason other than your own gain.”

Any amusement vanishes from Eris` face. “I had my reasons. Back then, I mean.”

“You left a girl of seventeen in the forest to die. You truly believe any reasons you might have had make it fine?” Miryam hesitates for a heartbeat, then adds, “I thank you for your help, though.”

Eris gives her a mocking bow, then vanishes, leaving her alone in the forest.

----

A/N: I thought quite a lot about how to portray Eris. On one hand, it is made pretty clear that he is not as horrible as he seems. But I also really didn`t want to dismiss Mor`s suffering or excuse his actions, so I choose a middle ground (I mean, I don`t like him, so I wrote him as a kind of self-serving asshole, but still not as bad as his father.) I hope that worked out!

I also feel like I should probably tell you that I don`t write sex scenes. I don`t like reading them and I certainly don`t feel comfortable writing them, so all sex scenes in this book will be fade-to-black.

Tags: @sjm-things @herpowerisdeath @clolikescloquetas

#miryam #jurian #helion

[whimperwoods]

Vampire Labyrinth 5

Hey look! Vampire caretaker!

Follows part 1, part 2,  part 3, and part 4.

tw:  nonsexual nudity (temporary),

tag list: @waywardwhump @justwhumpitwhumpitgood @insanitywishes @taboolynx

*****

Lianna saw the light well before she was actually aware of it, the darkness easing away until she could see her own arms, her own skinned knee, the smooth, cold floor.

She stared at her limbs, watching them begin to shake harder as she looked.

“Oh!”

The moment the voice spoke, she moved on instinct, uncurling and trying to scramble backward, her head shooting up to look toward the sound.

It was a man with dark hair and thin, pointed features, carrying a lit torch. He wore a long black coat, exquisitely tailored to him, but the clothes underneath it looked just nicer than average, of the sort a merchant might wear while traveling through her small town, away from his home in the city.

He held his free hand out in front of him and she noticed the claws and squeaked, forcing herself backward again.

“Shhh,” he said gently, “Shh, you’re alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She backed up farther, her whole body numb with the cold, or perhaps with the fear.

“No, no, it’s alright.” He took a step forward.

“Stay away!” she managed, her voice hoarse and weak.

“I need to get a look at you.” He sounded calm, but there was something under it, some edge, and she moved quickly to cover herself, blushing.

The man stepped forward and all she could do with her hands in front of where she didn’t want him to look was wriggle backward like a worm.

He hummed sympathetically. “Shhh, it’s alright, sweeting. You’re going to be alright.”

“No,” she answered, panicked, her breath coming so hard and fast it made her head spin.

The man grunted, displeased, and she shivered, wriggling backward again.

He put the torch down gently, and removed his coat, throwing it over one arm before picking up the torch again.

“It’s alright,” he said again, stepping closer. “Put your arms through the sleeves, and pull this on backward. Your back looked the worst of it.”

She couldn’t puzzle out the meaning of that until he squatted down a little bit, sinking into his knees, and tossed the coat onto the floor in front of her. It landed a few inches away, sliding another inch and then coming to a halt, barely crumpled at all, and ready to be put on.

She didn’t move, half expecting the coat to reach over and bite her, to swamp her in darkness and eat her up into itself.

“It’s alright,” the man said again, “Nothing to fear.”

An hour ago, two, five, whenever it was she’d been outside waiting for the sunset, she might have laughed at that. Now, her disbelief came out only as a twisted sob she had no control over.

“Shhh,” he said again, “Shhh, You’re alright. You’ve got to be cold. Humans always are, outside of the center. Go ahead and put the coat on so I can get a look at you.”

She didn’t want to be looked at, but she did want the coat, and after a moment of his strange bronze eyes gazing into her own, unblinking, she scrambled to grab the coat. If he was going to look either way, she wanted to be covered.

As soon as she touched the coat, she knew it was expensive, the heavy silk brocade richly textured under the fingers of her bad hand. The front edges were trimmed in a rich lace, so dark a wine color it was nearly black, too. As she pulled it on backward, shoving her hands through the sleeves and pulling the inside of the coat up against her chest, she found more of the same lace decorating the cuffs, standing out only a little from the black-on-black texture of the rest.

She lifted her hands up, staring at the lace, and caught the vampire’s movement only as a swift change in the light.

Before she could look up, he was beside her, crouching down on one knee halfway behind her.

His hand touched the back of her shoulder and she flinched away, hard.

“Shhh.” His voice was deep and soothing, richer from this close to her, and he was holding the torch well away from her with one hand, leaving only the one free.

She scrambled away again, but had nowhere to go but sideways, where she huddled up against the wall and was trapped.

The man growled, a dangerous, animal noise, and her entire body shuddered.

“These young vampires never listen,” he said, “Heaven help that boy if I find him before you’re all patched up, or I’ll be sending him to hell myself.”

He came closer again, and she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing harder into the wall and turning her face away from him.

His fingers touched her shoulder again, gently, and she flinched. “Shh,” he whispered, “It’s alright.” He probed gently at the edges of one of the scratches, and even with him careful to keep his claws out of the way, it split open. She whimpered, a strangled little noise, and his hand pulled away quickly, only to return with no claw at all. He ran the back of his knuckles gently down her back, staying carefully between the claw marks, and she shivered under the caress.

“Can you stand?” he asked, lifting his hand up and then straightening, the angle of the light shifting as he stood.

The coat was cool, like it hadn’t been worn before, only just now starting to catch and hold her body heat. She turned to look at him, uncoiling slightly. “I have to, don’t I?” she asked hoarsely, meeting his eyes even as they terrified her. “I - I signed the contract.”

“The contract,” he repeated, both face and voice unreadable as he glanced away, suddenly distant from her, like there was a chasm between them. “Yes, I suppose you would have. The things they’ve made of the contract over all these years-” he trailed off.

When he looked back down at her again, he was back with her, bronze eyes warming as they met hers. “Give me your hand,” he said softly. “I’ll help you up.”

Her hand shook violently as she held it out toward him, half unsure of herself even as she did it.

He hummed softly, thoughtfully, then leaned down and wrapped his hand around her elbow, instead, where she was protected from his claws by the coat sleeve. “Hold on to me,” he said, “Hold onto my arm.”

She did, and then he was pulling to her feet with a quiet but unexpected grunt of effort.

Once she was on her feet, she felt weak and wobbly, her legs shaking like a baby deer’s.

Another displeased grunt, but when she looked at his face, it was turned away, like he wasn’t thinking about her.

She took one tentative step forward and had to squeeze hard on his arm to keep from falling down. His head snapped back toward her too fast, moving with supernatural speed, and her instinctive flinch away was too much for her left leg. As it crumpled, he swung around to catch her other elbow, the two of them ending up face to face and the torch falling to the ground between them, lighting everything at a strange angle and making stranger, more frightening shadows dance across his face, emphasizing its thinness, its hollows, even, now that she was closer to it, the odd, almost powdery texture of his skin.

She found herself breathing heavily again, panting with fear as her eyes filled with tears that blurred the dancing of the flames into something even more unpredictable.

“Alright,” he said gently, some edge that had been in his voice before disappearing so that he just sounded tired. “Let’s sit you back down.”

She sank down to sit, and he came with her, kneeling as he eased her to the floor and then rearranging to sit beside her with another unexpected old-man grunt. He didn’t look old, the dark hair he wore tied up at the back of his neck greying only slightly and only at the temples.

He reached over, his claws still bent carefully away from her, and brushed the tears gently from her eyes with the back of his knuckles.

She held still, trembling and waiting, but his touch was gentle, and then he pulled away again and reached for her hand, instead. She nearly snatched it away, but something felt - different, and she stayed still, instead, looking sideways at him in curiosity, even as her heart pounded in her chest.

He lifted her hand from her thigh, brought it to his lips, and as her breath stopped in terror, kissed the back of it and then let it drop back down again, away from his fangs.

He twisted her hand sideways, revealing the inside of her wrist and she knew for certain that she should pull away, but this time she felt frozen, no more able to yank her hand away than she was to breathe.

He pressed the pads of the fingers of his other hand against her pulse, concentrating, but she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. Her head started to get lighter and lighter and then the instinct to breathe was finally, finally stronger than the terror locking her in place, and she found herself sobbing, gasping for air and letting it back out in broken, desperate noises part of her was ashamed to make in front of him.

When Lorenzo pulled her sideways, tugging her halfway into his lap and wrapping his arms around her, she let him, burying her face in his shirt in spite of every instinct, every thought she’d ever had. Her throat was shattering apart, her whole body heaving and shuddering, every fiber of her being stretched beyond its limits.

His body was cold but soft, and his arms were strong but didn’t crush her, and when one of his clawed hands started carding gently through her hair, it was a reassurance, not a threat.

She didn’t realize until he spoke, and she felt the vibrations of his voice against her cheek, that he had no heartbeat.

“You’re alright,” he said quietly, his deep voice rumbling through both of them, “You’re alright. I’ve got you. I’m going to skin that boy alive before I send him back to the counsel. Then we’ll see if they send me another one like that next time.”

Her hands tightened in the front of his shirt, and the arm he’d wrapped around her held her just a little tighter in response, and she stayed in his arms until she fell asleep in his lap, right there on the floor, her ragged, childlike sobs only stopping when she slid away into unconsciousness.

#whump #vampire whump #vampire caretaker #fantasy whump #nonsexual nudity #temporary nonsexual nudity #hurt/comfort #comfort #fear #not fully fluff but starting to get there #finally the plot point i started all this for #well that's kind of untrue i did also start it for 'what if vampire whumper using claws instead of teeth' #but i also started it because 'ooh what if vampire caretaker' and then 'ooh what if vampire caretaker AFTER VAMPIRE WHUMPER'

[clarketomylexa]

halley’s comet and other extenuating circumstances ch. 3

“It’s snowing?” 

Lexa nods. 

As if she needs to know for sure, Clarke pushes herself up on an elbow, unwashed hair slipping from behind her ear as she pulls back a wispy curtain to expose a backyard full of snow. 

read on ao3

She gets the text at six a.m. 

Her phone buzzes by her head and she reaches back, frowning unhappily as she uncurls herself from the warmth of flannel sheets and her long-sleeved pyjama top to answer it, cold worming its way under the dips and creases of the fabric. 

It takes a moment to find, and another to figure out why it’s tucked upside down into the storage trolley Clarke keeps on the wrong side of her bed for her acrylics, clock and a little vase of fake, dollar store flowers instead of her own nightstand but when she remembers why she smiles. 

Winter is awesome. 

It’s even better than Fall if Lexa had to rank the seasons — and not just because football season is over. While September gave her her girlfriend and Clarke on the sidelines in her uniform, Winter so far has had Jake working long hours and Abby pulling second third at the hospital and a mutual agreement between both of their parents that being home alone together is better than Clarke being home alone by herself. 

It’s meant cash pinned to the fridge, along with a note in Jake’s handwriting to order something other than sticky rice and egg rolls from Haun Garden for dinner and sitting in Lexa’s bedroom beneath glow in the dark stars, all faded and plastic and peeling from the ceiling, swapping answers for AP calculus over cold Pop-Tarts and Coca Cola cans. 

(Even better, it’s meant Clarke in Lexa’s Pikachu pyjama pants and pictures for prosperity — one half of a cheap, silver heart necklace from a kiosk at the mall draped around her neck over her t-shirt). 

And yeah, maybe Lexa’s Spanish conjugations have veered toward sloppy ever since Clarke started whispering quiet querida’s and mi corazón’s to Lexa under her breath during class — she thinks she might have single-handedly kick-started Señor Moreno’s nervous breakdown the first time she answered a question with sorry, I don’t know — but the kisses traded later, in the alcove outside the arts classroom in B block more than make up for it. 

“Clarke,” she whispers, digging her way through the intricate layers of comforters and quilts on the bed until she finds the lump. 

It’s a blond lump, tucked cozily into a grey-green Polis High School Cheerleading sweatshirt, pyjama pants and the Christmas socks Lexa slipped into her stocking the day before Christmas Eve, and it squirms unhappily when it’s poked, glaring at Lexa past the edge of her pillowcase with slitted, sleepy eyes. 

“What?” 

Lexa hands over her phone in reply and Clarke takes it with cold fingers, blinking at the screen as she reads the text from Lexa’s Mom. 

Roads are closed. Daddy called the school board and you don’t have school today. Be home for dinner, please. Love you.

“It’s snowing?” 

Lexa nods. 

As if she needs to know for sure, Clarke pushes herself up on an elbow, unwashed hair slipping from behind her ear as she pulls back a wispy curtain to expose a backyard full of snow. It’s harsh and white in the light from the porch. A thick layer of it sits on the patio furniture and the grass is buried from fence to fence, boxed in on either side by big, sloping mountains, the ice yellow and green and starburst red in the reflection of the Christmas lights still hung up on the trellis. 

It’s January now, Christmas is over, but the Griffin’s have a habit of leaving their decorations up well past Epiphany much to the annoyance of Mrs Gardiner across the cul-de-sac who has her lights up and down on a practically military timetable. Jake has been promising to do it for the past two weeks, ever since he went back to work after the holidays but he says it with enough of a twinkle in his eye that Lexa knows they’ll still be up come Valentine’s Day and beyond. 

(Lexa is OK with that; when she thinks about sitting cross-legged with Clarke on the porch on February Fourteenth, watching the lights catch in the spun-silk of her hair, she wonders if spite is enough for Jake to leave them up all year round). 

“Shit!” Lexa hisses when cold air unexpectedly invades the pocket of heat she’d eked out against Clarke’s mattress. She traps her arms against her chest, pulling the cuff of her sleeve down with her thumb as she watches her girlfriend move around the room in a single chin of light from the open curtain. 

A pair of UGG boots are flung out of the bottom of the closet and she frowns. “What are you doing?” 

“Going outside,” Clarke tells her from the foot of her bed where she pulls the sheepskin boots over her socked feet. 

She looks so pretty in the six a.m. light — so loved and worn in wearing Lexa’s pyjamas and her cheerleading sweatshirt — that Lexa can’t even summon the strength to tell her no when her own sneakers are fished from the depths of the overnight bag she stowed under Clarke’s desk the afternoon before. 

Instead, she takes them dumbly, looping the laces around cold fingers and wondering if there’s anything in the world she wouldn’t do for Clarke Griffin. 

//

It appears not, she thinks as she follows Clarke downstairs half an hour later, clinging to her sweater sleeve in the pitch dark of the stairwell. 

During the day the alcove is lit up — the walls practically a shrine to a gap-toothed Clarke in her powder blue little league jersey grinning proudly from the front of every frame — but now, Lexa struggles to see as she follows her girlfriend through the dark. 

Clarke disables the alarm with Lexa’s fingers firmly ensconced in hers, unlatching the patio door, grinning madly as she pulls Lexa with her out into the biting cold, so perfect and complete, it steals the breath straight from Lexa’s lungs. 

Cold air worms its way under her t-shirt, raising goosebumps up her arms and she pokes her thumbs into her cuffs to combat it, her shoulders hunched against the chill. She watches Clarke next to her as she shuffles her soggy UGG boots to the edge of the deck and reaches an upturned palm out as far as it will go, watching the flakes settle into the crevices of her skin. 

“It hasn’t snowed like this since February,” Lexa says, crossing her arms over her chest to preserve the warmth. The snowflakes in front of them are coming down in thick, wide clusters, unlike the sleet that came before Christmas and turned the football field to slush. They cling like velcro to Clarke’s hair and clothes. 

“Since Atom fell in the parking lot and ate ice trying to invite Octavia to the Sadie Hawkins dance,” Clarke remembers, laughing. 

Lexa frowns. “Aren’t the girls supposed to ask the guys to those?” She remembers that particular dance in vivid, excruciating detail. How Clarke asked Finn Collins to go with her and how she — forced to go by Anya, the only Junior on the decorating committee — stood in the corner by the restroom all night, watching the little throng of Freshmen slow dance a few feet away, pulling uncomfortably at the stretchy hem of her Forever 21 dress. 

It had pretty much been the worst night ever. The crepe paper constellations tacked to the ceiling hadn’t even been astrologically correct. 

“They’re supposed to,” Clarke shrugs, blinking up at the sky. Wet snowflakes string themselves like beads through her hair and Lexa itches to reach out and touch them. “No one does though. They just wait for the guys to buy their tickets and like about how they asked them.” 

That seems stupid to Lexa — like a whole lot of mental gymnastics just to make sure people think you don’t care. Then again who is she to judge? 

“I’d ask you,” she whispers, digging her chin into her shoulder as she looks over at Clarke. 

“I’d ask you too,” Clarke grins. 

(It sounds a little like something else). 

//

When she wakes up again three hours later, it’s light. 

There’s a space heater pointing at them from the open doorway — she can see the extension cord snaking away down the corridor — and Clarke is flush-cheeked next to her when she looks over, propped up on her elbows as she scrolls through her phone. 

“Hi,” she looks down at her, smiling in the same way as she has done every morning since they started sleeping in each other’s beds. 

Her hair is still a little damp around the crown — a shade darker than the rest of her head like damp, wet sand — and Lexa reaches up to tuck a kinky, blond lock away from her eyes, feeling Clarke preen under her touch. “What’s the time?” 

“Nine,” Clarke replies. “You’re phone’s been buzzing.”  

“It’s just Anya,” Lexa guesses, reaching over to unplug her phone from her charger. Sure enough, it is, Half a dozen Snapchat’s she forgot to reply to tonight — mostly because they were all teasing her about how whipped she is for spending her lunch hour yesterday huddled on the bleachers watching her girlfriend run make-up lacrosse drills — plus a new phone sits on her lock screen. She thumbs the notifications away and presses her camera against the comforter to send a reply. “She’s picking me up at four.” 

“Awesome,” Clarke throws her phone down on the mattress. She tosses her hair out of her face as she slides a bare leg over Lexa’s hip and Lexa has to remind herself to breathe. 

She thinks remembers Clarke tossing her pyjama pants away in the hours after they went back to bed. It hadn’t seemed like such a big deal then, but now she can feel Clarke’s knee pressed against the bare skin of her waist, everything inside of her feels like it’s on fire. 

Honestly, she’d been pretty upset to note that the whole constantly horny side effect of being a sixteen-year-old girl hadn’t gone away when she got a girlfriend to relieve the tension with. If anything, it’s only gotten worse. Like, a lot worse. She wonders if her and Anya’s newfound closeness extends to talking about…this.  

“What do you want to do?” 

//

What Clarke wants are pancakes. 

Lexa sits on the granite countertop with a plastic bottle of her batter in her hands while she bangs pots and pans around in the butler’s pantry and wonders if this is what all the songs mean when they talk about love.  

It’s puke worthy to even think about, let alone say out loud; so unbearably cliche for someone so reliant on logic and reason but it feels good not to be striving for something anymore. It’s all still there in the background — track meets, debate, a million AP classes she isn’t even sure she enjoys — but they don’t feel as imperative as they did before. She doesn’t feel like she will fade into oblivion if, one day, she doesn’t want to be valedictorian anymore. 

Besides, Clarke makes it feel like it’s OK to think in cliches. Mostly, it’s just the ‘l’ word that’s been knocking around her head recently that has her nervous; she’s no expert, but she’s pretty sure they’re too young and it’s too soon to be feeling something so big and important.

She plants the bottle of pancake batter on the counter when she realises she’s about to peel the label off, picking sticky residue off of her restless fingers. 

“Did you know the average snowflake falls at a rate of three point one miles per hour?” 

It isn’t snowing anymore. The sky is bright blue and cloudless but every now and again, flat, white chunks will fall from the slope of the Griffin’s roof, leaving powdery piles on the ground beneath the kitchen window. 

“Only you would turn a snow day into a physics lecture,” Clarke complains, grinning at her as she emerges from the pantry with the skillet. She plants it on the cooktop and turns on the gas, pouring a dollop of batter into the pan. 

“Why should you miss out on learning just because of some anomalous weather?” Lexa teases innocently. 

“Oh,” Clarke trills, “someone’s been doing their SAT prep.” She leans across the counter until Lexa can feel her breath against her ear and whispers in a half-cocked porn-star moan: “I love it when you use big words.” 

“Ostentatious,” Lexa murmurs back, taking the bait. “Evanescent. Spurious. Anachronistic.” 

Clarke giggles sweetly, her cheeks pink and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. “Keep going,” she requests and Lexa tries desperately to remember the words written on the neon green queue cards tacked to the wall above her bed. 

(In other news, she’s pretty sure she’s found a new revision tactic and files that away for later). 

“Empirical. Ignominious. Unilateral…Clarke!”  

“I didn’t see that one on the list but I’ll go with it.” 

“No!” Lexa squeals, pointing at the stovetop in alarm. “Clarke!” 

“Shit!” Clarke blanches at the smoking pan, lunging for the handle. 

“Don’t touch it!” 

“Fuck!” 

Taking the kitchen towel from the rail on the oven, Lexa winds it carefully around the handle of the smouldering pan, carrying it carefully to the island where she dumps it in the sink. It sizzles angrily against the water leftover in the breakfast dishes beneath it, billowing smoke in thick, blake waves and Clarke stares at her charred pancake despondently. 

“So…Gus’s?”  

//

They go to the diner, wrapping up in UGG boots and hoodies, tucking their wallets into their pockets and their ears under their beanies as they trudge through the snow. The smell of smoke is still trapped between in Clarke’s hair and every time she bumps up against Lexa as they walk — cinched far too close together on the otherwise empty sidewalk — she bursts into fits full of giggles, shoulders bouncing under her hoodie. 

It had taken three minutes for Abby to call once the smoke alarm went off — screaming loud enough for Lexa to flea to the porch while Clarke stood on the kitchen stool to fan the smoke away from the sensor — and fifteen more for Clarke to convince her the house was still standing. 

(“Mom, would I be talking to you from the landline if it wasn’t?”)

She made Clarke promise to stick to takeout and grilled cheese made in the sandwich press and maybe sign up for Home Ecc next semester but eventually, she hung up, telling Clarke she’d see her tonight and Clarke had scraped the remnants of the pancake into the trash before turning to Lexa with a look like a scolded child. 

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you today,” Gus grunts when they enter the diner, looking up from where he stands behind the counter with a mug of thick, black coffee. 

For all the time she’s spent with him, Lexa can’t tell if it means he’s happy to see them or not. What she thinks is exasperation one day could just as easily turn out to be fondness. 

He refuses to let Lexa take on a shift when she offers now that she doesn’t have school, sitting them in their booth by the window with two sticky menus and two mugs of coffee instead and mumbling something about teenagers being half-naked in the snow when Clarke stretches enough that her bare stomach shows under the hem of her cropped hoodie. 

Clarke waits until he retreats to the kitchen with two orders of pancakes scribbled down needlessly on his notepad before she leans over the table conspiratorially, smoke still lingering on the collar of her hoodie. 

“I think he’s starting to like me.” 

//

Gus cuts them off after their third cup of coffee. 

Lexa pushes her mug towards him when he does the rounds with the coffee pot, offering it to the three other customers who have braved the roads that the ploughs are still in the process of clearing but he shakes his head when he stops in front of them, clearing their breakfast plates instead. Lexa’s jaw drops, indignant. 

“You’re sixteen. What do you need caffeine for?” 

“I take four AP classes,” Lexa fires bag, offering her mug again. 

Gus slides it back towards her. “Go outside, Lexa.” 

Rolling her eyes, Lexa puts two twenties on the table that she knows Gus is going to put towards her paycheque next month and the two of them slide out of the booth. 

Clarke doesn’t want to go home yet. They left the windows downstairs open on their safety catches as Abby told them to but the kitchen still smells like smoke so she pulls Lexa towards the park instead, using her sleeve to wipe the powdered snow from the swing and lowering herself to the rubber seat. Lexa takes the tone next to her, digging the toes of her soggy boots into the ground to stop herself from moving. 

Despite the temperature and her breath fanning out in front of her like locomotive steam, Lexa doesn’t feel cold. There’s syrup instead of gloss on her lips and she’s starting to lose feeling in her toes — she wiggles them in the tips of her boots to no avail — but when Clarke leans over, cinching their swings together by the cold, metal chains, Lexa doesn’t think she’s ever felt warmer in her life.

She presses her forehead against Clarkes, the rim of her beanie trapped between them, and feels Clarke’s breath bloom hotly against her collarbone. It feels intimate; far too intimate for the swings in the middle of the morning. It seems like something that should happen as they lie in Clarke’s bed at night, Clarke’s five-fingered grip pressed firmly against the flat expanse of her stomach and backs turned against the open bedroom door — Abby’s rule, not theirs. She shivers. 

“Are you cold?” 

When she doesn’t reply, Clarke’s snakes an arm around her torso, frigid fingers slipping between her hoodie and the waistband of her sweatpants and Lexa shrieks, bucking wildly against the cold. Her swing lurches sideways, the chain slipping out of Clarke’s palm, and Lexa careens backward, landing with her top rucked up in a pile of wet snow. 

For a moment, all she can feel is cold. The cold, harsh kind that slings itself through her veins as the snow soaks the ribbed hem of her hoodie and up into the fabric back of her bra. Then, Clarke’s face is blinking at her owlishly from above, two amused and one part guilty — it only takes her a second to laugh. 

“Now I am.” 

Apologetic, Clarke’s fingers slip in a circle around her wrist, muscles straining against Lexa’s weight but Lexa leans back with two hands and pulls Clarke down to the snow with her instead. She lets out a scream, kneeing Lexa inelegantly in the crotch when she hits the ground but Lexa thinks she probably deserved it. 

“So am I,” Clarke looks at her, chest pressed close enough that Lexa can feel the little vibrations from her giggles through the thick fabric of their hoodies. 

Clarke rolls off of her when the mother of a two-year-old in a pom-pom hat on the other side of the playground gives them a tight-lipped look — at the ruckus or at the sight of them cinched on top of each other, Lexa doesn’t know. Curling on her side against the gritty, snowy ground, Clarke shoots her long, farcical faces while Lexa tries to stifle the laughter that rises within her, rolling like waves of champagne bubbles. 

It shouldn’t even be funny — it isn’t funny — but every second she spends with Clarke feels like a reason to laugh and it makes her happy in the most perfect way. 

When she gets herself under control a minute later, fits of giggles tapering off into snatched, little hitches of breath, Clarke is watching her, lips trapped between her teeth, and Lexa knows she feels the same. 

//

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?” 

They’re clean and dry now, curled together like two halves of a closed shell against the rumpled sheets of Clarke’s bed. 

She had dragged Lexa upstairs once they got home — shivering and cold in their wet, snowy clothes — and while everything inside of her had rebelled when Clarke reached for her pyjama pants and fleece to climb back under the covers, the temperature was low enough — that deep, stinging cold that slings itself through hardwood and window panes — that, even if they hadn’t left the windows open for most of the morning, the central heating and space heater combo probably couldn’t have done much to combat it. 

Instead, it was the way that Clarke had pulled her down to the mattress with a wicked smile when Lexa was only halfway through putting her pants on that had given flushed cheeks and that sweet, syrupy warmth back to her body. Her heart is still recovering. 

“Here.” 

(She means it too — whole-heartedly and with every fibre of her being. She’d give up a ticket to the moon if it meant she could relive this moment ad infinitum). 

Clarke gives her a funny, little look. 

“You’re a sap, you know that?” 

#clexa #clexa fic #clexa mood board #high school au #cheerleader clarke #nerd lexa #fluff #to break up some of the yuckiness on my dash #i made the mood board before christmas #so it's irrelevant now #sorry about that #written in a fit of 2am inspiration #can't vouch for the quality #oh well

[littlewalken]

Citrus free Husbands, Aziraphale/Brother Frances comes to the rescue when Crowley/Nanny’s duties to Warlock cause him some distress, woe be them if they are caught in a compromising position!

GOOD OMENS (I couldn’t figure out a title)

“Master Warlock I have told you to stay away from that pond! The ice is much too thin!” 

Aziraphale, in his guise of the gardener Brother Francis, hated scolding the boy, even if he was the Antichrist, but safety was safety, and he had heard the terrible sound of the ice breaking followed by a frantic splashing. 

I shall have to have a word with Nanny Ashtoreth about this, any excuse to see Crowley-eh? he chuckled to himself. “How about you make a snow fort? I’ll show you how…”

As Aziraphel neared the duck pond he saw Warlock and his friends running away from it. All for the better if you don’t want a scolding from your nanny! Where was she? Something was wrong.

At first the ice of the duck pond looked undisturbed. Then he saw the remote controlled vehicle Warlock had got for Christmas. Then he saw the umbrella.

“Oh help! Do help!” Aziraphale called as he made his way out on to the ice. “Someone help! The nanny’s fallen through the ice!”

Now, you should know there are a great many snakes who can swim. There are a great many demons who can swim. None of them however swim in icy water because none of them are the least bit built for the cold. For if you had taken any sort of notice in wildlife documentaries you would have noticed all the creatures of the arctic or antarctic are rather plump with a great covering of blubber. And if you were any sort of noticer of Crowley’s forms the words “plump” and “blubber” would not in the least bit apply to him.

It was by any and all means that Aziraphael managed to pull Crowley out of the icy water. “Oh! Poor nanny!” Aziraphael sighed, just in case anyone was watching. “You’ll catch your death a cold if you’re not warmed up!” 

The house was too far to take a human in wet quickly turning to ice clothes. The gardening supply shed was closer. Yes, get Crowley in there, put on the electric kettle, get him out of these wet things! So may wet things!

Aziraphale set Crowley on a pile of seed sacks in the gardening shed and plugged in the electric kettle. 

“Smudge pot,” he told himself. “I’ll light up a smidge pot!” Yes, even though that would be outside the door it would still put out a good amount of heat. “And then we’ll have to do something with getting you out of those wet clothes!” 

Always the angel was looking to see if someone else was coming, if anyone had heard his cries for help. How awful, just down right awful would it be to have the gardener be caught undressing the nanny!

Now you should assume two things about all of Crowley’s clothes, even in his guise of Nanny Ashtoreth. First they are all black, unless noted otherwise, and they are all made of artificial fabrics. That is, if they were made of natural fabrics such as wool, silk, cotton, or linen, their natural wicking motion might not have left the situation so cold and damp. 

To peel off the layers of the onion that made up Nanny Ashtoreth it was best to start with the outermost first. I hope we don’t have far to go, Aziraphale readied himself for the task ahead. First in removing all of Crowley’s wet things was the furry black muff with its red satin lining. This was hung up to dry. Finding a place to hang things up would soon become a problem of its own. 

Next came a felt cap, which didn’t look like a butter bowl, and a knitted scarf with just the slightest hint of red. The scarf was so wet it could be wrung out. Now it was time for the cloak with its little slits for one’s hands to poke through. The buttons for this were quite large and it seemed like each took a dreadfully long time. On being hung up upon a rake to dry the cloak began to drip as if it were going to worm a pond of its own.

“Here, now, miss Ashtoreth, have a nice warm cuppa.” Aziraphale said as he made a cup of instant tea for Crowley. He looked out the door at the flaming smudge pot. Oh please someone come and help me get her to the warmth of her bed. He put the cup in Crowley’s hand but the demon failed to grab it and the tea spilled to the floor.

The shoes had to come off. Leave it to Crowley to chose boots with countless eyes! The laces were quite frozen over and the boots were so tight the laces had to be pulled completely out to get them free and expose Crowley’s tosey-woseys clad in their stockings. 

One by one the fingers of the gloves were tugged on, loosening them up just enough so they could be removed. The removal of gloves could be a very sensual thing if done right. Done in a hurry they were bunched and pulled and dropped to the floor with a distinct splosh sound.

They were down to the winter version of the suit Nanny Ashtoreth always wore. Aziraphile liked the cut of the jacket, the slightly puffed sleeves, the wide cuffs, the little peplum in the back. It too was sopping wet. Fussing with the buttons the angel wondered if it was time to perform a miracle yet. 

Now it was time for the skirt. The cut of this Aziraphale didn’t like. It was too tight here, too full there, and the drape didn’t do any favors. Like the fasteners, who ever thought that a skirt needed a buckle? 

This would be the perfect time for someone to come upon us! Here is the gardener with the nanny bent over him as he fiddled with the zipper of her skirt! It would be nice if you could come to and help, dear Crowley. 

We must be nearing the end, the angel thought, how could you possibly be wearing much more? But Crowley was still wearing more. For being a demon and used to the fires of Hell he liked being warm and had been told the best way to keep a human body warm was to wear many layers. 

Aziraphale’s fingers went to the red silken bow of the scarf at Crowley’s neck. This was allowed to flutter to the floor because the blouse its self, wet, thin, see-through, and clinging to every inch of what lay underneath it, gave the impression of being real silk. 

“This I must be careful with,” the angel told himself as he cast a glance outside but no one except the smudge pot was watching. But by the third button he could tell the blouse wasn’t real silk and he allowed himself to rush along. 

By this time Nanny Ashtoreth was quite undressed but not completely. She sat on the pile of sacks, eyes presumably closed, looking half dead in a shimmering full length slip and stockings. If circumstances were different one might have found themselves distracted by the sight, admiring the human form that God had created in her own image. But a nearly naked and wet demon was turning a shade of blue that was not becoming to him. 

What few clothes that remained on Crowley’s body were somehow still soaking wet. The slip had to come off over his head, one of the satin ribbon straps was starting to fray, it would need to be replaced, that could be done tonight, nice and new by the morning. 

And still Crowley was wearing more! Under the slip there was a full and sensible brassiere and then some sort of girdle looking garment with suspenders that kept the stockings up. 

Knickers, were there knickers? Did Crowley even wear knickers? 

Yes, all these things seemed to be wet too but not as wet as the outer layers. These would have to remain on. As tempting as it would be to fuss with all the brassiere hooks and all the little clips holding up the stockings this layer of dainty underthings would have to remain.

Aziraphale quickly found a piece of burlap to wrap around Crowley. He thought he heard someone coming. If they were they’d find him outside at the smudge pot trying to dry his smock.

“How are you doing in there, miss Ashtoreth, feeling warmer yet?”

Warlock’s mother had come looking cold and quite worried, “Warlock said nanny Ashtoreth fell through the ice.”

“Oh, it’s not quite as bad as that but I’m afraid she’s quite cold,” Aziraphale said. “She should get promptly to bed though. I’ve been trying to warm her up, but slowly mind you, too fast might cause shock.”

***

Nanny Ashtoreth lay in her bed wearing a flannel nightgown under many layers of blankets. 

Brother Francis came in with a bouquet of winter flowers. “Feeling better are we, Miss Ashtoreth?”

“Yes, much warmer.” 

“I saw your clothes to the laundry for you.”

“Thank you, brother Francis.” 

Aziraphael looked around to see that they were indeed alone and leaned close to Crowley to whisper, “You could have lent us a hand with a few things there.”

“And deny you of all that fun?”

#good omens fan fiction #good omens fanfiction #nanny ashtoreth