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#young love is heady and intoxicating
milkb0nny · 5 months
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The Aftermath of Intimacy
Ivar The Boneless x gn!reader
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Comfortember Day 9: Aftermath
Summary: The shared moments after your intimate hours always were your favorite. His aftercare and love embraced you in Ivar's vulnerability. You loved it so much.
Note: Aftermath, but not violent. I thought of throwing in a different vibe after the rather sad 8th day. This one is sadly very short due to my very stressful week. Life was too much to handle this day, but I managed to create a very comforting prompt. Enjoy! 🤍
Warnings: aftercare, mentions of smut, slight nsfw
word count: 595
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Ivar descended, lowering himself onto your body, his head coming to rest upon your chest. His breaths were deep and ragged and he was exhausted from the intimate moments you both shared before. Your hand traced soothing patterns up and down his spine, you enjoyed his weight on your body. The two of you were a sweaty mess, relieved yet exhausted. The air hung heavy with a heady mixture of shared desire and the intoxicating scent of your entwined bodies.
Both of you lay in the aftermath, a sweaty and tangled tableau of passion. Ivar’s heart pounded so strongly you felt his heartbeat on your lower stomach. It was a moment of vulnerability and closeness - a bridge between the raw intensity of your lovemaking and the quiet tenderness that followed.
Ivar, panting and visibly tired, slowly began to lift himself from your body, his blue eyes glancing at your smile. He reassured himself that you were okay, not hurting and alright. Soon his expression softened to a tender smile, as he dragged himself off of you. The room was filled with a gentle hush as Ivar, still catching his breath, shifted to rest beside you.
His fringes gently brushed against your face, an act of adoration. In times like these his anger vanished from the earth. No one else but you knew of his loving side, where not a single madness tormented him.
“Are you alright?” He murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble. His questions was simple, but in that moment, they carried a weight of sincerity. Your eyes avoided his blue focus, looking down on his body. You rolled over, getting closer to his body.
Your voice hummed, “Yeah, Ivar.”
In this private sanctuary, away from the chaos of the outside world, he allowed himself to be not a warrior but a companion in the aftermath of shared intimacy. Leaning in, Ivar pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
His kisses after your shared intimacy were your favorite. His care and love flowed through your whole body, telling you how much he admired you. As Ivar deepened the kiss, the warmth of his embrace enveloped you. His arms dragged you closer you, pulling you on his warm body. Breaking the kiss, Ivar rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort or unspoken need. He didn’t want you to hurt, feel used or being scared.
“Trust me, I feel good,” you reassured him, whispering these words in his ears.
The man you shared your bed with hugged you, petting your head. His voice once again filled the room. “I worry that I am too rough with you, my love,” he admitted, looking down at you and meeting your sparkling eyes. Once again you reminded him of your angelic presence, of your strength and love.
You chuckled, kissing his collarbone as a response. Your touch comforted him and his body relaxed further, not needing to worry about your potential discomfort. Suddenly you shifted, sliding off of his body and slowly standing up. You covered yourselves in a long garment.
“I’ll get us something to drink and eat. Do you want something special, my great warrior?”
Ivar’s eyes lightened up, he nodded and smiled. Your pure, naked body in that see through garment charmed him, so much he almost wanted to drag you back into the bed.
Though, your sweetness was too kind and the young Ragnarsson wanted to feel loved and admired.
“Ale, and you as a dessert,” he replied to meet your chuckling laughter.
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shadowdaddies · 13 days
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I need more Eris x quiet!male! Reader.... Maybe how they met? Maybe the reader is a lower nobleman's son in the autumn court and they are at a slightly informal gathering and while Eris is rather talkative because he's, yk, Eris, the reader isn't really feeding into his charm (or so it seems) until the reader's composure breaks slightly and he blushes and Eris, ofc, notices and thus begins their (forbidden👁️👁️) relationship?
omg I LOVE THEM. I had so much fun writing this eep
Tomorrow, Then
Eris x m!Reader fluff
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Setting down your wine glass, your gaze shifted to where Beron sat at the head of the long dining table. Brown eyes glinted in the faelight, a lazy smirk settling over the High Lord’s face as he set his fork down on his plate.
“I think it’s time the males move to the drawing room, so we may discuss real political matters.” Haughty laughter echoed from the Lords in the room, your father beside you  one of those who laughed in dismissal of the females around the table. His hand clapped your shoulder, squeezing slightly in silent demand to rise with the other males, wooden chairs scraping against the carpet as you stood.
Your eyes shot to the end of the table where Beron stood, paying no mind to the Lady of Autumn still seated next to him, a polite smile on her features as she offered the other Ladies a tour of the gardens. While Beron strode away, you watched his eldest son lean down to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek. 
As though he sensed your gaze, amber eyes found yours, Eris arching an appraising brow, eyes roving over in your body in a way that sent shivers down your spine. The sound of your father’s throat clearing next to you brought you back to reality, feet slightly stumbling as they led you out the door with the rest of the males.
The drawing room smelled of cigar smoke and leather, firelight flickering in chandeliers and multiple hearths throughout the large space. With a grateful smile, you took a glass of whiskey from the young female servant before scanning the dark room for a place to sit. 
While the Lords chattered about various nonsense ranging from the females they bedded to the taxes they levied on the farmers, you found a seat far away in the corner of the room. A painting on the far wall caught your eye, of Eris standing proudly among half a dozen hunting dogs, his golden gaze piercing through the painting as though his eyes were truly on you.
“The artwork more interesting than the conversation, is it?” a low voice drawled from beside you, the couch cushions settling as Eris’s lean form joined you on the sofa. The air was heady with the scent of cinnamon and crackling embers, a blush settling over your cheeks as you turned to the Autumn Lord.
“I can’t say the conversation provides much competition,” you muttered, earning a deep laugh from Eris. The sound settled something within you, a warmth spreading in your chest far more intoxicating than the whiskey. “Are those your dogs?” you continued, nodding toward the painting.
Eris hummed in affirmation, never turning away from you. “Come with me,” the Lord murmured, standing gracefully to lead you in the direction of a door at the other end of the room. You followed quickly, keeping steps quiet as you slipped away from the group unnoticed.
Closing the door softly behind you, you turned to find yourself in a grand library, stories higher than the last room and lined with books and art separated by tall arched windows overlooking the autumn landscape. “What is this?” you whispered, more to yourself than to Eris.
His rich laughter filled the air once more, a feline smirk playing on his pink lips. “This is one of our libraries. People rarely come in here, and I thought you might appreciate the quiet.” 
At your responding expression, Eris nodded at the door you had come through, where your father’s raucous laughter rang out among the other Lords. “You did not appear to enjoy that sort of company.” 
“Do you?” you challenged in a moment of bravery. You turned to the Autumn Lord, ignoring the fluttering in your stomach at the feeling of his attention on you. “Do you find that you thrive among those types of males?”
Something between amusement and approval shone in Eris’s gaze, the flames lighting the room appearing to brighten around him. “No,” he admitted with a slight nod, stepping closer to where you stood. “No, I do not. But I do know what I want, and what I need to do to get it.”
Forcing yourself to hold his stare, you sat your glass on the window ledge and matched his steps. Nearly chest to chest, you could now see the specks of brown and maroon in his eyes, like falling leaves against amber irises. “And what do you want?” you dared to breathe.
Eris’s pupils darkened, swallowing those colors as his scent darkened. “There are many things that I want. Some in this room, for example,” he purred, a long finger curling under your chin as you found yourself drawn impossibly nearer.
Your eyes dipped to his lips, the plush pink skin slightly parted in the dim light. “And you? Do you see anything that you want?”
Hand daring to slide up his side, your fingers found purchase in his red wavy hair you’d been dying to touch all evening. “I see the only thing I want, or care about, in this entire estate,” you murmured, the words barely spoken before Eris pulled you in for a deep kiss.
It was gentle yet strong, lips and tongue not clashing but moving in a symphonic dance. You tugged on the strands at the nape of his neck, his hard length rubbing against your own eliciting groans from the both of you, when the door handle clicked loudly from the far side of the room.
The two of you jumped apart, catching your breath quickly as you turned to see your father drunkenly stumble in alongside Beron and others. “Ah, there you are,” your sire announced, whiskey on his breath as he slung an arm around you. “You missed the good conversation!”
Willing your breaths to even out, you gestured to Eris as casually as you could. “Lord Eris and I were discussing the impressive collection of art in the drawing room, so he was showing me more of the art and literature your home boasts,” you nodded to Beron. “It’s quite impressive.”
Eris flashed you an approving grin as Beron rambled on about the many more books and artifacts he owned, the other Lords dutifully quick to affirm his ego.
“Perhaps tomorrow we could go for a hunt. You could see the hounds from the painting you admired in action,” Eris suggested, his intense gaze betraying the nonchalance with which he spoke. 
You found yourself speechless, unable to choke out much more words beyond, “yes, my Lord.”
Completely unaware of the tension between you, Beron clapped a hand on your father’s shoulder, the two of them continuing conversation as the group was led from the library out towards the entrance of the Forest House.
“Tomorrow, then, I will send for you,” Eris promised as you stepped across the threshold towards the carriage where your father waited. 
You knew your flushed cheeks were visible even in the moonlight as Eris smirked. “Tomorrow, then,” you answered, rushing toward your carriage with a brighter smile than you’d ever felt burning your cheeks. Butterflies erupted within as you found yourself looking forward to tomorrow, more than you had in a long time.
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johnwickb1tsch · 6 days
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The Night Nurse ~ Chapter 10
A John Wick x Helen Fic
Masterlist / Chapter Map
Author's note: It's been a minute since I posted on this fic, I'm so sorry!! I lost a good chunk of this chapter to an untimely computer update (fuck you very much Windows) and I was so frustrated I just had to let it sit for a while. BUT I finally managed to re-write it, so here we are! I hope you enjoy! 💗💗💗 (Oh and the illustrations here are from the turn of the century version of Afanasyev's Russian Fairy Tales, the book John hid his marker in, in JW3...you'll see why.😉)
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Times gets tough
Oh, they get tougher
Hold on to me
I got you, darling…
-I’ll be your man, The Black Keys
X.
The walls of his library were lined with built-in bookshelves, filled to the brim with antique and vintage books. A single leather reading chair sat in the corner with a lamp and a small table. A larger table took up the center of the room with a proper book cradle. Helen breathed in, reveling in the magical smell of old books. She realized that this must be where John gets some of that intoxicating scent of his, bottom notes of leather and parchment paper. The chair in the corner looked well-worn, and she imagined him spending hours of his downtime just sitting and reading away the day.
For the umpteenth time, it squeezed her heart to the point of pain.
Throughout the course of the tour, they did not let go of each other once. John didn’t seem to mind handling books with one mitt of a hand, the fingers of his left laced tightly with Helen’s.
“Do you still have your book of Russian fairy tales?”
“Yes.” Gingerly he pulled it from a shelf, resting it in the cradle on the table. 
They perused the book together, Helen leaning against his shoulder. He was warm, and solid as a tree, and for a heady moment it was difficult to concentrate on the antique tome, no matter how beautiful. The illustrations were utterly gorgeous, and she mentally kicked herself into focusing. She thought about a young John toting this beloved book around the world with him like a Lost Boy with his teddy bear, and the thought succeeded in tying her up in inextricable knots. 
John turned to a page of an illustration of a lovely peasant woman in the woods, holding a torch made of a glowing human skull. “Oh, who’s that?” asked Helen.
“That’s Vasilisa the Beautiful,” answered John.
She hovered her finger over the first line of Cyrillic, careful not to touch the paper. “What does it say?”
John read it aloud, his voice low and all for her, and she sighed a little, not understanding a syllable. For some reason hearing him speak another language so easily, and something about the lilting cadence of the language in his deep voice, the soft shh and musical ya sounds of the Russian words inspired a curl of lust in her belly, a small thrill zipping down her spine. She shuddered lightly, and prayed he hadn’t noticed.
He absolutely noticed, his pupils blowing wide with desire. Doggedly, he kept them fixed upon the page below.  
“Is that, ‘Once upon a time’…in Russian?”
“Something like that. This is a Cinderella story about a young woman who outsmarts her wicked stepmother and the Baba Yaga with her determination and the help of her magical doll. It’s one of my favorites.”
He’d seen a bit of himself in Vasilisa as a young man, straining under the yoke of his unforgiving masters. He turned the page to reveal a witchy old woman riding in what looked like an upright log. Helen couldn’t suppress a grin. “Oh look, it’s you, Baba Yaga.”
John snorted at that. “I still don’t know what idiot started that damned nickname,” he groused.
Actually, he suspected it was Marcus, but he’d never found out for certain.
“It sounds fierce, at least.”
His lips twisted in a smirk, and he couldn’t help himself from turning to look at her, then. Their faces were torturously close. “Think I should get some flaming skull torches for out front?”
“Yes, I think the neighbors would love that,” she deadpanned, and more felt than heard John’s responding chuckle.
He turned the page to a new illustration of a strapping knight on a black horse. “Oh hello, handsome. Who’s this guy?”
John narrowly resisted the urge to ask if she had a thing for men in black, even as that telling warmth clouded his brain.
“That’s…Night.”
“The night Knight?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” Her lips twisted in a cheeky smile. “Nice. I like him.”
“You would.”
“I have excellent taste, John.”
He found himself looking at her mouth again, thinking her taste would be excellent. For the umpteenth time, he managed not to kiss her by the skin of his teeth. By the way she was looking at him...maybe he didn't need to be exercising such restraint. But maybe that was the excellent wine talking
Maybe he really was an idiot.
“So...in reward for being clever Baba Yaga gives Vasilisa one of the skull torches. She takes it back to her house, and when she lights the candles her wicked step mother and awful step sisters burn up.” 
“Oooh. And she lives happily ever after?”
“Well...she marries the tsar, for what that's worth.”
Helen wrinkled up her nose, communicating her opinion on that. “Overall, I give it a nine out of ten.”
John couldn’t help it then. He actually grinned, showing teeth. “Glad you liked it.”
“Thanks for sharing with me.”
“My pleasure.”
She was still leaning on his shoulder, and was it him, or had she somehow sidled even closer, her body pressed to his side? Her eyes traveled leisurely from him to the book to the chair in the corner. It was then that she noticed that the bookmarked novel on the side table was a mass-market paperback she recognized quite well.
He’d taken her recommendation on the Codename Villanelle spy thrillers, despite teasing her about her taste in books, what felt like a lifetime ago that fateful night in the subway. The fact that he was on the second one touched her to no end, and she squeezed his arm.
“Aww, you’re reading about Eve and Villanelle,” she purred. “You like them?”
“Yes. You were right, they are fun.”
“Taking notes from Villanelle?” The Russian spy was wickedly clever at finding ways to kill her targets.
“Maybe. That poison hair stick was something. Think I could pull it off?” Helen reached up to curl a lock of his dark hair around her finger with a smile, and John couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation of her touching his hair.
He was hopeless.
“Oh, definitely. You could so rock the man-bun.”
John rolled his eyes at that, reluctant to admit that he often did when training.
Helen looked back to the book, now with what John was learning to recognize as a sly glint in her eye. “I’m on practically the same spot in that book,” she noted. “Want to read me a chapter?”
John looked at his reading chair, the comfortable old soldier that it was. It was also the only place to sit in the room, and he went a little cross-eyed at the thought of Helen curled up in his lap in it.
There would be zero reading done, of that he was certain. He would debauch her for the first time in that chair, and maybe again on the table for good measure.
A virulent heat licked at his collar as he imagined it. Fuck him, but she was making him blush.
“Sure. Let’s take it to the living room,” he proposed, ignoring her lips pursed in a theatrical pout.
Minx. She knew exactly what she was doing to him—and he was increasingly unsure why he wasn’t just letting her have her way.
He scooped up the paperback book, her hand still firmly clasped in his other while he led them back to the recessed living room. He set the book down on the couch. “Want another glass of wine? I’m going to clear these dishes.”
He needed to clear his head, and he felt Helen look at him with some disappointment that felt a little bit like being stabbed.
“Can I help you?”
“No, this is your night off. Sit, relax. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” She seated herself on the couch with only the book for company.
She watched John practically flee into the kitchen, and wondered if she’d done something wrong.
Regaled by the sound of clinking dishes and the faucet running, Helen looked around at John’s shelves. They were rather bare, though she noticed he had a bit of a CD collection on display. It plucked at her nostalgia for the days before everything could be so easily accessed via the hand-held computers known as phones but so rarely used for actually talking.
Standing, she decided to be nosy and thumb through them. He seemed to favor classics, from classical music, to rock and blues. There was very little on the shelf dating from past the 90s, and that made her smile for some reason.
“See anything you like?”
She turned to find John with two freshly-filled wine glasses in tow. He set them on the coffee table, before joining her at the built-in cd tower.
“Some good stuff here,” she agreed with a Chili Peppers cd in her hand. The fiery pool with the ocean in the background on the cover tickled the nostalgia center in her brain for sure. “Who are these guys?” She pulled out a black and white album with a high contrast photo of a guy with glasses, and a bearded dude.
“Never heard of the Black Keys?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, honey.”
She chuckled. “Ok, do not pull the my taste in music is better than yours card. I will leave.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he defended with a sly close-lipped smile. “I reserve that card only for books.”
She snorted in answer, and found herself gravitating closer to him, even just standing there looking at his music. She just couldn’t help it.
That really was some good wine he served with dinner.
She watched as he popped open the jewel case, feeding the CD into the slot of his player. He hit a couple buttons, and the speakers erupted with a very bluesy distorted guitar riff. It was loud, and John laughed a little as she jumped—conveniently, into his arms.
“Sorry.” He turned down the volume slightly, his arms circling her waist almost of their own volition. It felt so easy, being with her. Maybe from the very moment they’d met, it just felt like she should be in his arms, and acting on it made something loud and uneasy always clamoring in the back of his brain to go quiet. She swayed her head and shoulders a little to the beat; it was impossible not to.
“John?” she asked from beneath his chin, brushing the soft scruff of his beard with her nose. It filled him with a tingling warmth, in the very marrow of his bones, a pleasure in this closeness that just seemed too good to be true. It was like a drug, better than cocaine or heroin or anything else he’d ever tried, and he didn’t know how he would ever let her go.
“Yeah?”
“They made you learn ballet at your…school, but do you like to dance?”
He’d spent so much time in night clubs, hunting, and acting as backup muscle for Tarasov while he closed business deals, but it wasn’t a setting he really enjoyed. He wasn’t sure he really classified the writhing and arm waving one engaged in at the club as dancing. He was familiar with other dance forms, but they didn’t come up often in his life.
 “I feel like you’re actually asking me a different question,” he teased, leaning into her to reach out to skip to a different track.
“I am?”
“You’re asking if I want to dance with you?”
The first metallic notes of Dan Auerbach’s guitar rang out, and John swayed to the beat, a hand on her svelte waist pinning her close. With a smile she moved with him, her other hand finding his.
“Do you?”
He looked down at her with a glint of mischief in those shining dark eyes, and so much warmth that a flood of heat washed through her from her hair follicles all the way to her toes. This man. She really would follow him anywhere. Maybe the wine they’d drank lubricated this thought process, but she knew that didn’t make it any less true.
John knew that his answer to any question that involved an activity with her would be a resounding yes. Groceries? Yes. The dentist? Fine. Just hold his hand. He was broken for her.   
 “Of course I do.” He lifted his arm to guide her in a turn before pulling her close again, and she simply couldn’t help it. The joy in her heart soared.
Then the vocals in the song began, and Helen couldn’t help the fuzzy warmth that spread in her chest. Need a new love? I’m ready. Want my time? I’m willing.
There wasn’t a huge amount of open space in the living room, but John was very good at making do, leading her in steps to the beat, throwing in fun checks and turns and behind-the-back maneuvers that made her giggle. She knew she sounded drunk. It was on him though, far more than the wine. He made her happier than any one had in a very long time. Maybe ever, if she was being honest with herself.
To make things even worse, the chorus of the song rang loud in her ears with the infectious guitar riff: I’ll be your man. Mmm, I’ll be your man. She didn’t know if he picked this song on purpose for the lyrics, or the intoxicating rhythm, but she felt it in her bones, and in her heart, and every cell of her being; she was so attuned to this man.
She almost tripped when he attempted to twist her up like a pretzel in a figure-eight step, but he caught her, laughing with her as he held her close.
“I’m not that good,” she apologized, clinging to him more than she really needed to. He was just…so solid, and if she was being honest all she really wanted to do was climb him like a fucking tree.  
His arm around her waist was like a warm band of iron, and he smiled gently down at her. She felt herself melting like chocolate in the sun, her knees gone weak beneath her.
“That’s ok. I’ve got you.”
She couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped from her throat. Because, she knew it was true, and not just here being silly dancing in his living room. She realized she trusted him not to drop her no matter what they were doing, or what they were facing. That kind of faith in another person, much less a man, was a rare and precious thing.
“John…” she said softly, looking up into his warm dark eyes from so very close. She wasn’t sure if she was asking a question, or if she just needed to cite his name like a prayer, invoke him like a saint in her personal pantheon. Maybe it was madness, but wrapped up in his arms like this, he felt like something to believe in.
Her eyes drifted down to his mouth, those full lips she’d coveted since the moment they’d met, if she was telling the truth.
This was the moment that John’s will to fight it broke at last. He felt it inside, not like a hard snap, but a definite release, like a boat coming unmoored, being swept down a swift stream. There was no more resisting. He was lost to her.
Pulled like a magnet, he finally leaned in that fraction of distance to press his lips to hers. His kiss was like a sunrise in her heart; warm and bursting, soft and sweet. She couldn’t stop herself from standing on tiptoe with a low moan, looping her arms around his neck as she pressed her body against his. It won her something like a deep growl that thrilled her to her toes, and greedily she wanted more.
She teased the seam of his mouth with her tongue, begging entrance he gladly granted. She felt the tremor in his arms as he held her, so tightly that he nearly lifted her from the floor. He kissed her like a starving man offered a life-giving meal, and her fingers fisted in his hair at the back of his head, holding him to her, holding on.
His heartbeat a thundering timpani in his ears, John felt like Helen’s lips on his was the answer to a question his heart had been asking his whole adult life. She was the air he breathed, the sustenance necessary to live, and the desire to drink her down, to eat her up, was a dogged, insistent demand from the darkest depths of his soul.
He never wanted to let her go.
With a ragged breath he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers, his fingers digging into her sides. She might have bruises later.
She didn’t mind.
She wanted his hands, rough or gentle.
She wanted all of him, and if he didn’t return his mouth to hers she was going to scream.
“Helen,” he panted. “I—”
The tinny electronic sound of his phone ringing in his pocket interrupted what might have been a foolish—or a life changing—confession. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, knowing he had to answer it. That was the deal with the devil he’d signed, when he didn’t really have any better choice. He was on call all the time.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized.
She nodded, but did not extricate herself, leaning on his shoulder while he pulled the device from his pocket. It was Viggo Tarasov, and his heart dropped like a stone. It was rare that the boss Himself called. He absolutely had to answer it, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what his pakhan had to say.
With a heavy heart he lifted the phone to his ear, his other arm still wrapped possessively around Helen.
“Da?”
“Good evening, John.”
John fought to keep the impatient snarl out of his tone, but feared he failed royally. “Evening, Viggo.”
“I’ve just heard some interesting things about your latest adventures about town. I think we need to talk.”
That was probably the understatement of the century.
“When?”
“Now.”
Of fucking course.
“I can be there in an hour.”
“Good.”
Viggo hung up, and John clenched the phone in his fist, fighting not to throw it across the room. He knew Helen heard every word for the way she sighed with disappointment, snuggling into the bend of his neck. The sensation of her front molded to his was heaven, and he didn’t know how to let her go.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized with lips to her forehead. “I have to go.”
“I understand.” There was some consolation, in that she sounded as devastated as he was.
“You’ll be ok here? My house is your house. Help yourself to anything you want.”
She made a kittenish little sound that sent all his blood straight to his groin. “What I want is leaving,” she informed him with a pouting lip, tugging on the front of his shirt.
He couldn’t stop himself then from stealing another kiss, a deep and probing thing that left her breathless and starry-eyed.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told her.
“Promise?”
“Yes.” John wondered what Viggo had in store. If he was in trouble, or if his boss would send him out to teach the Medvedev boys a lesson tonight. He didn’t want to go hunting that night. Everything he truly wanted in the world, he realized, was standing right in front of him, looking up at him with melted toffee eyes. He cupped her cheek, memorizing every detail of her all over again.
He realized with a startling clarity that he could never get enough of her.
The intensity of his stare sent a thrill jetting down her spine. “John…” He worried her a little, when he got like this. She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly—but some little intuition in the back of her brain sang out that something bad might happen.
“It’ll be alright,” he told her, sensing her unease. “I have to change.” He kissed her forehead again, and disappeared up the stairs to his room.
Helen plopped down on the couch with a sigh, crushed with disappointment but knowing this was how it was, and she understood more than ever now that it wasn’t his fault or his choice. She picked up the Villanelle book, No Tomorrow, stroking her thumb over the cover, but not cracking it open.
When John stalked down the stairs he was wearing one of his slim-fit all black suits again, his hair slicked back from his face. He looked beautiful, and predatory, sleek as a panther stalking in the jungle, and fierce attraction warred with dread in Helen’s breast. She had a feeling that someone might die tonight, and it was so strange to think in those terms with such a sense of acceptance.
At least she knew John’s prey would be no one innocent.  
“Don’t forget you owe me a chapter,” she said in a sing song tone as he approached, waving the book, trying to lighten the pall that had fallen upon the room.  
The smile he paid her was filled with melancholy; she felt it like a knife between the ribs. “I won’t,” he assured her, taking her hand to press his lips to her knuckles. He paused, looking down at this beautiful woman seated on his couch, with her legs that went on forever and the warmth in her eyes all for him. There was nothing he wanted more, than to stay there with her. To lay her down and kiss every inch of her perfect flesh. He probably should have told her that, but he just sighed, and let her go.
“I’m going to leave this here, just in case,” he said, all business as he showed her a blocky black automatic pistol. “There’s one in the chamber. All you have to do is pull the trigger. It has a long trigger pull but please do not touch it unless you need it, and be very careful.” He stashed the Glock in a drawer beside the couch. “I’ll leave the alarm on. If it goes off I’ll get an alert on my phone.”
With wide eyes she nodded. “Do you…think the Medvedevs will come here?”
“No, or I wouldn’t leave you here alone.” He honestly thought this was the safest place for her. “But…” One never knows.
“Okay.” He could tell that he managed to scare her a little, and he hated himself for it.
“I’m being paranoid,” he tried to assure her. He dared add, “Because you’re precious to me.” She softened then, and stood to wrap her arms around his neck once more. Embracing her was as intoxicating as kissing her, and again John warred with himself as to how he was going to leave.
“Come back to me,” she demanded softly, kissing the soft scruff of his cheek.
“Always,” he answered without allowing himself to think about it, pressing his lips to hers in a long, gentle kiss filled with all the yearning in his heart.
Reluctantly, he slipped from her grasp, and didn’t look back.
She watched him go, admiring his tall dark form even as he was leaving her.
She heard the roar of the Mustang starting in the garage, and the trail of its growl as it prowled across the driveway, disappearing down the street into the night. She couldn’t help but feel like her heart sped away with it.
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valeriianz · 1 year
Note
hdjfjdhfs i love your first prompt! here’s another one if you’re up for it: ❝  you’ve got me in the palm of your hands.  you could crush me and i would still thank you for touching me at all.  ❞
hope you get well soon!!
“You’ve grown old, Hob Gadling.” 
Hob tensed at the all too familiar voice. A voice he’d never forget, despite the years that had passed since he’d last heard it. The melodic, rich voice that transfixed many, Hob being no exception. He swallowed as he turned, knowing the voice could hear it, could hear his heartbeat suddenly in his ears.
“Tends to happen to mortals, you know?” Hob regarded him in the darkness. He was a shadow on the wall, peeling away and floating towards him now.
Morpheus glides until he meets Hob at the window he’s stationed at. The night is cold and bitter, snow has begun to gently fall, like ash after a bonfire. After a public execution.
“Have you come back to me, my one?” 
Hob’s breath hitches as Morpheus slips into his space, a cold hand, pale as death, presses against his chest, long fingers clawing up and around his throat. Hob swallows again, feeling his Adam’s apple bob along Morpheus’ feather soft grip. His blood races in both fear and excitement. Hob sees the way Morpheus’ eyes darken, his brows narrow, enticed.
“Your blood still behaves for me.” Morpheus leans forward and Hob forces his eyes to remain open, his body going still. “I wonder if your body would, as well.”
His voice soothes like balm on a burn, cool and soft and healing. But they’ve played this game many times, and Hob knows not to give in so easily, even if his very skin screams at him to resign himself. To crumple under Morpheus’ intense stare. To bare his neck.
“I’m here on a job, Morpheus.”
Morpheus’ head tilts curiously, like a cat. His hand remains at the base of Hob’s throat, his fingernails lightly scratching the hairs at the back, sending gooseflesh dancing up Hob’s arms.
“Oh?” A ghost of a smirk pulls his lips up. “Come to finally kill me, then?” 
“Not you.” Hob answers too quickly. Never you. Even if the gods demanded it of Hob, even if it meant his own demise, he’d never allow harm to come to this ancient, gorgeous, dangerous creature before him.
“I’ve been called to abet,” Hob presses on, finally coming back into his own skin and stepping away from his old friend. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders.”
Morpheus lets him turn, but his hand remains on his coat, falling onto his shoulder. Hob faces the open window once more, observing the night, watching for activity. He has weapons hidden on his person, a pocket pistol loaded with silver bullets, wooden stakes and a plowshare, holy water given to him by a priest just this morning, and a long necklace tucked under his shirt ornate with a heavy cross.
“Mm,” Morpheus hums, his fingers lightly trace down Hob’s back, he can somehow feel his touch even through the layers of fabric. “Yes. I am privy to them.”
Cold panic seizes Hob. His head swings around to meet Morpheus’ black eyes. “You’re not–”
“It’s not me, Hob.” Morpheus says, almost offended, and leans forward again, his lips at Hob’s ear. “But I know who.”
“Tell me.” Hob’s eyes study Morpheus, taking in his wild hair and sharp features. Somehow, Morpheus is even more handsome than the last time they met. Vampires never age, of course, they are no longer among the mortal realm. And their beauty is effervescent, ethereal, intoxicating. Hob had fallen for that heady tonic more than a decade ago, when he was still young and honing his craft.
Morpheus was cunning and persuasive, almost divine with it. Refusing him felt like a sin and Hob knew it wasn’t with pretty words or a hypnotizing voice that lured him that first time, or the second, or the countless, countless others he’d freely given his body to him. Morpheus was a rare breed. Dangerous and devious of course, but also distinguished and demure. Hob was smitten from their first meeting, before he knew of his true nature. 
He’d never taken Hob’s blood. Morpheus had gotten close, so close that he would shake with it, writhe and growl, testing the waters with fangs against Hob’s pulse points. On his wrist, his thighs, his throat. Hob would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thrill of it, the danger. 
“You’ve got me in the palm of your hands,” Hob had said once. “You could crush me and I would still thank you for touching me at all.”
Hob had been a fool, of course, lying with a vampire. The consequences of which were innumerable, forcing him to flee. Run away from his mistakes, his heart, screaming and clawing in its retreat.
“No.” Morpheus spoke, flat and final. “He is dangerous. We are handling it ourselves.”
Hob blew a long, harsh breath through his nose, glaring at his friend before finally brushing his hand off him. 
“If you won’t help me then I suggest you leave.”
Morpheus’ hands are back on Hob before he can blink, forcefully turning and shoving him against the dusty windowsill. 
“I will not have you hunt him, do you understand?” He hissed, fangs long and glinting in the moonlight.
Hob’s eyes blew wide. All his years of training, of killing, never prepared him for this. Facing his own conflictions. Seeing Morpheus again brought out old, buried feelings of want and lust that Hob had tried so hard to bury, to destroy. Putting a distance between them hadn’t helped at all. If anything, with the vampire standing before him now, his hands finally, finally, back on Hob, where they belonged, he realized the separation had only stoked the flame. Made Hob want more.
“You must stay hidden, safe.” Morpheus’ grip turned painful, deathly serious. “Until I rip his throat out myself.”
Hob took a shuddering breath. The cold breeze at his back was biting, but not so much as Morpheus’ breath on his face, his body so close to his own. Tantalizing, teasing him. Everything inside Hob screamed to close the distance between them, to reacquaint their bodies, to touch and mark and bruise.
“Morpheus…” Hob spoke his name slowly, an omen to himself. “Who is he?”
Morpheus doesn’t speak for a while, the silence is thick, punctuated only by Hob’s labored breathing and certainly his heartbeat, which he’s sure Morpheus can hear.
“He was one of ours…” Morpheus starts, hesitating on every word. “A young rogue we couldn’t keep under control.”
Hob remains silent as he listens, watching Morpheus’ expressions for a hint of change, of deceit. 
“His name is Corinthian.”
“Corinthian,” Hob repeats, shelving that information away.
Morpheus’ glowers at him. He can read Hob all too well. It’s Hob’s biggest weakness, opening himself up to Morpheus, bending to his whims and desires. Or it had been… though Hob wondered what the point in leaving was, if he knew Morpheus could find him anywhere. Could sense him even in the daylight, as soon as he’d stepped off the train and walked among his territory once more.
Morpheus presses his body flush against Hob’s and Hob nearly comes undone, biting back the pleasure, the sheer ecstasy that radiates off Morpheus, threatening to penetrate him. His lips part without his command, his blood hot and running south. Morpheus dips his head, his breath hitting Hob’s lips, sinister and inviting.
“Do not. Find him.”
“Will you stop me, Morpheus?” Hob taunts, cocking an eyebrow. His breath has gone ragged, almost desperate. He tilts his chin in defiance. “I could put you away once and for all.”
Morpheus grins, deadly. He nudges his nose along Hob’s cheek, making him gasp and then groan, unbidden, as ice cold lips caress up his jaw and down his neck, settling at his jugular and biting gently. So gentle, a promise, a devotion.
“I would love to see you try.”
from this prompt list
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wespersdaughter · 2 years
Text
the only heaven i’ll be sent to - benedict bridgerton
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hozier masterlist | general masterlist
Summary: Benedict Bridgerton worships his wife as she deserves. Warnings: steamy but no explicit smut (very heavy mentions I guess) A/N: Listen y’all, I’m so desperate for a Benny of my own to worship me. There are also some more vulgar words and references in here, it’s raunchy, sue me.
IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 AND YOU INTERACT WITH THIS POST IN ANY WAY I WILL IMMEDIATELY BLOCK YOU.
Ever since you were young, you were certain the mamas of society kept secrets about the relations of married couples to protect their daughters. Your own mother had instilled it in your brain that even flashing an ankle or your bare hands to a man was sinful. To the point where you wore gloves and long socks around your own brothers and cousins.
When you debuted, you were half-scared to even speak to a man. You didn’t want to disappoint your mama, or disgrace your name in the eyes of the Lord. So when Benedict Bridgerton was introduced with a gentle kiss to your gloved hand, your stomach almost fell through your vagina.
He had the most beautiful eyes, bright with laughter and sincere curiosity. And when you danced, you hoped he couldn’t feel your heart race against his chest. Judging by his dimpled smile, he at least heard your breath hitch.
Your mama was not pleased that you had fallen for a second son, but he was the brother of a Viscount and richer than your entire family. Once you were finally married, Benedict’s affections increased. Slowly and steadily.
He took care of you so beautifully, making sure you were always comfortable with something before doing it. It was unlike anything your mother or sisters or housemaids described.
You were married for two months when you discovered why mamas were so evasive on the topic of sex. Once was not enough. The first time you and Benedict made love, you almost died. You were sure of it. The heady rush of pleasure replaced the blood flowing through your veins, and you lost all sense of yourself.
It took ten minutes of sweet nothings and gentle affection from your husband for your soul to return to your body. Even then, you couldn’t catch your breath. You were so… intoxicated.
That led to full days spent in bed, or in his studio, or in the games room, round after round, like rabbits. Sometimes you spend hours cuddled together, rocking back and forth lazily. Other times, he would lock the games room and lay you flat against the card table, eating you out so expertly the staff worried about the screams. Your personal favourite location to fuck was Benedict’s home studio. The staff were forbidden from entering, only he had the key and only you could use it if he was away.
You were his muse, he wanted to paint you in every position you could hold yourself in, preferably in the nude or draped in the many jewels he spoiled you with.
He even gave you painting lessons, so he could fulfil a fantasy he’d been harbouring since his days at Granville’s parties. Now that he was married, the thought of anyone other than him seeing you naked or painting you while you were in that vulnerable state was unbearable.
But he wanted to show you just how much he worshipped you. One final masterpiece, a culmination of all you learned, and a work that would influence the rest of his catalogue forevermore.
Benedict posed first, taking his sweet time getting undressed, purely to tease you. He knelt before his favourite armchair, head buzzing with images of you, on your knees, on your back, limbs and face twisting with ecstasy.
It made your job easier and more difficult. It was easy to capture how beautiful he really was, his eyes were glazed, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. The difficulty was not jumping him immediately after he got into position, or when he would take breaks. Your attention lapsed just looking at him so you dropped your pencil or brush a few times.
Each time he’d laugh and in his deep, lustful tone say “It will be worth the wait.” For his sake, you sure hoped it would.
The sexual tension only built when it was your turn to pose. He specifically requested to undress you, then made sure to position you just perfectly. You were perched on his armchair, legs thrown over the armrests, one hand reaching to where his chin would be, the other gripping your plush thigh to keep them spread.
The hand reaching out trembled, from strain, tension or anticipation, you weren’t sure. Your body was close to overheating with need. You mentioned it to your love who smiled gently.
He finished his sketch, took his shirt off again and knelt before you.
You tangled your fingers in his hair.
“I worship you my love, and I will for the rest of our lives.”
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assortedseaglass · 1 year
Text
Come Back To Me - Chapter Two
Billy Washington x OFC
[Masterlist]
Warnings: Trigger Point (TV) Spoilers, Language
18+. This series will eventually contain depictions of racism, violence and terrorism; it will be in line with that which occurs in the series, so those who have seen it will know what to expect. This series will also contain smut.
Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the positive love on the first chapter. I haven’t shared writing like this for a long time and was nervous to do so. You made a gal smile 😊 This chapter ends with a major spoiler for the TV series! After this, we will be much more focused on the events of the show, and Billy and Ida’s relationship.
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The senses of summer filled The Swan when Ida arrived. The sweet sent of alcohol, the heady mix of tobacco and perfume that Ida found so intoxicating, the murmur of the summer-drunk public. Occasionally, a can popped open crisply, a group of men would guffaw, and clusters of women in bright summer dresses wobbled past to the toilets.
Inside the pub was mostly older clientele, likely keeping out of the sun, and Ida had a task of making her way to the bar around the bellies of the middle-aged men nursing their pints. “Glass of house white and a lager shandy please!” she said brightly to the barman, wiping sweat from her forehead and looking around. Billy was likely sat in the bountiful beer garden outside.
She had brought him here during her first year of university. Many of the older academics liked to sit in the beer garden and discuss the curriculum. Desperate to fit in, Ida had come along and brought Billy for back up. The academics didn’t know what to make of these two wild things, especially Billy when he said he hadn’t read a book since he left school. Ida didn’t go back to one of those academic meetings, but she and Billy spent every other evening that summer in the beer garden, forming their own world in post-school life.
Watching the drinks so as not to spill them, Ida made her way outside, hips swaying this way and that to avoid bumping into anything. She was right; almost everyone else was packed into the garden outside. Fairy lights were strung from the trees and people were crammed onto wooden tables. A cloud of smoke hung above them all, and their happy chatter rose into the afternoon air. Still, she couldn’t see Billy. She scanned the crowd. There were students, a few sunburnt tourists, a group of young mums, even a local rugby team downing some post-match pints. There! Sat on a table beneath a particularly low hanging and leafy branch was Billy, grinning and chatting happily to…Becky? Simultaneously, Ida’s heart dropped and began thundering in her ears.
“Ida!” Billy called out when he saw her. “It’s almost 4!”
“Sorry, lecture overran. Hi Becky,” Ida placed hers and Billy’s drinks on the table. “I would’ve got you something if I’d known you were coming.”  
“That’s alright, Ida.” Becky said. Ida hated that Becky always made a point of saying her name. “Billy said he was coming out to meet you, so I thought I’d join.” She smiled sweetly at Ida, then at Billy. Ida didn’t know what to say. Neither, apparently, did Billy. He simply stared back at Becky, a glazed look on his face.
“Christ,” Ida muttered. Becky didn’t hear but Billy did. His eyes shot to her face. Ida stared him down. Good, let him see that I’m angry. Her phoned vibrated. As if some wave in the psychic sisterhood had been disturbed, Ida looked down to see a text from Sofia.
How’s it going? He dumped her? x
She’s HERE
What!!!?
She’s fucking here. It’s so awkward…
We’re on our way! xxxxx
She smiled at Sofia’s speedy response and put her phone away. When she looked up, Becky and Billy were absorbed only in each other. As much as she hated being the gooseberry of the group, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was like watching some bizarre social experiment.
Becky was murmuring to Billy in a babyish voice, and Ida couldn’t quite make out the words, only that Billy was enjoying it. As Becky brushed some hair out of his face, he leant in to kiss her. Becky turned so he caught her cheek instead and Ida looked away. She caught sight of a man eyeing Becky with a mixture of awe and confusion. She knew what he was thinking. Why is she with him? Becky was beautiful, blonde and sexy. She naturally drew the attention of everyone around her. She was book smart and popular. Billy was rough around the edges. Wayward and unkempt.
The man’s lips curled into a sneer as he continued to watch Becky and Billy. He snorted a laugh and turned, catching Ida’s eye as he did so. She glared at him, daring him to laugh once more. He turned away. What he didn’t know was that Billy was the gentlest person Ida knew. The boyish whimsy that Becky found so childish, Ida adored. He wanted to please and make people happy. Children loved him and he makes friends easily. If you needed something, he would be there in a flash. Billy Washington was kind, soft, wild and high-hearted. Becky, on the other hand, was a bitch.
Two pints were slammed onto the table.
“Alright!?” It was Faisal, beaming down at Ida as if to say We’ve got you. Sofia stood behind him and Ida laughed in relief. Actually laughed.
“Hey!” Billy stood to hug Faisal and kissed Sofia’s cheek.
Becky stayed in her seat, looking at them with barely disguised annoyance. “Ida didn’t say you were coming?”
“Didn’t she?” Sofia lightly slapped Ida’s arm and winked. “How very rude of her!”
Faisal, taking a more subtle approach than Sofia, held out his hand to shake Becky’s “Faisal. We met briefly at Ida’s birthday?”
“I remember. You spilt red wine on the carpet.”
“When you said it was awkward, I didn’t realise it was gonna be this bad,” Sofia whispered in Ida’s ear.
*
In mere minutes, the drinks were finished and an icy silence had descended on the table. Were it not for the sweat trickling down her back and the sunburn forming on her arms, Ida would have said it was winter. Faisal stood abruptly.
“This round’s on me. Give us a hand with the drinks, Bill?” The two men left for the bar inside.
“Billy? Make sure the lime soda has soda in it this time. Not lemonade.” Becky called after them before turning to the Ida and Sofia. “He never listens.”
“Men, hey?” Sofia replied. Ida knew her friend well enough to see that she was being sarcastic, but Becky hadn’t noticed. As Sofia engaged Becky in conversation, Ida’s eyes wandered to Faisal and Billy. She could see them through the window, speaking quickly to each other. Faisal grabbed three of the drinks and left the bar. Billy stayed, staring off into space.
“Excuse me,” Ida said to Sofia, and hurried inside. Billy was watching the barman pour two pints, his eyes slightly out of focus. “You ok?” she asked him.
Billy looked at her from under his lashes. “Just got a bollocking from Faisal.”
“Oh right?”
“About the fact I didn’t tell you Becky was gonna be here.”
“S’ok,” Ida said. It very much wasn’t. The barman passed them the pints, which they cheersed and sipped before Ida spoke again. “Billy. Don’t be angry, but I don’t know what you see in her.”
“She’s fit.”
“She treats you like shit on her shoe,”
“Ida-“
“And she hates me as well.”
“No she doesn’t.”
Ida put her pint down and looked at him. “Don’t be naive. The only reason she came is because she heard you were meeting up with me. She’s always been weird around me, like she thinks I’m going to steal you from her or something.”
Billy laughed awkwardly, and Ida broke a little at the sound. Did he really find the possibility so ridiculous? She took another sip before continuing.
“Yesterday you were whinging about how they treat you, today she’s got you back on the leash.”
“Ida.” That was a warning. Occasionally, Ida was reminded that Billy could get angry too. She wasn’t the only one with a temper and quietly simmering rage. He was human, after all. Billy’s eyes flashed angrily, but that was a red rag to a bull. Ida wanted him to open his eyes.
“And why is she with you?” She regretted it immediately. The heat held in Billy’s eyes vanished, replaced with obvious hurt. She huffed at herself. “I just mean, she’s always annoyed at you. Telling you off, treating you like a child-”
“Stop.” Billy cut her off this time. He sounded weary. “Please. First Becky and Faisal, now you. Can’t you all just leave me be?” Billy picked up his pint and went back to the garden. Sensing it was time to drop the subject, Ida followed.
*
Ida sat next to Billy when they returned to the table. Partly as a way to apologise and be close to him, mainly as a way to avoid looking at Becky. The next hour passed in relative peace. The five of them weaving in and out of conversation, chatting to their table mates or enjoying amicable, if slightly awkward, bouts of silence. Faisal and Billy were chatting, their heated exchange forgotten, and Sofia was looking lovingly at her friends. Ida was tempted to take a picture of them, and a few moments later, she wished she had.
A news alert sounded on Faisal’s phone. As he got it out to read, the atmosphere in the beer garden noticeably shifted. Within the pub, Ida could see silent faces turned to the telly above the bar.
“What’s happened?”
“Bomb Attack on London Estate.” Faisal read the headline. “Multiple people injured and many feared dead after van explodes at a London estate. Police were called to investigate a potential bomb factory on the premises. Explosives Officers from London Metropolitan Police-“
“Fuck,” Billy whispered, running his hands through his hair. “Oh my God. Lana!” He stood up and began to pace. People watched him with maudlin curiosity, and one woman even reached out a hand to rub his back. He pushed her away. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,”
“Faisal,” Ida whispered. “Does it give any more detail?”
He scrolled down the article. “Only that two bombs were diffused before a third was detonated."
Billy was shaking now, stood frozen to the spot. What if Lana had been caught in the blast? Didn’t Faisal say that Explosives Officers were on the scene? Surely, she would have been right by the bomb when it detonated. That was her job, after all. Grisly images of his sister flashed in his mind. He looked to Becky, but she was staring at him like he was a wild animal, too scared to touch him. Sofia appeared next to him with a glass of water, Faisal at her side.
“Ida,” he said weakly. “Ida!” Becky snapped back to reality as Billy called for his friend. She spun around to glare at her, but Ida saw nothing. Her phone was already raised to her ear, one hand held on Billy’s chest.
“Val? It’s Ida. Hi, yeah, we’ve heard the news. I’m with Billy-“ She smiled softly at Billy and took his hand in hers, listening to the woman on the other end of the line. “Oh, thank Christ.” Billy collapsed onto the ground. Ida lowered herself to sit with him, tenderly kissing his knuckles. She looked at him. “Lana’s fine, Billy. She’s fine. Here.” She handed her phone over to Billy.
“Mum?” He sounded like a child. Faisal pulled Ida off the ground, and she went to sit with Sofia and Becky, still frozen in her seat. Ida rested a hand on Becky’s shoulder, and all three of the women watched Billy on the phone. He hung up a moment later and rejoined them. Slumping into the seat, he ruffled his hair before looking directly at Ida with teary eyes. His lower lip trembled.
“Nut’s dead.”  
Notes: Wrote this while ill so forgive any mistakes. Next chapter we’ll be spending most of our time with Billy!
Tags: @anditsmywholeheart @jessssica1234
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quotergirl19 · 1 year
Text
Polin’s First Mirror Moment:
A Bridgerton Daydream 🐝💕💭
Colin stands behind Penelope in front of a full length mirror inside Madame Delacroix’s private dressing room. He’s been trying to boost her confidence by pointing out all her best attributes and finally decides to make her look at herself. Colin’s words and the tone of his voice in Penelope’s ear grows unintentionally hot and increasingly seductive… he’s a Bridgerton brother after all… they have a way with the ladies and he is no exception. Much like Kate was when Anthony spoke to her about showing her all the ways a lady could be seduced, Pen is practically hypnotized by their closeness and the feel of Colin’s breath on her neck. The way his touch is feather light as he grazes her arms and sent chills through every part of her.
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Look at yourself Penelope. You need to see yourself as you truly are. You’re not an undesirable wallflower, you are delicate and lovely. Your skin is soft and warm, your hair is like fire cascading down your back and your scent is an intoxicating mix of lavender with lemon and honey as sweet as your smile. But when you whisper your clever little barbs there’s a devilish curve to your lips that men will beg to taste. And your eyes… god help the poor bastard who gazes into them. A man could drown in those blue depths. You hold a power all your own Penelope. You are a siren and if you truly wished to, you could have your pick of suitors.
You are the most dangerous sort of woman. A man might not realize he’s been snared in your trap until it was too late. You merely need to choose who you reveal your true self to Penelope, because you cannot fail. The young ladies of the ton should all beware when you enter the room. Let the Queen have her diamond, you are a more rare gem of a woman than most realize at first. My yellow diamond. Lovely, Penelope any gentleman placing his hand in yours, is placing his heart at your feet like an offering to Aphrodite herself and if he’s lucky enough to earn your affection, he would be a fool to ever let you go.
At some point during this interlude, Colin had placed his hands on Penelope’s waist, holding her hips right where they began to curve into the swell of her perfect bottom and he instinctively pressed himself against her. Penelope said nothing. She should have stepped out of reach but she craved this man. She’d let him touch her anywhere he liked. Their eyes locked and the air grew thicker and they were both breathing a bit heavier, which was evident from the heaving of her glorious bosom in the new lower cut bodice she’d requested. The heady feeling that overcame Colin in that moment might have resulted in him claiming her for himself right there on Genevieve’s chaise if it weren’t for the delivery boy who arrived and called out for the modiste, breaking the spell of the moment.
Penelope stepped out of Colin’s grasp to thank him for his help and excused herself to change into a different gown. That was the moment Colin Bridgerton realized that everything he’d just said to her was absolutely true and he was the fool who didn’t realize it soon enough. He was never going to meet another woman as right for him as Penelope Featherington was. Now he just had to find a way to win her heart because he had been so blinded by his infatuation with Marina, he didn’t see what was so clear now. His heart belonged to Penelope. Somewhere along the way she had planted herself within his every dream and if he was ever going to have a chance at a happy future, he needed to make her his. Forever.
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bebemoon · 1 year
Note
I’d love to see what you come up with for Priestesses of Delight!
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(top images) cult gaia "iza" pleated satin skirt & "juniper" pleated satin top in color "pine"
kindred black "dangerous pleasures" perfume oil {"known as 'the carnal flower', the scent of tuberose has been said to be so intoxicating that the victorians believed it could induce spontaneous orgasms in young, impressionable women. other cultures advised that young women should not be permitted to inhale the heady fragrance after dark."}
unearthen turquoise and brass ring
aeyde "natania" laminated golden leather sandals
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hi ! if you’re looking for young (pre-canon, freshman steve/sophomore eddie) slow burn steddie with lots of yearning & sexuality crisis—then i would love it if you’d read the excerpt down below :)
it’s one of my favorite things i’ve ever written (& happens to be ch. 1 of my ongoing ao3 fic that is currently sitting at 10 chapters)
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fic title: i wore his jacket for the longest time (link to the full fic down below)
pairing: steve harrington x eddie munson (steddie)
ch. summary: steve harrington’s 15th birthday bash is the greatest night of everyone’s lives, except for the guest of honor himself (who is in the middle of a panic attack) & hawkins very own freak (who really wishes he didn’t need the extra money). as fate would have it, the two end up finding comfort in the most unexpected of places (each other) and spend the night hiding away from the rest of the world on steve’s rooftop. nothing is ever the same.
TW: panic attack, use of homophobic slurs to insult a character (brief), themes surrounding sexuality crisis
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Part 1, Chapter 1: the great abyss
July 28, 1982
Eddie Munson is playing God or The Devil. He can never be quite sure on nights like this. The longer he’s kept up the gig, the more the lines seem to blur. It’s an odd job, but one he takes a sweet, sadistic pleasure in. Okay, so maybe that does make him Satan’s understudy more than a devotee of the “big guy in the sky.” But, who can blame him for seizing the opportunity to supply forbidden fruit to the poor sinners down below? There is nothing more gratifying than watching his heartless classmates tear each other apart from the gorgeous view of his twisted throne. All the while, knowing that the ensuing madness is a direct result of the vice-inducing treasures he stashes away in his aluminum lunchbox. And, to think he gets paid for it? He’d be a fool to let his already gray tinged morals prevent his sole form of employment. Especially, when said employment puts food on the table and delays his uncle’s need to apply for food stamps.
Usually when he “caters” events like this, the time passes quickly. It passes really quickly if those he’s dealing to aren’t complete assholes and let him partake in the festivities. That being said, after two years of high school, it’s become increasingly rare that he interacts with anyone that doesn’t respond to his presence like he’s a gory creature that just slithered out of the sewer.
It’s nearly comical. The ones that torture him the most in the halls of Hawkins High are also the ones that plead to him late at night like he’s the Fairy Godfather of Teenage Substance Abuse. He didn’t sign up for it, but more often than not, one jock or another is on his knees begging Eddie for a better price and just a couple more ounces of his drug of choice.
Eddie would be lying if he claimed the switched power dynamic of those moments didn’t give him a head rush and a mouthful of sick satisfaction.
He discovered he could name pretty much any price. Hawkins had a limited number of dealers and even fewer that would risk dipping their toes into the murky waters of selling to such a young clientele.
In true Pavlovian manner, all it took was Eddie undoing the clasps on his lunchbox to lure his prey into the trap. Suddenly, they would be thrusting their hands desperately into the deep pockets of their letterman jackets, in search of Daddy’s money to offer up for the exchange. The high he got from it was better than any strain his pale fingers might have rolled into a sharp tipped joint. Pure heady intoxication.
He rides that feeling until he’s wrung it dry in a perfunctory attempt to make tonight bearable.
It might have even been an effective tactic if he hadn’t been knocked off his high horse by Tommy Hagan and his squad of goons.
Eddie had hardly stepped through the massive double doors of Steve Harrington’s Loch Nora manner before he found himself pinned to the wall of the entryway. Hagan primally leered over him like he was tomorrow’s mystery meat and spit directly into his left eye. Gross.
“We’ll take it from here, don’t want guests scared off by the town freak,” Hagan wrestled Eddie’s lunchbox free from his white knuckled grip and made a show of emptying out its plentiful contents onto the pristine floor.
Eddie should have been enraged, should have lunged forward and put up a fight. But, as Hagan sauntered off with the stolen loot in hand, he couldn’t lift his gaze from the dark wooden boards beneath his scuffed Reeboks. He had the half-complete thought of what it might be like to slip and slide across such floors in those fancy wool socks he was certain Harrington had drawers full of upstairs. Wondered further if Harrington had ever known the struggles of a shotty heater and the lack of circulation one got from wearing four pairs of cotton socks to cope. Doubtful, he had decided.
Hagan hadn’t actually paid Eddie yet. Based on his reaction to Eddie’s arrival, it was vastly unlikely that he would be doling out the cash any time soon, if at all .
In theory, Eddie could have strode right back out the doors from whence he came and retreated to his side of the tracks, but he was viciously stubborn and had a bad habit of letting it rule him. Plus, Hagan had stripped him of his entire stash, which was not going to bode well for Eddie when Rick eventually sought him out to reap his portion of the earnings.
So, Eddie stuck around in hopes that Hagan would draw upon the miniscule shred of goodness left gnarled within his frozen heart and listen to the little angel poised upon his freckled shoulder. Again, unlikely, but if DnD had taught him anything, it was that anyone’s luck was subject to change even in the eleventh hour.
As it turns out, Harrington’s party looks just as repulsive from a bird’s eye view as it did on the ground. Eddie’s rooftop throne is admittedly a bit uncomfortable, but it’ll have to suffice for the time being. He’s not going to wait for Hagan’s change of heart out in the open. Lurking down below would only heighten Eddie’s chances of a broken nose and empty pockets. Eddie may be hard headed at times, but he’s not an idiot. He’s smart enough to know the deck will only be stacked higher against him if he accidentally pokes one of Hagan’s overly sensitive buttons. It’s a tripwire he’s not willing to trifle with.
Guests are packed like sardines into every breathable corner of the house and somehow, a line is still queuing up near the entrance. Girls in neon mini-skirts and guys drenched in cologne elbow past each other, willing to do whatever it takes to solidify themselves as permanent members of King Steve’s guest list.
Ah, King Steve.
How a rising sophomore that looked like something straight out of a Gap catalog had become a local legend was still unclear to Eddie. Not only was the guy popular, he had earned himself a royal moniker that somehow wasn’t used to mock, ridicule, or disparage him. Rather, King Steve was widely respected, admired, and adored by his loyal subjects. People worshiped the squeaky clean ground he walked on. His peers would practically throw themselves at his feet just to get a closer glance at his golden-boy smile and a whiff of his signature hairspray. Eddie really didn’t see the appeal, but maybe that was because people like Steve Harrington weren’t trying to make people like Eddie Munson part of their target demographic.
Eddie’s trying not to burn his fingertips on his silver lighter, a birthday gift from Uncle Wayne that he has yet to master. He can roll identical sets of perfect joints that rival the uniform efficiency of factory machines, but struggles to not flinch at the sight of a blue lipped flame. The potential to burn makes his hands shake and forces his tongue to stick out between his front teeth in itchy concentration. He’d never have a great career as a surgeon, but that was obvious long before he started smoking a few years ago.
Head tipped skyward, Eddie exhales the remains of the first hit and his lungs warm with an earthy heat. The touch of mother nature is soothing and brings him out of the present moment enough that he can focus on internally whispering the names of the few constellations he can remember.
Orion, Cassiopeia, The Big Dipper, and its’ little counterpart.
The trash pop music dulls to a mindless artificial hum of drums and synth with each consecutive hit he takes. He slips off the protective armor of his leather jacket, feeling safe and hidden enough to reveal the bare expanse of his forearms. Goosebumps prickle to the surface of his skin in immediate response to the summer breeze, but Eddie finds it grounding and doesn’t jump to reverse the decision. It serves as a fresh reminder that he’s a real person and not an inanimate object that Hagan and his lackeys get to smack around like a punching bag.
The joint softens him around the edges, encourages him to lean back on his elbows, belly-up and unafraid of what exists out past the infinite blackness of the night sky.
He’s lost in thought. The voices in his head curving in snake-like switchbacks this way and that, so at first he thinks the quiet grumble of someone clearing their throat might be coming from him.
Then, it happens again. This time, it’s followed by unassuming footsteps that clamber down the slope of the roof until they pause somewhere over Eddie’s left shoulder. Like the person is desperate to fill in as Eddie’s shadow now that his actual one has disappeared with the fully set sun.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, man. Didn’t realize anyone else was out here,” his shadow says apologetically.
Eddie’s confused. He makes a mental note to ask Rick if this strain is laced with something else. He eyes the dying joint suspiciously from where it is pinched between his thumb and index fingers.
He must have accidentally taken a hallucinogen, because there’s no other explanation for the timid, anxious tone coming from Steve Harrington’s mouth. There’s no other explanation for the way Harrington cautiously lowers himself to a hunched seat. The way he chooses to sit beside Eddie, like they aren’t part of two entirely separate spheres of existence.
It feels forbidden, Eddie thinks, like wearing the patches of bands you don’t actually listen to.
“Unless I’m mistaken or this joint has me really fucked up, I’m pretty sure this is your house, Harrington,” Eddie remarks, keeping his gaze trained on an imaginary point beyond the treeline that surrounds the wealthy neighborhood.
They’ve never had any sort of verbal exchange, but Steve’s last name snaps from Eddie’s mouth like a biting insult. He won’t do him the favor of using his first name. Not when his henchmen were so eager to sharpen the blade of the guillotine for Eddie’s neck only a couple hours earlier. It’s too personal, reserved for those that get to bask in the King’s good graces. Eddie isn’t under the delusion that he could ever soak up such glory by association with the boy sitting beside him.
However, he’s only human, which means that he’s not immune to the magnetic pull of curiosity. It goes against every fiber of his carefully curated public persona to take any interest in what King Steve looks like up close, but he can’t stop his eyes from wandering. His peripheral vision working overtime to track Steve’s uncertain movements, to follow the shaking line of his body as he sinks further into himself. Seemingly weighed down by a crown that has become too heavy.
“Dude, I was trying to be polite. It looks like you’re having a private moment out here and I didn’t want to intrude on anything,” Steve’s sitting close enough that Eddie can smell the faint sour hint of alcohol lingering on his breath.
It’s no shocker that he’s had a few drinks. Eddie wasn’t exactly hired to supply gumdrops and candy hearts at this party. The buzz of alcohol must be clouding Steve’s mind enough that he doesn’t realize the implications of being seen in casual conversation with Eddie. Not that anyone else has thought to join them on the roof, but it would only take one or two guests looking upwards from the crowded backyard to see the odd pairing hiding in plain sight. How would Steve explain this away?
“Well, dude,” Eddie mimics Steve’s locker room-esque fraternal lingo, “Forgive me for being caught off guard, but you’ll have to fill in the blanks as to why the belle of the ball has chosen to grace me with his presence instead of holding court down below? No offense, Harrington, but you don’t seem like the type of guy to give his company to a lonely stoner like myself just because it’s the charitable thing to do.”
Eddie still hasn’t allowed himself to fully take in Steve’s image. The corner of his eye has provided a jumbled puzzle of how all the pieces fit together. Eddie can see that a picture will form there, but can’t yet imagine the final result, so he has to go off of the limited information he has gathered.
For now, that’s a dorky striped polo that calls to mind what a cartoon captain might wear aboard his ship. The nautical navy hues make Eddie feel a little nauseous as if he’s the one out at sea. The buttons are undone half-way, which makes it appear that Steve is trying to achieve some sort of Peter Parker effect. Like, revealing an inch or two more of his chest automatically transforms him into the version of himself that’s a known party animal. The guy that girls swoon over even though he offers no promise of calling them up in the morning.
Other than that, Eddie’s thrown off by the quivering lip and uneven breaths that are making Steve’s polo-clad chest rise and fall in an off-kilter pattern. He thinks he’s imagining it or projecting his own anxiety onto the boy, but Steve’s breaths get louder and less easy to ignore. It sounds like he’s choking on the warm July breeze, itself. The exact one that had made Eddie feel so at peace before Steve had interrupted his sanctitude.
He bites his tongue hard before he says it, but the words tumble out despite his efforts to threaten them with the stinging consequence of physical pain.
“Hey, I’m sorry if that came off harsher than it should have, I didn’t mean to make you all emotional,” Eddie awkwardly spews and hurriedly brings the joint back to his lips.
Mostly, so he can have something to do with his hands to distract from the growing tension between him and Steve. He’s never known what to do with them in instances like this. If he should keep them to himself or offer them up as comfort to the other person. Harrington would more than likely knock him off the roof if he tried to do something stupid like pat him on the back.
A few beats pass before Steve explains the catalyst behind the increasing volume of his strangled sounds. It’s what one might think would come out of a wounded woodland creature, not the guy who’s destined to win nine out of ten superlatives by the end of his senior year.
Luckily, someone has decided the already blaring music isn’t loud enough. The recent increase further lessening the chance that anyone else would hear Steve’s small cries.
“It’s not you, Munson,” Eddie jolts at the idea that Steve not only knows him by name, but has elected to use it instead of one of the jabbing insults the rest of his group has assigned.
“I’m being a little bitch because of this stupid party. I never wanted it in the first place. Would’ve much rather gone to dinner with my parents or something,” he finishes and Eddie hears a mumbling thought exit his lips, but can’t quite make out the sentiment.
The mention of wanting after his parents strikes a chord in Eddie. It rings out clearly in the space between his ribs, akin to the clarity that washes over him in the aftermath of nailing down a particularly tricky riff on his guitar.
“Hm, what do you mean? Thought parties were kind of your thing, certainly hear about them enough around school,” Eddie says, finding that he wants Steve to elaborate and open the door to his private trembling thoughts just a little more. Just so Eddie can get a glimpse inside and maybe locate the thing that’s unexpectedly drawing him into the conversation with sparking interest.
Steve wavers again before answering, like he has to sort through an unforeseen dilemma. Like he’s at war with himself over needing a shoulder to cry on and wanting to swallow it all down and run in the opposite direction.
“I’m, um, kind of panicking? I don’t know what to call it, man. It happens to me sometimes, like I just freak out and start breathing all weird. Uh, today’s actually my birthday and Tommy H. made me let him invite everyone over to my house, like we were all going to celebrate or whatever, but I don’t think a single person has even wished me a ‘Happy Birthday.’ My Mom and Dad are on one of his lame work trips, so she can make sure he doesn’t cheat on her like last time. They haven’t even called and it’s almost midnight, so it’s destined to be another year of late apology money stuffed in a card signed ‘from, Mom and Dad,’ not even ‘love, Mom and Dad.’”
Eddie pushes himself up from his reclined position and finally turns his head towards Steve. He looks at him, really looks at him for the first time.
Of course, he’s crossed paths with Steve many times before tonight. In the halls of Hawkins High and around town running errands. The closest look he’s gotten has been when he’s done a deal with Tommy H. and any combination of the nameless kingsmen that all blur together and flock to Steve like he’s their shepherd. Eddie doesn't try or care to tell them apart, has no reason to memorize the repetitive nature of their names when they’ll shuck out the cash regardless. All identified by a last initial or physical trait that sticks out to him.
Steve’s been in the background in some of those instances. Eddie’s watched him from afar as Steve has waited for his skeevy sidekick to finish up. He appears untouchable behind the manufactured cool of his Ray Bans. Even when the clouds wake from their months-long hibernation, it’s impossible to ever tell where Steve is looking or who he is looking at, because his overpriced shades never get a day off.
So, this is markedly the first time Eddie has ever made eye contact with Steve Harrington. He lets out a small gasp when they latch onto each other’s gaze. Hopes that Steve will assume he’s only exhaling another hit, regardless of the fact that there’s no telltale trail of smoke to elicit such a conclusion.
Steve’s eyes are honeyed. That’s the only way Eddie can think to describe them. They’re a warm amber color that pulls him in with a hypnotic sheen that may or may not be the result of leftover tears. Though, Eddie’s pretty sure, Steve would never claim them if they were.
The shape of Steve’s eyes is another thing entirely. They’re downturned just slightly and Eddie’s never come across someone that takes up so much space and also happens to be so soft beneath the mask of his commanding exterior. Without the shield of sunglasses and with his attention fully directed towards Eddie, Steve arrives at the destination of his own youth. He’s much younger than he often portrays himself as being. He’s not some larger than life thing of myths and fantasies. He’s just a freshly fifteen year-old boy who hasn’t yet learned to deny himself the dream of gaining his parents’ love and approval.
And, Eddie? He knows something about that. Much more than he’d like to share, but Steve has just put into words the feeling Eddie’s been trying and failing to kill off for quite some time.
“That’s super fucked up,” it’s all Eddie can say without dropping his hand of cards and revealing what he’s been keeping pressed hard against his chest.
A memory strikes him and he’s reminded of the few times in his life that he’s felt really taken care of. For some reason, he won’t allow himself to begin to investigate; he has the odd desire to make Steve feel that way.
“This might sound weird and if it does, just tell me. No need to punch me in the face or anything,” Eddie is well aware that it is going to sound weird and probably, come off as way too intimate of a proposition.
“Why would I punch you in the face? I’m not a total asshole, y’know,” Steve counters defensively, still gasping for air like a fish out of water.
“Because of them,” Eddie gestures generally in the direction of the ongoing festivities beneath the roof, “Because Tommy H. fucking hates me and he made that very clear when he stole all of my shit earlier without paying a dime for any of it.”
“He did what? Wait, did he do that here, like at my place?” Steve furrows his brow like the little people’s complaints could possibly matter to someone in his position.
He’s being political, Eddie thinks, he wants me to be fooled into thinking he’s so “different” than them, so I’ll stay on his side.
“Harrington, let’s not play games. It’s sweet of you, really, to put on a face like my problems mean something to you, but we both know they don’t. It’s not like I haven’t seen you laugh along with the rest at my misery,” Eddie points out bitterly.
Steve startles, but doesn’t break eye contact. He seems offended by Eddie’s suggestion that he could be so callous, when it’s clearly an undeniable fact. Some are predators, some are prey. Eddie has unfortunately fallen into the latter category for most of his young life. It’s just the way things are. He doesn’t see a reason to dance around and sing songs of unity like Steve’s never stomped on his toes. Maybe not deliberately, maybe not on his own accord, but Steve’s definitely never been one to stand up and stop it from happening.
Before Steve can jump to defend himself again and swear up and down that he’s “not like that,” Eddie backpedals to his initial goal, which was to play the hero to Steve’s damsel in distress.
“It doesn’t matter, dude. Shit like that happens all the time when you’re someone like me. I wouldn’t expect you to know much about it.”
Steve nods slowly like he’s accepting the fact that Eddie has caught him in the act of deceit.
“But, let bygones be bygones or whatever. I, um, I’ve had panic attacks, too. That’s what they’re called, by the way. Panic attacks,” he says it a second time, so it can sink into Steve’s brain for the inevitable next moment that he will have to face one.
Sometimes, Eddie has learned, labeling a scary thing with a name gives it less power over you. If you bring the thing into the light of day, it loses the cloak of mystery and obscurity. That’s why it hurts him so much that no one, except his uncle, calls him by his first name; as if it's more fun to keep him in the role of the unknowable monster.
“Panic attack. Okay, so this is a panic attack?” Steve tests out the term in his mouth like it’s a foreign dish from some place half-way across the globe. Like he’s trying to get his palate to adjust to the exotic flavor.
“As far as I can tell, that’s what you’re experiencing. The heavy breathing, the gasping for air, the racing thoughts, the shaky hands; all pretty common panic attack symptoms,” Eddie explains, reflecting upon the first time his mom had taught him about the psychology behind the inescapable anxiety he felt whenever his dad entered a room.
“It kind of feels like I’m dying. Is it-is it supposed to feel that way? Do you feel that way when you have them?” Steve’s eyes are blown wide and Eddie is suddenly convinced that none of the fear is fabricated.
This isn’t some elaborate prank or ruse to mess with the school freak and embarrass him in front of the entire student body. Or at least, the portion of it that has achieved a social status high enough to be here.
“Yeah, it sucks. It literally feels like I’m going to have a heart attack when it happens to me. Sometimes, I kind of wish I would have one, so I wouldn’t have to deal with them all the time,” Eddie admits and immediately pinches the inside of his elbow, because he knows he’s said too much about who he really is.
It’s more ammo than Steve should be allowed to have, but here Eddie is, willingly giving it up to the guy and practically begging him to utilize the information in future torture campaigns.
Then again, Steve has provided Eddie with an equal amount of weaponizable information. The only difference is that everyone takes Steve’s word as truth from a higher power. By comparison, Eddie’s word falls flat as mere sticks and stones that would only ricochet off Steve’s impalpable form and backfire against him.
“There’s this thing though that my mom taught me,” Eddie finds it unnecessary to add that the woman is no longer in the picture, would rather let Steve wonder.
“It’s called ‘The Great Abyss,’ which is a badass name considering what it actually is. It’s a pressure point,” Eddie explains and Steve cocks his head in a way that conveys he doesn’t quite understand yet.
“Pressure points. They’re these little places on your body that can be used to heal all sorts of things. The whole idea of it came from ancient China, I think. They discovered that certain points were associated with all this internal stuff. Like there’s ones for getting rid of headaches and sore throats and even hangovers.”
Steve laughs at the mention of a hangover cure and the lightness it carries encourages Eddie to keep talking. Makes him believe for a second that Steve Harrington isn’t as closed minded as he originally seemed.
“Anyways, ‘The Great Abyss’ is on the inside of your left wrist,” Eddie grinds the butt of the joint into the roof’s shingles and tosses it aside so he can properly demonstrate,“There’s this hollow part, right here,” he leans closer to Steve to show him the spot beneath his thumb, where his palm and bony wrist meet.
Steve’s listening intently, like Eddie’s teaching a seminar on all of his greatest interests. If he had a notepad and pen to spare, he’d hand them to Steve just so he could relieve the intense pursed focus that has taken over his face.
“It feels weird, at first, because you have to get the hang of pressing down hard enough that it works. It took me a while to figure it out, so don’t worry if it seems like it’s not working when you try it. You hold down for a few minutes, no longer than five or you might pass out and let’s be clear, I don’t have the money to pay for any medical damages you may inflict on yourself,” Eddie smirks, but simultaneously, presses down with a moderate amount of force on his own wrist.
“And, if I was having a panic attack, the healing magic of ‘The Great Abyss’ should kick in right about now. You’ll feel your breath slow down and go back to normal. Then, with it, your heart rate will chill out and your thoughts should get noticeably less catastrophic,” Eddie concludes and releases the hold, throwing his hands up in a “ta-da” motion like he’s a magician who just pulled off an awe-inspiring trick.
Steve doesn’t say anything, just sits there frozen, so Eddie takes this as his cue to leave. Figures Steve probably won’t want Eddie staring him down if he decides to give the ol’ Great Abyss a try. He knows he doesn’t have the world’s most calming effect on people, so he hops to his feet and faces the window that he had initially crawled out of.
But, as he begins to scale the sloped roof, Steve’s voice yanks him out of the thick concentration he’s in the middle of, not wanting to fall to his death in front of a crowd that would applaud such an occurrence.
“Where are you going? I can’t do this by myself. Can’t you show me?” Steve says in a frantic tone, shaking more than he had been when Eddie was beside him.
“You want me to do the pressure point on you ?” Eddie clarifies, shocked that Steve would suggest they touch in any capacity, when the rest of his peers avoid even brushing shoulders with him or passing him a pencil in the back of a classroom. Like they’ll catch a disease from simply breathing the same slice of air.
“That’s what I was getting at, yeah,” Steve confirms and is quick to amend his statement with, “Unless that makes you uncomfortable or you have somewhere else to be. I’ll be fine, really.”
The conundrum lies in that Steve doesn’t look fine, at all. He looks miles from it. Stuck out in the barren wasteland of conflated fear and self-loathing. Eddie hates that Steve’s looking at him like he’s an oasis in the desert, like he can wave a magic wand and cure him instantly.
He hates it even more that he finds himself under Steve’s own spell. The same one he seems to employ on a daily basis to woo the likes of peers, parents, and teachers. Eddie’s transfixed by his boy next door charm, struggles not to find his suburban helplessness endearing. Like this is the first real problem he’s ever faced.
“Okay, sure, I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal,” Eddie lies through his teeth. He knows before he’s even sat back down next to Steve that this moment will very much so be a big deal in the trajectory of his life. It carries an undeniable weight.
With feigned nonchalance and a grimace to hide his racing heart, Eddie settles back into the world he and Steve have created for the time being. Population of two, location unreachable by anyone not in their strange anxious little club.
“When do your parents get back?” Eddie asks, hoping small talk will prevent Steve from noticing the emotions that have to be incredibly obvious on his face. The heat rising up the line of his cheekbones tells him so and he can’t exactly blame it on the alcohol he hasn’t consumed a drop of.
“Don’t know,” Steve shrugs and his tense shoulders almost hit his ears, “They never really tell me. I just see the packed suitcases by the door and know that means I’ll have the house to myself for the next few days, sometimes a week or two.”
Eddie nods, imagines how empty the trailer would feel if Uncle Wayne left for more than a night or two at a time. How empty it would feel if it happened more than once or twice a year. Even more so, if he lived in a house with so many vacant rooms and no one to fill them but his selfish peers.
Eddie was starting to see why Steve was able to get away with having so many parties and more importantly, why Steve would want people over all the time in the first place.
“Can I see your left wrist?” Eddie implores, breaking away from his own thoughts and half- expecting Steve to laugh in his face, like the suggestion that they touch wasn’t his idea.
Steve obediently pushes up the sleeves of his heinous polo and presents Eddie with his right wrist.
“Your left one, dipshit,” Eddie laughs good-humoredly. It’s hearty and he finishes off with a goofy snort, but then, Steve’s cracking up alongside him, so he figures it’s okay.
“Wow, it’s my birthday and I’m in the middle of a panic attack,” Eddie takes pride in the fact that he taught Steve something new when he hears him use the term again, “And you’re making fun of me for not being able to tell my left from my right. Pretty dick move of you, Munson.”
He’s still laughing and clutching at his abdomen. When he leans back, an inch of his tan, well- defined stomach is revealed and Eddie tears his eyes away before he can begin to consider why he wants to touch the line of skin that sits below Steve’s navel. He shakes his head back and forth in hopes that the thought will fall right out of his ear and become a corpse beside him.
“Okay, sorry, sorry. I promise not to insult your less than optimal ability to follow directions. You have my word,” Eddie swears, theatrically waving an imaginary white flag in one hand, “Now, your left wrist, please.”
Steve calms his laughter and glows from the aftermath of their banter. His cheeks are flushed and pink near the apples, but Eddie knows the ruddy hue must have more to do with the beers he no doubt chugged earlier in the evening than it does with Eddie sitting so close to him.
The correct wrist is now within Eddie’s line of vision. He reaches down towards the place where Steve has it hovering over his criss-crossed lap. He tries to pay no attention to the smattering of moles and freckles that dot the inside of his arm like they belong somewhere up above next to Orion and Casseopia.
They’re not holding hands, but they might as well be as Eddie circles Steve’s wrist and begins to apply mild pressure to the hollow dent he had described before.
Steve lurches a little from the initial contact, but quickly self-corrects and lets his lids flutter closed after a second or two, providing Eddie with his trust. An innocence paints its way from his chin to his hairline, as if he’s never participated in even the slightest of sinful acts. As if the minute touch holding them together isn’t the very definition of sin, itself.
“Just keep breathing, slow and steady. Try not to think too much and just focus on the feeling of my hand on your wrist. I’m going to hold on for the next few minutes, but if it hurts or you want me to stop, just say so,” Eddie instructs, trying not to feel too foolish about the hippie dippy words coming out of his mouth.
Steve’s eyes remain shut, so Eddie helps himself to another lingering study at the enigma of the boy sitting only inches away from him. This time, he compares the open palm of Steve’s hand to his own.
Eddie’s fingers are longer and bonier, knuckles jutting up through the pale overlay of his skin. Yet, he still has trouble fully encircling Steve’s wrist in his hand despite the falsely perceived advantage of his lankiness.
Steve’s palms are wider. Flat, firm expanses covered with the rough spotty texture of calluses formed from years of playing a laundry list of sports. None of which Eddie knows or cares to know the rules of.
Eddie’s hands are made for stretching across the keys of a piano and skillfully painting the smallest details of the figurines that adorn his desk. Steve’s hands are made for exerting force on a grassy field and shoving his devoted followers into their assigned places in the pecking order.
“Okay, you can let go,” Steve says suddenly.
Eddie rips his hand away, worried that he had gotten too sidetracked by his analysis and hurt Steve in the process.
“Woah, man, it’s cool. You didn’t do anything wrong. Honestly, that really helped. I just told you to stop, because I feel much better now,” Steve explains kindly, but Eddie’s tuned him out, because now, Steve has his hand resting on the inside of Eddie’s nearest bicep.
He’s rubbing his palm back and forth like Eddie’s a spooked horse. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t rush out now that he’s gotten what he wanted out of their interaction. Not like Eddie’s used to people doing. No one ever sticks around on his account, certainly not to make sure he’s okay.
And,no one has touched him so gently since his mom died. He wants to cry, can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, but can’t find the courage to let them out. Not here. Not when Steve’s just made the incomprehensible decision to give him the rare gifts of kindness and comfort. Not when he knows that this means much less to Steve than it does to him.
Eddie indulges in the feeling for a minute more and the two sit in a mutually agreed upon silence, like they’re old friends and don’t need to fill in the gaps all the time. Like they aren’t afraid of scaring the other off by not knowing how to put their thoughts into words.
He looks down at Steve’s hand on his arm one more time and commits it to memory. For what usage? He’s not sure, but it feels important.
Once it’s safely tucked away, Eddie shrugs out from under Steve’s hand and says, “If I had known this was technically your birthday party, I wouldn’t have shown up without a proper gift, but,” he digs around in the pocket of his discarded leather jacket, “I do have a few joints, rolled by yours truly, that I’d like to give you for keeping me company up here and not being a total dickhead to me.”
Steve breaks out into a huge lottery-winner’s grin and accepts the joints from Eddie’s hands, tucking them into the front of his light-washed Levi’s, “Thanks, dude. That, um, that’s really cool of you and probably the only birthday gift I’ll get until my parents get home with the apology money.”
“My pleasure. Happy Birthday, Harrington,” Eddie smiles genuinely at him and wants to say more, but can’t quite figure out how to escape the confines of needing to appear socially normal and at ease in front of Steve. He’s never been one to speak his mind without coming off as offensive or dramatic, so he keeps it simple.
Steve reaches across himself and looks like he’s considering drawing Eddie into a hug, but he lets his arm fall into his lap instead, having thought better of the idea. Halting himself from crossing into a territory that he can’t come back from.
“I don’t really know how to say this and I don’t want to make anything weird, but-” Steve hesitantly starts and Eddie feels his pulse lurch into the back of his throat. He thinks he might die from the way he’s hanging on Steve’s every word which is slowly knotting a noose around his neck.
What did Mrs. Douglas call it his freshman year when they were studying ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’? A dark comedy? Plays and stories defined by sharp ironic scenes and gutting satire.
That’s what this has to be, because the events that follow are nothing but a sick joke to Eddie and he never gets the chance to hear the end of Steve’s confession.
Because Tommy H. shows up leaning his head through Steve’s bedroom window, like he’s Rapunzel and Steve is the Prince on the verge of coming to his rescue. Eddie has to cough out a choked laugh. It’s humorless, awkward, and makes Tommy sneer in his direction, but he can’t hold himself back from the dark hilarity he finds in the unfolding scene. The tragic irony that has befallen him makes him sick and hopeless, anew and erases any progress he thought he had made in the last hour.
“Harrington, what the fuck are you doing hanging out with this fag ? I’ve been looking all over for you. Whaddya get too drunk and confused by the long hair? He’s a guy, at least I think, hard to be sure when no one would ever dare get in his pants,” Hagan spits out each word with increasing hatred, never taking his beady eyes off of Eddie. It’s vulturous, as if he might swoop down and tear into Eddie’s flesh any moment just to prove his loyalty to Steve.
For his part, Steve leans away from Eddie to scramble to his feet and it cuts him to the core.
Had he really thought their one interaction would change anything about their dynamic in the grand scheme of things? Had he really deluded himself into a hole so deep that he could imagine a world in which they waved hello to each other in the school hallways? A world in which they ate lunch together in the cafeteria and divulged petty secrets? A world in which they eventually dropped the act and attempted to master the commitment to each other’s first names?
No. Because, he wasn’t Eddie to Steve. He was never going to be Eddie to Steve. He was that other thing that lurked in the darkness, scared people’s children, and got maced in the face simply for walking down the sidewalk.
The Freak. The Fag. The Queer. The Monster.
“Let’s go, dude!” Tommy whines at Steve’s clear reluctance to return the weighty crown to his perfectly coiffed head of brown hair, “Tammy Thompson told me she’d give you a blowjob, if you came out of your hiding spot to take a shot with her. She’s waiting downstairs.”
“Gimme a second, I’ll be right there,” Steve swallows past a lump in his throat and doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the opportunity Tommy has just thrown on the table. Doesn’t lunge at it like some of the more perverted guys they go to school with would. Treats it like Tommy just told him there’s a ham sandwich on the counter for when he’s hungry.
His demeanor shifts in the direction of apathy. Maybe, even disappointment. But, that’s likely, because he has to go back to socializing with the exact people he was trying to run away from, not because he has to leave Eddie’s side and abandon his confession to hang in the air of what could have been.
Tommy H. ducks his head back in through the window, leaving the boys with a translucent brand of privacy. He’s tapping his foot on the carpet just on the other side and has his freckled arms crossed so tight he could easily break apart a watermelon if it happened to tumble between his chest and forearms.
Steve makes up his mind, eventually. He’ll give in to his subjects' wishes, grant them the company of their beloved figurehead. He’ll put aside the gnawing feeling of his remaining anxiety and drown it in as much of his parents’ liquor as it takes. He’ll let Tammy Thompson have her way with him, let himself pretend any of her touches actually make him feel held.
So it will be, so it always has been.
This is what it takes to be the King, Eddie realizes, the throne is not always a comfortable place to sit.
Eddie’s ready to go home, no longer cares if Tommy H. pays him or not. He’ll bust his ass to scrounge up the money through other odd jobs, like mowing lawns and washing windows. He just can’t be in the vicinity of this mess for a minute more, because if he stays and watches Steve get drunker and sadder, he knows he might do something he’ll really regret.
As he slips on his leather jacket, he almost misses Steve’s final words, which might have prevented him from falling prey to Steve’s charm again and again in the coming months. Unfortunately, he hears him.
Steve clears his throat, like he did when he first came out here to alert Eddie of his arrival. It’s subtle, but just as effective as it originally was at grabbing his attention.
Eddie looks over from his crouched position and finds Steve with one foot through the window and the other still firmly planted on the gray shingles of the roof; divided between the two planes of being. The person he wants to be and the person he has to be.
“I, uh, I gotta go, but I’ll see you around?” Steve says with an awkward lilt at the end, solidifying the fact that it is very much a question and not an assured statement.
“Yeah, I’ll see you when we get back to school,” Eddie replies quickly, not wanting Steve to think that he had assumed their paths could cross anywhere but the halls of Hawkins High.
“Sounds good. Bye, Eddie,” Steve salutes him with an upward nod of his strong chin and disappears back into the world in which people like them never even think about touching beneath the moonlight of a warm, July night.
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daisyannewrites · 9 months
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Starlit Meadow
*****
For only one night on Midsummer Eve, fragrant white flowers bloom in a secret woodland meadow. They are known as ‘Stars of Heaven’ for their exquisite shape and brilliant glow. It is said that Alwin Beckett gathered a posy beneath the starry sky as a gift for his beloved. He had no ring to give her, but he braided the flower stem and slipped it over her finger. She was so charmed by the little flower that she accepted his proposal despite his lack of prospects. Cynthia came from money, but she fell in love with the handsome adventurer who spoke of nightingales and sacred springs. She longed to see such a wild, magical land for herself.
Because she was leaving many comforts behind, Alwin built her a grand home near one of the brooks. It took him nearly a year to complete, and afterwards, they exchanged vows on a beautiful Midsummer’s day. On the night of their honeymoon, Alwin brought his bride to the secret meadow. They wandered for a while amongst the heavenly blooms, where Cynthia gathered enough flowers to make a heady perfume that she could wear the whole year round.
The intoxicating fragrance was so admired by her friends in the city that she started giving them out as gifts. The following year, small crystal bottles of ‘Midsummer Starlight’ began appearing on apothecary shelves. Cynthia kept her small perfumery going until it gained too much interest from abroad. Rather than harvest the entire crop to keep up with demand, she ceased production and went back to making small batches for loved ones.
The meadow can now be enjoyed by everyone in Twelve Springs. Young swains still present bouquets to their sweethearts, and everyone is free to pick a basketful of blooms for themselves. Nature’s gifts are best shared with others, after all.
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e-wills-afterhours · 2 years
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Glögg
A/N: This takes place during the winter month, the year prior to HTTYD2. Hiccup and Astrid are 19.
Rating: Between Teen and Mature. Like...we're straddling the line here.
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If you asked a young Hairy Hooligan to list the better aspects of winter, food and drink might top list. The season was frigid, near-barren in its yields, but the toil of summer made for plentiful stores; and plentiful stores made for generous holiday feasts: Haustblot, Vetrnaetr, Disablot, and Snoggletog. While the dragons did migrate to their breeding grounds during the months of little sunlight--Ýlir and Mörsugur--Berk still found cause to be in good spirits.
Tables all but groaned under the weight of roasted meats, stewed vegetables, assorted pies, and pastries. The air hung thick with the alluring smells of the season. Beer and mead flowed freely, aiding the Hooligans to forget they missed their dragons for a while. The best wine was reserved for top of Berk's social order, not that Snotlout and Hiccup were above slipping coveted drinks to their friends when the older men of Berk were too inebriated to notice.
Astrid decided the premium wine was fine enough, for all its exclusivity--but she was partial to the glögg made from the dregs and spices. For hours, it simmered in large pots and barrels, making the mead hall warm, sweet, and intoxicating with its scent. Young children tried to sneak a taste when their parents were not looking, but adolescent dragon riders imbibed without scrutiny. Mug after mug went down easy, warming the fingers and toes.
Two mugs in and they all forgot how to speak without shouting.
Three mugs in and Fishlegs nodded off against a post, the twins were fighting, and Snotlout could very well be naked.
Four mugs in and Astrid had Hiccup up against the wall. They were not in the mead hall anymore; she did not know where they were, but her head was too full of glögg and recklessness to care. She liked the taste of cloves and cheap wine in her mug, but it was far better on her boyfriend's tongue.
They kissed with abandon, hot, open-mouthed, and unhurried. His hand was up her tunic, beneath her undergarments, setting her skin ablaze with his touch. Her hand, meanwhile, was down the front of his pants, drawing noises from him that no one else was privileged to hear.
Everything swirled to the delightful melody of the glögg. Theirs was an intimate dance, choregraphed by notes of honey and cardamom. Wherever they were, it was cool and dark, particularly in contrast to the warmth and glow of the mead hall. That did not stop their clothes from hitting the floor apace, with a desperation only augmented by the drink in their blood.
At some point, Astrid ended up with her back against the wall, legs tightly around Hiccup, while he supported her weight with a vice-like grip on her bare thighs. She was pinned between him and the cold wall; and there was nowhere else she wanted to be--not with the exquisite way they moved together. Nothing was better than the sweet sensations of him against her, and inside her. She could smell the mulled wine on them both, mingling now with the heady scent of sweat and sex.
"Mmn, love you," Hiccup murmured into the crook of her neck, holding her closer, pushing impossibly deeper.
Astrid bit her lip, head falling back against the wall. "I love glögg!"
Hiccup just laughed, good humored enough not to take offense. He paused only long enough to kiss her tenderly, making sure she savored just one more taste.
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unwillingprince · 6 months
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Rabbit swallowed and tried to catch his breath. The sight beneath him was entirely unreal, his eyes wide and shiny as he took it in. Sprawled on the picnic blanket was the prettiest creature he'd ever seen in his life-- Some sort of deer. A man with ivory antlers and deep, stormy eyes, marked with strange horizontal pupils that were watching his every move. The two of them had spent an hour hiking through the brush and playing the way most young men did; shoving at each other like a pair of young bucks, as affectionate as it was violent. Rabbit had found a fast friend in this impossible boy and was happy to appease every one of his strange suggestions, whether it was a rough, warm shove or taking a psilocybe from his lips with his own. It'd been his first kiss and his first taste of what the forest could really offer him.
Colors tinged the edges of his tunneling vision. His body felt hot, but light and his head was gloriously fuzzy. The world around the two of them was intense and green, and he couldn't help but get lost in it all. At least-- Until a hand was on his cheek, tugging him back to the vision underneath him. And what a vision it was. The fawn was gorgeous. A strong jaw was kissing at his neck, and agile, steady hands were undoing the buttons on the front of his flannel. Rabbit touched too, watching his own wide fingers slide over the boy's fur-dusted breasts and down a toned stomach to settle on his hips.
Thick, muscled thighs immediately fell open, and Rabbit couldn't help but sputter a little. The Fawn's legs were entrancing-- Deerlike and covered with thick, dark hair. There were even a pair of black hooves at the end of them, but that wasn't what had his attention. It was the hint of slick, wet pink between those thighs, peeking through from the pelt that had his lashes fluttering. His head was spinning, and the pull he felt towards his body was instinctive and automatic. Without a prompt, he was nosing down his skin to meet it with a wet tongue and hungry lips.
The experience was entirely intoxicating. There was an overpowering, animal scent in his fur, and the taste of him was tart and musky. Eager fingers tugged at Rabbit's curls, pushing him forward, but it was unneeded because the obsession was immediate. He could die drowning in the slick, heady taste of him, and it would be a perfect death. Each lick was curious, and the soft, slow movement of his mouth was like a kiss. The world was moving around him, and he was sinking deeper into pleasuring this perfect creature. By the time the Fawn had grinding himself to a breathy finish on Rabbit's lips, the boy had lost himself in it. It took a push to get him to lift his head, his eyes blown and his face sticky with saliva and sweet fluid offered from his love.
Rabbit was knocked down on his back, and before he could catch up to the swirling slow-motion world around him, they were bare and tangled. He wasn't sure how long he lasted, simply too enchanted by the strange eyes staring down at him. One moment, he thought he'd found his religion, and the next, as he was crying out and spilling himself deep in this gorgeous creature, he was sure of it.
Breathing heavy against the Fawn's chest, he closed his eyes and let out a shaky sigh. "You're mine." It whispered to him, "You won't ever leave me again."
Rabbit nuzzled into his breast and hummed softly. "...I wasn't planning on it."
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Goodbye
It's been four months since he said goodbye. He didn't bother to say this time was for good, because Armand wouldn't have believed him. He never does. Armand had asked, so innocently—too innocently to be anything but insincere—when he would be back.
Daniel had laughed and laughed, near hysterics. It had frightened Armand, to see him so near madness. Humans who knew the truth of them often went mad, Armand had warned him once. But like most things he said about vampires, Daniel took no heed. He was too young to feel anything but immortal, and to come suddenly to terms with his mortality in the face of these creatures immortality—it was a foreign sort of existential crisis.
To flirt with the danger of Armand, of knowing Armand could destroy him with a thought...it was heady and intoxicating. To know he held sway over such a creature! That he alone amongst mortals could render this powerful being to his knees.
Oh, how he had loved him!
How he loves him still, despite his best efforts not to. But that matters very little. Armand will never find him, because he hasn't stopped moving. He doesn't plan ahead. He just packs a bag and buys whatever plane ticket he can afford. Finds a hotel and stays there a week or two. Rinse and repeat.
But he does sometimes wish Armand would find him. That it'd be like those early days where he was around every corner. When Daniel realizes he misses being stalked, he wonders what's wrong with him in the head. It isn't normal to want like this, to crave another person to the point it hurts.
Losing the blood is a greater blow than he imagined. It isn't the reason he loves Armand, but it's as addictive as he is. He craves it worse than any fix he's ever chased. Better than coke or ecstasy. Nothing can replicate the high, but he Daniel finds himself trying. Trying and failing with every drug he can get his hands on. Heroin is the closest, but it's only a pale imitation.
He can't afford the plane tickets anymore, so he goes to trains. Less distance covered, but easier on the wallet. Besides, it's been awhile. If Armand were going to find him, he would have. He doesn't need to chase Daniel down when he knows Daniel will come back.
But this time, he'll prove him wrong. Prove he doesn't need him. How do you like that, you bastard.
He forgets sometimes that Armand can read his thoughts. Other times he's so hyper aware that he tries to clear his mind of everything just as precaution. Still other times, he thinks to Armand like he used to pray to a higher power, nothing but faith to guarantee he heard. Desperate things he said, the yearning desire he had expressed, the profound void in his life without Armand.
Embarrassing. And born from weakness. Armand never replied; Daniel is certain it's to allow him to save face. A small act of kindness, from the cruelest creature he knows.
He's babbling something to the person next to him at the bar. He's quite attractive; short and lithe and dark, with glossy black hair and brown eyes. Daniel's self aware enough to realize the resemblance, understand it serves as reason for the attraction. But he hardly cares. He takes the man up to his room and fucks him. Calls him the wrong name when he comes.
It isn't until the man awkwardly slinks out the door that he notices the figure in the dark corner of his bedroom. Tall, dark and handsome with intense red eyes. His Armand. His everything.
“Still like to watch?” he slurs. He's a bit drunk. He stays a bit drunk these days. It's half the reason he goes to gay bars—gay men are far more likely to buy him a drink than straight women. The other half he doesn't like to think about.
“It wasn't your best performance.”
Daniel holds out his arms. “Come here.”
Armand doesn't. Daniel goes to him and embraces him. Armand stiffens in his grasp, back rigid. “You smell like him.”
Daniel shakes his head. “I'll shower. Come here, kiss me, it's been months.”
Armand lets out a weary sigh, and Daniel can see traces of true anger in his eyes. Armand is so rarely truly angry. Irritated, yes and annoyed, but not angry. Even when they fight, Armand likes to remain calm. It only serves to exasperate Daniel and drag things on.
He obliges Daniel and takes his face in his hands, tilts his head just where he wants it and kisses him. It starts slow and chaste, but gradually deepens and dirties. Daniel moans into it and buries his fingers in Armand's silk shirt, clinging without abandon. Armand buries a hand in his curls and devours his mouth, kissing him until his knees shake and he feels wobbly.
He forgets he's mad at Armand, that he left him permanently. He gasps against his mouth and spills out “I missed you.”
Armand pets his hair and kisses his cheek. “Will you come home, beloved?”
Beloved. Something warm nestles in his chest and spreads to his stomach at the word. He nods his head. “Home, yes, home with you.”
He looks up into Armand's preternatural eyes and pleads “Bite me, here, take my neck.”
“No, I think the femoral artery,” Armand says, crisp and near clinical. He didn't like to show how much he wanted it—Daniel knew that, because Armand had once confessed as much. It had been to assure him how he wanted and loved him, only him, and how of course Daniel had just as much sway over him as he did Daniel. Not that Daniel had believed that last part for a second.
Armand undresses him painstakingly slow, stopping to kiss or stroke whichever part caught his fancy. Fifteen minutes later, Daniel is naked on the bed, writhing in anticipation as Armand mouths up his thigh. His teeth sink in deep, up close to Daniel's groin.
Daniel shakes and groans until the world becomes a dizzy blur. Only then does Armand pull back, his eyes dilated impossibly wide. “What have you taken? How much did you take? I feel-”
Daniel laughs and pulls him down into a kiss. Armand allows it for a moment, kissing him back sweetly. Then he pulls away. “Daniel-”
“I'm fine. I feel great,” Daniel says. He tugs Armand down to lie next to him. It takes three tugs before Armand allows himself to be moved, seemingly distracted by the lava lamp on the dresser. He sinks down unto the bed next to Daniel and pulls him to his chest. “Can I have it?” Daniel asks, face smashed against his cold skin.
Armand fishes around Daniel's backpack by the foot of the bed and finds a pocketknife. He returns to Daniel and arranges him so he straddles his lap. He cuts a thin line across his throat and presents it to Daniel, who latches on hungrily. Armand finds the discarded bottle of lube on the bed and slicks his fingers, breaching Daniel while he drinks. Daniel only sucks at his neck harder, moaning against his skin.
Armand doesn't know what Daniel has taken, but it's making everything so lovely. The colors seem so vivid, so bright. Daniel knows this, because Armand babbles it to him. He giggles and gasps as clever fingers work him. He does love Armand's hands. Adores his long fingers. Loves them inside him, around him, wrapped around his throat. Rambles back to Armand how he's missed this so much, missed him so much. Murmurs it between long draws of his fiery blood.
“Then why run away? Stop running, Daniel. Be mine.”
“Yours, yours,” Daniel pants against his neck, “always yours.”
“Good boy,” Armand purrs and kisses him so lovingly. Then, as if to reward his good behavior, grabs his wrist and brings it to his mouth and bites down. It's overwhelming; Armand is inside him, cock and teeth, spit and blood. He comes and comes and comes, frantically declaring his love for Armand.
Clarity hits him after and he stumbles out of bed to the window, opens it and takes great, heaving breaths. His. He said he was Armand's. Said that he loved him. All true, but not what he wants.
He's still high, but Armand, with vampire metabolism, has lost his. He beckons Daniel back to bed, but Daniel doesn't look his way. “You'll never let me go, will you? It'll always be like this.”
“You could come home.”
Daniel laughs shakily. “And be your slave? Hard pass.”
Armand moves to him with unnatural speed and wraps arms around his waist. “Not my slave, never that.”
“Your pet, then.” Daniel shrugs Armand off him. Turns and looks at Armand, beautiful and perfect and everything he wants to have, to be. Everything he loves. Everything he hates.
He has a thought, so cruel it shouldn't be spoken aloud. He says it anyway, “I wish I had never met you.”
Armand's eyes sweep over his face, study him intensely. “Is this truly what you want?”
No.
Yes.
Maybe?
He doesn't know. He nods, swipes a forming tear. “It's never enough, you know? Nothing compares to you. You're the best high I ever had.”
It isn't exactly what he means, it isn't just the blood, it's everything. But he doesn't have to put this into words. Armand understands, he knows. Can see it in his thoughts that he endlessly dips into.
“Very well. As you wish.”
Then Armand is looking into his eyes and murmuring something and he feels...foggy? He can't remember why he's here or how he got here. He's so tired. He needs to rest.
“Yes, sleep, Daniel. In the morning, everything will make sense.” The beautiful stranger—wait, not a stranger, but who—guides him to his pillow and pulls the sheets around him. “Goodbye, Daniel.”
When he wakes in the morning, he has no memory of Armand at all.
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read it here on ao3
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A drabble to answer some of those long-lost memes in my inbox ~ @vampyrebond
STABBY STAB MEME BUT MAKE IT LESTAT WALKING IN ON LOUIS
Lestat had left the townhouse in a right state of frustration. Trying to reason with Louis was like reasoning with a brick wall, and no matter how much he railed at his lover, nothing seemed to change. It was this thought that drove Lestat to kill at the lover’s lane this evening. He quickly found a couple parked far away from the rest, and at first he played the role of the embarrassed young man stumbling into the wrong car, however as the couple laughed it off, that was when Lestat struck, killing the man first, and then the woman. By the time he was returning to the townhouse, much of his anger had been satiated by the blood he’d consumed, and though he was still frustrated with Louis’ rejection of what they were, he knew that they had time. Louis would see reason one way or another.
It was as he entered the townhouse that Lestat’s nostrils flared and his lips parted slightly, as though he could taste the scent of fresh blood. Silently, he moved through the townhouse until he stopped in the doorway to the parlor, where he saw Louis bent over the shuddering body of what must’ve been a solicitor. Lestat’s pupils dilated with lust at the sight, and he let out a soft sigh as Louis dropped the dying man to the ground with a mix of revulsion and disgust in his expression.
“Oh, mon cher,” Lestat breathed, stepping into the room. Louis’ almost frantic gaze snapped up to his, but Lestat only advanced further, lips curling up in a smug smile, “you should have told me you were dining in, my love. I would have stayed.”
an abrupt kiss that you melt into after a moment of hesitation . //&// holding your lover by the jaw to kiss them .
And before Louis could react, Lestat drew him up to his feet with gentle pressure from a finger placed under his chin, thumb sweeping through the blood that had dripped from Louis’ lips as he grasped his jaw firmly. “Hush, mon chou,” he murmured when Louis opened his mouth to speak. Lestat pulled Louis in, crushing their lips together in a deep kiss. His tongue sought out the lingering blood in his lover’s mouth, and he shivered as the intensity of the kiss and heady taste of blood overwhelmed his senses. Louis was the one to pull away first and Lestat gave a soft whine, chasing the kiss as he took a few paces back, staring at Lestat in shock. The deep conflict within Louis was evident in his expression, which not only reflected Lestat’s own lust, but also an intense regret. Until he spoke, Lestat did not know which sentiment would win out this time.
❝  sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.  ❞
The words sent heat coursing through Lestat’s body, and though there was still guilt in Louis’ eyes, his misery was intoxicating to Lestat. He wanted nothing more than to kiss the pout from his lover’s lips, to devour his regret and sorrow as though they were the blood he’d so readily glutted himself on not an hour ago. “Then come here and let me taste you, chéri,” his eyes were black with desire, and though he wanted nothing more than to bury his fangs in Louis’ flesh and drink of him, he did not move, waiting for Louis to come to him.
 [ HIPS ]:  sender  pulls  receiver  in  closer  by  the  hips.
The look in Louis’ eye shifted as he decided to give into his lust, and when he reached out, roughly jerking Lestat against him by the hips, Lestat did not protest. He melted against his lover with a soft sigh, mouth already finding the streak of blood that had dripped over Louis’ chin and streaked down his throat. The plaster cracked as Lestat was suddenly shoved into the wall behind him, and he gave a soft hiss against Louis’ skin, nipping at his throat as though to chide him. Though as Louis’ thigh pressed into his growing erection, his mild irritation was completely erased by the pleasure that had begun to burn within him.
Louis’ head tilted slightly to one side as he began grinding against Lestat, both of them breathing harder as their cocks stiffened in their trousers from the friction, but he didn’t have to be told what Louis needed. Before the words could leave his lover’s lips, Lestat sank his fangs into the yielding flesh of Louis’ throat and moaned against his skin as the blood flooded into his mouth. As he drank, tongue laving at the wound, Louis’ hand wound in Lestat’s hair, holding him there as he continued rutting against Lestat’s thigh.
Finally, as Louis’ grip on Lestat’s hair tugged him away, forcibly tipping his head back, Lestat keened, but did not fight, for Louis’ mouth was already at his throat and his entire body shuddered in anticipation for what he knew was coming. One of his hands gripped Louis’ waist, nails piercing the fabric of his already ruined shirt and drawing a hiss from his lover. Louis had only pulled back for a moment before he spoke, taking in Lestat’s desperate expression, cheeks flushed and lips painted with blood.
“ you  look  so  pretty  like  this. ”
At the words, the corners of Lestat’s mouth turned up slightly and his breathing hitched when Louis’ hand cupped his erection through his trousers, his other hand tightening its grip in Lestat’s hair. “You don’t even need to be touched, do you?” The words were spoken against Lestat’s throat, Louis’ teeth grazing his skin once again.
“I will if you don’t get on with it,” Lestat’s ordinarily biting words had taken on a desperate quality as he arched against Louis’ palm, drawing a soft laugh from his lover. In retaliation, Lestat’s free hand made to pull Louis’ head to his throat, but it was quickly caught in his strong grip instead and pinned to the wall above them. At the loss of the friction against his cock, Lestat whined, but he didn’t fight against Louis’ grip. “Please, chou chou,” he begged softly, changing tactics to get his way. “Please, I need it - drink of me, my love.”
clothed .   to  make  my  muse  come  while  fully  dressed .
As Lestat continued to beg, his words were cut off by Louis roughly biting into his throat, and he moaned deeply at the mix of intense pleasure and pain. “Yes, yes, Louis,” he panted, eyes fluttering shut as the intensely intimate sensation of sharing his blood spread through his veins. Lestat’s hips bucked against Louis’ thigh, and as his pinned hand was freed, he clung to his lover, panting and moaning until all at once, he came hard, ruining the inside of his trousers. The intensity of his orgasm had Lestat all but melting against Louis as his lover’s tongue continued to lap at the still-bleeding wounds in his throat, and he sank into his lover’s embrace.
When Louis finally drew back from Lestat’s throat, there was a keen glint in his eye that Lestat knew all too well. “Shall I finish you off, chou chou,” he breathed, a satiated smile crossing his lips, revealing the blood that still stained his teeth. Louis didn’t even have to speak as he pushed Lestat to his knees, hand still tangled in his hair, and with practiced ease, Lestat’s hands tugged Louis’ trousers down just enough that he could free his cock.
Greedily, he lapped the precum from the tip, sucking the head of his cock into his mouth and swirling his tongue. Louis was close already, but as the hand in Lestat’s hair pushed his head down, Lestat didn’t resist, swallowing Louis to the root and holding him there as his lover moaned lowly, the sound almost a growl. Before Lestat could start to move, however, Louis began to fuck himself into Lestat’s mouth, choking him on his cock, but as tears streaked down Lestat’s cheeks, he took it all until Louis’ hips stuttered to a stop and he spilled down Lestat’s throat with a cry.
for receiver to sit on the floor in front of sender and place their head in sender’s lap to be pet and praised.
Lestat swallowed it all, though his throat was raw, and held Louis’ softening cock in his mouth until his lover’s hand untangled itself from his hair. Finally he drew back, looking up to meet Louis’ gaze with his own tear-stained eyes, and as Louis sank to sit cross-legged on the floor before him, Lestat moved to lay on the floor so that he could rest his head in his lover’s lap, gently tucking his cock back into his trousers as he settled in. While Lestat blinked slowly in satisfaction, basking in the comforting closeness and post-orgasmic bliss, Louis’ hand found its way back to Lestat’s hair, stroking the soft, golden locks and brushing his fingertips over his smooth cheek.
“You’re gettin’ too good at this,” Louis muttered, but he was smirking down at Lestat, who could only smile as more praise followed, closing his eyes as he relaxed under his lover’s now gentle touch. Though he knew this calm between them couldn’t last - especially not with a still-warm body just feet behind Louis - he would enjoy this moment of utter contentment while it lasted.
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theenchantedecho · 10 months
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If James was a cocktail, which cocktail would he be, and why?
Ask Rita: The Daily Prophet's Exclusive Wizarding World Gossip Column
By: Rita Skeeter
Well, dear readers, brace yourselves. This question sets the stage for a potent brew of speculation indeed!
Dare we imagine James Potter, the lion-hearted, full-of-himself Quidditch devotee, distilled down to a liquid representation? It’s as tricky as catching a Golden Snitch in a blizzard! But fret not, for Rita Skeeter is never one to back down from such a challenge.
Ah, James Potter, the charming, good-looking radio host, pure-blood wizard, a role model for young wizards and witches across the magical world, could only be compared to a robust Old Fashioned.
A classic Old Fashioned, a heady mix of bourbon, sugar, and bitters with a citrus twist, is not a potion for the faint-hearted, much like our Mr. Potter. A traditional cocktail that is not only strong, but also complex and enduring, not unlike our ever-so-handsome, ever-so-adventurous Mr. Potter, with his impetuous ways and strong will.
The bourbon, bold and unapologetic, captures James' untamed and flamboyant spirit - always in the spotlight, a relentless seeker of action and thrill, his name etched in the annals of Gryffindor’s Quidditch history.
The sugar is akin to his outward charm, his winsome ways that seem to captivate a certain following, whether it's on the Quidditch field, at the radio station, or in his social circles. Oh, how the masses swoon!
However, the bitters, my dear readers, allude to an intriguing aspect of James' character. His devil-may-care attitude, his knack for trouble, and his love for mischief do leave a bitter taste in some mouths. But then, what’s life without a bit of drama, a bit of controversy?
But here's where it gets truly juicy. The citrus twist, a final flourish that adds a touch of zest, represents the tantalising mystery that surrounds James. Rumours abound, whispers echo, and questions remain. What adventures does he seek, what secrets does he hide, and oh, the tales his radio waves must carry!
So, there you have it. Our James Potter, condensed into an Old Fashioned, a cocktail that’s robust, complex, a touch bitter yet undeniably intoxicating. Drink up, dear readers, but sip with caution! Remember, just like an Old Fashioned, Mr. Potter is not everyone's cup of tea - or goblet of bourbon!
And on that tantalizing note, let's raise a toast to our young wizards and the whirlwinds of their lives. Until next time, stay curious, stay vigilant, and most importantly, stay thirsty for more!
@mighty-prongs
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sekhisadventures · 1 year
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Zhan-min Irontummy, Shamanbrewer of Pandaria
Important Stories:
A Barrel of Hozen: As a young man in Pandaria, Zhan-min first encounters the members of Avalon in passing.
Villainess: Now a grown man and a shaman, Zhan-min aids Avalon and Savage United in Zereth Mortis against an unexpected foe.
The Shamanbrewer: After Avalon returns to Stormwind City following the defeat of Zovaal, Zhan-min encounters them in the Golden Keg.
Race: Pandaren
Class: Shaman, Enhancement
Age: 24
Eye color: Brown
Birthplace: Halfhill, the Valley of Four Winds
Residence: Stormwind City, Old Town
Abilities:
Shamanism: Zhan-min is a shaman, able to hear the voice of the elements. He focuses on melee combat when the situation calls for fighting, preferring to use a specialized pair of stylized maces to channel the elements in a fight. To his senses, the voice of the elements is a faint whispering on the wind, accompanied by the smell and taste of various ales he's made in the past.
Alecrafting: Zhan-min practices a unique style of beer brewing he calls 'Shamanbrewing.' His maces are actually reinforced beer kegs, which he fills with beer base and elemental reagents prior to a fight. During a battle his powers channel through the ingredients, transforming them into heady brews that have magical properties. For examples of shamanbrewing, click here.
Ale-cension: As the ultimate expression of his connection to the elements and his love of his craft. Zhan-min can consume whatever ale is currently in his maces in one go with the power of the alemental who merged with him to transform himself into a massive alemental. In this form he looks like a giant Pandaren water elemental, but amber colored instead of blue with muscular arms and a mask that resembles the fur patterns on his own face. While transformed he can spray a blast of ale with the force of a water cannon, generate a rain of fresh beer infused with water and spirit to heal his allies, and is immune to any sort of physical damage whatsoever as such attacks simply pass through his now-liquid form. Any foes that are hit by his ale cannon run the risk of intoxication unless they're immune to it (that ale has a KICK!) and will find fighting his allies that much more difficult. After he changes back he cannot transform again until his maces are refilled, becoming the alemental consuming whatever is within them.
Tool Crafter: While not skilled in martial blacksmithing like Dareley he is skilled in making tools and other useful things for non-combat purposes. He learned these skills making and maintaining alecrafting tools and the like as a young man in Pandaria, working for Gao Stormstout at the Stormstout Brewery.
History
Zhan-min's life began in the Valley of Four Winds. Born in the farming community of Halfhill, he always had a real knack for working with the elements. The small elemental spirits of the land were his friends as a child as much as any pandaren. He was a cheerful kid, always quick to laugh or joke, and very curious about alecrafting.
He saw how much happiness it brought the villagers, especially being so close to Stormstout Brewery and with local brewers like the Mudmug family, and when he got old enough he took a job working at the brewery doing just whatever needed doing. Tool repair, cleaining, barrel making, transporting hops and other ingredients, and the like.
Then the bulk of the Stormstout clan left to seek new ingredients, leaving the brewery in the hands of Gao Stormstout. Gao was well meaning, but ill equipped to run the brewery and almost immediately things began to go south. Hozen began stealing their stock, virmen managed to infest various storehouses, and at it's worst was Gao's mishap with brewing which caused a massive angry Alemental to manifest inside the main production floor!
Zhan-min was there when it occurred, and his connection to the elements made him feel the fury and confusion that the ill-brewed alemental was experiencing… until four adventurers burst through the doors to the room. Avalon's members of Dareley Steelhammer, Shalandrae Deeproots, Nelen Fullmoon, and their newest recruit at the time Jaie Swiftpaw fought back the Alemental, the fight ending with Nelen freezing it solid using a massive evocation of ice so Jaie could smash it to pieces with a flying kick.
As they cleaned up the production floor however, Zhan-min kept one of the fragments of the alemental and took it home with him…
He melted the frozen chunk and using his own connection to the elements he reanimated the creature, and the two started talking. It turned out the Alemental wasn't evil, but Gao's fumble-fingered brewing techniques had animated it in a state that caused it extreme distress, making it frenzy!
Zhan-min was amazed. Gao had, by accident, created a whole new school of Shamanism that merged elemental magic and, of all things, alecrafting! He knew what he had to do. He saved his money, worked with some friends who were good with metal and woodworking, and commissioned a unique pair of weapons: miniature reinforced beer kegs made into one handed maces! He vowed he would use this knowledge to make his name as well known as Stormstout's own. By combining his elemental magic with alecrafting, he became the world's first and currently only Shamanbrewer!
Some years later he had travelled to Zereth Mortis in the Shadowlands, eager to see what unique ingredients the fabled realm of the First Ones had, and was compelled by the elements to protect a young shamaness named Sekhi from a dire threat. He succeeded in saving her life when the incubus, Cenoon, threw her off a cliff while she was too befuddled by his magic to fight back, joining the fight against the tratorous warlock Dissonantia.
After Avalon returned to Azeroth he ran into them in the Golden Keg in Stormwind and finally realized they were the adventurers he'd seen in Stormstout Brewery all those years ago, offering his services to them. He's been a part of Avalon since.
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