#but this poem. i could feel it in my teeth and my chest when I read it idk how else to explain it

[loving-jack-kelly]

i'm on a daily poem email list and this was yesterdays poem and I cant stop thinking abt it. possibly my new fave so everyone has to read it.

#i think revelation still takes the top spot smth abt that poem stuck in my chest when I was 14 and wont dislodge #but this poem. i could feel it in my teeth and my chest when I read it idk how else to explain it #poetry

[inkskinned]

i have spent a few days listening to the music you like. you have a tattoo of the band's logo on your ribs. you got it when you were still kind of a kid. my first tattoo was a bird instead. i did the math - we got our first tattoos in the same calendar year. isn't that kind of cool.

my mom loves hallmark movies, so i grew up thinking love would look like a firework. it feels like one, after all. it's just that my house wasn't safe. i thought love was a weapon, could be pointed at your eyes. could lose a finger to it, or teeth. my father used to say passion is everything. i thought that meant constant fighting was a good thing. i thought that meant love looked like a week of bickering, because it was worth the the weekend's boombox apology. i thought quiet love was boring. i thought love had to blot out everything, compel the body and the mind like puppetry. i thought love looks like ruining your own dinner table - but at least you set a feast.

but love looks like a scarf. your hands smoothing it down my chest, being sure each of the edges are tucked in, worried about my asthma attacks being cold-activated. i race you while i'm wearing heels, you hold my hand to guide me downhill while walking my dog. we dance in my living room to waltz of the flowers, i show you how to hold your arms in proper ballet port de bras. you write a song about looking out of my window while the snow falls. i ask you to text my friends back while i'm driving. you play dj in the front seat. somewhere on route 93, we start murmuring about secret things.

oh. there is a difference between peace and dispassion. it was never that i feared quiet, it's that i didn't know what safe felt like. i liked the chaos because it was familiar, not because it was kind. i think i used to fear the word wife. i didn't like the idea of long, lonely days and being yelled at for small things. i didn't like the idea of sacrificing my one beautiful life.

you meet my friends and make a point to learn things about them. we both get excited about the other person's passions. you read my book for hours, squinting at the small words. i try to understand basic guitar information. we talk for four hours on the phone while i string together a garland. we talk for six hours while you write a poem. i save a pintrest tip for the summer about making paper kites. i plan us a week-long trip to maine, map out my favorite places for an eventual hike. you fall asleep on the ride home, and i turn down the radio so it won't wake you up. your quiet hands fold over mine.

when i look up, the stars are brighter. how carefully you've woven gold into the corners of my life. when i move, i feel some part of my soul reflected back onto you.

oh, love is not a net. it's a blanket.

#spilled ink #warm up #wlw #writeblr

[pepperonidk]

roads diverged || h.js

pairing: joshua hong x reader warnings: super self-indulgent. some crying, life decisions, joshua is my comfort member word count: 759 summary: life is full of diverging roads, but it's okay as long as joshua's walking beside you

a/n: i'm definitely projecting lol. instead of crying for 3 hours, i decided to cry for 1 hour and write this for 2 hours :) problem solved

main masterlist

It’s not that you’re particularly a neat freak, but you’re pretty sure you read somewhere that cleaning your living space can help clear your mind. 

It isn’t until you’re on your knees on the bathroom tile at 2 am, scrubbing between tiles with a pink toothbrush and a dream that you finally question the scientific validity of that Buzzfeed article. You let out a huff and pull the rubber gloves off your hands and throw them down onto the floor.

“Damn,” you hear a hoarse voice call from the bathroom door. “What did those gloves do to you?”

“Shua,” his name comes out as if you’re surprised at the shakiness in your own voice. Once he hears it too, his smirk falls into a frown and his eyebrows come together in concern. In the next instant, he’s on his knees beside you, pulling you into his arms.

“What’s wrong angel?” he whispers against your hair, rubbing his arms soothingly down your back.

His question is all it takes for the dam to break and not long after, the sleeve of Joshua’s light blue pajama shirt is soaked with tears. He shushes you as he pulls you tighter against him, and he wishes he could lift whatever burden was weighing you down.

It takes a minute  before you can finally give him an answer. “Do you remember that really weird thing I asked you about a few weeks ago?” you managed to get out between hiccups.

He pulls away and shifts his hands down to hold yours. “Yeah,” he nods. “When you were reading that Robert Frost poem and you asked what happens if you don’t like the road less traveled and you want to go back and take the other one?” 

You nod back at him, pulling your lip between your teeth to fight back the tears. “Yeah… that.”

“What about it?” he asks quietly, prodding you to continue. 

“I think I’m going to quit my job,” you answered, unable to fight the second wave of tears.

“Oh, honey,” he began, his hands instinctively coming up to your face to wipe away the streams of tears. “What brought this on? I thought you liked your job.”

“I do,” you answer. “Well, I did. I’m not so sure anymore.”

“What changed?” 

“I don’t know,” you confess, dropping your head into your hands. “It’s just not… I just feel like I’m stuck, you know? Like what if I missed out on something better because I’m afraid of leaving something that’s familiar?” 

Joshua hums thoughtfully, choosing his words before he continues. “That’s something I wish I knew the answer to,” he sighs and lifts your chin to look at him. He hates seeing you sad, but even more so knowing that this isn’t a problem he can fix for you. “But just think, honey, if you didn’t walk down this path, we wouldn’t have met.”

You nod and break out a small smile that mirrors his. “Yeah,” you agree. “That is pretty great.”

“See?” he continues. “I think you know, no matter which path you take, it’ll be lined with good things and bad things, and that’s okay.”

“I know, I know,” you affirm. “But I like it better when you tell me.”

Joshua lets out a chuckle before standing and holding his hand out to you. “I’ll keep telling you if you finally come to bed with me,” he offers and you take it, gathering your cleaning supplies into your free arm and setting them onto the counter. 

Once you’ve both finally settled into bed, Joshua shuts off the lamp on the bedside table and pulls you flush against his chest. His fingers trace circles up and down your arms as you listen to the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“As I promised,” he began. “There’s gonna be lots of diverging paths, you know? Lots of different ways to go. And they won’t always be as scenic as the ones before, or as neatly paved, or as—” 

You playfully swat at his chest and smile at the rumble of laughter in his chest. “I get it,” you prod.

“My point is,” he drags out the last syllable, tilting his neck down to smile at you before yawning. “No matter which path you end up taking, I’ll be walking right next to you, holding your hand.” True to his word, he pulls your free hand into his before bringing it up to press a light kiss against your palm. “And every step is going to take us exactly where we need to go.”

taglist: @yksthings @iamxelia @coveyland @xuimhao

#caratwritersclub #seventeenweeklyarticle #joshua hong #joshua hong x reader #joshua x reader #seventeen fluff #joshua hong fluff #joshua fluff #seventeen × reader #seventeen angst #seventeen imagine #ioshua honq imagine #svt ioshua #seventeen joshua fluff #hong jisoo #hong jisoo x reader

[theostrophywife]

As far as fluffy Eris thoughts go… I really would give anything to lay back against his broad chest while he reads a book aloud, big arms bracketing around your shoulders to hold the book out in front of you both. His chin would be resting over your shoulder, his breath fanning over your ear… I bet you could feel his chest rumbling against your back as he speaks in that soft low voice… hips resting between his thighs, leaning back to rest your head against his shoulder, rubbing gentle circles on his knees where they’re propped up around you… I need it 😭

willow.

the more that you say, the less i know; wherever you stray, i follow i'm begging for you to take my hand, wreck my plans, yeah that's my man

author's note: willow was written for eris vanserra and eris vanserra only.

autumn leaves rained down from above you, littering the forest floor with red, orange, and gold. the seasons were changing and the last of the summer heat was ushered out with a soft breeze that held the promise of fall.

eris pulled you in closer, his strong arms wrapped around you like the roots of the weeping willow you were currently sitting under. buttery sunlight peeked through the tree's branches, its warmth kissing your mate's fiery hair and freckled skin. you breathed in the fresh air mixed with amber and blood oranges—the unmistakable scent of your lover.

when you woke up this morning, you hadn't expected to be able to spend the day like this. usually, you and eris were busy with overseeing the affairs of your court, but today your high lord insisted on taking a much needed break. so here you were, perched in his lap, enjoying the first day of fall while eris read you poetry under your favorite tree.

"l'amour est le miel," you said. eris nuzzled his nose against your neck, making you giggle. "pretty please, mon amour."

"anything for you, ma chérie."

you settled against his chest as eris turned the page, easily finding the poem by its folded edge. your mate rested his chin on your shoulder, his solid chest a comfortable resting place as you leaned back to listen to him read.

la vie est une fleur, l’amour en est le miel. c’est la colombe unie à l’aigle dans le ciel,

you closed your eyes, feeling the gentle rumbling of your mate's chest against your back as he spoke in that sweet and soft low voice that he only ever used with you.

life is a flower, love is its honey. it is the dove united with the eagle in the sky,

there was something so soothing about eris reciting poetry. he had a voice like honey, warm and golden, spreading through your entire being like nectar. eris snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you taut against him, his fingers tracing soothing patterns upon your skin as he placed you between his thighs.

c’est la grâce tremblante à la force appuyée, c’est ta main dans ma main doucement oubliée

eris cradled you between his long legs, smiling as you leaned in to place a kiss on his knee.

it is trembling grace with sustained force, it's your hand in mine gently forgotten.

with his breath fanning over your cheek, you sighed in content as his hand crept up the bodice of your dress. his kisses were warm and wet against your neck as deft fingers unlaced the front of your corset. eris pulled down your blouse underneath, placing an openmouthed kiss on your shoulder. when your gazes met, his eyes were full of fire.

"sweetheart," eris said gruffly, his teeth grazing your earlobe. he wrapped his fingers around the hollow of you throat and whispered the three words that would be your undoing. "i need you."

you straddled his lap and pulled him in for a kiss, your lips melding together while you rolled your hips against his. you could feel his desire, both physically and emotionally, and you wanted nothing more than to fulfill his every fantasy. eris slid his tongue against yours, devouring you with a ferocity that reminded you of the initial years when the mating bond first snapped. decades had passed since then, but your hunger for one another only seemed to grow with time.

"i want you," you whimpered against him. "i want all of you, eris."

he growled and nearly ripped your dress to pieces, along with his restraint. eris hiked up your skirt as you unbuckled his trousers impatiently. the ache within you was excruciating, every fiber of your being screamed for eris.

"i know, my love." finally, you freed his cock from his trousers and he groaned as you rubbed the tip against your slick. "fuck, have all of me. everything that i am is yours."

your lover groaned as you eased onto his length, taking inch after inch like a woman starved. when he was fully sheathed inside you, eris rested his head on your shoulder, his moans buried deep within your skin. large hands gripped your hips as you rolled against him. the pace you set was indulgent, making your legs shake each time his cock thrust further into you. it was a clash of teeth and lips and tongues as you put your bodies to the test.

the pleasure was indescribable as the two of you made love underneath the willow tree. it was a meeting of souls, an exchange of who you were, who you are, and who you would be. you couldn't tell where eris began and you ended. you were one and the same, fusing together like some brilliant merging of worlds. the comedown was euphoric. there was nothing quite as blissful as sharing that intimate moment of vulnerability with your lover.

afterwards, eris cradled you in his arms and smoothed your hair back before leaning in to press a kiss on your temple.

"je t’aime chaque jour davantage," he whispered. i love you more each day.

you smiled and gave him that same unwavering answer that you first declared to each other underneath this willow tree.

"je t’aime pour toujours."

i love you forever.

#this was supposed to be just fluffly but i am not mad about it #something about eris reciting poetry in french makes me want to rip my clothes off oops #eris #eris vanserra fluff #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra #eris vanserra smut #eris x reader

[cuubism]

i said i might write something based on Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda and well. yeah.

--

“Have you been thinking much of this time?” Dream asks.

They are at the beginning. The ancient, smoky main room of the White Horse, all the way back then, when that sweet, starlit entity had loomed over Hob with challenge and strangeness and then swept away again, leaving the start of a story in his wake. Only this time, Dream is sitting with him, and the rest of the room is faded out, as it had when Hob had first seen him, this collected truth of the universe.

(Dream does not believe in objective truth—of course he doesn’t, he is made of dreams—though he would not articulate it that way if asked. Hob, meanwhile, knows at least one truth, and it’s what he feels when he looks at Dream.)

“Don’t you think of it?” he asks, wrapping an arm around Dream’s waist, fingers over his hipbone. It is a dream, but that distinction does not matter to Hob much anymore.

“I suppose. I think of much.”

“‘Course you do.” He strokes his hand up and down Dream’s side, and Dream hums. “I wondered about following you. Think if I did you’d have been gone into smoke already.”

“Yes. I did not care to stay long.”

“Nor I,” Hob admits.

“Truly?” says Dream, with surprise.

“Was thinking about you too much,” Hob says. “How could I go back to just chatting with my mates when I had seen you?”

“Why did you stay, then?”

“You have to take time with your mates while you have it,” Hob says. “Didn’t need six hundred years of life to know that one. Just a couple dozen deaths. Had the rest of eternity to mull over you, after all.”

“And did you?” Dream asks.

“Oh, yes.” He pulls Dream close. Slides over until he’s half in his lap, straddling his thigh, perfectly placed to kiss him. Hands on his shoulders, his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw. Once, Hob had held him from afar, like a wish. Now, Hob holds him close, as dream, as friend, as lover, in his human way, with sweat and time and hands.

“I mulled over you like fine wine,” Hob says, twisting his fingers in Dream’s hair, and Dream smiles. Hob kisses him again. Sips of his mouth like mulled wine, indeed. But his love for Dream is nothing so fleeting as spice on his tongue.

Or as fleeting as Dream sometimes thinks it will be. Dream is a living love poem to creation. But he does not know how to be loved in the way Hob wants to love him. In the way Hob does love him. Hob thinks that Dream knows how to be loved as a dream is loved, as a hope is loved, as an ideal is loved: held in glass, or in the sky, distant, perfect, disappointing up close. Parts of him are held as bubbles in different souls, but never in entirety.

He knows how to be loved as a nightmare is loved, bloody fear and history, raw closeness, curling in the humors of the body. He has been loved as a story is loved, which is to say, as creation is loved, as transmission is loved, as distance, as connection, as hearts on radio waves, as endings are loved, the pathways of him, container and fill.

Dream does not know how to be loved as a person is loved.

Hob loves him still when he grows teeth, and when a sweet taste comes to his mouth. Hob loves him as potential, as uncertainty. Story unset in stone. In softening belly and uneven step. Hob will show him how to be loved as a person is loved, because Dream is a person, especially when he insists he is not, and Hob loves him as one, has loved him as one, and Dream, who is used to being loved as dreams, cannot comprehend this.

He asks, sometimes. Why? Not even in a hurt, self-hating way. In a genuinely curious way, for he is not used to it. Hob hasn’t had the answer to that. Just trust that I do.

This moment, kissing Dream in the smoke of memory, is an answer. This is the beginning, but a fragment of words comes back to him, read in the between-time, when they were apart.

“You wanted to know why I loved you.” His lips are to Dream’s skin as he speaks, moved to his throat, his chest, pulling open his high collar, as Dream shivers under him. In the Dreaming, things can be like other things in a way that makes no sense in the Waking; Dreaming-sense is like a collage, the distant truth of collected fragments. And so touching Dream’s skin is like stepping out into the earliest morning, before the human world’s woken up, and feeling what’s un-meant to be felt.

“I do not think love needs a why,” Dream says. “Yet I have wondered.”

He gets it, Hob thinks, except that he doesn’t let himself.

He traces the harsh line of Dream’s collarbone with his mouth. Dream is full of harsh lines and seems incapable of letting softness stick to his bones. “‘I love you because I know no other way than this.’”

“I am familiar with the poem,” Dream says, but his voice is caught on Hob's words, his long fingers disbelieving in Hob’s hair.

“Are you?”

“Between shadow and soul is where dreams reside,” says Dream.

“And what about Dream?” Hob says, looking up at him, stressing the singular.

Dream’s lips purse, and Hob goes back to kissing his chest, up his sternum, over his heart. “I know,” he says between kisses, “no other way. Than this.”

Dream tangles him up, long arms, legs curled together, shadow and star around him. Hob’s loved him so long that he doesn’t remember what it was like not to. He has been tangled up in Dream since the beginning. It is what he is.

“A dream resides where it is wanted,” says Dream, finally answering his question. His voice has roughened, his breath has quickened, affected by Hob’s touch, by the words of the poem. Each lick, and kiss, and bite coils the Dreaming closer around them. One day it might be harder to wake up than to fall asleep.

“It’s wanted,” Hob says, and claims his beautiful mouth, pressing him back against the wall. His hair in its uncontrollable frissons, his eyes in their changeable void, his needy starvation of a thousand unanswered love poems—this kiss is a response to those missives. Dream is in the shadowed parts of him, in his turning points, in the words he speaks. Hob sees his answer in the tears that bead along his eyes but refuse to fall, in his darkness and whimsical creations, and his surprised, gentle pleasure when he’s kissed.

Hob loves him so. There’s no moral or end to that story. Hob’s love for Dream is. Full stop. End of sentence.

#this is a little weird bc i was trying to capture how poems make me feel in the style of how i wrote it #hopefully some of you might like it because of or in spite of the weirdness XD #dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #my writing #inspired by poetry #me writing this like i'm just gonna start putting verbs where theyre not meant to be used and making things negative in a way it's not mean #to be. let's see what happens XD

[spaghettificationandpretzels]

Crumpets and Closet Kisses

Part 1

Part two of The Way the Stars Love the Heavens series.

Contains: Fluff, discussion of shit parents, slow burn unresolved feelings. Not beta read.

Follow #the way the stars love the heavens for updates

2.6 K words

Price has terrible timing.

The drabble light coming through the gaps in the drapes drew you from your slumber. There was something warm and breathing under you and you opened your eyes to find Simon asleep beneath you. You took a minute to look over his unobscured face, he had a light dusting of stubble covering his strong jaw, his cheekbones framed his now closed eyes, and his short hair was a wonderful honey brown.

You reached out on instinct, drawing your fingertips across the scar on the apple of his cheeks, then down and along the edge of his hard jaw, you stopped short of his plump lips, they like looked like he would taste like mint and bourbon. "You having fun love?" You yanked your hand back like you had been burned but he chuckled and grabbed it, placing it on his chest then his hand on top of yours. "Did you sleep well?"

You nodded. "I did. What about you?"

You felt his laugh move through your body, if he wasn't so warm, you could have been lying on a boulder. "With you as a weight blanket? Like a baby."

You laughed and went to get up but he wrapped his arms around you and held you to him. "I need to have a shower and brush my teeth, I'm a mess."

"Just five more minutes love, please." He couldn't admit to himself why he asked you to stay, but your body on his was the best thing he had felt in months.

You rested back down, placing your head over his heart as its steady thump filled your ear. "Ok."

His hand stroked your face and let his mind wander. For a moment, the morning light turned into dancing candles and he pondered the thought of brushing your hair as he sat behind you in the bath. His mind went further, taking him through the image until he arrived at what other things you might ask him to do with his hands. He blinked the fantasy away, suddenly aware of what reaction it was about to cause and cleared his throat.

"What are you gonna do when we got home?" It was an easy subject, one that had been brought up so many times that he knew your answer by heart, but he was reaching for any distraction he could find.

"Go to the London museum and look at all the old stuff, then get an overpriced burger at the restaurant." He sighed and thought back to when the 141 raided a terrorist stronghold and found cases of stolen artifacts from the destroyed museum, how you spend hours upon hours pouring over the plastic-protected yellowing paper that must have been thousands of years old.

Maybe that was when he first realised he loved you, when he found you crying at your desk in the corner over a love poem from a soldier to his beloved. He had asked you what was wrong, and you looked up at him with a sad smile and shook your head. "He never made it home to her, he opened his chest and out spilled all these beautiful words and instead of her getting her to read them, they were locked up, rotting in some terrorist's basement." 

So he pulled up a chair, sat next to you and asked you to read it to him and you did. He watched you as you read words from a language he had never heard of, let alone understood, and for the briefest of moments, he was that soldier, writing away in his tent, asking for his lover to give an offering for his safe return so that he may hold her in his arms once again.

Your grumbling stomach brought Ghost's attention back to the present and you reefed yourself from his embrace as you hid your embarrassment behind your hands. "Oh goodness, I'm sorry. I must look like hell." 

He wouldn't say that, the collared shirt you were wearing was wrinkled and your pencil skirt was rucked up just a little too high on your thighs but you still looked like a dream. "You don't know what hell looks like love." 

Your stomach grumbled again and Ghost chuckled, you could still feel it move the bed even though you weren't touching him and you were abruptly aware of how close you were and how large he was. He looked different without his mask, it was disarming how handsome he was and without all his gear, his tattoos stood out even more. 

He shook his head and held out his hand. "Come on, let's get you something to eat." 

You took his hand and he pulled you up and another flash of insecurity came over you. "I'm going go clean up first, I can't show up to breakfast looking like this. Everyone will think we...You know?" You blinked, that was not the right thing to say. "Not that I would be ashamed if we did." The poor man looked like he was about to have an aneurysm with how hard he was holding back his laughter as you waved at the door. "I'm going to go now." 

You spun on your heel and all but raced out, Ghost's voice stopping you as you threw open the door. "I'll save you a crumpet." 

To make matters worse, just as you turned down the hallway, König was there, a piece of toast held stock still on the way to his mouth as he watched you leave the room. Your eyes went wide and you rushed to explain yourself. "Nothing happened. I fell asleep at my desk last night and LT couldn't get into my room so he let my bunk with him." 

König blinked and took a bite out of his toast. "Ok then. Are you coming to breakfast?" 

You nodded. "I am. I'm just going to have a shower first." He smiled and you walked further down the hall. "Maybe don't say anything to the guys, I don't want them getting the wrong impression." 

The rumours about what he looked like under his hood were wrong because the smile he gave you made him look like a teddy bear. "Of course, I know when to keep a secret." 

You sighed as one thought filled your head. "Yeah right" 

****

It occurred to you how strange the morning was as the hot water ran over you. Your embrace with Simon was one of two lovers, but you weren't lovers, you were friends. Deep down, you knew the reason he asked you to stay, there were times when you went to look at him, and he was already looking at you, his eyes awash of emotions like he was lost in another world.

Your dreams the night before only worsened the situation, of gentle lips on your head and those three little words whispered so softly they sounded like a prayer to a long forgotten deity. For a moment, it felt so real that it may not have been a dream at all.

"You get your translation done?" Thank God for Gaz coming to knock you out of your thoughts, if there was any benefit to the small shared shower room, it was that there was never much time to dwell in silence.

"Almost. I think I'll be done by the end of the day." You climbed out when you heard Gaz's shower turned on and shouted over the rows of tiles and curtains. "I'll make sure there's still coffee in the pot when you come out."

He was already humming along to his little radio. "Thank y/n. you're an angel."

****

Ghost took his time picking out your breakfast, his plate already piled high and no one said anything about the second one of this tray, lest they catch a glare that would have frozen hell. 

He placed the plate next to him when he sat down, and the others shared a look as they waited for you to come out of the dorm area and into the common room. Soap cleared his throat when he saw you in the doorway and pointed to the spot next to Ghost. "Looks like your breakfast is already ready." 

You smiled and nodded before sitting down next to Ghost, his mask was pulled up just enough so he could eat as had positioned himself so he was slightly in your personal space. "Yes, it is. Thank you, Ghost." You looked over the plate, not only was there a crumpet with honey, but among other breakfast foods, he had picked you the best fruit bowl with hardly any melons and lots of strawberries. 

"Did you sleep well?" You looked at König, who gave you a look that told you your secret was still safe with him. 

"Yes Rudy, I did. Why do you ask?" You knew the answer, Rudy was your opposite door neighbour and your door made a squeaking sound that he wouldn't have heard last night. 

"I didn't hear you come in last night, I was worried you slept at your desk again." Oh shit. 

"What does he mean you fell sleep at your desk again?" You hadn't meant it to become a habit, but when Ghost was away on long ops, no one was nagging you to go to bed, so sometimes you overworked yourself and fell asleep at your desk. 

You rushed for an explanation, you really didn't want to be on the receiving end of one of Ghost's lectures. "It only happened twice. Like I keep saying, my main job here is to work on the old stuff you find, not enemy communications, and sometimes I get overwhelmed and overdo it. It won't happen again." 

You looked around the table, you wanted to crawl into a hole and die and everyone else was holding back laughter. Ghost didn't say anything but you could feel his eyes on you and you took a breath before pointing to your plate with your fork. "My fruit bowl is very nice, thank you for graabing it for me." 

Ghost looked you over and nodded and Soap let out a chuckle. "Gee I wished I had someone grabbing me the best fruit salad and making sure I went to bed on time." 

Alejandro kicked him under the table. "He's just looking after his friend Hermano. It must be hard being a civilian on such an elite base, not just a civilian but the only woman in our building." He paused and gave you a pointed look. "Why is that y/n? Why aren't you on the other side of the base bunking with the other women?" 

"My father, he was concerned that if I made too many friends I'd lose focus." You were shocked that in the months that the 141 had been working there alongside you, it had never come up. After the missile crisis, Price had worked his ass off to get the 141 back in the light, and with that came a mountain of bureaucracy.

"What does your father have to do with where you're working?" Gaz must not have read your personnel file. 

You took a deep breath and sighed. "My father's The Hammer." Ghost already knew, he had put it together after you had made one too many comments about familial expectations and how much you hated always having something to prove. 

Gaz's eyes went wide. "General Hammer Hardass is your father?" 

You nodded. "Yes." There was no point in lying, he would show up eventually, and it wasn't fair on them to be unprepared when he did. " After years of working my ass off in an unpaid internship at the London Museum, I had a job lined up in their authentications department. My father sent me here because it would have been an embarrassment for his only child to be doing something so useless."

The pressure was overwhelming sometimes, there were times when the only thing keeping you sane were the men at the table. "I went in to sign my contract, and he was there waiting for me. He told me if I didn't take the job here, he would make sure I never worked anywhere."

You could feel the anger rolling off Ghost as you continued. "He told me that if I did well here I could go back to the museum, but until then I'm not to make him look bad."

"Doesn't he tour all the bases once a year?" You knew Soap well enough to know what he was really asking, the thought of having your father meet the 141 was not a pleasant one.

"Yes he does, I can't imagine it's going to be fun when he lands." You could see it now, his empty tone telling you that you could be doing better.

"He'll want to give you the credit you deserve for all your hard work or he'll have a problem." The tone in Ghost's voice made your blood run cold.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket before you could address what he meant. "Speaking of, the next block of code's done. The translation should be almost finished now." You opened your mouth to say something but thought better of it, if you were wrong, it would only waste time.

"Say what you were going to say." Of course Ghost picked up on it, nothing ever got past him.

"It's not important, I could be wrong anyway." He gave you a look and you sighed. "Judging by the communication style, I think one of them is American military." You gestured towards your office. "I really need to get a start, I want to get it done before Price gets back this afternoon."

Ghost placed his hand on your forearm to stop you from getting up. "Stay, finish your breakfast here and tell us about this American theory of yours."

They all looked so expectant, there was no way you were getting out of this. "Alright, but it's not on me anymore if I'm wrong."

****

Talking with the team had done wonders and by the afternoon, you were done decoding back to the real work, cleaning a centuries-old urn so you could read the words underneath all the dirt. The supply closet door swung open just as you reached the top shelf to get the cottons rounds and a huge arm came into view as Ghost grabbed it for you.

"You did good today, we're already actioning that intel you gave us. You should be proud of yourself." He was so close to that you could feel the warmth coming off his like a space heater.

"Thank you, that means a lot coming from you." You took a deep breath, now was as good a time as any to address the elephant in the room. He didn't give you a chance because you found yourself against the shelves with his hands on you, and he was looking back and forth between your eyes and lips and you reached up to pull his mask above his lips as you leaned towards each other.

You jumped as the door swung open, and Ghost tensed like he was about to start a flight. When you looked over his shoulder, Captain Price was standing there with a slight smile on his face and his arms across over his chest. "Am I interrupting?"

You blinked and yanked Ghost's mask back down over his face. "No. The Lieutenant was just helping me get some cotton off the top shelf."

He looked to Ghost with an eyebrow raised. "Is that true Simon?"

Ghost gave a curt nod. "It is sir."

Price smiled and shook his head. "You kids really have to talk about this. I'll be in the briefing room, meet me there in ten."

He closed the door as he left and silence filled the small room, Ghost cleared his throat and reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I think we should talk after the briefing."

You nodded. "Yeah, that would be good."

Part 3

@chaos-4baby

#simon riley/you #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon riley/reader #the way the stars love the heavens #call of duty

[pedrito-friskito]

I am a desperate little gremlin (who’s brain is refusing to go to sleep for some reason), politely asking for your Oberyn hcs? Or really any GoT hcs?

Thanks for always indulging in my nonsense <3

SCOUT SCOUT SCOUT SCOUT SCOUT

I’m sorry for letting this sit in my askbox for so long, my hyperfixations drifted for a while 😭 BUT I’m back on my GoT bullshit (for now) with a few hcs for our favourite prince AND a little something spicy under the cut cuz I’m in a M O O D.

oberyn martell headcanons:

this man is SMART. like…we already know oberyn is well-spoken and witting and cunning (and a little too vengeful but that’s what fix-it fics are for) but he’s a sexy-level of intelligent. and he’s a bookworm!! he reads any and every book he can get his hands on, his head is full of historical facts and timelines and details of battles won and lost. he can recount full summers and winters and when his girls ask for a story late at night, when they can’t sleep, he’s more than happy to spin a tale that’s not far off from the colourful past.

he’s a hopeless romantic. yes, he’s a gigantic flirt and a devil between the sheets and yes, he has you wrapped around his finger in the blink of an eye, but he does it well. we’re talking flowers and gifts and poems delivered to your chambers in the middle of the night. walks through the water gardens and long conversation, not just winning you over with his generosity, but his personality, his admiration, his ambition. he falls for you just as hard as you fall for him.

dorne is beautiful, no denying, and I like to think that the sweet prince has many secret hiding places, mini oasis (oases? the english language is weird) with beautiful gardens he likes to tend to. he could spend hours amongst the greenery, the exotic fruits and the sound of birds. he enjoys the beautiful things, and finds solace wherever he can.

I was gonna say he’s adventurous in bed but….that pretty much goes without saying so I don’t think it counts as an hc 😂 (and see below…😏)

silk - oberyn martell x fem!reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: light bondage, teasing, oberyn comes with his own warning, dirty talk, idk what the fuck this is and it’s unedited so HAVE FUN 💕

“Ah, ah, ah,” he purrs, the tip of his nose dragging along the stretch of your inner thigh. “Not yet, my love. You are doing so well for me.”

You can’t help the whine that falls from your lips, hips lifting to chase his slick lips. The ties around your wrists pull taut, the headboard behind you creaking with your movement. You can’t see him, but you can feel him, hands roving around your hips and over your stomach, fingers dancing along your skin as he kisses your skin, nips your flesh between his teeth.

“L-lover,” you stutter out, “Oberyn, please.”

He clucks his tongue at you now, and you can almost see the cat-like grin as he moves higher up the bed, adjusting the numerous pillows and blankets as he goes. His shoulder hooks beneath your knee, spreading you wider, putting you on display. 

You’ve been at this for hours.

It was like a game of cat and mouse, from the moment you opened your eyes. Every corner you turned, he was there, a mischievous light in those dark eyes, hands twitching when you brushed past. You teased just as hard as he did, hovering too close when you poured him more wine, swishing your skirts just the right way when he walked by. The look in his gaze had become something more feral, more intimidating, but you were more than happy to play along.

The sun had barely fallen when he’d summoned you to his chambers, the balcony doors wide open to let the warm Dornish air fill the space. The prince stood at the ledge, a glass of wine in his hand, his chest bare, that thick golden chain he favoured dangling from his neck. He held something in his grip as he turned to you, dark coloured fabric that shone in the torchlight. Silk scarves; he’d brought you one back as a gift from his last journey to Essos.

His lips twitched into a grin as the door shut behind you, the lock clicking shut when you sank against the wood. “My prince?”

“Do you trust me, my love?” he called, head cocked to the side. He set the glass of wine down, took the silk between both hands, slipping the fabric between his knuckles, watching it move like water through his fingers. “Would you let me try something we haven’t tried before?”

You weren’t one to deny your prince.

First, he had slipped the silk over your eyes, a loose knot tied at the back of your head, enough to cover your eyes. Once it was fastened, he turned you to face him, palms cupping your shoulders, and leaned in slow. You could feel it, the shift in the air as he came closer. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then let his mouth drag across the silk, the fabric catching on his lips.

He caught your chin next, a knuckle knocked beneath it, tilting your face up, your head back. “My beauty,” he murmured, thumb rubbing at your bottom lip, spreading your saliva along the pad. “Oh, how I cannot wait to watch you come undone.”

Oberyn laid you out on the bed next, sweeping you into his arms and carrying you across the room. You squealed when he swept you off your feet, clinging to him as he held you, burying your nose in his neck.

“I would not let you fall, my love.”

My love. My beauty. The possessiveness had you keening, even before he’d even started to touch you.

You stretched out as he laid you down, legs shifting beneath the thin skirts of your shift. He moved with you, hovering over you, your arms still latched around his neck, knees knocking wide for his hips to slide between.

He kissed you hard, tongue tasting of wine as it dipped into your mouth. You moaned, and he drank the noise, humming in approval when you buried your fingers in his hair, wrapped the short strands around your knuckles. When your hands moved, trailing down his shoulders, he struck, reaching for your wrists, pulling them away from his body. He held both in one big hand, tugged your arms over your head. You followed his lead, your eyes fluttering against the silk as he rolled his hips into yours as he manoeuvred you, and then you felt it.

More silk, looped around your wrists, pulled just taut enough to keep you in place, keep your hands from roaming his body. You bit back your whine at the notion of not touching him while he tended to you, but it was quickly replaced with another moan as he tugged your shift aside, lowered his mouth to your chest and took your nipple between his teeth.

Slowly, he touched you. Every skim of his fingers was featherlight, every scrape of his teeth just this side of not enough. Wherever his fingers moved, your body reacted, muscles twitching and limbs lifting, trying to get closer, trying to get more.

But he wouldn’t give it.

It was nearly torturous, the way he was dragging out your pleasure. Most nights, he’d bring you to that peak multiple times, pulling noises from your throat you didn’t think yourself capable of. This was different, the way he made you beg, the way your body did it willingly. He dragged you straight up to the edge, then left you there, waited for you to relax, before starting over, back to the beginning, your heart racketing in your chest.

And it’s been hours.

“Oberyn,” you keen, and he brushes the backs of his knuckles against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Every touch makes you twitch, and your spine arches when you feel his hot breath against your hotter core. “Please.”

“So sweet when you beg,” he murmurs, the feeling of his tongue flicking at your clit following a moment later. You gasp. “This pleasure, it feels incredible, does it not? I can see it, just below the surface of your skin. Like a fire, coming to life.” Another lick. “Though, I must admit, I do miss the feeling of your hands on me.”

“Let me—” you start, but you never get the words out completely. He licks at you, groaning into your very depths, every nerve in you sparking to life. Thick fingers spread you open, and even with the blindfold, you can feel his eyes on you, that heavy gaze raking over every inch of your body.

“Oh, my love,” he whispers, giving you another lick, the flat of his tongue a scorching heat that feels like it never ends. “We’re just getting started.”

#oberyn martell #my fics #silk #oberyn martell headcanons #oberyn martell smut #oberyn martell fic #oberyn martell x you #oberyn martell x reader

[glasswaters]

i wonder, father mine, with large hands and larger laughter, if it had been different, had I shared your face. if, when I was born, you could see your father's nose and the turn of your own eyes looking back at you as a mirror. might you have held me, then, long after my sibling was born, bleeding purple sound over your chest?

when i was a child, i would wish for bigger lungs so they might carry me to a mountain's peak. so i might expand my chest and fit within it enough strength to outrun my sibling, who was, even then, all muscle. all teeth.

(this is not a poem about my sibling and the shard-sharpness of them that you have whetted with your own tongue. this is not a poem where i want to take from you a pound of flesh for every one of their tears. this is not a poem for your favour.)

sometimes, when i try to remember the shape and feel of your hugs, all that stays in my mind, thick syrup, are your hands on my arms. the bruises in my skin. how my mind and my mouth and my body raced with rage so hot i could taste it. so sharp it dripped from my eyes into my throat and from my nose into my lips.

all that stays, some days, is how you would not let me go.

didn't i beg? didn't i claw and bite and scream, didn't i leave my nails deep enough within you that you're still scarred, today?

i don't look like you, or your father. or his, before him. my nose is too small, my mouth doesn't open wide enough. my face is too soft. my legs were not made for your kind of wanting.

that's alright. it is. i have, after all, never been my father's daughter.

#writerblr #spilled words #spilled ink #father daughter relationships #on parents #and favouritism #on family likeness #and grief #hello it's time for sad birthday poem

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Mother Bruce and His Baby Birds

First posted: April 2, 2018

Focuses on: Bruce Wayne et al

Favorite bookmark: "if only dc wasn't a coward"

Second favorite bookmark: "yooo i felt god in this chili's tonight"

Tier: As of queue date, #6 in hits and kudos, #5 in comments, #7 in bookmarks and subscriptions

This is my "behind the scenes" series where I indulge myself horribly by annotating my fics.

I haven't figured out the best way to cover multi-chapter fics, especially behemoths like Nature and Nurture or The Return, so this is a test. I'll start with chapter one and reblog with additions for each chapter, I think. If there's a better way, please send suggestions.

Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

Chapter One

My very first fic ever. I got obsessed with reading fic for a few months (thanks to @audreycritter's Cor Et Cerebrum and @unpretty's Sorrowful and Immaculate Hearts, and finally needed a little bit of output to balance out the input. It wasn't really planned, which is why my name is what it is. I'd made the lurker account to do just that and nothing more. Which feels a little silly now, five years and almost 100 fics later. 😬

The title comes from the Ryan Higgins picture book, because titles are harrrrrrd.

I think this is my only fic with chapter names, other than The Return.

He knew how it felt--that teeth-rattling, rib-crushing, pulse-racing sensation--and he knew how to push through it.

You see? You see how new I was at this? I hadn't even looked up the em-dash shortcut yet.

"And I don’t care if Arthur Pennypacker says gelato contains the required daily serving of calcium. Alfred will not let you survive on gelato alone.”

I am going to try very hard to be proud of this, my little baby fic, and not critical, but it's going to be very difficult when I clearly had to pluck a name out of thin air and ended up with Arthur Pennypacker being discussed in the same scene where Alfred Pennyworth exists. Yeesh.

"Art’s the fathead that stole Eddie’s gym shorts and ran them up the Academy flagpole.”

I wrote a joke poem about this kind of scenario for school once and it got published as part of a contest. Reduce reuse recycle.

The grin was still there, a bright smile full of pleasantly crooked teeth that leaned into each other like birds in a winter wind, but the corner of Jason’s mouth twisted hesitantly.

If I were doing this again, I'd make Jason a little less golly gee mister in tone, but at least he's precious.

Jason had always been gifted at picking up the scent of unease. Dick, Bruce’s outgoing ward, could read emotions. Jason could read tells.

Now that's clever, if I do say so myself. Good job, Amateur Me.

Jason dropped his spoon back in the empty gelato cup and ran his fingers over the stitching of the baseball on the table.

I reference that ball later in another fic and for the life of me right now I can't remember which one. Ah well. Put a pin in this. You'll see it again.

I thought I was gonna miss it for sure! And then after, Raul Huezo right there in front’a me! Just like, pshew! Did’ja see Bruce?

Raul Huezo was a spoof on a real-life baseball player... and I no longer remember who. Pity.

For a moment, all was still. Bruce had stopped breathing entirely, and it felt like Jason had as well. Bruce gripped Jason tightly, struggling to keep the preteen from falling out of his precarious half-perch on Bruce’s lap and onto the floor. But Jason was clutching Bruce just as tightly, gangly arms wrapped around Bruce’s neck and face pressed into Bruce’s chest. Tentatively, Bruce lowered his face to Jason’s hair and breathed in the smell of shampoo, sweat, and ballfield.

dadhugdadhugdadhugdadhug

Hitting post on this very first chapter was terrifying but everyone was awfully nice. And it's so fun to look back and realize @cdelphiki was my very first commenter ever. Like hey! I know that name!

#fanfic bts brain dump

[sagemonsters]

Though Hell Should Bar the Way

Summary: Bess is a night owl and a college student—a combination that turns out to be dangerous when she realizes she can’t make it back to her residence during an ice storm at 3am. After being saved by a strange, mute motorcyclist who is reluctant to remove his helmet, Bess is eager to uncover his secrets.

Status: SFW

Relationship: cis female human (she/her) x cis male dullahan (he/him)

Word Count: 2,200

Notes: this is a modern AU fanfic of Alfred Noyes' poem "The Highwayman"

Chapter 1 of 1

Bess all but screamed when someone tapped her shoulder in the small study cubicle on the fourth floor of the Holger Library. One of the assistant librarians, Alex, grabbed her half-empty Starbucks cup before Bess could knock it over as she recoiled, and her Beyoncé-induced study euphoria ended as that motion yanked her wired earbuds out of her ears.

“—Closing in five minutes, Miss Noyes,” Alex said.

“Right, yeah… What time is it?” Bess asked. 

Alex set her Starbucks cup back down on the desk. “Five minutes to three o’clock in the morning,” he answered, and then looked down at his wristwatch. “Four, actually.”

Bess blinked, then dived for her phone in her backpack; the time was correct. “Damn,” she muttered. She had an English final—a timed essay—in six hours; she needed to get whatever sleep she could before it started.

“Be careful out there—the snow feels like falling glass, and everything’s iced over,” Alex warned. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope you don’t have far to walk to get back to your dorm.”

“My apartment is on Kerr Green,” Bess said.

Alex looked at her in horror for a moment, then gave her a wince of sympathy; Kerr Green was halfway across the city, since Losthaven University had a decentralized campus whose student residences gave grief to the aforementioned students and city planners alike. 

“Get an Uber or Lyft or whatever,�� Alex said. “You cannot walk there in weather like this.”

Bess shook her head as she shrugged on and buttoned her navy blue peacoat. “I’m broke at the moment. I’ll be fine, though. Thank you.”

Alex gave her a final, worried look, then left the cubicle and resumed his patrol for other students who had missed the closing announcement. Bess shouldered her backpack and took the stairs to the library’s front door, and then paused.

The pavement outside the library was slick and shining with ice, just as Alex had promised, and she could see more ice coating the streetlamps and the lone USPS box. The plows had already come by, so the roads looked reasonably clear—but snow piled high in dirty, irregular drifts to either side of the street, and more was falling by the minute.

For a few moments, Bess allowed herself to despair. She could call her mother in Florida and ask for twenty-five dollars to get an Uber back to her apartment—but that would be the second time this week she asked for money, and it was three o’clock in the morning, so her pride forbid such a thing. Bess huffed to herself, then pulled on her hat and gloves and stepped outside.

The wind hit her like a broadsword, slicing through her layers and carving straight to her core. This was, without a doubt, a proper New England winter storm, and Bess fancied that she could feel ice crystals making shallow cuts into the inside of her lungs as she inhaled; the air was so cold that breathing hurt. She wobbled in place as the wind threatened to bowl her over on the slick pavement.

Bess managed to get five blocks in the direction of Kerr Green before she realized she should have swallowed her pride and called her mother. She had fallen twice during those five blocks, and her fingers were aching with cold inside her gloves even after she had shoved them into her coat pockets. 

She eased herself into an alleyway for some reprieve from the wind and unzipped her backpack with clumsy, gloved fingers. After some digging, she managed to pull out her phone, and then removed one glove with her teeth to unlock the device with her fingerprint. The cold ache intensified in that hand, so much so that it shook with pain. She could barely feel the phone anymore, but managed to open the CALL app—

The phone slipped out of her fingers and fell to the asphalt at her feet. The screen went dark, and when Bess picked it up she saw a spiderweb of cracks across the screen. 

Crying is useless. Crying is useless. Crying is useless… Bess told herself, but the tears were welling up anyway and stinging at the corners of her eyes. She fumbled her glove back on and turned to trudge back out into the wind. Maybe there was still someone at the library, and she could beg them to let her use the phone at the front desk…

A headlight sliced through the snowy nighttime murk in front of the alleyway, followed closely by the deafening snarl of a motorcycle engine. An all-black bike with a helmeted rider swathed head to toe in black leather gear pulled to a stop in front of the alley, its engine settling into a low, coughing growl. The rider’s helmet, with its shadowed visor pulled down, turned toward Bess. He let go of the handlebar and held out his hand to her.

Bess stared.

The rider curled and uncurled his gloved fingers in a beckoning gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, Bess stumbled toward him. The sidewalk was slippery beneath her boots. She tottered as another gust of wind hit her, instinctively reaching out for support, and the rider grabbed her wrist and helped her upright—helped her the final few steps toward him, too.

“Can you take me to Kerr Green on West River Street?” Bess asked, shouting to be heard over the wind and the engine. The rider was still holding her wrist.

The rider nodded, and Bess was cold and desperate enough to climb on behind him and wrap her arms around his midsection. The motorcycle’s engine howled to life like a thing possessed, and she and the rider tore down the street. 

The wind whipped icy snow into her eyes, so Bess hid her face against the rider’s leather-clad shoulder. At this speed, it was even colder than before, and she was so very tired. She’d have to get her phone replaced tomorrow, and she had her English final too…

When Bess lifted her head after a particularly hard turn, she saw tongues of green ghostfire licking at the motorcycle’s wheels, and more streaming out from the engine like banners. One flame seemed to be in contact with her leg, but it didn’t appear to be spreading to the cloth of her pants and Bess felt no heat. She blinked hard, but the flames didn’t go away. 

This is real, she realized, and a moment later: this isn’t a normal motorcyclist.

“Stop! Stop!” Bess shrieked, and shook the rider’s shoulder. A moment later he swerved into a narrow side street, slowed to a stop, and put his feet down to balance the bike. The green ghostfire dimmed and then faded to nothingness. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“Who are you?” Bess demanded. “What are you?”

The rider said nothing.

“What do you want?”

The rider twisted around as much as he could so that he could face her properly. Bess looked into the visor, but couldn’t see even the faintest shadow of a face beneath it. The rider reached up a hand and brought two fingers to her cold lips in the barest ghost of a touch, then pulled away.

“What does that mean?” Bess asked. And then, more softly, “Are you mute?”

The rider nodded. 

“Okay,” Bess whispered after a moment. “Okay, let’s… let’s keep going, then.”

The rider gripped the hand that she still had wrapped around him, threading their fingers together and giving a light squeeze, then pulled away and started the motorcycle again. Bess tucked her head back down against his shoulder and did her best to endure the cold and wind and ice, but the flaring ghostfire provided no warmth; by the time they arrived at Kerr Green and the student residences that lined the park, she had largely stopped shivering. 

The cold had numbed her mind as well as her extremities, and it was hard to move. The rider had to help her to her door, and he followed her inside when Bess struggled with her gloves in the entryway. He heated water in a bowl in the microwave of the kitchenette, then helped her remove her gloves and submerge her frostbitten hands in the warm water.

“Thanks,” Bess said, and started shivering again as her body thawed. The rider, still in all his leather gear, pulled off her ice-rimed hat and coat and boots, then draped the blanket on the back of the couch over the space heater to warm it up before wrapping it around her shoulders where she sat at the kitchen table. 

“You can take off your helmet if you want,” Bess said when feeling started to return to her fingers and toes.

The rider hesitated, and then the helmet shook from side to side.

Bess attempted a reassuring smile. “I promise I won’t tell anyone what you look like.”

Another shake of the helmet. 

When Bess’ fingers no longer hurt, she pulled them out of the bowl, flexed them experimentally, and then started fidgeting with a tassel on the corner of the blanket.

“Thank you for all your help,” she said. “It really… I mean, I think I might have died without you.”

The rider nodded, then moved toward the door.

“Wait!” Bess said. “Please… please don’t leave just yet.”

The rider paused and looked back at her. Bess stood up, still with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and went to him. She reached out and touched his arm; there really wasn’t a single inch of exposed skin showing among the black leather, not a single smidgen of humanity or clue towards his identity.

“What’s your name?” Bess asked.

The rider shook his head, then reached up and brushed his gloved fingers over her lips again. 

Bess felt her cheeks heating in a blush. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me before you go.” She knew it was a ridiculously romantic thing to say, something out of the trashy romance novels she kept hidden under her bed, but what else was there to say in a situation like this? What else was there to do?

The rider reached into a pocket of his jacket and brought out a small, dogeared notebook and a stub of pencil. He wrote for a few moments, then showed the page to her:

I CAN’T KISS.

“Why not?” Bess asked. 

The rider started to move past her, toward the door, and Bess darted in front of him and put her back to the door to bar his path. “I’m not moving until you tell me what’s going on,” she said. 

There was a pause. The warm yellow lights in the apartment flickered, dimmed, and then died entirely, and that sickly green ghostfire curled out of the lamps and from the burners of the stove. A chill crept in, not as terrible as the storm raging outside but still cold enough that Bess wrapped the blanket tighter around herself.

The rider took off his helmet, revealing empty air; he had no head.

Bess’ eyes went wide.

The headless rider wrote again in his notebook and showed it to her: SCARED?

“No,” Bess said, even though that wasn’t quite the truth. She stepped forward and put her hands on the chest of the rider’s jacket. “Show me the rest of you.”

The rider pulled off his gloves. He had normal-looking hands, although they were room temperature at Bess’ touch and had no warmth of life within them. The high-collared jacket came off next, revealing a plain black shirt that had a human-seeming chest underneath it. When Bess laid a hand over where his heart should be, however, there was no beat beneath her fingers, and his tattooed skin was cool.

“Why did you help me?” Bess asked.

WHY NOT?

Bess frowned. “That isn’t a good answer.”

YOU SHOULD STOP ASKING QUESTIONS, THEN.

Bess folded her arms over her chest. “Absolutely not. You…” She felt her cheeks heat in another blush and forced herself to be brave: “If you can’t kiss me before you leave, then I’m sure there are other things we can do.”

SUCH AS? the headless rider wrote.

Bess’ blush intensified. She reached for the top button of her blouse, but then hesitated. “I don’t know how to start without at least a kiss,” she confessed.

CAN I SHOW YOU?

Bess nodded. “Please,” she whispered, and the long ribbons of emerald ghostfire burned high and bright throughout the apartment as the headless rider set aside his notebook and reached for her.

•

The storm had died by the time dawn arrived, and newborn sunlight glittered atop the ice that sheathed the city in crystalline glory. Bess awoke alone, and found that her final had been postponed via an email from her English professor. She smiled and plaited a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Enjoy my writing? Please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write.

You can also read this story in the August 2023 edition of the much-loved M❤️NSTER magazine.

#monster romance #monster lover #terato #sage's portfolio #monster x human #monster boyfriend #dullahan #romance writing #romance fiction #the highwayman #fanfiction

[dujour13]

OC Kiss Week - day 3

For my friend @the-raging-tempest and your poor, damaged, chaotic evil swan Zrise whom I love so much, unfortunately 💜

Obsessed with that poem you shared:

The knocking finally stops and Zrise’s stomach churns with a bitter mixture of gratitude and dread when he hears the door handle click. He shies away from the blade of light that slices through the gloom of his chamber. He feels like a cornered animal.

He’s locked himself away and hasn’t eaten in two days but the blood meal still buzzes savagely in his veins.

It’s Siavash because of course it’s Siavash. After what happened anyone else would have the sense to stay the fuck away.

Zrise coils. He wants to bullrush him and shove him violently and also to throw his arms around him, and the despair of knowing he’s too much of a coward to do the right thing is strangling.

Siavash shuts the door and whispers an arcane word that kindles a rosy flame in the wall lamp. The shadows retreat to the corners of the cold, stone-walled room. “Zrise? Talk to me.”

“Stay away from me,” he snarls, and yet he advances, fists balled. He’s a knot of hostile muscle.

There’s no sign of alarm in Siavash’s expression. He’s backed against the door and Zrise could break him in half but he only tilts his head, calmly assessing Zrise’s flashing fangs with nothing but gentle confusion.

You fool, Zrise thinks. Run. Call your guards. Cast one of your stupid rainbow spells on me. Just stop standing there looking at me.

But Siavash doesn’t move, so Zrise closes in. This rage sits differently in his chest, rising into what he fears might become a sob or a primal cry of loneliness. He knows what he looks like when he bares his teeth like this; Oria told him enough times. Only Oria thought it was sexy.

And Oria’s dead.

Siavash refuses to shrink back, not even an inch. He’s holding Zrise’s gaze and waiting for something, and Zrise isn’t sure what it is and he doesn’t want to have to hurt him and it’s taking every ounce of strength he has left to try to get him to run, godsdamn it.

Close enough to feel his breath, Zrise’s gaze shrinks away from his unbearable tenderness and lands on his neck, hypnotized by the pulse under the warm skin. Blood that probably tastes like a fucking piña colada. He’s salivating but the thought of piercing that skin makes him want to gag and he reaches up and brushes his fingers over the precious pulse as if to ward off the danger he himself poses to it. The gesture is awkward.

Far too confidently Siavash says, “It’s going to be all right.”

“Sometimes it isn’t. Life isn’t all butterflies and sunshine.”

“I know, Zrise.”

He’s not talking about himself, Zrise realizes. It’s as if he can see right through it all to the wounds underneath—to the ice-cold suffocating pain that has never left his lungs. “Then why don’t you fucking back off? Don’t you know poison when you see it?”

“I’m not scared of you.”

He ought to say you should be but he can’t do that any more than he can bite into that sweet, exposed throat. He hates himself.

The way Siavash holds his gaze is a challenge, one Zrise doesn’t think he’s up to. In despair he surrenders to his own powerlessness, and when at last his lips part, it is not to bite.

It is as if those impossibly warm lips are breathing life into him again—or as if he is stealing the life from them, but he can’t tear himself away. He holds on like a drowning man.

You see how worthless and weak I am. How miserably I failed to do the right thing. You’re going to get hurt.

Stop me.

#ockiss24 #my writing #friends' ocs #zrise #siavash #pwotr pals

[maryannecrimsworth]

I'm already in Nether

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10

Guide for tormented hearts

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Selective mute reader

Warnings: mention of past trauma; Alp's powers; angst and disturbing poems; animal dead body

Summary: You're an Alp, the night elf of nightmares — you attacked Wednesday, and before running back home, you left a book at her door. A book about you it, the Alp. And Wednesday found a message from you between the pages.

Some reader's characteristics: R has anxiety disorder, selective mutism, and is a really unique type of outcast. Reader's background it's derived from my Wednesday fic, The Hunt.

More details of Hank background and his partnership with Wednesday here.

You're already in hell.

That's what it feels like, waking up in a skin that isn't yours, seeing through eyes that don't belong to you, living memories you haven't created — it all comes to you when you wake up, and this time wasn't different. 

After sprinting away from Wednesday's bedroom, your whole body ached as your mind burned. The flashes of what you saw rotted within your brain and your chest tightened with a feeling which was not yours. It was Wednesday's. 

The disgust of her boyfriend's lips, the anger and wrath within her mind — everything the Alp could use of her unconsciousness to torture her conscious self — and you felt the Alp's pleasure for it. Its laughter and happiness before the Addams opened her eyes. It did not please you — the feeling twisted your stomach everytime — but its feeling was there. It was there, inside you, somehow, and anguish crawled over your skin as you walked back home. 

Hank begged you not to do it, but you did: you left the book in the hallway and walked home on foot. 

The soles of your feet bruised from the repeated contact with the concrete, and your body shivered from the cold wind, but you felt nothing.

You didn't feel your own fingernails scratching your skin or the sweat dripping from your forehead, despite the cold weather.  

You felt nothing but disgust for yourself. 

X

"I need to talk to you." Hank broke into Wednesday’s room without knocking. He knew she would be there alone: saving herself from the teenagers' links and boring classes of the day. "I have been told that—"

"I'm already going to meet your brother." Wednesday told him, barely moving from her desk. "There's no need for negotiation."

"What?" Hank almost shouted. "Look, if you need a trade to meet my brother, you better stay away from him." Hank's eyes flashed with a blue light for a moment. "No, I came here to warn you. I have bad news."

"Spill it."

"Vincent Thorpe has been released from jail." Wednesday finally turned to him. "Considered innocent by the court."

"Not possible, we handed conclusive evidence to the police." Wednesday retorted. 

"All circumstantial. With Thornhill and the sheriff's wife gone, there is no relevant victim. Only Tyler could have testified but…" 

"He didn't." Wednesday muttered. "What about the Peterson's death?"

"The police told the media he was a hero and swept the whole investigation under the rug.."

"I know what I saw."

"I know you did.' Hank sighed. "But Vincent knows what we’ve done and I bet he hates us even more."

"He’s harmless now." Wednesday walked over her desk, her eyes falling down once again to the journal opened on the table. "His reputation has been completely destroyed."

"Which means he has nothing left to lose." Hank gritted his teeth and walked back to the door. "Be careful."

He was about to close it and leave when Wednesday's cold voice reached him one last time. 

"Where is Y/N?" She asked. 

"Home.” And Hank closed the door. 

Wednesday waited for the sound of his footsteps to go further down the hallway, returning to her reading once she was sure the advisor had left Ophelia Hall. 

The words echoed inside her mind as she read the poem again: the same handwriting that quoted Ovid yesterday showed itself with more complex, more hasty words in the folded paper in the middle of the mythology book. It was Y/N’s, Wednesday knew, but the words made no sense: the rhymes and dialogues held a meaning that the Addams’ didn’t quite understand. 

She read it again: 

Its fingers tickers my skull

Its fangs, its eyes, its teeth — my ghoul

"Obey and bow" It screams

"I'm you whole, the bane of your soul"

Which soul? I'm lone and torn

A scarred husk, outer and sore

My mind is it

The images flashing from its

devilish trickery remains within, filling

I'm haunted for its urge against the living

I see through its eyes, tripping

our minds linked together 

I can't escape it forever

I know: we belong together I have no blether

I'm already in Nether

“Nether” in mythology, represents hell, the place evil spirits go to burn for eternity; in reality, it’s a place lower than the superface, below the ground, where the dead are buried — either way, it represents the end, a miserable and hideous outcome, the path no sane person wants to tread, and you claimed you were already in it, in hell. 

Was it all because of the Alp? Does your “ghoul” talk to you? Did you choose to invade her mind? Why was your poem between the pages of the description of your deepest secret?

Wednesday stood up and stormed out her room, your book in her hands as she headed to Jericho, to your house, to you.

Wednesday managed to capture the keys to Hank's motorcycle in minutes: as she made her way through the crowded halls of the school, attracting eyes again by the absence of the black uniform around her body, Thing invaded and fled from your brother's office silently. 

Thing handed the key to his cousin and jumped on the back of the moto, but Wednesday pushed him away with a gesture. She started the engine and left Thing behind, driving quickly to the small house on the verge of Nevermore territory. 

During the nights of the full moon, when your brother went into the woods to train with the werewolves, it was possible to hear the howls and grunts of the packs. Locked inside your glass cell, you would stay up all night with books around you until Hank returned. 

This night, even though it was not a full moon, wasn’t different: as soon as you returned home, when the sun was already rising, you locked all the entrances and exits of your dwelling and then locked yourself in your bedroom. You weren't going to leave the place until Hank was there, no matter what: no matter what was going to happen at school the next day, or what Wednesday was going to think about you.

Now, all you could worry about was the images and whispers stuck in your head — "I love you, cara mia." the deep voice repeated itself, making you want to vomit. Then, you saw Enid, Eugene and Hank, chained to the ground, utterly motionless a few moments before the kiss. 

You knew the reason behind the kiss: you could hear the Alp giggling when it happened, you knew how much it hurted Wednesday. Being kissed again by the boy who fooled her — the one who almost defeated her — who became involved with her by a mere revenge plan, you saw the scars in her unconscious almost as clearly as the Alp did. 

You got inside her mind and saw everything — just like the Alp did. You could not stop it nor hold the memories back — the nightmares your own ghoul created used to come back in the mornings to haunt you, their images and sounds echoing within your mind as if the awful dream were your own. 

The only way to put all them out — the feeling of Tyler’s lips, the sounds of the rattling chains, the Alp’s laughter — is to write. That’s why you grabbed your journal from your cell’s floor — it was your seventh notebook so far — and started to write the whole nightmare down: its taste, its sounds, its smell, its pain. 

You were finishing the third page when a sequence of low thuds came from behind you. 

“Hank, you got it all wrong.” Your voice startled her at first. Looking at your back, Wednesday watched you sitting in front of her, she was standing in the doorway while you sat on the floor, left arm and head so bent that your spine was curved like a shell. The papers were spread in a spiral pattern around you, following almost the same extraordinary and painful curve as your posture. You looked natural, sitting in the middle of the room, with a glass cage near you and shelves full of books and notebooks all over the walls. You didn't even have a bed, only a desk and a chair next to your cell. “Mama did not come back for us” You went on, and Wednesday had to focus on the movement of your jaw and neck to believe that this was your voice: your tone was so hoarse, so low, so sharp — it did not fit you. “And I know why. I figured the—” Your voice stopped the moment your eyes rose minimally, only enough to glimpse that the shoes near your face did not belong to Hank. 

You stood up abruptly and your foot slipped on a paper, your body stooping and almost falling while your eyes were locked on Wednesday’s. 

The pencil fell from your hand before the words you were writing — the words about her — were lost again among your thoughts.

“I've come to return your book.” She stepped forward. “And your poem.”

Half of you wanted to run away, and your other half wanted to step closer, but you stood still, froze. 

“Were you in control all along?” You shook your head vehemently, soon grabbing your pencil and a paper from the ground. 

I can only watch, you wrote, handing the note to Wednesday and moving away immediately. You paced fastly over your room, jumping over the spread papers and skillfully grabbing a notebook from a high shelf. You’re already back in front of her by the time she read your note and poem one more time.

“The Alp communicates with you.” She whispered as you replaced the papers on her hands with your notebook. “You can see the nightmares it creates.”

Like a hellish haunting.

You signed to Wednesday to open the notebook but her eyes remained on something above your left hand. 

“Hank hasn’t healed you.” She stated, as if to force you to acknowledge the sling that was on your own shoulder. “Why?”

You swallowed dryly, not moving a finger nor eyebrow to reply to her.

"If you were not in control, if you can only observe, why didn't you deny it? Why didn't you defend yourself last night?" She stepped forward again, too close for you to look away from her now. “If you are not guilty, why have you not been healed?”

You took the notebook back and headed for your desk, her voice growing at your back “I could have killed you.” You used the table as a support to open the notebook and flip to the pages you wanted. “I nearly did.” Wednesday’s eyes glanced at your sling one last time before you held out the notebook for her. 

She read your writing: 

Her fingers under my skin

as she pulls off my clothes

her grip surrounding my nape,

as the cold steel brushes my wrists

"Make Mama Happy"

she whispers in my ear

"You're mine, my Hyde"

So I make stride: I go after her, for my life

lying and kissing for one more day untied

the warm skin squirming around my nails, my claws

the hot blood splits in my face and I brawl

I laugh and I cry

I scream and I thrive

Which one took over me this time?

“Is this—” Wednesday raised her eyes to you just in time to see you shaking your head and running off again. “Have you been in Tyler’s head as well?” She followed you around the room while you tried to reach another high shelf. They were not high for Hank, of course, but your entire spine snapped as you reached out to grab another notebook. You cursed beneath your breath before holding the book out to the Addams. This time, she flipped through the pages without your help.

“You write all the nightmares.” She stated, her eyes running over the words on your notebook. “You remember everything.” You nodded slowly. “That’s your living hell.”

And that’s yours. You delivered her another note, a separated paper with confusing sketches and letters. 

But Wednesday stopped reading as soon as she understood what it was about. It was about her.

“You should—” You rushed after a piece of paper before she could finish. “I wrote something.” Her whisper was enough to stop your writing and make you look at her. 

“I…”  Wednesday walked over to you, the paper squeezed between her fingers now being held out for you. “Here.”

You froze again: your eyes noticed the hesitation on Wednesday's face and you turned away. You had already seen into her mind, and in return you showed her part of yours: you needed to show her that it wasn’t your choice. 

It was never your intention to demand any kind of personal or private information from her — not when she was the only person in Nevermore who had tolerated your silence. 

Still, she kept holding the paper until the doubt left her features and you gathered the strength to read it. 

“The word is weightless on my lips, it holds no meaning or purpose, it's simply a useless prototype of feeling, which insists to ascend to my chest. Yet, it lingers in my head, its taste remains in my throat, makes twits in my guts. Neither madness nor death seems like this — it is their most acute opposite.

My path, however, is solitary, a doom for all who dare to seek closeness.

Death awaits at the end of my road.”

You smiled as soon as you finished reading her writing, and wrote your reply right below her text. Wednesday frowned as you handed the paper back to her: “God himself helps those who dares.”

Your laughter increased as a surprised expression came over her face — the curling of her lips and widening of her eyes was minimal, but you had grown accustomed to paying attention to the Addams' every feature.

She had walked over to the desk to write a reply when a sound came from outside the room.

You frowned as Wednesday lifted her head toward the doorway. You put your forefinger in front of your lips and gestured to her, then followed the sound's origin with her by your side.

It didn't take long for you to cross the hallway and reach the living room. Your eyes were drawn to the light streaming through the curtain, which was now swinging out of the broken window. 

Under the shattered glass, a corpse was bleeding on the carpet: a dead dog, its belly open, spilling its guts all over the floor.

Your hands went up to your nose and you held your breath as Wednesday examined the animal.

You knew that smell.

It reminded you of home.

@cursedchar (this whole Hyde poem thing it's your fault) @i984 (thank you for the help!) @4pparecium @toournextadventure @tnnadia @colezb @elduster @efectoangel @sweetaimu @tundra1029 @rainbowsixreader

#wednesday x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams #wednesday fanfic #original character #tyler galpin #the hyde #wednesday addams x male reader #wednesday addams x gn reader #german folklore

[whollyfree]

Sweet Nothing

Summary – singer!reader writes a song about jake Pairings – Jake Kiszka x f!reader

Word Count – ~800

Warnings – literally just pure fluff idk what else to say

You and Jake’s relationship was a secret to the world.

In your own small bubble, you found the happiness you never thought you could find with him by your side. Of course, both of your friends and family knew, but the safety net of keeping things private was pertinent to you. You felt safe with this; that you didn't have to show this dear and precious side of your life to the world.

That being said, vulnerability wasn’t necessarily your strong suit, but ever since you fell in love with Jake, you found yourself taking baby steps into the path of this new journey. You felt safe with him; that you could tell him anything without judgment and he would continue to love you for exactly who you are.

Soon enough, this leap of faith took on a life of its own into your music. And as Jake found himself traveling up toward his bedroom, you assured him you would only be a few more minutes, having kept yourself busy with the new project in front of you.

I spy with my little tired eye

Tiny as a firefly

A pebble that we picked up last July

Down deep inside your pocket

We almost forgot it

Does it ever miss Wicklow sometimes?

“Now this is supposed to be the other way around,” Jake’s voice was quiet against you, a soft smile gracing his features as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head. You smiled, leaning against him as his head found a spot in between your neck and your left shoulder.

It was normally you pulling Jake’s hand away from his pen and paper to join you into bed, but tonight it was different. He knew you didn’t typically bring your work home with you (or at least tried not to), so this must be something special.

It had been nearly an hour since you told him you would only be a few more minutes, but you were so lost in your own work and the emotions he brought from you to pour into a song that you almost didn’t want to leave the piano.

“Do you remember when we went to Ireland over the summer?” You ask and he hums in agreement, moving your hair behind your shoulder to place a gentle kiss to the side of your throat.

You fight back a giggle. “And we went to Wicklow,” another kiss higher and a hum. “And we brought home that pebble?” He plants a kiss just below your ear and you laugh. He hums again to respond.

“Well,” you turn your head slightly. “I put it in a song.”

You feel him pull away and meet your eyes with a look of confusion. Drowsiness was evident on his features as his robe hung loosely off of him.

“Writing songs about pebbles…I’d say that’s a new creative direction for you, sweetheart.” He chuckles, his tanned chest catching the light from the piano lamp and you laugh in response.

“No,” you fight back more laughter before looking back at him. “It’s about you.”

Jake’s expression changes into a look of pure love and adoration; the look that was only reserved for you. His heart filled with butterflies as he took in the sight of you. Here you were, the one person he loved most in this world, sat at his piano in his house who wrote a song about him.

On the way home

I wrote a poem

You say, "What a mind"

This happens all the time

“Well, what about me, angel?” Jake’s smile hasn’t left his lips as he looks onto the lyrics you scribbled onto the journal in front of you.

“I wrote a poem on our way home-”

“Mm, the one you never let me read.”

You smile, “that’s the one,” he grins again, his teeth gracing his lips. “It’s about how I feel when I’m with you. How you just want me for who I am, nothing else.”

You could’ve sworn you saw a tear form in his eye under the light as his smile faded into something much softer. His eyes stayed glued to yours, and you could see the words forming in his head before speaking. He wanted to express his gratitude in the most eloquent way he possibly could for you.

“You’re all I’ll ever want,” his voice is nearly a whisper. “I wouldn’t trade anything for this heaven of a life I have with you.”

Now it was your turn for tears to form as you smiled back. Jake leans in using his thumb and index finger to pull you into a tender kiss. You felt everything from that action alone; all of the love possible just from one gentle feeling of his lips on yours.

They said the end is coming

Everyone's up to something

I find myself running home to your sweet nothings

Outside, they're push and shoving

You're in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing

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#jake kiszka #jake gvf #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka blurb #greta van fleet #greta van fic #greta van fluff #my writing #josh kiszka #josh gvf #sam kiszka #sammy gvf #sam gvf #danny gvf #jake kiszka fluff #jake kiszka one shot

[manias-wordcount]

Any piece of smut about Mori Ogai 😩❤️ please just keep it explicitly consensual with elements of fluff

Bite Me (Mori Ougai x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗶 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝗳𝗲𝘄 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗶 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚: 𝘃𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗲𝘅

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

Mori is a biter. 

  And you’ve been teasing him about that for as long as you could remember. He rarely shows his teeth when he smiles. It was just something you noticed when he was in the company of others. But even then, you could see it. You swear you could see the shiny glint off of a pair of sharp canines poking out behind the smirk placed upon his lips. So naturally, you brought it up to him after the first time you spotted them. A minor detail you’ve noticed about the ever-so-secretive and mysterious leader. Something to make light conversation with. Something to prove that he’s not the only observant one in the room. 

  To anyone else, this wouldn’t be a wise decision. He’s known to be cold and cruel when something less than favorable happens. To speak so casually to the leader of the Port Mafia is an action to seal one fate. To doom one’s life. And they’d be right. If it  wasn’t  you. Because it’s nobody else but you who has had years and years worth of escorted walks through gardens and love poems uttered in your ears when no one is looking. Nobody else but you has been told by  the Mori Ougai that he would buy you a thousand roses, a vault full of gems,  all  of Yokohama if it meant you spare him a kind look every once in a while. That’s why nobody else but you can get away with saying:

  “ My, my grandma. What big teeth you have~”

  As if it was nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.

  But then he looked at you. Right as you finish speaking. He just looks long and hard at you, in a way that makes the whole world disappear from your view. A way that makes you realize that while you will never meet the sharp end of one of his blades. That he would never  dream  of letting you see it. But he could still make you beg for mercy in a different way. Or better yet, beg for  more.

  Because that was when his smirk grew and grew and grew. And suddenly, seeing those teeth of his aren’t enough for you anymore.  You needed to feel them . You needed to see what he could do with them. How hard he could bite. How sweetly he could kiss. You  needed  to see what he could do with them. Again, and again, and again. So you did.  Again, and again, and again.  And this time?

  “ O-ougai…”

  This time is no different.

  “Oh? You like this, don’t you, beautiful?” He murmurs in your ear, voice nice and low. The words just brush against your ear, causing you to shudder and gasp at the feeling. You can just imagine the cocky look on his. The furrow of his brows, the upturned corners of his lips. But you’re helpless to do something about it. Helpless to turn around and retaliate. To give him a taste of his own medicine. Absolutely helpless. “You’re just squeezing around me so nicely. Maybe I should  fuck you  like this more often.”

  And you both love it.

  The position he has you in is so lewd. It makes you feel exposed. It makes you feel vulnerable. But most importantly, you feel  desired.  You’re half pressed up against the walls of his office with your back to his chest. One leg resting against the ground, supporting your weight. The other being hiked in the air with Mori’s hand cupping the underside of your thigh. His free hand takes its time traversing your body. Though it always has a funny way of coming back to rest on your lower stomach. Pressing down in a way that should be illegal with just how good it makes you feel. And of course, there’s the situation with his cock. The one that you currently have buried inside of you as he hits it from the back and reminds you who you belong to when the lights are down and the bets are off.

  “Ougai…” His name pours from your lips breathlessly. In your head, there are so many things you want to say to him. You want to tease him for being so impatient. Poke fun at him for not being able to wait until you both were home before he was reaching into your pants and grinding against you. Maybe even scold him for ripping the buttons off of one of his favorite blouses. But then he manages to hit an angle inside of you that has you crying out and shutting your eyes. And suddenly everything you wanted to say is gone from your tongue. Instead, only one word comes out: “ M-more… ”

  Your request is as simple as it is straightforward. But to Mori, it must have meant everything in the world. Because it was that one word that got him to hike your leg higher, allowing him to reach ever so deeper inside of him. That one word was what had him reaching down to place an eager little finger on your neglected clit. And it was that one word you spoke that got him to hook his head over your shoulder and press feather-light kisses onto your exposed skin. Second, before he turned his head and sank his teeth into your neck. 

  And oh, how you moaned. It’s at that sensation that your body really started to go into overdrive. This was the feeling you were looking for. This was the feeling you were seeking out from the very beginning. The feeling of his mouth against your heated skin, biting soft enough so that he doesn’t break skin. Yet hard enough so that you’ll be walking out of this room wrapped in one of his shirts with a pretty little bruise to match. Just like every single other little mark he’s left on your body today alone. Every little spot on your thighs. Every little spot on the soft flesh beneath your breast. Even the fresh little imprint of his teeth on your ass cheeks. All because of him. All because of him and those sharp teeth and that eager attitude. All because of him. 

  And maybe, all because of you too. 

  Now as the day comes to a close and makes its approach, you close your eyes, and you enjoy yourself. The last streaks of sunlight streaming in from the window is hardly your own source of warmth wrapping around your nude body. The heat of his touch spreads every time he runs his hands down your figure. The hot scent of sex surrounds the two of you as he snaps his hips faster and faster. The burn of pointed canines taking their time to reintroduce themselves to you one more time. It drives you insane. In and out.   Harder and harder. More and More.  He  drives you insane. Just as you do to him. But at the end of the day, you love him so. Besides…while he may be a biter…

  “Now hold still while Ougai takes care of you,  yeah ? Let’s see if I can make you cum before the car arrives for us.”

  You know that biting isn’t all he can do for you.

#mori ougai #mori ougai x reader #bsd #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs fanfic #bungou stray dogs fanfiction #bungo stray dogs fanfic #bungo stray dogs fanfiction #bsd fanfic #bsd fanfiction #mori ogai #mori ogai x reader #x reader #xreader #fanfic #fanfiction

[necromelli]

— chaos and calm

wordcount: 665

jane mellie finally takes finnick up on his invitation and visits him in district four. she never understood the ocean in those old poems before, but she does now.

a/n: I wanted to write a small blurb about my descendant of lucy Gray to gauge if people would like it or not (especially since it isn't a reader based fic) if you do, heavily considering liking it or reblogging to let me know ♡

The lake back home in twelve didn't compare to the beach sitting in the backyard of district four victors. It was loud, water lapped at her ankles and soaked the end of her dress. The sand was soft and warm, like Jane could feel the sun kissing her skin directly. Finnick insisted she wore sunscreen, but Jane refused. If the cloudless sun overhead kissed her until she burned like Icarus, then that was a gift Jane would cherish for as long as she could. The ocean was deafening; white noise that, for once, didn't feel suffocating. Jane thought the ocean smelled like Finnick — or Finnick the ocean.

“Mags made lunch, darling.” Finnick's voice cut through the hypnotic sound of crashing waves. Jane felt him next to her, the sand under his barefoot sinking away in the water. “Your cheeks are pink. Y’know sometimes, too much of the sun-”

Jane lifted her left hand, shushing Finnick softly. He didn't know when to turn the Capitol charm off; but, like Jane was figuring out about the ocean, everything blended together at some point. Both the good and the bad.

After the initial shock, Finnick relented and glanced back to the opened sliding doors leading into his house. He waved at Mags, sinking down to sit next to Jane. This time, it was just Finnick, the boy from district four, that spoke.

“It's lovely, isn't it?” Jane hummed in response, agreeing with the boy. “Peaceful. Calming.”

Jane sucked her teeth, a sign she was prepared to chide Finnick, and simultaneously laughed through her nose. “Oh, pretty, you aren't very good with that, are you?”

Slowly, Jane Mellie's eyes opened as she propped herself up on her elbows. She tilted her head to look at Finnick, unbothered by the way sand clung to her pink skin and the way her dirty blonde hair blew in her eyes.

“We’ll work on it. Everyone's got the talent to be a poet, it just takes practice.”

Finnick snorted, reaching out to tenderly touch Jane's rosy cheeks. He brushed the loose strands on hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear so that if she wanted, Jane could look at him fully. Finnick knew she wouldn't, far too captivated by the ocean and all the untold stories he knew was going through her mind. Finnick's thumb stroked the apple of her cheek, softly brushing away grains of stubborn sand.

“Y’know, I think I would surprise you.” Finnick whispered, words cool against Jane’s warmed cheeks. “I’ll have to conjure something up before you leave.”

“Mm. That'd be nice.” Jane nodded, her eyes closing shut as she focused on the feeling of Finnick so close to her. “Give me enough and I could turn it into a love ballad.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that.” Finnick teased, his lips pressing against Jane’s forehead. The girl smiled, an easy smile that affected her whole face; even her cheeks lifted. “I'm sure it would be beautiful if it came from you.”

Jane lowered herself back into the sand, although this time, she took Finnick’s right hand in her left and held it against her stomach. Finnick sat next to her, free hand resting on his knee. It was quiet, but not the crushing quiet that could overtake their minds at any moment. A serene kind of quiet. One that soothed and comforted the soul instead of striking fear and restlessness.

“I've got these old poetry books passed down through generations. There's this one about the ocean I never got, but I think I do now.” Finnick knew where it was going before Jane Mellie even offered. “Want to hear it?”

Finnick smiled down at her, chest tight with love as he squeezed her hand. He was enamored with Jane Mellie the moment he watched the chaos she caused at her reaping a few games prior. He shifted, laying down next to her in the sand, eyes closing just the same.

“Yeah, pretty, I’d like that.”

#catching fire #tbosas #fanfic #mockingjay #thg finnick #thg fanfiction #finnick odair #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #brief mention of #mags flanagan #she makes them lunch bc shes an excited mom #whos so happy to see finnick crushing + being happy

[friendlyneighbourhood-parker]

Are you in love?

pairing: Marc Spector x reader / Steven Grant x reader (mentioned) / Jake Lockley x reader (mentioned)

Summary: you found a poem that describes what you feel for them but Marc is a tease and won't listen to it

word count: 1 k

warnings: none! this is pure fluff

a/n: i didn't get any sleep last night and this isn't betaread, anyways enjoy the fluff!

“Wait! Just shhh” you pushed your index finger to hi slips, trying but failing to silence his laugh. His hand rubbed your naked thigh while you straddled his lap, his hair was a mess but so were yours. His white t-shirt slightly riling up under you, which matched with his sweatpants and contrasted your rather frisky clothes, a tank top paired with your underwear.

It was early in the morning, not so early when you hadn’t even taken breakfast or brushed your teeth making you feel gross but early enough where you would just lay together on bed still in the clothes you woke up in without worrying about the things you had to get done before the day was officially over.

You felt his grip on your wrist tugging at it, now him being the one on top of you. His weight solely on his knees that rested on the sides of your hips, if Marc could have anything in the world right now he would ask for a photo of you laughing as hard as you were in this exact moment, eyes closed as your laughs echoes through the flat.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to have a go with your partners play-fighting, knowing and trusting in them to never actually purposely harm you, you kicked into the mattress shuffling under Marc’s weight while his hands tried to keep yours in place and after a while of struggling with you pinning them in place, one hand holding them against your chest while the other covered your mouth now him being the one shushing you, your eyes grew wider in fake anger.

You muffled something into his hand

“Sorry? Couldn’t hear that” he mocked pulling his hand away, wiping it in your tank top.

“First of all, rude. Second, this is important Marc!” you tried – and failed – to contain the smile growing in your face still struggling under him, he continued laughing coming closer to your face.

“So. Is. My. Baby” he said in between the kisses he left all over your face, they were loud in the hope of silencing you “just let me love you”

“Wait…” you stopped moving looking directly into his eyes “there’s hair in my mouth” you made a funny face trying to get it to unstick from your tongue. He let go of your wrist to go and help you out with a grin, slightly shaking his head in amusement. You took a deep breath and reached to cup his face.

“Marc. My love. The sun that sines in my days and the moon to my stars!” you were doing a great deal on emphasizing each word, being overdramatic in the process “This is important”

“I know” he mirrored your action, holding your face between his hands.

A couple of days ago you found this poem, the first track from an album and since then you couldn’t stop thinking about it, about how it freakily described something that you thought was impossible to put into words. What you felt for them.

When you told Steven about it you thought it was cute how eager he got, excited to listen to it and maybe even learn how to recite it for you. Jake melted away after you told him, he wasn’t that much into poems but they weren’t too far from songs, right? And knowing that your first thought after listening to it was “This is what I feel for you” made his heart race like crazy. Marc? He had refused to hear it and he wouldn’t tell you but he was also really excited and curious about how is it that you feel about them, he preferred to pester you and make you struggle before actually listening to it.

“Go on” he leaned kissing your lips “play it”

You reached to the bedside table for your phone and opened the app. Marc settled himself besides you as the poem started and you clumsily followed the words, stumbling into them making you burst into laughter once more. You apologized before playing it once more from the beginning.

“I just… it has to be perfect” you blushed as his gaze rested on you.

Are you in love?

Do you feel it in your stomach?

Does it twist and turn and scream and burn

And start to make you cry, but you like it?

He reached placing a strand of hair behind your ear

Don’t want to let it slip away

Does it stretch into your throat

Until you don’t know what to say?

He moved on his side, your hands laced together

Does it hold you under its pillows in the night?

It kills you with its passion

And its endless beam of light

You giggled a bit as you tried your best to follow along the words

When you see yourself

In the future, frail and gray

Who do you want beside you

When you wake to start your day?

His mouth fell open in mockery as you didn’t mix up the words again and you playfully pushed his chest

Yeah, it’s extreme

I know what you’re gonna say

I’m being too dramatic

But this feeling feels this way

Are you in love?

Your hand traced his arm, from his fingertips all the way up to his shoulders

Do you feel it in your spine?

Shaking, waking, tearing, breaking

Taking it’s sweet time

But you want it

You took a deep breath and tilted your face into his

Yeah, you need it just to breathe

You’re never sure what trick

It’s pulling from it’s sleeve

Your lips hanging over his, slightly brushing as you whispered the words into his mouth

If you said yes

To all the things above

Then yes, my friend, I’m sorry

It appears you are in love

His hand settled in the base of your head breaking the distance from one another, the kiss was slow and sweet. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip and you opened your mouth welcoming him deepening the kiss. You knew you wouldn’t be leaving the bed anytime soon and you didn’t mind that at all.

#marvel #moon knight #jake lockley #steven grant #moon knight system #fluff fanfic #marc spector #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockely x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector fanfic #marc spector fluff #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector imagine #Spotify