#is this still considered a snippet at this length

[do-not-careissa]

OmegaGuy (this one's a long one, like I struggled to get a grasp on what this story wanted to be long, aka the reason it was never finished. It's also pretty disjointed as is, so sorry for that).

Nothing sexual, but obviously does include alpha/beta/Omega designations and the like if that's not your thing

Humans were not the first life forms the Green Lantern Corps had encountered with such wildly varying genders and sexes. The guardians set rules and boundaries for them all the same. Upon inspecting the Earth's inhabitants and their tendencies, it was decided that only alphas and betas were got to be Green Lanterns. Alphas were the heads of societies after all, the most physically fit and the most intimidating, and betas were perfectly bland for what was needed out of a Green Lantern, they had no ruts or heats to slow them down, and where they lacked that additional punch of authority they instead had that much clearer of a head. Omegas, however, they could not be trusted with a ring. For one, with omegas being the child bearers of the race the guardians could not put it to chance that an omega might become incapacitated with child, costing the Corps one of its needed members. Two, omegas suffered from heats, and while alphas might also suffer from ruts, those did not have the same needs or lose of time that a heat required. And on the final note, they were far too weak. Humans themselves had deemed the sex as such, largely relegated to those safe occupations or even just kept at home to care for their young. They did not have the physicality required to be a Lantern, and the less said about their emotional imbalances the better. It had been said that many an omega was hysterical after all, largely in part to a barren womb. If the species' own scientists from centuries prior were saying this, then surely it meant something.

There would be no omegas in the Green Lantern Corps, and that was final.

But the guardians were far more ignorant than they allowed themselves to believe, their arrogance forcing them to miss that not only had they allowed an omega into their ranks, he'd almost been the first of his planet.

* John

John was the first to realize. The newest Earth recruit was barely half a year into his ring when I happened. He was good, John would give him that, brash and loud, but that didn't deter from the work he'd done or the skill he'd shown. But the way he stiffened up, the sudden halting of breath and the frenzied look John's way, Guy knew he'd fucked up.

They'd been sent on a search and rescue mission. Some monarch's daughter had gone missing out in 763 and it was their job to find her. It was meant to be a test for Guy, a way for him to prove he could reign in that loud and proud exterior and exude the calm every Lantern needed from time to time. Based on that coo he'd let out upon finding the girl, and the way he'd scooped her up and held her close, running his cheek over the top of her head, mindful of the antenna there, he'd passed his test with flying colors.

John never bothered to ask about Guy's designation, and neither had Hal thankfully. Quite frankly, John didn't think it was anyone's business. It was bad enough there had been restrictions put in place, forbidding omegas from serving as Green Lanterns, but John and Hal had both accepted that rule. The armed forces back home had the same standing after all, and for how much John hated it, he knew his place didn't involve asking questions, especially not here. So he'd gone under the assumption that Guy was a beta. While he might have the loud attitude and the large form of an alpha, he lacked the ruts that had caused both Hal and John himself to request leave during Guy's short time in the Corps. He was a beta, an outgoing, overconfident beta, but a beta nontheless.

Except he evidently wasn't.

Guy stared back at him, a sharp fear burning in those eyes of his as he held the alien child close, frozen as he awaited John's judgement. On Earth if an omega was found to have infiltrated an alpha space, whether it be law enforcement, military, anything, they weren't safe. At the least they'd be discharged immediately upon return to base, at worse, well, John didn't want to think of the stories he'd heard, the things his fellow soldier had bragged about doing.

While stories like Mulan were heralded as great works and examples of how omegas could move beyond their allotted roles in society, society was far from willing to actually allow such a thing to happen.

John watched Guy for another few seconds, considered the man before him. Guy was an omega, as a Green Lantern he was part of Hal's pack, he'd hidden his designation from his packmates. But did his designation really matter? He'd been chosen to be a Green Lantern, the ring sought him out even with the Guardian's limitations in place, hell he'd almost been chosen first, before even he or Hal. In the few months he'd been a Lantern he'd done some amazing work, he'd proven himself even if it seemed like he didn't believe that himself. So what he wasn't an alpha or beta, what did it really matter? Who was John to decide whether someone was worthy? And based on things they couldn't control? He'd be a liar and a hypocrite.

Taking one last glance at the man before him, to how tender he held the child even as he remained frozen in a crouch, he nodded and moved to help him up. "Let's get back to the Capitol," he said as he gently grabbed Guy's elbow and helped him stand. "We can report in once we're there."

Guy stared back at him, a question in his eyes that he was clearly too scared to ask, his throat constricting as he attempted to remain calm. "And then?" he asked quietly.

"Then we'll talk," John answered, his eyes darting to the girl in Guy's arms. He looked back to Guy, grabbing his shoulder in what he hoped came off as comforting and compassionate, squeezing just slightly as he rumbled deep in his throat. "Just the two of us, okay?"

The nod he received was hesitant and barely there, but it was there nonetheless.

Their trip back to the Capitol was left mostly in silence, only broken by the girl's questions and Guy's answers. It gave John even more time to think, and then more still as they reached the Capitol and handed the girl off to her parents. He spent the time mulling over what to do, how best to help Guy. He'd already made his decision, it wasn't a hard one really. Guy would be staying as a Green Lantern come hell or high water, and John was ready to be there to support him. But an Omega had needs, needs that had no doubt gone ignored during the months he'd spent on Oa. Between the lack of a nest, the lack of sufficient pack bonding, having to hide his omega instincts, it would all be detrimental to Guy's health if not dealt with accordingly. And then there was the matter of heats...

His blood ran cold at the thought, realization dawning as he looked to Guy in shock. In the amount of time Guy had been a Green Lantern most omegas would have had at least one or two heats, some more, but in all that time there'd been nothing. He hadn't asked for leave, hadn't disappeared for the week that a heat would take to be dealt with. Even with the strongest available suppressants he would have had a heat, or would be preparing for one by now. What the hell?

He didn't get a chance to ask, not for a few hours anyway, not with the celebration the monarch wanted to throw for his daughters return, and definitely not with so many strangers around. This was a conversation that needed to happen in private, not surrounded by hundreds of strangers.

It didn't happen until the late hours of the morning, with the two of them drained and worn out, lounging around in the room provided to them for the night. John remained by the wall, watching and waiting for Guy to give him the go ahead. An omega's space was precious and not to be infringed upon. Sure they'd shared space before, but that was under different circumstances, a different understanding. He couldn't help but watch how Guy moved, how not-omega-like he was in his movements and mannerism. How did he become like this? It couldn't be natural, it had to have been learned, trained into him. But why?

"Are you gonna get over here or are you planning on holding up the wall all night?" Guy asked from the bed, throwing himself back onto the mattress. "Thought you wanted to, uh, talk, and shit. Or did you wanna wait til morning?"

It wasn't a normal invitation, but he figured it was the best he was going to get. "Now's good," he said as he dropped down next to Guy, careful to keep a reasonable distance. "Unless you'd prefer we wait."

"No, no, now's good," Guy said, forcing himself up into a seated position. He ran a hand over his face, the strain of the day showing in his features as he stared ahead. It took a moment for him to collect himself, but by the time he was looking at John he'd be hard pressed to believe the man was as tired as he'd just shown.

"I'm not telling anyone," John began, making sure to keep his voice as steady as possible.

"But I'm an omega," Guy said slowly, confirming what they both knew by now. "And that's against GL rules. You're the by the book guy, why should I believe you'll be any different just because of this one thing?"

It was an understandable question, one John would be asking if their positions were reversed. Really, John had nothing to lose by outing him, it wouldn't ruin him or his reputation, if anything it would put him in a good light with the Guardians, if anything he has so much more to lose by not outing him. Who's to say what the consequences of keeping such information secret would be? How far the hammer would fall?

But at the end of it all, could he really live with himself if he told anyone? Sure as hell no.

"I care about you Guy," he said. Guy's reaction was almost immediate, that squinting of the eyes, the stiffening and closing of his posture, like he expected there to be a catch, some kind of payment for John's silence. "I'm not saying that as some alpha looking out for a poor defenseless omega Guy, I'm saying that as someone who cares about you, I'm saying that as your brother in ring, as a friend. I'm not going to tell anyone, but I need you to let me help you."

Guy huffed, his eyes rolling as far back as they could go. "And why the hell would I need your help John? I've been going at it for months on my own just fine, I don't see why I suddenly need your help."

* Kyle

For months Kyle regarded the day he'd become a Green Lantern as the greatest. In the span of one evening he'd gone from a nobody to a hero, had gone from a powerless, random Omega to one of the most powerful individuals in the universe, weilding a power ring just as his heroes had before him. He could have only dreamed of obtaining this power and position before, only hoped and prayed and lamented for the universe to turn in his favor. And it did! He was a Green Lantern, and not only that he was the first Omega Green Lantern, he was making history. He did what no Omega had done before.

Except that wasn't the case was it?

And to make matters just that much worse, for every good thing that ever seemed to happen to him, another tragedy would follow.

It didn't take long to learn of what became of Hal Jordan, to find out that he was the only Green Lantern left, that he was Ganthet's last ditch effort to save the Corps. Being the first omega didn't really mean much when there was no one else around, now was it? And it certainly didn't make it any easier when the realization crossed his mind that the only reason he was here, the only reason he'd been given this chance, was because of so many deaths.

Alex had made it easier to accept that knowledge, and by extension the responsibility that accompanied such a role. "This could all be one misunderstanding," she'd said one night, "but you're the one wearing that ring now, and you're the one that made the decision to be a hero. Are you really going to waste it like this?"

He could still remember her voice, could remember her scent and the feeling of her hands, the love he'd felt for her and the love she'd felt for him back. They'd had their differences, had even separated before he got the ring. Most would say it was for the best, two omegas in a committed monogamous relationship wasn't exactly regarded that highly in the public eye, some going so far as to call it an abomination. But they loved each other and they were finally working through their problems, Kyle was finally growing away from being a whiny pup who wanted her attention without the effort and was becoming a man who could take care of and provide for her.

Unfortunately for him the universe didn't care. In the span of a few hours Alex was ripped away from him, murdered in her own apartment while he was answering cries for help. The image of her body, of her limbs twisted and broken and bent in ways they were never meant to, etched itself into his mind, dragging screams of anguish from him until his throat was raw and ruined.

He was alone, alone and hurting and in so much pain, and there was no one to ease it.

*Hal

"Well well well, if it isn't the great, the powerful, the oh so legendary, Hal Jordan, here to gift us with his presence."

There were more than a few things Hal had to get used to again after coming back. Even with his time spent as the Spectre, there were distinct differences between that plane of being and this new, very human one. He'd been here before, yes, but it all felt so new now, so different.

He could rember the banalities of human life from years past, from before he'd let fear overtake him. Small things like breathing, the small push to sit up in the morning, the pangs of hunger, and the drowsiness of exhaustion, they all felt so much more important now, so much more and human. He wanted, needed, to savor it all.

Just as he needed to savor those little, everyday occurrences, he needed to savor the not so everyday happenings. He'd been given a second chance, multiple even. Here he was, alive and whole, with a ring on his finger and the power of his will flowing through his veins. Somehow he'd been given a second chance with the ring, a chance he'd never expected to get even though he craved it with all his being. The Corps had been decimated because of him, left with nothing but Ganthet and a single ring. Yet here he was, amongst this new Corps, amongst these Lanterns both new and old. How could this have happened? Surely it was a mistake. People didn't just get second chances like this, no one did. Yeah there were others who confronted him, who made it clear he wasn't welcome or trusted, but then he'd have someone else step in, someone who made it clear they were on his side.

Somehow Guy was one of those people,and for the life of him he couldn't figure out how.

Even before Parallax they'd been at each other's throats, more than ready to rip each to shreds. Betas were usually pretty calm, keeping out of trouble and resolving those sorts of fights quickly, but there Guy was unwilling to back down no matter how outmatched he was. It had made Hal wonder for the longest time if he was wrong about Guy's designation, there were aggressive betas, but this, this was something else entirely, something he'd only ever seen in alphas.

Maybe it was just a learned behavior, Guy had been open enough with him and John about his childhood and his father, maybe that old son of a bitch had something to do with.

But now, years later, there was something else off, something much stranger. Hal could accept Guy's closeness to Kyle, between Guy and John those two were really Kyle's only connection to the Corps for the longest while. It would make sense that they'd create a bond of some kind. And with how tight John and Guy had been back in the day, it also made sense that it had continued on into today, whatever pack they'd had from their time with Hal had shifted to suit their new needs, seemingly drawing Kyle in. And with him the pack seemed so much closer, so much more complete. Even from a distance Hal could see it. Kyle brought to them what their pack had been lacking, completing the circle and finally gifting to the pack an omega.

That wasn't to say Hal only saw him through his designation, not at all. Kyle was resourceful, cunning, and so damn good with that ring, Hal practically forgot about his designation. But then Kyle would take off his scent blockers, or drag someone in close and scent them, or demand everyone in the vacinity gather round for a cuddle pile because he wasn't feeling well. Hal loved those moments, finally getting the chance to be pulled in with the others without worry for scorn or derision. But he'd always notice Guy off to the side, an unreadable expression on his face as he rubbed at his neck.

The gesture bugged him, something about it feeling off even if he couldn't figure out what it was. Guy had always been a bit more reserved in his displays of affection in the past, especially when it came to the pack. He'd always preferred to wait until they were behind closed doors to say or do anything, his voice gruff and closed off whenever Hal asked why. Seeing it now, he had to wonder if that was still the case, and if so why.

* Kilowog

The return to the Corps was...Interesting to say the least. Having just Rayner and then Stewart running around with a ring had been an adjustment, and that was before he'd had his body restored and a new ring put on his finger. Returning to the Corps, even if it was only the three of them and Ganthet, had felt like coming home. All things considered, it was.

Then came Jordan's return, and with it his and Gardner's return to the ring. Kilowog had almost cried tears of joy at seeing Hal, very much alive and not possessed by the yellow impurity. He'd managed to wait until Batman and the other Earth heroes were gone before he'd pulled the pilot into a spine shattering hug, but only just barely. And then he'd grabbed Guy, the man's joyful laughter filling the air around, and as he pulled him close he realized something was off, something was different. He couldn't quite place it, the echoes of their battle with Parallax and the adrenaline that accompanied it still racing through him, but he made a mental note to figure it out later, to check in on it and make sure his friend and fellow Corpsman was well. If anything the strangeness might have just been a result of the recent trauma Guy had gone through, a byproduct of his Vuldarian dna going haywire and causing his body to practically turn itself inside out. It would be much weirder if he was completely fine. Whatever it was, he could figure it out later.

Unfortunately later came a lot later. Between the new rings going out, training the new recruits, and then dealing with the mess with the Spider Guild, he'd hardly had a moment to himself, let alone enough of one to check on his Earth friend. Recruits were his priority as the Corps's trainer after all, his own personal concerns needed to be set aside to tend to them. Though he supposed that was something he and Guy shared now, wasn't it? The two of them alongside Kyle and the other veteran Lanterns all stood as the trainers of the hundreds of recruits, their leaders and moral compass, their example. While Kyle and the others had accepted the role with pride, Guy hadn't been as forthcoming.

"I'm not a teacher," he'd said, something which had confused Kilowog immensely. Guy had been a teacher, had counseled prisoners and taught children with needs that others were not equipped for, Kilowog knew that, Guy knew that, so why would he say otherwise? When they were struggling against the Spider Guild he'd rallied everyone together, he'd pulled them together and pushed them to victory, even those rookies that were scared shitless. If anyone was fit for the job it was him.

Did it have to do with whatever was different? Kilowog hadn't gotten a chance to ask about it. Maybe that was it.

He looked around the decimated Oan landscape to where everyone was working, watched as Lanterns rebuilt the parts of the planet that had been broken while others like Natu worked to help those that were hurt. He caught sight of his Earth friends, the four of them working with different recruits on various projects. It didn't escape his sight how dazed Hal seemed, with his eyebrows pinched and his gaze set unwaveringly on Guy, even as he lifted the fallen structure before him with ease. So he noticed it too, whatever this was.

Kilowog waved to the man, barely receiving a responding wave before he turned to head in Guy's direction. Whatever was off he needed to figure it out.

Guy nodded at his arrival, laughing and joking, before turning his attention back to the surrounding recruits, and that's when he realized his scent was off. Smell was always odd off of one's home world, the burning of a planets ozone, the stillness of space, and the atmosphere of whatever planet you landed on all working to alter ones scent. But even with all of that taken into consideration, he knew Guy's was off. Even the years since his last stint as a Lantern couldn't account for this sweet smell. He'd always smelled very neutral, not too sweet or spicy or bitter, no one smell overpowering him that he could remember. Yet here he floated, smelling of burnt Earth wood. It was off putting to say the least.

Humans didn't normally change their scents right? At least not like this. He knew of their odd genders and sexes, the alphas like Hal and John with their musky and earthy smells, the omegas like Kyle with their restrained but pleasantly sweet smells-so long as they were happy and scent blockers were not in use-, and the betas with their muted or even complete lack of a smell. Kilowog had never been able to smell Guy outside of normal acquired scents, he'd always been nonexistent to the Bolovaxian's nose. But taking a nice, deep breath, pulling in the surrounding air, it was undeniable. Guy smelled less like nothing and more like Kyle.

"You okay ya big butt head?" Guy asked with a light hearted shove. "You're looking like your head's about to pop."

Kilowog looked him over, not noticing any differences in him physically​ other than his altered hairstyle and the few additional lines that age had brought him. He breathed in one more time, that wood smell still there, still radiating off of Guy, and he had to know. "You smell different Poozer." He said it like a joke, adding in a small grin as he grabbed Guy's shoulder. "Trying to attract the new recruits? Smell's important to more than a few of their races."

In a flash the color drained from Guy's already pale face, his hand rushing up to slap over his covered neck, reaching under the material of his uniform for something Kilowog couldn't see. He threw his head back, eliciting a groan before following it up with an exclamation of "Fuck!" More than a few recruits turned around, scandalized at whatever their rings had translated the word as. Kilowog waved them away with a glare, grabbing Guy's shoulder to pull him somewhere private and away from the hundreds of eyes currently watching them. Whatever this was Guy clearly wasn't comfortable with it, and the last thing Kilowog wanted was to make it worse.

The other Earth Lanterns watched them go, Kyle and John with knowing looks, and Hal with one of worry and a little panic. Did he know what this was? Or was he as lost as Kilowog was?

"Are you okay?" He asked once they were well away from the others. Guy's face was firmly planted in his hands, waves of frustration rolling off of him as something soured the aired.

"No," he finally answered, forcing himself to look up at the alien towering over him before he started pacing around the space, running his hands over his head. "I'm not. I can't fucking believe, I know that I, it was there before, some fucker must've got a lucky shot, god dman it. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"Guy, my friend, you c'n trust me, you know that," Kilowog said as he found a perch to sit on. "What wasn't supposed to happen?"

Guy stopped in his pacing, looking out of their space to the work being done, a sudden look of exhaustion coming over him. He hadn't rested in a while, had he? Not since before that recruit training session turned mission brief. The others had taken time to at least sit down, to be looked over for any medical needs, or even to rest for a bit. Guy hadn't.

"My scent blockers," Guy answered, squeezing himself in next to Kilowog as he reached into his shirt, pulling out a small skin like pad. "There's supposed to be two of them, one of them must've come lose during that final bit with the Guild. You're not supposed to be able to smell me big guy."

Kilowog reached down slowly, taking the small square once Guy nodded his approval. He held it up, looked it over for any oddities. It was small, smaller than one of his fingers, with a color that matched Guy's flesh almost exactly on one side, and an adhesive, white color on the other. He took a small sniff of the material, and in an instant his nose was filled with various smells and the feelings connected to them. He knew what this was, Hal had explained it to him years ago when Hal had first been inducted into the ranks of the Green Lanterns, the alpha having worn them as a way to keep his head clear and to not give away his emotions.

"You're not a beta then," Kilowog stated as he handed the square back. "I don't understand why you would be concerned over that. This is a new Corps, we trust each other here, you don't need to hide."

The look Guy gave him screamed of confusion, like he'd expected something much worse, something condemning. "You're not..."

"Why would I be? It doesn't change anything. You're still the same Poozer I knew before, you just smell different, that's all."

Guy nodded, fisting the used up blocker into a ball as he hung his head. Watching him, Kilowog went through the options that were left, what he could do. While he understood his own race's sexes and their unique characteristics, his knowledge of Earth's was still limited to what little information Hal had given him all those years ago and what little he'd observed on Earth. And for all he knew that could've changed. He didn't want to assume anything, not with his friend clearly so anxious.

"Is that why y' didn't wanna teach the new recruits?" He asked. "You thought the Guardians were stereotyping you?"

"Sorta?" Guy leaned into him, his head cushioning itself into the side of his chest with little resistance. "I mean, I wanted more action and stuff too, thought they were sidelining me compared to John and Hal, and considering Kyle was gonna be the only other one with me, well. Putting the two omegas as trainers and the two alphas on the front lines has some, implications, if you get my meaning."

"But the Guardians don't know," Kilowog said. "At least, they didn't seem to before."

"Ganthet knows."

"Do you really think he'd hold that over you? Especially now? After Kyle?"

"I've known people to do a worse heel face turn, I wouldn't be surprised."

There wasn't much to be said for that. Guy was right after all. Kilowog had been on Earth enough, had seen how some humans treated others based on their designation. He could remember the phrases "You're really good for an omega" and "Why can't other omegas just be like you?" clear as day, that implication that these people were less capable just by virtue of existing. He'd also seen the extent of human brutality, how manipulative they could be. If he had it his way his Earth friends would never return to that planet, he'd keep them away from those horrible people with their horrible lies and words, but he knew he'd be no better if he did. His friends deserved to make their own choices and go where they wanted, he just needed to be prepared if they ever needed him.

"Well," he finally said, pulling Guy even closer to his side as he leaned down to nuzzle his head. "If they ever try anything they'll be dealing with a lot more than just you."

"Is that so?"

"Heh, between me, your Earth brothers, and those recruits out there, the Guardians stand no chance against us."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that big K," Guy said, patting the hand on his side.

"Overcome your fear Poozer," Kilowog said with a joking lilt to his voice, running his hand over the little bit of hair on Guy's head. "Trust your fellow Lanterns, believe in them. They care a lot less about your human designations than you meat sacks think they do."

"Fine fine." Guy's laughter flowed again, bringing peace along with it. "We'll see."

"We better."

#she's a long one #is this still considered a snippet at this length #fic ideas #this ones just come out way too disjointed for me to feel good continuing with it #kilowogs part id say is the most fleshed out #with kyles as the least #hints of guyhal in there if you really squint #that was the original intention when it started #but alas #here we are #green lantern #omegaguy

[mimymomo]

In ‘Lucas on the Line,’ Lucas Sinclair experienced countless bouts of racism and micro aggressions including but not limited to:

Had children run away from him and refuse to touch him because they thought his Black skin color would rub off on them. This happened IN THE THIRD GRADE! And he never told his parents about it!

Calmed his anxiety about being the only Black kid in his homeroom class by coming to the realization that since there was no other Black kids that meant he most likely wouldn’t be bombed

Had to install a camera in his locker because his property got defaced by a glitter bomb

Lost his first and only black friend/mentor who supported him thanks to an ACTUAL MAKESHIFT BOMB being installed in his locker that caused a janitor to go to the hospital for 1st/2nd degree burns (and the white boy who did it barely got punished)

Got teased that the only reason he got on the basketball team was because he was Black

Comes to the realization that he might’ve actually only gotten in the team because the coach has a history of recruiting Black boys for the team regardless of their skill level

Gets called an Oreo (for uneducated: white on the inside, black on the outside) by racist bullies. Erica (who apparently has also been called this) sticks up for him and is the only one who understands what the insult means which means Mike and Dustin don’t know/understand the lengths of how deep the racism Lucas experiences in Hawkins on a daily bases

And these aren’t even all of them! These are just examples I had from the top of my head!

And despite all this happening in the book, “fans” have STILL FOUND A WAY to turn this book about Lucas and his struggles as a Black boy in a mostly white suburban town and his deteriorating relationship with Max and make it about Byler!

The fact that Lucas, one of the only characters of color on this show, can’t have ANYTHING to himself without people using him to push their ships is so aggravating!

He and Erica constantly get shit talked and miss characterized by fans, get excluded/cut out of group shots, and barely get any fanart/fics about them and their struggles compared to the white characters (I could make a whole new post about the terrible way this fandom treats Erica but I won’t do that here). Hell don’t forget that the fandom constantly tries to dispute the racism Lucas received in S2 from Billy was either not really racism, just a moment that Duffer Bros. put in to “ruin” Billy’s character and ultimately can be tossed out and ignored.

The only time I ever see Lucas get any large amount of attention is either due to 1) Lumax (but let’s be honest: 90% of the lumax tag on here isn’t even about them and has now become Elumax 2.0 and most post are people praising ElMax and then being like “oh Lucas/lumax is cute too” in the tags and that’s it). 2) people creating “parallels” of Lumax to their ship of choice (mostly Byler and Mileven) as a way to say that their ship is gonna be canon or 3) to say that he’s bisexual.

And all that is fine and whatever, ship and headcanon things to your hearts content, but if you only care about Lucas if he’s helping push you ship narrative or because you think he’s gay (to the point where some people actually read snippets of the book that talked about Lucas coming to the realization that Black boys like him can be considered attractive and only acknowledge the “queer” reading of the text and completely ignored the big race element that was the main focus), I’m sorry but, that’s not cool. The fact that 95% of the Lucas Sinclair tag isn’t about Lucas himself but white characters like Steve, Eddie, Byler says everything about how the fandom treats him.

I’m just so tired.

Lucas Sinclair deserves the same respect that the white characters get!

I leave you one of my favorite sections of the entire book: Lucas learning to become unabashedly himself:

Rant over.

Edit: in my blind rage I realized I forgot to edit out the Twitter handle. That’s completely my fault. Please don’t hate that Twitter user. I’m just coming back to fix that.

#stranger things #stranger things spoilers #lucas sinclair #lucas on the line #st season 4 #you know what? I AM gonna tag all the popular ships #if you clog the Lucas/lumax tags I’m gonna clog yours #Byler #steddie #mileven #steve harrington #eddie munson #will byers #mike wheeler #Lucas Sinclair deserves better #also stan lumax for clear skin

[writefightandflightclub]

Blorbo thought of the day #1

More: Steven Grant x GN! reader

Author’s note: Wanted to start doing a “Blorbo thought of the day” thing. Idea is that I will share a snippet of one of the many blorbo scenarios which pop into my head on the daily, but which I don’t have time to develop into a full fic. Sometimes it will be smut, sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, sometimes… a surprise? And I don’t mean literally every day, but whenever I can! This one turned into more of a smutty blurb, but I intend for others to be much shorter snippets, bits of dialogue, headcanons etc..

Who better to start with than Steven?

Steven is a gentle lover; until he isn’t. (In which you gag on Steven’s cock and it sends him FERAL.)

NSFW/18+ Minors interacting will be blocked.

Steven Grant is a gentle lover.

Until he isn’t.

You are on your knees for him as he stands in front of you. Hadn’t even managed to strip off his work clothes yet before you were stripping them for him. Undoing his belt, and peeling away his trousers and boxers. Pushing his back up against the thick wooden beam of his attic room and taking him eagerly into your mouth.

He’s soft. Careful. Always. Let’s you take the lead.

Tonight is no exception.

Steven rests his hand gingerly on the crown of your head as you suck him - nothing but a gentle, reassuring weight. His long eyelashes flutter as he flits his gaze over you; the angel -divine being- making him feel so good.

You didn’t care who came through the door, you’d said. Whether it was him or Marc or Jake - you were getting down on your knees. Had been thinking about it all day.

But you’d told him, when he walked through the door, that you’d been glad it was him.

He’s still not used to this. To being wanted. To how good your mouth feels wrapped around him. Being buried in you.

Steven is a gentle lover. Makes a point of it. Never wants to hurt you. Push you. Take anything you don’t want to give. Has never even considered getting rough with you.

But tonight, he can’t help but think about what it would be like… just to take a little more.

Maybe because he’s had a stressful day at the museum. Maybe because he’s been thinking about coming home to you all day too and relieving his frustrations.

Whatever the reason, Steven can’t help but think about it; because he knows that the others are rougher with you, sometimes. That they don’t treat you like you’re about to break - like he does.

What were the words he’d heard?

Jake: soft dom. Marc: service top. Him: vanilla, submissive.

And so, he can’t help but think about it, because if they’d arrived tonight instead of him, wouldn’t this all be different?

The thought of that, combined with the feel of your velvet lips and the welcoming, warm wet cave of your mouth makes Steven so hard he can see stars blur the edge of his vision. Makes him grow over eager as you work your pretty mouth on him, bucking his hips and driving his length enthusiastically home, deeper into the cave of you. His hand gripping the back of your head just a little tighter than usual in his desperation to come undone.

He didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to translate this desire from out of his head into the real world. You didn’t expect it.

It takes you a little by surprise.

Enough, to make you gag on Steven’s cock, just for a second; until you are surging off of him, eyelashes wet as you blink away the instant, spiking surge of tears.

Steven means to say something. He really does. Feels awful. Means to say “sorry, love, I’m so sorry”.

To soothe you. To do something.

But he… doesn’t.

Because…. Fuck.

He liked it.

A lot.

To his great relief, you seem unphased too, your lips curling up into a little smile before you curl them once again around his girth.

You continue: still gentle, still soft. Still in control. Setting your own pace.

Except this time Steven is inwardly going feral.

The thought of you gagging on him again. The thought of you surging off of him because he’s too big. The noises you made. The feeling of your throat convulsing around his cock. Even the tears in your eyes and the thought that you want him so much you’ll try so valiantly to take him all.

He’s panting. It’s awoken something in him. He’s throwing his head back against the beam. Eyes are screwing shut. His teeth are biting into his lower lip. His fingers are curling into your hair and - oh God. It feels divinely good but he wants…

Oh God.

He wants to push you down on him until you heave with the swell of him and he’s resisting the urge and you’re sucking him so deep and he can’t take it because he wants -needs to- bury himself even deeper.

Needs more and he’s aching for it.

“-Steven,” you purr, looking up at him, lips plumped and glistening with spit and god. “If you don’t want to make me gag on you again, you can always just ask. I can tell you liked it.”

He opens his eyes. Looks down at you on your knees. His mouth dropped open in surprise, and his legs nervy and trembling. A wracked, disbelieving moan spools from his chest, his cock almost bursting at the thought of it. Of making you choke on him. “W-would you d-do that for me, love?”

Your eyes glint with mischief. With want. “Steven.” You kiss the swollen head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the contours of him until he twitches, nearly spilling himself right then. “I’d do anything for you.”

He releases a shaky breath.

Steven is a gentle lover; until he isn’t.

Until he fists his hand in your hair and drives you down on his shaft, losing all composure as he hears you, feels you, sees you gagging on his size, your hands pressed calmly to his bared thighs as he holds you there and you let him.

And, as he does you fold the flat of your tongue around him. Let him take you, fill you, fuck into the circle of you, your throat resisting; gagging on him.

Steven can’t take it.

Didn’t know he would like this. Never would have guessed.

But within moments, he is emitting a ragged moan. He is pulsing his hot release down your throat. Giving you everything, as you eagerly take it. Swallow him down, until he’s drained; empty. Your hands smoothing up and down his shuddering thighs. Your tongue cleaning every last drop of mess from him. Humming against his softening shaft.

“Was that good, baby?”

He thinks he might black out. Can’t speak.

Can’t speak; until he can. “Love. C-Can we do it again?”

Your mouth curls into a smile; before you wrap it all the way around him.

When it comes to you, Steven can never get enough. He always want more.

At the same time though, you’re more than enough for him.

You’re everything, and he’s so happy he was the one to walk through the door.

#steven grant x reader #blorbo totd

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Pretty As A Picture

Title: Pretty As A Picture

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x F!Reader

Fandom: The Gray Man

Word Count: 2.2K

Summary: What started as a hobby day in the park turns into Lloyd Hansen showing you why taking photos of strangers is a bad idea.

Warnings: Murder Daddy, gun, murder(not Reader), chase, knife play, kidnapping, pet names(gumdrop, princess), slight dacryphilia, Sir kink, blood, language, head injury, bondage, cutting clothing with a knife, DUBCON, unprotected rough p-in-v sex, pussy slapping, hyperspermia, slight aftercare, implied captivity

A/N: This is my late submission to @the-slumberparty’s Naughty or Nice Challenge. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers by me

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist

You sit on the bench in the park, digital camera resting against your sternum as it dangles from the strap around your neck. The sky shines above you and illuminates the world around you as you look for something to capture. It’s been so snowy and the park’s surfaces are covered in white fluff. You had to wipe off the bench considerably to be able to sit down on the old wooden seating.

Your knee-length puffer coat is zipped and buttoned, but you still cross your arms to retain heat when the wind sweeps through, blowing snow in your face. You’ve taken about a handful of photos of empty swings and the slide that has become an ice luge. You hear voices nearby and turn toward the sound.

Two men are talking in the front seat of a town car parked on the edge of the park. Strange that they would pick here to have a casual conversation, but you can’t blame them. You came here for the peace too.

Curiously, you raise your camera and point it at the men. You zoom in, trying to read their lips, snickering when you see the younger man’s mustache. That was a choice. You catch little snippets here and there. But you can’t put all the pieces together. You are just about to lower your camera when movement surprises you.

You freeze when you see the man with the mustache on the passenger side bring out a pistol with a silencer on the end of it. He points it at the man in the driver’s seat and pulls the trigger. The mustachioed man then proceeds to wipe down the interior of the car and exits.

He turns to face the park, putting his hands in his pockets. He closes his eyes, tilting his head from side to side to relieve tension in his neck. When he notices you, you lower the camera slowly and wish upon wish that you can make it back to your apartment before he catches up to you. 

You let your camera hang around your neck and rise from the bench. Turning on a dime, you race between the swingset and head for your building. You are barely past the seesaw when you feel the man’s body crash into yours. Air escapes your lungs as you hit the ground and your camera is whipped to the side of you. You are disoriented for a second before you are turned around and grabbed by the front of your coat.

“Well, what do we have here? A little spy, maybe?” The mustachioed man removes one hand from your coat to reach into his pocket and withdraws a butterfly knife, holding it to your neck, “Who do you work for?”

You squeak when the point of the knife meets your skin, the sharp poke keeping you from moving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just taking photos of the park. I didn’t see anything.”

He turns the knife slightly, the tip penetrating your neck. You feel the sting of the cut as a drop of blood slowly trails down the blade. He watches as you plead with your big doe eyes for him to let you go.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Oh, gumdrop. Anybody who says ‘I didn’t see anything’ most definitely saw something. The question is: What do I do with Little Miss Photographer?” His tone could have been considered sweet, if not mocking.

“Please, let me go. You can have the camera. Just please don’t hurt me, Sir.” Unshed tears blur your eyes and you try to blink them away but they fall down your cheeks.

He bites his bottom lip, shaking his head slowly. “Calling me Sir and crying for me? I just may have an idea of how to...take care of you, princess.”

He pockets the knife, the pressure of it releasing from your neck. Standing you to your feet, he turns you to start walking to the left, away from the direction of your apartment. With one hand on your coat, he reaches down and grabs the camera as you walk, his long legs moving faster than your shorter ones.

Once you get to a car, he tries to put you in the front seat but you get the sudden urge to fight for your life. You let him open the door then you kick it closed, turning in his arms and scratching at his face. He jerks away when three nails make contact with his forehead and slide down to his temple.

“Fucking bitch!” Blood wells to the surface and starts to trickle down his face. He grabs you by the skull, bringing you toward him before he smashes your head into the passenger door. It slows you down and your head pounds. Your legs are out from under you as he picks you up bridal style and takes you to the back of the car. 

You are barely alert while he speaks to you. “It didn’t have to be like this, gumdrop. All you had to do was get in but no, you had to be a brat,” He sets your feet down on the ground so he can grab a key fob from his pocket. The trunk opens and you are lifted inside, the zipper on your long coat being pulled down to reveal your clothing underneath. “Well know this. I don’t tame brats, ok? I correct them. Now, you get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get there.” He taps the end of your nose and winks down at you.

Your vision swims but you register him leering at you while licking his lips. He’s kind enough to not close the trunk too hard. You hear his steps crunching in the snow as he walks around the car. A door opens and closes, the engine turns over. You lurch toward the back of the car when it starts to move away from the curb. The darkness of the space and the steadiness of his driving lull you to close your eyes, falling asleep soon after.

"...you there, Gumpdrop?” 

You hear a voice that feels distant. Slowly, you pick your head up and open your eyes to see the man with the mustache sitting in front of you on a bed. He has two flexi-strips holding together the scratches you gave his face. Your coat is off, you are left in your fuzzy green sweater and black skirt. You try and move but you only wince when you look up to see your hands cuffed to the framework of the headboard. Your thigh-high sock-clad feet are left free and his hand idly moves up and down your shin.

When you try to move your leg away, he holds it back and squeezes your ankle as a warning. You don’t want any more head trauma so you resign yourself to doing whatever he wants.

“I am so glad you’re awake. You have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands to myself. Well, I did take these,” he reaches into a pocket and pulls out the familiar white panties, and waves them in your face, “Oh don’t worry, I didn’t play with that pretty little pussy. Wanted you awake for that.” He winks at you and stands. 

You watch as he walks away, listening to his footsteps going and then coming back. In his hands is your camera, safe and sound. He brings it up to his face, the lens moving forward and back before you hear the snap of the shutter.

“God, you are too damn sweet, gumdrop,” he coos, kneeling on the bed between your legs. He lifts your skirt and snaps a few photos of bare pussy. He hums, letting the camera dangle from the strap around his neck. The butterfly knife is back out, you shudder and he puts a hand up. “Calm down, pretty girl. Just gonna cut these pesky layers off you so don’t move unless you want me to cut you.”

You shove fear down and nod, following as he cuts through your skirt and sweater like butter. When he gets to your bra, he hooks a finger between your sternum and the fabric, cutting into the center of the material. When you are laid bare in front of him, he cups his crotch and groans. He raises the camera again and snaps away.

He takes the camera by the strap off of his neck and sets it on the nightstand. As he moves his hand back, he takes the opportunity to squeeze your tits. Pinching your nipples, he chuckles when you whine.

“Please...um, Sir?” you blurt, a mix of pain and pleasure radiating through you. You wish you could close your legs to get some friction but he is back between them.

“Lloyd,” he offers, still tweaking your nipples, “You can call me Lloyd, gumdrop.”

“Lloyd…um, please… uh,” You subconsciously begin to twist your hips and he gets the hint.

“Aww, my little princess needs some attention on her little pussy, huh?” You’re only turned on by his mocking tone and condescending words. He leans in to kiss and nip at your neck while he grinds his covered dick against your now slippery folds. “Alright, alright. I won’t tease you anymore. I know you need this much more than I do, gumdrop.” He uses one hand to unzip his pants and pull out his stiff dick. 

Although it is obscured from your vision, by the way he has to tilt his hips, you can tell he is packing a sizeable length. Covering the tip in your juices, he taps it against your clit. When he enters you, the stretch has you hissing along with Lloyd. He tilts his hips away from you and then comes back, going a bit deeper inside you. Adjusting his arms, he wraps one under your head and the other hand goes to hold your side while your legs wrap around him.

By the time you are used to his size, his hips are slamming into the backs of your thighs. His hand is sure to leave bruises on your hip and you don’t give a fuck in the slightest. He’s already restrained you and cut your clothes off. Might as well be fully debauched, right?

“Shiiiiit, this pussy is squeezing my fucking dick so good. I can feel you holding back, gumdrop. Let go for me.” He lets go of your hip and uses his thumb to pay attention to your clit. While he leans on his other hand, he clutches the bedspread as his hips continue their onslaught.

Your climax was just out of reach, like a word caught on the tip of the tongue. Lloyd locks eyes with you and lifts his hand, bringing it down to slap your puffy folds. You squeal and it only makes Lloyd slap it again. And that is how you discovered that this was a kink for you.

The tight band that held together your resolve snaps and on the third slap, you lose all control of your body. You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding in a long moan, your legs clamping around Lloyd’s waist. Your walls flutter around his cock and your orgasm washes over you like a warm summer rainstorm, refreshing and necessary.

“That’s a good girl! Fuck, you are clamped around me like a goddamn vice. Oh, shit. I’m gonna cum, princess. Shit, shit shit!” Lloyd thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out and fisting his dick until he’s shooting thick, white ropes across your belly, chest, and neck.

You stop counting the spurts of cum after eight, watching as you essentially get glazed like a donut. He squeezes the head of his dick, pushing out the last dregs of his orgasm. He grabs the camera again, his eye lining up with the viewfinder. “Smile pretty for me.” 

You’re so fucked out that you smile when he asks. He snaps the photo and puts the camera back down. He leaves the bed and walks off, you hear him go down the hall and come back. He carries a wet washcloth and wipes you down, cleaning off the sticky substance before tossing it over his shoulder.

Lloyd opens a drawer in the nightstand, retrieving a small key, and unlocks your handcuffs one by one. He doesn’t offer to check your wrists for bruising, but you don’t expect him to. You’re more than surprised that he wiped his cum off of you, you didn’t want to push it.

“Now, gumdrop. So we’re clear, I’ve already made up my mind. I’m gonna keep you here with me. You’re gonna be my little playtoy. Whenever I need to take out frustration, I’m gonna take it out on this little pussy of yours. Or option B: I could kill you. Your choice.” 

And just like that, your fate is sealed. 

“Option A,” you mumble, tears line your eyes as you yawn.

“I knew you were a smart girl.” He pets your head and your eyes lose focus as you drift off into a dreamless sleep.

A/N: I really wish Lloyd would give me a break sometimes lol. I think I got this posted literally on the last day of the challenge.

**Tag List**

@cakesandtom @brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67 @thabiddie23 @sweetandgentlecreature @foxyjwls007 @art2emily @titty-teetee @princessaxoo @gummydummy19 @posiemax @motivation-idontknowher @buckysteveloki-me @magnificentsaladllama @gyusbrownie @milknhonies @peyton-warren @raccoon-eyed-rebel

Let me know if you wanna be added (or removed) 😁

#chris evans #chris evans characters #lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen smut #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #chris evans fic #chris evans fanfiction #dark! fic #dark fic #dark!fic #ellethespaceunicorn fanfic #pretty as a picture

[guyfieriii]

Get Us Strung

We're back to our regularly scheduled programming with another angst-y piece. Inspired by the song Dirty Love by Mt. Joy comes the tale of John Price and his best friend. My apologies if it seems a bit disconnected, it was originally much larger but I decided to scrap a lot of it (See? I can be nice sometimes.), but I tried my best. Also, this was edited on pure audaciousness, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of margaritas. Do with that what you will.

Lastly, the biggest thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck for once again tolerating me bombarding her with snippets galore and supporting me as she always does.

(Can we consider this as a somewhat happy ending? My original one was A LOT worse.)

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Warnings: Explicit Sexual Scenes and a gallon of pain :)

Nostalgia is a cruel consonance of sentimentality and longing. A honeyed trap you could easily get caught in if you aren’t careful. 

You weren’t. 

All it took was one precarious step forth into its birdlime confines and you’re stuck, forever adhered to moments gone by. Try as you might to break free, to rid yourself of the persistent fog that looms and live in the present — you’re simply unable. The struggle of it brands ropes into your skin. A chemical burn that scabs eventually, but it leaves you debilitated of every ounce of strength you have to leave. 

With time, you make do. 

You adjust to the circumstances you’ve found yourself in. It’s easy enough — to simply give in. It’s like the call of a warm bed on a cold winter morning. The arms of a man you love held open in an invitation. It’s the perfect balm to your stinging disappointments and embittered thoughts. 

Witness, reminisce — rinse and repeat. 

A moment here. An admission of love there, just not the right kind. Not enough to keep you satisfied, just enough you keep you—

There. Still. Stuck in time. Recycling the same out-of-date echoes through your trench of despondency till they fossilize. 

It’s his eyes that do you in, really. Lapis set in moonstone white reminding you of the ebb and flow of deep ocean currents that gently coax you inwards to drift among the waves. 

They were the first thing you noticed about him. 

A skinny kneed boy of eleven, head full of bistre-brown hair, and the bluest eyes you ever saw that suddenly wanted to be your friend. He was loud and brutish in contrast with your more reluctant and constrained demeanour and yet—

He was your best friend. Your first. Your only. 

Is your best friend. 

Five years later, he left to join the infantry. 

He departed, eager to prove his worth. While you stayed back with a poor facsimile of a supportive smile as he promised his eventual return. 

I’ll be back on leave before you know it.

But—

I’ll be back. 

And I’ll be here. 

You clung to him when he told you he was enlisting, fingers curling into the sleeves his Fleetwood Mac t-shirt — a gift from you for his fifteenth. He’d asked if you wanted to keep it, as a reminder of him.

Wouldn’t need to if you just stayed, Johnny. 

In the fortnight leading up to his departure, you prayed for a last-minute change of his mind. Maybe the realization that he couldn’t stay without you would finally come to the surface. 

It had to. Eventually. 

You couldn’t bear the thought of walking up the morning after he left, just missing a part of you. Feeling a crater right in the middle of your chest grow wider and deeper as the distance between you and him extended. 

But as the days counted down, his excitement grew nearly as fast as your despair. 

It began with you pulling out all the stops, reminding him of the comforts of home, of you. To him, it was only the perfect gift farewell. 

It wasn’t until just the day before that you decided to take the cheap shot and just beg.

Don’t leave. Just— please just stay, okay? You don’t have to go. You don’t have to leave me— please, Johnny. I can’t—

He stood at an arm’s length and listened to you in silence, watched you scrounge every ounce of emotional ammunition you could, until your voice ran hoarse, and your tears ran dry. 

The pained expression that your outburst gradually chiseled onto his face left you shamelessly hopeful, and you took a step forward to close the distance between you and him. 

He wordlessly took a step back.

The time slowed, and the seconds hemorrhaged until he finally spoke. 

All he responded with was—

I have to. 

You saw him standing out on my pavement by your house the next morning, walking across the same yard over and over. He’d glance upward at your window every now and then in such excruciating hope that you might grace him with something as simple as a wave goodbye. 

But you didn’t. You simply stood there, watching from the shadows, trying to find some relief in tears shed, but you came up dry. 

And he left. 

When he returned, he came as Private Johnathan Price. 

Nearly half a foot taller since you saw him last. Mostly the same in disposition if only a bit more self-assured. 

In the 18 months of his absence, all you had was a shoebox full of unopened letters and that chasm left behind that grew deeper, still. Every week, unquestioningly, there’d be an envelope addressed to you. And every week, you’d hold it with measured trepidation and excitement. The first one brought you relief to know that you hadn’t lost him in your near ruinous parting of ways. But as you felt the weight of it in your hands, your fingers prudently tracing the ink, you couldn’t bring yourself to read what lay inside. It felt it would be ripping the bandaging off of a wound that had barely begun to heal. 

So, you kept it aside.  

18 months. 72 weeks. Every corresponding letter that followed underwent the same approach. You held them, appreciated them for their infallible arrival, and locked them away with repentance as the pile grew.  

The letter that followed, came hand-delivered. 

“You could have written back at least once, y’know.” He says with a smile. 

“I’m—”

Sorry, Johnny. Forgive me. Forgive me. Please—

Your ensuing apology dies at your lips, and you nearly suffocate under the weight of it until—

“It’s okay.” He promises.

“It’s not.” You assert back.

His gaze softens and he tries again. “Hurt ya when I left, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“So, it’s okay.”

He means to placate. You know this and an infinitesimal part of you appreciates it. But what takes more prominence is one blazing question left behind.

It blisters and leaves behind the blackened soot of your unmatched expectations. A skeletal impression of his well intended albeit anticlimactic confession. 

All you’re left wondering is—

Why didn’t it hurt you to leave me, too? 

You met him in London to celebrate your collective 21st birthdays some time halfway in between them. 

It took some coordination, between your school and his training in Sandhurst. He never told you — said he wanted to keep you detached from that part of his life. 

How’re the— I don’t know what to ask, John. You never tell me anything. 

I tell you plenty. 

He does well— his mother informed you as much. But the details remained vacant. You try to fill in the blanks, hazard a guess — a poor approximation of the real thing, you’re certain. 

It wasn’t something you liked, but never fought him on it. It felt as though your paths diverged at too steep of an angle and you were the only one trying to get them to realign. He seemed content in this compartmentalization, while you worried your margin in it would grow smaller still. 

The disconnect it created left you unsettled. Like a trail down the woods that suddenly ends midway. You’re disoriented and unanchored, forever caught in an abridged narrative with his part missing. 

But you couldn’t keep waiting around—

Something you tell yourself to make it better. 

“Didn’t bring him with you, then?” He slides a glass of ale across the table to you, the bottom of it catching on the adherent buildup of many a spilled drink, causing the foam at the top to dribble over. 

“You asked me not to, John.” You mutter, indignant. 

You wouldn’t have asked to begin with, but for appearances sake—

“Didn’t want to have to share you with some other bloke, is all.” His self-satisfied grin tells you he sees right through it. 

The implications that simmered beneath that statement cut through you instantly. 

He didn’t want to have to share. 

What would happen if you told him that it was never even brought to question? That you were his, and his alone. 

Would he make it come true? 

Would he—

“I’d like for you to meet him eventually, y’know.” You opted for a safer route. Something more dependable. Everything John isn’t. 

That’s a lie. He’s nothing but. 

“If he stays around long enough.”

“Johnny.” You snap, irritably.

“Been a while since you called me that.” He murmurs, his grin slipping into something less presumptuous and more unshielded. Vulnerable. 

“We’re not kids anymore.” You turn your gaze downward, nails digging into the chipping laminate on the cheap bar top until he flicks the side of your palm to make you stop. 

“No, we’re not.” It’s his tone that makes you look back up— hinting at some kind of unspoken understanding that you recognize right away. 

Let’s not pretend, then.

It’s in the dimming obscurity of alcohol when it finally happens. With your dress hiked up over the curve of your ass, and panties pulled to the side — he fucked you in a rush, outside in the cold fall air. The grain of the brick wall scratched your cheek with every thrust he buried himself in you. His ale-laden breath at the cusp of your ear, his hands cupping your breasts, squeezing — they were your only source of warmth.  

“Fuckin’ hell, I’ve wanted to—” He confessed.

“So have I, Johnny.” You matched his revelation with your own. 

But this wasn’t how it was supposed to—

You’ll take what you’re given. Even if it’s just this once, just tonight. A fleeting taste is better than the fantasy of him you’ve held on to. 

He’s better than what you’ve had in the past. Better than what you’d thought he’d be like. 

Or maybe, it’s just how well knows you. 

He knows how deep you need to feel him, no matter if it hurts just a little. It’s the kind of hurt you enjoy. 

How many women have you been with, John? 

Does it matter?

Yes. No. Maybe? 

It was you that crossed the line. A temerarious lapse in judgment, a flick of a wrist that knocked down an already precipitous house of cards when suddenly your lips descend upon his. He tastes of stale beer and the cigarette you bummed off an old man at the pub. With a grunt of surprise, he reciprocates, his tongue invading past your lips. 

In a flash of somewhat sloppy adjustment, your back remained firmly pressed against the brick wall of the side of the pub, while his hands to the side of you effectively cage you in. 

It’s not soon after that he takes the reins.

His mouth is everywhere — your lips, glossing over your jaw to the underside while he firmly grasps a fistful of your hair at the root, tilting your face upwards. He lays siege to the delicate column of your neck, armed with a stinging bite and the consolatory swipe of his tongue after. 

John. Johnny.

The straps of your top hang loosely off your shoulders as he pulls the front of it down haphazardly to latch on to your nipple. You helplessly mewl beneath him, fingers trembling as they undo the buckle of his belt. 

“Tell me to stop, love. Tell me, or I’ll—” He groans. Your hands sink in past the zipper to palm his erection. Warm. Solid. 

“Please, don't.” You sink to your knees with the excitement, the need to taste him chafing at your rib cage with every beat of your heart. 

“Fuck— fuck, okay. Just slow down—”

“John. Please.” 

“I’ll make it good, yeah? For you. I will.” He swears. 

I know you will. 

You moved to Liverpool a year later. Something about staying in Hereford without him just kept you trapped in a state of inertia. Spending your time waiting more than anything else. It was time to move on. 

Or try to, at any rate.

Humble beginnings for you — a modest apartment, a job that paid the bills and nothing else. 

You settled into a routine — oscillating between work, home, and bisected friendships that you formed. 

It’s not the same. It’s not the same. 

It’s hard not to hold him somewhat accountable for your perpetual state of futility. There’s an essence of banality that follows you wherever you go. A life lived in half measures, mediocre and prosaic. It isn’t fair, and yet—

Why couldn’t you just stay, John? 

It’s usually at night when the bitter tendrils of your regret slink up your limbs, like stalks of Golden Pothos, that collect around neck and squeeze. 

A fire that kindles all too easily.

Can you even call it your own, when it’s caused by the choices of another?

It’s when you think back to that night in London, the weight of his cock in the palm of your hand— the way his eyes pinched shut and his head tilted back as you attempted to take him all the way in. 

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?” He’d asked in a choked groan. 

Had the head of his cock not been pressed against the back of your throat you’d have answered with:

Upset you weren’t the one to teach me, aren’t you Johnny?

Whatever remnants of that night that weren’t washed away by the glassy comber of one drink too many, replayed themselves a hundred times over. Every reiteration leaves you breathless and wanting — the evidence of it clearly shining on the inside of your thighs and the tips of your fingers. 

Until—

A knock. 

“You moved.” His voice was weight down by many an unspoken accusation. 

“I did.” There’s no point in an apology— he’s here now.

“You never said.” Anger. Hurt. Betrayal — all in coalescence that lacerates you so deeply, you might stain the walls blood red. 

“I— Do you want to come in—?” 

He walked across the threshold, brushing past your shoulder before you even finished inviting him in.

“You— it’s not much. I’ve only just—” You stumble your way through some kind of explanation as he sheds himself off his duffel and coat. Any reasoning you were able to muster trickles back down your throat as he makes himself comfortable on your sofa, the floral embellished cushion sinking under the weight of him like it’s his right to be. 

“It’s nice.”

You’d have expected him to feel out of sorts in this new home of yours, but he finds his place in it so naturally it fucking stings. 

It really could have been that easy— a life with him. It’s a dangerous thought experiment but you wonder if he also aches for that near miss of a surrogate life. A peripeteia of decisions that might have led you down a different path entirely. 

“How long are you on leave this time?” It’s a jibe and he notices. There’s an unmistakable clench in his jaw, a steely look set in his eyes at your question like he’s willing you to challenge him. 

You almost do. 

Good of you to waltz by after a year, Johnny. I’ve been waiting. 

You really have. 

“Two weeks. If you’ll have me.”

You considered turning him away simply out of spite. A laughable thought, really. An egomaniacal deliberation you pretend to have. 

You’d never—

“Aren’t you going home?” 

Don’t say yes. Please, don’t say yes.

“Would’ve — yeah. But you moved.”

Fuck. Don’t—

“You make it sound like I’m the only reason you come back.”

The words decamp themselves from you without any realization. Subdued embers relight themselves. Veiled desires now unwrapped — a festering infection that itched beneath near-mended dermis now touching air simply because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. 

“Would— would it be so bad if I said yes?” He asks, wavering slightly in his footing only to gauge your reaction, and you pray you’re not giving anything away. 

Yes. Yes, it fucking would, John. Because—

It means nothing in the scheme of its payoff. You don’t know what he expects, because to you his disclosure only exacerbates the acridity of his absence tenfold. It makes his eventual departure seem like a harsher slap to the face. 

You could accuse him of pretense. Tell him how hollow it makes you feel.

Or simply—

“No. Of course not.” You lie with a smile, instead. 

He believes you. 

His parents pass within a year of each other. He attends both funerals in uniform — having only singular days granted to him in lieu of bereavement. 

It might have been a personal choice in his father’s case, which happened to be the latter. 

The first was an open casket, the second closed — both lowered into the ground while his hand firmly grasped yours. 

And after—

On both days, he found himself buried in you, however in polar opposite ways. 

It began gentle, with his need to be held and your need to oblige. You straddle him in the backseat of your busted-up Mondeo Estate, soaking in his silent grief as you whisper condolences. He finds his home in the crook of your neck, bedewed with the warmth of his breath and his tears. 

He tastes of grief. 

Regret, even. 

Maybe, one day, you’ll tell him it didn’t have to be that way.

Imagine what we could’ve been, John. 

Only seven months later, you find yourself in circumstances alike only in one solitary way. This time, it’s his anger that transcends the grief. You’re turned away, bent over the disjointed desk in the corner of his childhood bedroom. His fingers etching your skin in a mosaic of blue and purple, willing you to acquiesce to his baser instinct rather than envelop him in comfort. He fucked you, brutally — bare teeth, white knuckles. A lacquer of vitriol to coat you in. Only apologetic in the aftermath. 

And—

He wouldn’t let you kiss him. 

Change is a weight borne poorly by most relationships. 

You try to blame the distance between his visits, and the fact that he always seems more worse for wear than the last. A chronic transformation with every visit, like rust on iron — sandstone shaded corrosion bleeding into his edges. 

He tries to shed himself of it when he’s in your company but it’s ever-present, like a phantom limb. An undeniable extension of himself. 

You tell him not to pretend. 

Not with me, John.

You might as well be white noise. 

What started out as concern he’d brush off with a ‘this isn’t something you need to be worrying about, love’ slowly evolved into disregard which concluded with blatant contempt.  

This isn’t what I—

He stopped himself a moment too late. 

“This isn’t what I came back for.”

“Glad we’re both disappointments to each other.”

Finally, some truth spilled out. It felt oddly cathartic, even if it meant having your worst fears confirmed. 

He makes an implicit plea to retract what’s been said, undo the hurt caused, and return to your perpetual state of synthetic decorum. Two people who tip-toe around each other, chat about the weather, and when all redundancies are through and done with—

Let’s just leave it be. Dinner’s nearly—

He feasts on your cunt like a man starved. 

It’s funny how rarely you consider the sheer probability of his safe return. Is it simply denial? Is he so deeply rooted within your being that imagining him not being there isn’t an ending you can enumerate? 

To you, there is simply no finality to John Price. Forever seems like a paltry presumption to have in his line of work and yet, you can never imagine the alternative. 

You’ve tried. You even asked him once.

Just once. 

“You’ll be informed if— I — they know you’re my— you’ll be informed.” He spoke with such unambiguous apathy like he was reading it off a manual. 

Ten different ways to prepare your loved ones for your eventual demise. 

“I’ll be informed?” This isn’t the hill to die on, but you just can’t help yourself. 

“I don’t know how else to—”

“I’m glad to know I’ll have the privileges of being your widow without you having to marry me, John.”

He recoils away like you just struck him. 

It was an unscrupulous remark to make. Atonement is futile, he’d see right through it. All you can do is wait for the dust to settle and carry on. 

But he— 

“I’d marry you tomorrow if I thought it would fix things.” 

It wouldn’t. 

Some things are just predestined to remain broken, you suppose. 

“I know you would.”

You find yourself at an impasse. Anyone pragmatic might think to cut their losses and retreat. Start anew. 

That’s just not who you are. 

You find other ways to meet each other halfway, on an equal plane of vulnerability and certitude. Nothing to hide behind in the arms of one another. There are shared breaths, harmonies of impassioned confessions and you find yourselves in the other once more. 

You shed the pain you wear like a second skin, disrobed in ways both actual and metaphorical. 

He’s kinder and you’re more forgiving. 

He tells you it’s his last night with you for a while and you request your goodbye before the morning. You need something to remain unsoiled. 

He leaves before you wake.

Sometimes, he leaves a note. 

I’ll be back soon, darling.

Empty words. Hollow promises. An interminable echo in a cave that ripples in the subterranean waters you float in.

Except—

I’m doing the best I can. 

And that’s enough. 

#john price x reader #price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price #captain john price #mw2 price #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #mwii #cod mwii #mw2 #mw2 imagine #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod:mw2 #cod imagine #cod smut #call of duty imagine #call of duty fanfic

[fortheloveofbuddie]

WIP Wednesday Thursday ✨

So I’ve not been doing great ™️ lately. I’ve been insanely busy and I haven’t been writing much because I’m indecisive as hell and didn’t know what to do. I’ve also really been doubting my own skills, so yeah it’s been… a ride.

ANYWAY, enough complaining! I’ve got a new wip going (shocking I know!), called the asthma fic in which a fight between Buck and Eddie leads Buck to have an asthma attack despite not having had one for years 🥴

A huge shoutout to @tizniz who helped me brain storm this fic 💕 and thank you to everyone who keeps tagging me, you’re much appreciated 💕

(Snippet and tags under cut)

Despite only sitting at an arm’s length, Buck feels like he’s a world away from Eddie. Normally the silence is comfortable, it’s safe and sometimes even wanted after a long shift. But right now, Buck is counting all of the many times that his parents did this to him. Didn’t want to deal with him and his feelings. He has to give up counting - there’s way too many times that he remembers and probably just as many that he’s forgotten all about. Expect his body hasn’t.

He traces the back of his hand, carefully picking at the skin as he swallows dryly, Eddie still not speaking. Eddie doesn’t say anything until they reach the main road. Buck doesn’t dare to be the one to break the silence, afraid of the consequences and the wrath that he without a doubt deserves.

“Buck, what the hell?” are the first words out of Eddie’s mouth. He doesn’t even turn his head to look at Buck but Buck is watching him carefully, his small mannerisms that indicates that this time Buck really fucked up.

Eddie’s jaw is locked tight, his nails are almost digging into the leather of the steering wheel and he’s shaking his head a little, shaking it in disapproval, Buck knows that much. “You can’t just…” Eddie takes a deep breath, wanting to get ahold of himself but all of the emotions and words inside his head are welling over, breaking the dam.

“You can’t just do shit like that, you know? You can’t just change plans without telling me about it. Especially not when it’s about Chris” He speaks.

Buck nods vaguely, not Eddie can see it anyway. He knows how much Christopher means to Eddie, that he will always be his first priority which is also totally reasonable. He just doesn't want this to be the thing that breaks them.

He can feel the tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to fall as the tightness in his chest increases and he coughs lightly, trying to shield Eddie from the fact that breathing is starting to become an ongoing struggle.

“I know, I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about it” Buck says and glances at Eddie who scoffs and pinches the bridge of his nose again. It reminds him a little too much of his father, ignoring him and walking away if he became too much to handle. They didn’t care. They were so busy mourning the son that they had lost that they forgot to nurture the one that was left. Maddie. Maddie was always there for him. She never gave up on him.

Tagged by @watchyourbuck @honestlydarkprincess @daffi-990 @exhuastedpigeon @bucksbignaturals @theotherbuckley @cal-daisies-and-briars @dangerpronebuddie @diazsdimples 🩵 (consider this your tag for fuck it Friday)

Also tagging for fuck it Friday!! @disasterbuckdiaz @jeeyuns @thewolvesof1998 @wildlife4life @jesuisici33 @butraura @wikiangela @hippolotamus @steadfastsaturnsrings @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @monsterrae1 @evanbegins @vampbuckley @athenagranted @extasiswings @devirnis @eddiebabygirldiaz @elvensorceress @spotsandsocks @spagheddiediaz @buckbuckgoose @nmcggg @giddyupbuck @loserdiaz 🦋🩵

#buddie #buddie wip #fortheloveofbuddie writes #buddie fic #the asthma fic #fic: I’ll kill myself trying and I’m not scared of dying #<— oh look it has a name already #im as surprised as you are #im back on my bullshit #911 on abc

[corruptedcaps]

The Descent

"Maybe if I put on her magic ponytail, I can find out where she hid our project," Matilda said, an almost entranced glint in her eyes as she played with the stolen strand of hair. The once long and flowing ponytail now lay coiled on her palm, its aura of power palpable even to the touch.

The hair had came from Vicky, their long time tormentor. She had been taunting them about how she had stolen their science project and was going to use it for herself. So engrossed in her taunting that she failed to see the stairs she tripped down. Matilda and Sarah were the only ones around and rushed to help her.

However as she they got to the bottom of the stairs they were both shocked to see a very different Vicky laying unconscious there. She was chubbier, blotchier and in different clothes but it was definitely still her. Weirder still was her long blonde ponytail was laying beside her perfectly detached.

As the ambulance arrived, Matilda quickly pocketed the ponytail into her bag, knowing something was special about it. Now after hours of discussion she was convinced it held some sort of magic properties.

Sarah shot her a skeptical look, her eyebrows knitting together. "Are you sure about this, Matilda? What if it changes you too?"

Matilda's determination shone through her apprehension. "We've suffered enough, Sarah. Vicky has tormented us for far too long. This ponytail might be the key to ending her reign of terror and retrieving our science project."

With a deep breath, Matilda gingerly placed the ponytail atop her head. She was about to try and find away to attach it in place when suddenly she felt it wrap around her own hair. An electrifying surge coursed through her, making her feel both exhilarated and oddly connected to something beyond herself.

However, looking in the mirror she found herself slightly saddened not to see her appearance differ at all. If anything the long blond ponytail looked kind of dumb coming out of her brown shoulder length hair.

“Well? Anything?” Sarah asked.

“No? But maybe I just need to concentrate.” Matilda said as she closed her eyes. She focused on Vicky mind becoming a canvas on which snippets of Vicky's past painted themselves in vivid colors.

Images flashed before Matilda's eyes: Vicky's sinister grins, her malicious delight in causing pain, and the twisted pleasure she took in their suffering. Matilda saw the stolen science project, hidden away in a place she recognized, the school’s supply closet in the basement. When the torrent of memories subsided, Matilda blinked, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within her.

Opening her eyes, Matilda faced Sarah with newfound resolve. "I know where it is."

As they made their way towards the closet at the other end of school, a strange voice began to creep into Matilda's head. It was a voice dripping with praise, like honeyed words that tickled her thoughts. "Matilda," it whispered, "you've freed me from Vicky's grasp. I'm glad to be with you now, my new host."

Matilda's steps faltered as a conflicted expression played across her face, unnoticed by Sarah. The voice seemed to resonate within her, an eerie echo that sent a shiver down her spine. Yet, there was an odd allure to it, like a promise of power and recognition she had never known before.

"I've watched you suffer at Vicky's hands, and now that you hold my essence, you're destined for greatness," the voice continued, its tones beguiling. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Matilda's lips as she soaked in the praise. Her nails seemed to subtly lengthen and shine with a newfound luster. "Together, we shall ascend to new heights, and you will become the new queen here."

A mixture of fascination and dread welled up inside Matilda. The voice's seductive promise of power was tempting, and a part of her reveled in the attention it bestowed upon her. She found herself absentmindedly stroking the ponytail lovingly, her fingers entwining with its strands, as she considered the dark promise it held.

As they continued on their descent to the basement, Matilda didn’t notice the subtle changes in her appearance. Her lips seemed plumper, her breasts a touch fuller, radiating an alluring charm she hadn't possessed before. It was as if the essence of the ponytail was altering her, physically and mentally.

As they finally reached the closet, Matilda found herself distracted by images and memories the hair was showing her. Vicky hadn’t been the only host to the hair and Matilda was captivated by the wicked images she was seeing. So much so that it took her a second to realize that Sarah was asking her a question through her haze. "So where in this mess is our project? Matilda? Matilda, are you alright?"

Matilda's eyes snapped open, her gaze locking onto Sarah's worried expression. Irritation surged within her, the grip of the voice's influence making her responses sharper than she intended. "I'm fine, Sarah. Just give me some space and go look for the project," she said in an unexpectedly bossy tone, "I'll stay here and delve further into the memories of the ponytail. Maybe there's something we missed."

While Sarah walked off slightly worried about her friend, Matilda closed her eyes, focusing on the ponytail's essence. In reality she knew exactly where the project was in the room but she wanted to to experience more of the ponytail’s memories. They were intoxicating. Each one showcasing Vicky's malevolent actions. To her surprise, Matilda found herself immersed in the scenes, a strange sense of delight bubbling up within her as she witnessed Vicky's cruelty.

Then, something shifted. Matilda saw herself in Vicky's place, commanding a group of loyal girls who followed her every command. They tormented others with glee, reveling in their power over those weaker than them. Matilda experienced the rush of control, the thrill of manipulation, and a dark satisfaction as her victims trembled before her.

“This could be you…. Popular. Beautiful. Powerful.” The ponytail hissed in her mind.

With each memory, Matilda's posture subtly changed, her shoulders straightening with a newfound confidence. Her once fair complexion took on a warm, tanned glow, and her makeup seemed to apply itself perfectly, accentuating her features in ways she had never managed before. As she absorbed the memories and physical changes, Matilda continued to stroke the ponytail, feeling an intimate connection to its power and allure.

The voice's promise of becoming the new queen of mean resonated more deeply now, as the lines between Matilda and the malevolent force blurred further. The temptation of power, beauty, and control tugged at her very being, threatening to consume her completely.

But something was stopping her from truly giving in. A lone face of worry appeared in her mind’s eye. Sarah. What would Sarah think of her if she went down this path? Sarah had been her only friend through their hard years of high school. They would graduate soon and they were going to be roommates at college. She couldn’t throw that all away. Could she?

"Sarah doesn't really care about you. She's always held you back, made you weak," the voice whispered seductively. Matilda found herself nodding in hesitant agreement. "With my power, you will rise above her, she will be nothing more than an ant to you."

As the voice's words wormed their way into her thoughts, a subtle grin betrayed the internal struggle. Sarah's presence, once comforting, now seemed like an obstacle. The voice's seductive promises fueled a growing resentment towards her friend, amplifying the allure of power and the desire for domination.

As Matilda continued to stroke the ponytail, her body underwent more extreme changes. Her tits swelled, straining against her clothing, which suddenly shifted to become short and revealing. Her long brown boring hair had been absorbed into the ponytail, causing it to grow long and blonde. Her lips plumped even further, and a sultry aura seemed to emanate from her very being, transforming her appearance into one of undeniable sexiness.

In the midst of Matilda's changes, Sarah's diligent search bore fruit. She let out a triumphant exclamation. But Matilda's attention was elsewhere as Sarah’s squeal caused her to open her eyes. A nearby mirror caught her attention, and she saw for the first time the changes the ponytail had bestowed upon her. She gazed in wonder at her altered appearance – her posture, her tanned complexion, her enhanced beauty. A wicked smile crept across her lips as she admired her reflection, her newfound look intoxicating.

"Matilda, look I found it! Oh my god, what happened to you?" Sarah's initially excited but then worrisome voice broke through, as she approached Matilda with the project in hand.

Without a second thought, Matilda's gaze snapped from her reflection to Sarah's outstretched hands holding the project. A cruel laugh bubbled up from within her, the voice's influence fueling her darker impulses. With a swift and deliberate motion, Matilda knocked the project out of Sarah's hands, the beakers and carefully constructed model shattering on the ground.

Sarah looked at Matilda in shock, her eyes wide and hurt. "Matilda, what... why?"

Matilda's lips curled into a cold smirk, her gaze unwavering. "Why should I care about some stupid science project, Sarah? It's time for you to realize my new station.”

The words, dripping with malice, hung heavy in the air. Matilda reveled in the twisted satisfaction of asserting dominance, fueled by the voice's encouragement and the newfound beauty that seemed to amplify her confidence. As Sarah stood there, stunned and betrayed, Matilda's descent into the depths of darkness seemed almost complete.

Sarah's shock quickly transformed into desperation. "Matilda, it's the ponytail, you have to take it off! It's turning you evil!"

Matilda's laughter echoed through the tense air, chilling in its newfound cruelty. "Oh, Sarah, I thought you were the smart one of us two. I know exactly what it's doing to me, and I love it."

Sarah's eyes brimmed with tears as she pleaded, "Please, Matilda, you're not yourself. You're letting it control you."

Matilda's smirk deepened, and her voice took on an eerie, almost mocking tone. "Matilda is dead, loser and I’m in control. You're looking at the new queen of the school now – Mercedes."

The transformation in Matilda was complete. Her once gentle nature had been consumed by the dark temptations of the ponytail's power. Her eyes gleamed with a sinister glint, her beauty now a reflection of the malevolent force that had taken hold. The voice's influence had reshaped her into something unrecognizable, a twisted echo of the girl who had once been bullied. Now she held all the cards.

A WEEK LATER

A week had passed since the transformation, and the school seemed like a different place. Mercedes had swiftly filled the void left by Vicky's absence. She radiated a commanding presence, her newfound beauty and malevolence drawing in Vicky’s old clique. Cruelty had become her currency, popularity her domain.

Sarah watched from the sidelines, heart heavy with a mix of sadness and shock. Mercedes was unrecognizable, her every move calculated to assert dominance. The voice's influence had turned her into a ruthless queen, and Sarah was now just another pawn in her game.

To Mercedes, Sarah meant nothing more than a tool to be used. She forced Sarah to do her homework, create a new science project, and cater to her whims. The once unbreakable bond between friends had been severed, replaced by Mercedes' insatiable thirst for control.

“Hurry up nerd, I don’t have all day to wait for you to finish this dumb project. My hawt boyfriend Chad is waiting and I don’t like to keep my man waiting.” She said with a cruel smirk as Sarah worked tirelessly, her heart aching for the loss of her friend and the darkness that now ruled her. The school had a new ruler, and Sarah was left to navigate the cruel reality of the queen of mean who had once been Matilda.

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #magic #evil bitch #corrupted hair

[celestiallights515]

Snippet 1

At this point, I've given up trying to only post things I think other people will be happy with, considering it's been, like, a year. So enjoy.

Henchman staggered down the ally, dragging the back of their hand along their cheek as their foot sent ripples along a puddle, rain falling as a mist over the slumbering city. Street lights sent weak rays splashing across the exposed brick walls as movements sent spikes of pain through Henchman's body. They shivered, clutching a flannel to their shoulders that was at least one size too big.

Quick footsteps drew their attention behind them, towards the entrance off the street and away from the deadly silent streets on the other side. Nothing but empty night air met them, and Henchman set their jaw, turning back around and shaking off the adrenaline that shot through their system at the idea of another confrontation. Their prior meeting with Hero them in enough pain as it was.

"Evening."

Henchman leaped half a foot in the air, holding back a startled yelp as they came face to face with Villain, one eyebrow raised at their response. "What are you doing here?" Their voice was far too squeaky, the words far too callous. Villain stalked towards them, eyes already set on the darkening bruise on the side of Henchman's cheekbone.

"I saw the news," Villain answered, still focused on the already-midnight bruise. "I was wondering where you'd gone. No note, no mention, just keys on your desk and phone left on silent." Villain pauses, eyes narrowing as they scanned the rest of Henchman's body. "Then, of course, Right Hand shows me a clip of the news and a certain blondie trying to take down a hero that's been a thorn in my side for far too long. I figured you might run off this way."

"I was only trying to help, boss."

"By throwing yourself into combat unprepared. I wasn't aware you'd developed a death wish. I could've sent you to the cellar to satiate that; you needn't go searching for death at the hands of a hero I despise already."

Henchman floundered for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish, humiliation burning their cheeks hotter than any fire. "I don't--I didn't--"

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Villain demands, cutting Henchman off sharply.

A short, hesitant, mendacious* shake of their head. Villain's eyes call Henchman on their lie, but their mouth stays shut until:

"I'll have Medic check you out at HQ then. Let's go." They offer one hand and Henchman hesitates once more. Another inquisitive look from the Villain as a car passes by the ally, illuminating Villain's eyes and the look of fury within them.

"I really--"

Villain reaches for Henchman's hand before they get the chance to finish, and within the length of a heartbeat, they're standing in the middle of the infirmary of Headquarters, Villain's angry footsteps and overly stiff posture leaving them to contemplate just how badly they messed up.

Part Two

#heroes and villains #villain #henchmen #hero/villain snippet #villain x henchman #villain x right hand #snippet #writing snippet #superheroes #supervillains #Choose your own adventure

[love-toxin]

Fruity four and princess reader au. Where you’re supposed to be this sweet good pure thing, and the four are literally defiling that image every night as you let them through the window at the same time

ok so.....i am having ideas <33

dirty princess

(cws: high fantasy/royalty au, slightly bratty princess!angelface, fantasy au fruity four, forbidden love trope, sneaking around/secret relationships, lots of chastity talk, f/f oral, unprotected sex, anal, tribbing, masturbation, spit, a bit of dom/sub dynamics, the sexy thrill of (potentially) getting caught.)

You're so pretty and sweet, it's a wonder if people don't fall in love with you when they first meet you. With your parents often tending to whatever royal duties that keep them busy, you're left to wander and do as you please for the most part once your lessons are finished for the day. As long as you have a guide, you're allowed to roam the city streets around the castle as well, so you make friends quite easily and that's how you end up meeting the four of them--the people you would never expect to become the loves of your life!

Nancy's a writer and a storyteller, who teaches the children in the poorer villages round the outskirts of the kingdom how to read and write. She's a bit tight-lipped but sweet, gentle and charismatic once she opens up a little more. She holds you in such high regard, a single meeting by chance has her breath caught in her throat and a haze over her whole world--from then on, she finds herself staying awake late at night to scribble furiously in her diary, penning uncountable snippets and stories and observed details of you that she can't allow herself to forget.

Steve is a bit more of a familiar face, as he's a fresh-faced knight on the king's royal guard. Moved quickly on from a squire thanks to his family's wealth, he's still quite new and inexperienced as far as combat goes, but he's confident all the same. He's so surprisingly gentle, he's got a warm voice and such pretty brown eyes, he's mesmerizing. You mention once as you pass by that he's too pretty for battle, that you wouldn't doubt him if he were to don a duke's attire--and he laughs, and when you laugh right along with him, he knows it's love.

Robin is a new love, a new body in the sea of people that crowd the streets when you come walking by. She's a trobairitz, often on the road as she ventures from kingdom to kingdom, carrying along her instrument and her thick leaflets of music bound together with a rough cord. She's poetic and bright and speaks at length when she's left in silence, and she's beautiful, her profession keeping her preferences subtle even when she's singing her sweet love songs to a woman as fair as the princess. With one song performed in your court, and two pairs of eyes meeting from across the patterned floor, you're hooked, and so is she.

Eddie comes from much more humble origins. Lives above a tavern he shares half of with his uncle, often spends his nights wrestling drunks off of their stools to send them stumbling off towards home, and playing a bit of music when the air is quiet and he has a moment to step away from the counter. You had met him by pure accident, the tavern far from the safety of the castle's reach when you had gotten lost one night, your guide having darted away for a moment and left you by your lonesome without even realizing. He had chuckled at the sight of you wandering in, cloak pulled tight but your naïve eyes betraying all your innocence as you sidle between drunks and cheering patrons as they sing and dance on the tables in a stupor. But when you'd whimpered out your need for his help, he had dropped everything to do so, leaving the bar in his uncle's capable hands as he brought you back to the castle gates--and nearly had his head lopped off when they thought he had been the one to kidnap you.

It had been shocking to learn that they all had connections to each other, even moreso to find that they considered themselves friends--but not nearly as much to discover that the love you felt for them, that you thought was selfish and a complete fantasy, was actually requited. That and more. Much more.

Because what most, if not everyone doesn't know, is that you are not the pure-minded princess that your people so adore. While your heart is soft and kind, your desires are something that command you into acts that certainly don't befit the daughter of a king and queen. You can be greedy, selfish, even depraved if given the chance, and by god do your lovers ever give you the chance to act on those urges.

Robin and Steve are easy. They can slip into the castle on the smallest excuse, Steve is usually stationed on the grounds anyways, and all Robin must do is let you pull on your parent's and advisor's arms to let your favourite entertainer back into the ballroom for a show. All she's expected to do is perform, which is what she's best at--and when the other members of the court have their wine in hand and have dismissed the young princess to go entertain herself for the afternoon, you're pulling Robin into your chambers for a private showing with nobody available to come interrupt you. She's always so tender, her lovemaking slow and scattered when she can't decide where to focus, what parts of you she likes best and that need the most attention. She just loves every bit, she has to strip your layers off and take her time in showing you the kind of love you never thought possible....including when she pulls your legs apart and straddles you between them, her bare chest a sight to behold as the trobairitz sings your praises and rides your sweet clit until you're gasping for breath. She just can't get enough, can't stop herself from bending your knee back and humping her cunt into yours, so wet her skin shines and glistens with arousal as she urges you to cum every time she does. Even if she has to get down and finish you off with her tongue and her fingers, she will make it so--most times she's intentional with it, using her own sensitivity to justify spending hours with her face between your legs to make up for all those lost orgasms.

On Steve's end, it's only a bit harder, and he has to work his way up to getting his time with you. To prove himself wouldn't be enough without your parent's approval, they must see him excel in order to approve him as one of your close guardians. That last one that cluelessly abandoned you in the streets has left a space open that needs to be filled, however, and with a well-worded letter from his family to the head of the royal guard, Steve has a chance to show his responsibility and loyalty in keeping the precious princess safe. They're all so happy to see him thrive, aside from those who were gunning for that same position--but they don't know that the man keeping a close eye on the princess's safety is also the one decimating her celibacy on every night shift he has. Twice a week he's tasked with spending an overnight stay outside your room, and twice a week he's lured inside by your moans once everyone's gone to bed, and is met by the sight of the beautiful princess with her fingers playing between her legs as she hums his name. At first it stays that way, with you touching and him watching. But soon enough he can't bear it, can't bear your teasing as you beg to know what he would do if he were allowed to break your chastity--and he answers you with his fingers soaked in spit, avoiding your forbidden fruit in favour of working open that loophole he knows you have. Bedding a virgin princess as her sworn protector would be the fastest trip to the gallows imaginable--but is it really breaking your vow of chastity in a hole that can't be impregnated? Surely not, neither of you think.

Nancy's infiltration is harder, but still possible. You've got a teacher already, the best the kingdom can offer for your education, but you soon wonder if you can convince them of the need for a more creative outlet? Nancy's a poet and a prodigy, surely you could stomp your feet a bit and beg for the most popular storyteller in the city to come and teach you a bit about her craft? You feel it might work and it does with time, eventually you're ending your usual lessons with your professor packing up and leaving, while Nancy shuffles in and sets her materials down on the table in front of you. She has books and essays and journals to show you, diaries of such prolific people and stories with such rich and diverse history--and while she reads them to you with the text open in one hand, her other one fists itself in your hair as you wiggle your sweet tongue inside her cunt. She's surprisingly disciplined about her chosen area of study, enforcing homework and extra reading and even tests if she feels the need, which also means punishments and rewards for jobs done well and ill. A punishment could be a spanking, or a bit of spit in your open mouth, and a reward is usually one of your choosing--and the one you usually choose is to lick her pussy from top to bottom and inside out, while your headmistress teaches the rest of her lesson from whatever book you have lined up. You always give her a good cleaning for your own job well done, anticipating the same when she finishes early and has a bit of time to return the favour. But it's mostly a habit because of the thrill of getting caught, when you know the advisor coming to escort Nancy after the lesson will be approaching the door to the schoolroom--and what better high than to feel her viciously eating you out with her fingers plunged inside you, tongue sloshing through your wet folds before she sucks down on your clit in a desperate attempt to make you cum, while those footsteps get closer and closer down the hall outside?

Eddie is the only one who doesn't need to slither his way into your lodgings, because you come to him. It's such a dangerous route, the most likely way for you to get caught when you're sneaking out of the castle alone, but you don't care. When you get to the tavern in the middle of the night and slip in through the back door, Eddie's always got a drink and a room for you upstairs where you can be alone, with no eyes following your linked pinkies as you follow him up the steps. Eddie's different, he's filthy--he's crude and rough and crass, he spits and cusses and smiles at you with the knowledge that he's corrupting you with his presence alone. You sip that foul mead that has your head feeling dizzy and warm, and he's already fondling you before his bedroom door is closed. The chatter is loud and boisterous but muffled under the floorboards when you're laid out on his bed, and unlike Steve in particular, Eddie doesn't care about preserving your mock virginity. He fucks you, deep and raw like he's making his one time with a princess count, and he always leaves marks he knows you have to hide--including the cum he leaves spilling out of you when he's done. He's sweaty and unwashed and stinks of ale and smoke, he's grimy and slimy and licks your clean skin from your throat to your pussy, marring your tits with his teeth and wetting his lips with your slick when you grab those curls and hold on for dear life against his tongue. Hes disgusting and depraved, he's fucked plenty before and he'll fuck many more times if you ever stop seeing him, but he's yours. You have his heart, he says, and if you deign to break it he'll have to resign to suffering through the rest of life, knowing he lost the one he truly loved. Such romantic words for a lowborn cur without a drop of noble blood inside him.

It's an awful way to live, a pathetic excuse of behavior for such a high-bred woman of the royal family--that's what the court would say, and all the nobles that cycle through the castle doors to greet you, all while smiling those vile thoughts away as they dream of their sons or daughters being in your place. You may be spoiled and beautiful and rich, but you're in love, and the ones that share your love return it tenfold back to you at every chance. They're the very few you share your life with that aren't vying for your attention because of the material things you can give them, rather they want your time so they can spend it talking to you and listening to your woes, uncaring as to how huge your inheritance will be or how powerful they could get if they married into royalty. They're just lovers, through and through, and you'll do anything to make sure that those tender hearts of theirs never have to become fighters for your sake.

#fruity four #fruity four x reader #kingdom come au #steve harrington #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #eddie munson #steve harrington x reader #nancy wheeler x reader #robin buckley x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie's angelface #spicy writing #st 4 #stranger things #ellie writes #anons

[spotsandsocks]

🐺The Lost and The Found Update!!🐺 10k

Chapter 5 is done or start from Chapter 1

Cover art by @ronordmann

Eddie steps out of the cab, closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The sun is warm on his skin, the sounds and smells wrap around him and say home, safe, love.

He only opens his eyes when a beloved and familiar voice calls his name then within moments he’s wrapped in arms that are soft warm and surprisingly strong for a woman her size.

“Mi amor you’ve grown so much!” His abuela sucks in a breath of air another familiar sound and he grins to himself, knowing what will come next. “You’ll be taller than me soon!”

He knows that too and has mixed feelings about it, before very long he will be taller than her which will be cool obviously but mark a certain change in their relationship he’s not really ready for in ways he can’t quite articulate.

As suddenly as he was embraced the person he loves best in all the world holds him out at arms length and studies him closely, brown eyes wrinkling at the corners.

“So handsome” she taps her cheeks and he bestows a kiss in the required spot. Noting that he really is almost as tall as her now.

“Come, it’s time for lunch and then you can meet the new guests, we have three right now.”

Something sad flashes across her face and she looks at him with a thoughtful expression and says, almost to herself , “Maybe having someone younger around will help.”

She doesn’t elaborate and Eddie doesn’t ask, just follows his beloved abuelita towards the ranch he spends his summer holidays at each year. It’s without doubt the best part of his year. And this year, now he’s thirteen he’ll be allowed to run on his own for the first time. Not that he doesn’t enjoy running with the pack but it’ll be fun to have a little more freedom.

Chapt 5 snippet under cut

A few weeks after the camping trip that left Buck upset and angry and constantly checking his phone things start to improve again. Buck hasn’t told him much more about his sister except she’s doing well wherever she is and then Chimney was back hand staying quiet too. Although, Eddie notices with some interest, he’s also spending quite a lot of time on his phone as well, smiling at the screen and taking more calls than he ever used to. Regardless of lingering secrets the tension that’s been in the air is dissipating. 

However something is still going on.  Bobby’s been out of town quite a lot, taking more leave and he’s been extremely vague about where he’s been going. Buck’s being a bit more distant too. He’s been making excuses about why he’ll be round later than usual after work or not be round at all on some days off, he’s hardly seen Chris at all which is unusual. Maybe this is Eddie’s fault, maybe cuddling on the couch had been a bad idea. Is this Buck pulling away, setting some boundaries for them because he doesn’t want what Eddie’s trying so hard not to want.

If it is he can live with boundaries (probably) but Eddie doesn't like  to contemplate the idea that maybe Buck might have started dating someone. Surely he’d have mentioned it. The thought unsettles him. So he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about Buck and someone else out at dinner, in a bar, laughing, fingers touching, kissing because if he does it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. 

Considering how he’s refusing to contemplate it he spends a lot of time thinking about it. He wishes he knew if but dreads the moment he finds out that Buck is actually seeing someone. Even if he’s not right now it’s bound to happen at some point. After all he’s good looking, stunning really, kind, funny, smart and loyal. Who wouldn’t want Buck?

To distract himself from those kinds of thoughts and prepare himself Eddie decides that maybe he needs to build himself a life outside of the team, well outside of Buck specifically. Eddie doesn’t see dating in his own future so he might as well find something to fill the potential Buck shaped void in his world. 

Maybe he should take up golf. The thought fails to excite him. Maybe tennis? He could take up wood work or… he could start running or hiking in the hills. LA’s not Texas but it’s ok and being out in nature again would be nice. Maybe that would help with the increasingly restless feelings he’s having. Running would be a good start at so he decides to ask Buck for some advice on the best running trails around. 

It takes a day for him to remember to ask his friend for his favourite trails and Buck’s response is unexpectedly obstructive.

“Why?” 

There’s a frown on Buck’s face and you might even think he was annoyed by the request. There’s an almost accusatory tone in his voice. 

Having no idea what’s got Buck in a mood today Eddie ignores the tone but rolls his eyes anyway.

“Take a guess. Why do you think I want to know about running trails?”

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 fox #911 abc #buddie wip #buddie fic #911 on fox #911 fic #911fic #911 firefam

[takearisk-xo]

ALREADY HERE

so @brightlybound asked what already gone would be like with the roles reversed, to which i replied "don't give me more fic ideas!" but i couldn't stop the brain rot and this happened anyway. thanks for all the love brightly!!! you yelling about already gone h/g has been an endless source of joy and cackling <333 i've written this little crack au just for you and it is appropriately titled already here

---

Harry sat up a little straighter in his hospital bed as the door to his room opened and a slight figure, with waist length red hair, slipped into the room. Ron and Hermione were arguing about something over the top of his legs, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what. He thought it had something to do with Ernie MacMillan, but now they were going on about Magical Games and Sports and he couldn't be bothered to play catch up.

Ginny didn't acknowledge any of them, and went straight over to the Healer station to read through the latest additions to Harry's chart. For the shortest of moments, a little pang of annoyance reverberated through his chest, then he remembered that Ginny was now his wife, and was free to peruse his medical history as she pleased.

Wife.

She was his wife.

No one had told him how it happened. His days-long bout of unconsciousness, after he'd found out about Sirius, had everyone pretty tight lipped with further details. It was maddening to know little snippets of how his life at twenty-one looked, and yet have absolutely no context for how he'd gotten there.

"I'm telling you," Ron declared loudly. "He started in chess before getting promoted. He never worked in International Cooperation."

"Yes, he did!" Hermione shot back, her tone bordering on furious. "Because I had to work with him on that export of illegal chimera cubs!"

Ron shook his head and looked ready to let loose another retort but Harry cut him off.

"Can-" He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on Ginny, who in turn, still had her gaze firmly fixed on the parchment in her hands. "Can I talk to Ginny for a moment?"

She glanced around to meet his stare, her brown eyes sharp and a little furrow appearing above her nose. On either side of him, Ron and Hermione exchanged a silent conversation made up of raised eyebrows and shrugs. They must've come to some sort of consensus however, because they both stood at the same time and Ron murmured a quick, "We'll go get tea."

Ginny maintained her wary expression as Hermione gave her shoulder a little squeeze then ducked past her. Ron followed soon after, shutting the door behind him and then they were alone. Alone for the first time since Harry had awoken to find his limbs too long, his friends almost unrecognizable, and the only family he'd ever known to be dead.

Sliding Harry's paperwork back into its slot, Ginny made a show of crossing her arms and frowning at where he sat on the bed. He hardly wanted to have this conversation tucked into the bedsheets like an invalid, so he tugged the blankets aside and moved to stand.

"Don't-" she murmured with a pleading edge to her voice. She'd taken two steps closer in the time it'd taken him to swing his feet around to the side.

Harry huffed impatiently and scowled back at her. "Last I checked, my head was causing all the problems. Not my legs."

Her hard gaze didn't waver, and she apparently didn't consider this statement worthy of a response.

He stayed sitting anyway.

"I have questions," he began.

"I expect you do." Ginny leaned into another step, with her arms still crossed and her eyes flicking down to her feet. "That doesn't mean I have to answer them."

The annoyance he'd felt earlier shifted and heated into full blown irritation. "If you think I'm going to be alright laying here and eating casseroles-"

Ginny spoke over his outburst before he'd even picked up steam. "You're going to have to be."

Harry narrowed his eyes and decided if she could ignore his assertions then he was well within his rights to disregard hers.

"We were... friends," he struggled uselessly, trying, and failing, to ask his first question somewhat delicately. "What changed?"

Her throat bobbed, like it was difficult to swallow even though the look on her face remained impassive.

Harry couldn't stand it. "What changed!?"

Blinking a few times, her reserved mask slipped and her eyes turned blazing.

"Nothing!?" Ginny threw her hands into the air impatiently. "Everything!? But I'm sure as hell not going to sit here and try to prove myself to you!"

Turning on her heel, she stormed toward the door, and cool regret leaked into his bloodstream. He shouldn't have let his own composure slip.

Harry stood and lunged after her.

"Wait-" His hand closed around her elbow just as she reached for the doorknob. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just..."

He trailed off, unsure exactly of what he was trying to say. Ginny kept her back to him and he heard her pull in a shaky breath.

Errantly, like a stray thought, Harry observed just how petite she was. Ginny had always been quite short, but Harry also had a lingering malnourishment to him, so he'd never thought much of their difference in size.

Until now, when he stood next to her nearly a full head taller.

His fingers tightened around her arm in question. She turned enough that he could see the look on her face, and the unshed tears clinging to her lashes.

He let go in an instant, guilt and discomfort spearing through him like a lance.

"I'm sorry," he said again, taking a step back toward his hospital bed.

She swiped at her eyes in clear fury and Harry couldn't tell if it was directed at him or that fact that he'd seen her cry.

Maybe both?

"It's not an easy story to tell," she said eventually. "And I'm not getting into it when you've only been conscious again for a day and half."

Harry nodded, not really registering her words as much as the clear worry that shadowed her face.

A beat too late, he realized she was waiting for a response and he rushed, "Yeah, okay."

Ginny nodded once, her hard exterior replacing the momentary show of vulnerability. Harry stood watching her, scratching a loose thread in the sleeve of his patient robes and waiting for her to leave.

She didn't.

Instead, after a few moments of glaring at him, her shoulders slumped in time with her exhale and her face twisted into agony. He only had a split second warning before she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his ribs.

Harry stood quite stunned for a second, at a complete loss for what to do next.

Thankfully, Ginny didn't allow him to remain clueless. With her face buried in his chest, she choked out a muffled, "Hug me you idiot."

He muttered another quick apology and did as instructed.

Not seeming to mind that his hold around her shoulders was stiff, she clung to him without reservation as her breath hitched with more unshed tears.

Harry had not been the source of much comfort in his life, at least in the parts of his life he could still remember, but Ginny seemed to be receiving some kind of ease anyway. Little by little, he relaxed into it, into the feel of her tucked into his embrace, into her hands fisted in the robes at his back, and the scent of her wildflower hair.

Time stretched, and it could've been several minutes or several hours for all the attention he was paying the clock on the wall.

Ultimately, however, Ginny's hold did loosen and she sucked in a shuddering sigh as both their arms dropped back to their sides.

She stared up at him, her expression a bit sheepish, but also with a hint of something so unapologetic, he wondered if it wasn't so much her feelings in that moment as much as it was her constant state of being.

"I guess I'm not coping as well as I thought." She sniffed, wiping her eyes and shooting him a self deprecating grin.

Then Harry realized she was pretty.

No, that wasn't right. She'd always been rather pretty, but in a girlish, innocent type of way.

The Ginny that stood before him now was stunning. Shining copper hair cascaded down her shoulders in loose waves. Freckles dusted her cheeks and nose, etching constellations down to her neck and collarbones. While her bright amber eyes were lit from within by a fire that looked like it could burn the world down three times over if she had the inclination.

"Do-" Harry began in some lame attempt at making amends. "Do you want to stay? We don't have to talk!" he added quickly. "Or we could talk about something else? But I understand if you don't want to talk at all. Really, either works for me. Talking, or not talking, I mean-"

This startled a laugh out of her and Harry felt a deep rooted elation take hold at being the cause of such a thing.

"If you say 'talk' one more time," she said in reply, "I'm going to throw myself in the river."

Harry blinked. "What river?"

She breathed out a chuckle, but she couldn't hide the trace of sadness that pinched the corners of her eyes.

"Do you think we could..." she hesitated, and Harry noticed her twist a thin gold band around her finger. "Just for a little while longer?"

Harry's eyes blurred a bit at the edges, a new emotion gripping his lungs as he took in her hopeless expression.

He nodded, and with a relieved sigh, she folded herself into him once more. Prepared for it this time, he tucked his chin on the top of her head and let the swirling flowery scent of her engulf his senses.

He'd committed it to memory long before she let go.

#already gone #already HERE #this was so much fun #my fic

[tilseptemberends]

Post ACOSF Elucien snippet

Elain stared absently at the wall of the strange apartment. Not strange in that it looked odd, honestly most homes in Velaris had a very samey feel to them, but in that she hadn't expected to find herself coming here of all places. But where else did she have to go? There was not one place in this city that she could call her own. And going to her room in Feyre's new home was not an option. Not while the others were still there recovering from the night of Nesta's mating ceremony.

It hadn't just been the necklace... It was everything about the situation. How happy Gwyn looked as she twirled around in a corner with a veritable pack of shadows. How Azriel watched her with the smallest of smiles on his face. I'll bet he never thought that kissing her would be a mistake... Elain thought and immediately regretted it. Gwyn deserved to have someone look at her like that. It wasn't the preistess's fault. Wasn't that why Elain had refrained from commenting on the necklace till Gwyn brought it up herself? Azriel had watched them warily. Actually, warily was putting it rather mildly. He'd looked about ready to launch himself out of one of the nearby windows when Gwyn had approached her. Like he'd expected her to point out who he'd originally given the necklace to. As if she would ever be so graceless. She should have given him a good knock about the ears for thinking so little of her. Elain had simply said that the charm suited Gwyn and casually changed the subject so she wouldn't have to think about it a second longer. And then she'd found the first opportunity to excuse herself. And come here.

She'd started walking in the direction of the apartment without thinking. She just needed to get away from everyone. The inner circle. Nesta's new friends. All of them. Separately she could handle these developments in her life but they just kept coming. And before she knew it she was at his door, practically weeping that she didn't know where else to go.

"Damn, another one?" A hushed voice came from the next room and Elain lifted her head from one of the pillows. "How long did you live in Spring, and you still can't keep a house plant alive?" he spoke again and Elain blinked in surprise. Had she seen any houseplants last night? No, she'd been far too busy spiraling and kicking Lucien out of his own damn bedroom. Elain sat up and rubbed her face. She'd been so busy thinking about herself that she hadn't even considered that she might be intruding on his already sparse free time. She slowly got to her feet and paused as she caught sight of her reflection in a full-length mirror sat next to his armoire. She frowned. Not night court black but the charcoal grey was close enough. Who was she fooling with this getup? She might have shredded the dress with her bare hands if she had something else to change into. Elain shook her head and moved past the mirror to the bedroom door.

When she opened it she was struck by a few different things. The first being Lucien at the stove in his kitchen. The sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows as he cooked his breakfast. And second, the poorhouse plant he'd scolded himself about earlier. She tentatively approached and gave the pot a look. Yikes. She winced slightly at the condition of it and when she looked up she found that Lucien had turned in her direction. He stood very still, like he was scared she might bolt if he made any sudden moves. She cleared her throat lightly,

"Do you mind if I ask what your pot of mud used to be?" she asked and Lucien slowly set his plate back down on the counter.

"...it's a peace lily," he replied quietly and Elain snorted. She immediately covered her mouth and she knew her face had gone quite red. "I- Gods, I'm so sorry. That was so rude." Shit. SHIT. She was going to crawl under a rock and die. But then Lucien started laughing. His own face tinted pink. "I knew it was bad. In my defense, the flowers in Spring don't need maintaining." He pulled another mug down from the cupboard and Elain made sure she was looking at the dearly departed lily when he looked back at her. "Would you like some tea?" She folded her hands together and considered. "That won't... will it?" she couldn't bring herself ask finish the question aloud. Lucien filled the mug with hot water and set it on the counter next to her with a teabag and a spoon. "I don't think so. But just in case." Carefully, Elain slid the mug toward herself and did her best not to stare at his forearms. The bond was making maintaining a normal conversation excessively difficult this morning. But he walked back across the kitchen to grant her the space she need to think. Maybe he needed the space too. She dropped the teabag into the mug of water. "Thank you... for helping me." She tapped her spoon lightly on the counter. "It's alright. I... know what it's like to not feel like you have anywhere to go." Elain nodded to herself. How close she must have struck him last night with those words. I didn't know where else to go...

She rubbed her eyes and sighed heavily.

"I should go before Feyre sends the city guard out to search the streets for me..." Lucien considered her for a moment.

"Would you like me to walk you back?" And that offer... she swallowed and shook her head. "N-no... that's alright... I need some time to think before I see them." And I won't be able to if you're right next to me... she didn't finish. Lucien didn't insist though. If Elain wanted to walk herself back home after commandeering his bed for a night then he would let her. Something about that twisted her heart in a way she couldn't think about right here. More space. She needed some distance from him before she considered what it meant that she'd come here to escape the others.

Elain finished her tea and Lucien saw her to the door. He paused when he opened it though.

"Is something wrong?" she asked and he tapped his foot sharply. Weighing a decision apparently. He sighed and buried his hands in his pockets.

"You can come here any time you like, Elain. Even if I'm not around. There are wards on the door but... they'll let you in." He didn't look at her, instead staring hard and the ground between them. "I... thank you, Lucien." she spoke quietly and he nodded without another word. Without much else to say Elain turned and followed the Sidra back toward her sister's home.

#elucien #anti elriel #anti e/riel #elucien fic #snippet I might develop later #the only time I will ever talk about that stupid necklace

[ao3commentoftheday]

Hi, I wanted to say first that I love your blog, thank you for modding it!!

As for my question, it's this: I have written my fair amount of fanfiction, but it's always been one-shots, and normally quite short (my longest fic right now is 11K, and my mean length is probably 5K). But now I've decided to give a longfic a shot, because I have a plot idea that I really like and that I want to expand on.

But that means that for the first time I'm having to deal with a plot that has to make sense, and delayed gratification (normally it never takes more than a month between starting to write and posting). And I'm having issues with motivation and focus. The fact that it has been a month and I haven't finished the setup is eating away on my will to write.

Any advice??

First of all, congratulations on having such a big idea! That's very exciting indeed :)

When it comes to writing out a big idea, you have more than just one option in front of you. If you want to write it all out as one long story, you can definitely do that. But you also have the option of writing it out as a series of shorter stories. This might be useful if your current way of writing works best with shorter works.

Another thing to consider is not writing all of it. What I mean by that is, how much of the set up is necessary from the reader's perspective and how much of it is you solidifying your own ideas for yourself ahead of digging into the plot? If writing the set up is something that you enjoy, then by all means go right ahead. But if you're just doing it because you think you have to, then skip it. A lot of the heavy lifting can be done with your summary and tags and even an author's note if you want to go that route and a lot can be left unsaid or revealed as you write the out your plot.

If you want to write one big story, then staying motivated will definitely be a factor and something that will depend on where you get your motivation from. If you need support from your community, then I recommend posting snippets (for example, on Six Sentence Sunday or WIP Wednesday).

If you get energy from discussing your story with others, then get a cheer reader or two from amongst your friends - people who can read it when it's still a draft and have those conversations with you.

If you're more motivated by metrics, then give yourself celebrations for completing chapters, hitting specific word count goals, or getting in a solid chunk of writing time during the week.

And no matter what, I really recommend celebrating when you write a line or a scene that gets an emotional reaction out of you. If you manage to make yourself laugh or cry or experience heartache or rage, then enjoy that moment and record it in some way. Possibly with a journal entry (if you're a journalling type) or by selecting a quote and creating a graphic for it. Or even just by writing it out by hand on nice paper or recording it in a voice note. Treasure that moment and it can really help to keep you going.

This is getting long despite me generally being a short writer myself lol, so I'll pass it off to others. How do you stay motivated and keep writing when you're in the midst of a long fic and haven't started posting yet? What tips can you share?

#asks and answers

[cake-writes]

A Dutiful Disaster (Part Seven)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Story Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Royalty, Pre-Thor (2011), Smut, Angst, Drama, Slow Burn, Odin’s A+ Parenting, Cis Female Reader (she/her), No Y/N Usage, Second Person POV, POC-inclusive descriptors, Toxic Relationship (lil bit of abuse from both parties - mostly screaming matches with the occasional physical thing but he never like slaps her or anything), Smut, Slut-Shaming, Mommy Issues, Reader has anxiety, 18+

Chapter Warnings: anxiety, reader is super bitchy in this chapter, and so is her letter, oh my gosh you guys they actually talk shit out like MATURE ADULTS

Word Count: 3.8k

Snippet: “I do not wish to be kissed. It’s too great an intimacy for our,” you pause to consider the word, tapping your finger to your chin, “unique situation, wouldn’t you say? We are the furthest thing from lovers.”

“Oh?” Loki sounds amused by your answer – and then he drops his feet back to the floor with purpose, taking advantage of your startled jump to pull you further into his lap where you can feel the hardening length of him against your clothed core. “If not lovers, then what are we?”

“Married,” you gasp, arms clutching around his neck for fear of being dropped – or so you tell yourself.

Master List / Spotify Playlist / Part Six

A/N: And we’re back! This chapter finally ties us in to the prequel one-shot, as well as the argument between Loki and his father in part two. You may need to read them again for a refresher because it’s been a fair few months (in real life) since those were posted. Enjoy :)

You study your husband from above the gold rim of your teacup. It’s suspicious, the certain ease to his demeanour as he discusses today’s breakfast offerings with his servant.

Loki is manipulating you. He must be. It's the only conclusion you can come to.

You haven’t forgotten the nasty things he said about you to his father the day after your wedding. Loki made it crystal clear that he can't stand you, that he finds this sham of a marriage as torturous as you do, to the point that he'd even referred to it as a life sentence – much like your own thoughts on the matter. Yet, it bothers you in a way you can’t quite explain.

What’s worse is that the Allfather thinks you disloyal to the Crown, and you still haven’t been able to figure out why. You’ve been nothing but loyal, the events of last night notwithstanding. It makes you feel uneasy, knowing that the King has tasked Loki with ensuring your loyalty to Asgard, like he actually expects you could ever be a traitor—a proper one, that is.

Even so, you find yourself begrudgingly admiring the way your husband’s dark, glossy hair perfectly accentuates his sharp cheekbones – during which he turns his attention to you. 

“Is that acceptable?” Loki questions, just as you take another sip of chrysanthemum tea—your favourite, and all you can think is that it can't be just a coincidence.

You hate how infuriatingly attractive he is. Even now. Especially now, with his pretty green eyes so focused on you, like he actually cares what you have to say. 

“That would be lovely,” you answer amicably as you set down your teacup, even though you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to. Something about smoked salmon and capers.

Loki seems to accept your answer, and when he engages once more with his servant, you lose yourself in your thoughts. Two ragged, albeit manicured fingernails tap an anxious rhythm against the side of the porcelain cup in its saucer, each fingertip sounding its own melody.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

It worries you how easily Loki plays the part the perfect husband. Sitting here in his chambers is unnerving; you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he seems perfectly content, like he isn’t at all bothered by the contents of your letter. Nor does he seem to hold any opinion of the events that transpired last night. 

For now.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

The daylight streaming in through the open windows offers a glimpse of the fine lines near his eyes and the dark circles just beneath. While he always appears as though he’s never been able to get enough sleep, courtesy of his fair skin, you’re starting to think that Loki might have slept about as well as you did last night—in other words, scarcely at all.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

You conceal a yawn with your free hand as the servant bows and makes his way to the exit, and then you’re alone with your husband again. That knowledge should set you on edge, but you’re more focused on the rich accoutrements of his sitting room. It’s the first time you’ve been here since that awful argument following the attack; no sign of shattered glass in sight, but then, it has been a week since then.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

A vase full of fresh flowers sits upon the entry table. You’d bruised your hip against it that self-same night. How suspicious that the blooms are the colour of plum wine, a deep reddish-purple that makes your heart sing: your colour.

Tink, tink—

You stop tapping the instant you notice him watching you, and snatch up your teacup as if you meant to do so all along. Then you take a larger sip than you intend. The hot tea scalds your tongue, and his lips twitch in silent laughter as you try and fail to pretend it doesn’t.

“What?” you snap irritably.

“How did you sleep?”

“Why act as though you care?”

Visibly amused by your bristly demeanour, Loki retrieves his own tea, his slim fingers pinching the gilded handle with more finesse than you could ever hope to achieve. “I cannot help but wonder, petal, if you haven’t slept a wink. Were you worrying about how this conversation would go?”

You set your teacup down in its saucer with force, the loud clink of fine china resounding through the room. “Considering the events that transpired during our previous one, I’d be a fool not to worry. I expect that you will have me imprisoned the very moment you manage to lull me into a false sense of security.”

He doesn’t bat an eyelash at your vitriol, instead opting to take a sip of his tea. You can scarcely tell what kind of tea it is anymore, what with how he's drowned it in cream and sugar. Some things never change. It’s comforting, in a way.

Your husband savours the too-sweet taste for a moment before he speaks. “I will not have you imprisoned. You have my word.”

You scoff. “I threatened you.”

“Indeed.”

“With a knife.”

“A dagger, actually,” Loki corrects, and when you cut him a withering look, he gives you a shit-eating grin. You hate how stupidly reassuring it is that he’s just as insufferable as ever. Then his expression shifts to something a little more serious, his eyes softening at the corners. “You felt that I posed a threat to your safety, and you acted in self-defence. A sleepless night is punishment enough.”

You don’t buy it. “And my letter?”

“I suspect that you would never have sent it, had your fear not driven you to do so. No one in their right mind would call me—what was it, an animal?—among so many other insults that I cannot even begin to fathom them all, in a letter signed with one’s personal seal. That alone could have landed you in the dungeons, yet you did so with little regard for the consequences.” A puff of laughter escapes him. “You have always had an impulsive streak, darling, but never to that extent.”

He sees right through you. You despise it. “Yes, well—”

“If you truly think me an animal, then I can only imagine that you would indeed feel safer in another part of the palace.” He mentions the request you’d made in your letter so nonchalantly, like the two of you are merely discussing the weather. “Where did you have in mind?”

That does it.

“How—How can you be so calm about all of this?” you sputter. “Forgive me, husband, but I do not trust how willingly you would turn a blind eye to my transgressions!”

The precise manner in how Loki returns his teacup to its saucer betrays him. “Don’t you?”

You glare at him. Something is simmering beneath the surface of his suspiciously mellow exterior, but you can’t quite discern what it is. Not yet.

“If you think that I am calm, darling, then you couldn’t be more wrong—unless, of course, you honestly believe that I have any penchant for forgiveness.” His tone may be cordial, but every single one of his movements is calculated to the nth degree. The tactician.

No, he isn’t calm at all. He’s plotting. You should have known.

“Or is there another reason that you would arm me with more than enough ammunition to have you imprisoned?”

With that single question, the conversation becomes an interrogation. Your palms turn cold and clammy at the knowledge that he very well still could, and when you start to fidget with the white napkin in your lap, the cloth sticks unpleasantly to your skin.

“Is that what you want me to do? Arrest you for a rash, impulsive decision? A crime of passion?”

You can feel your blood pressure rise under his rapid fire, your anxiety and sleep deprivation giving way to anger. “No,” you bite out. 

While part of you feels that a life in the dungeons would be infinitely better than one bound to him, your more reckless side likes to push boundaries – to your own detriment. And Loki knows it as well as you do. His mouth sets in a firm line, his expression unreadable.

“Then you do trust me,” he says, tone neutral. “And that, dear girl, is the worst transgression of all.”

You stare at him, disbelieving, before you let out a loud peal of laughter – like he’s just told the funniest joke you’ve ever heard. It just might be. “I trust you, do I? No, husband,” you spit the word like it’s a curse. “I loathe you. If you have mistaken that for trust, then I pity you.”

If your venomous tirade affects him at all, Loki does well to hide it. A prolonged silence falls over the room as he rests his elbows on the table and laces his fingers before him, no less patient with you than he has been for the rest of the morning. He studies you – studies your reaction – studies every single flaw you try so hard to hide, and he says nothing.

You look away first. You always do, when your temper gets the better of you.

Only then does he finally grace you with a response. “I am amenable to your request. Choose whichever chambers you’d like.”

Your eyes snap back to him in shock, only to watch as he procures a small envelope from beneath his place setting. Your letter.

Casually, he extends it out to you between two slim fingers. “I wish to return this to you as well. I refuse to hold something so incriminating over your head. It is neither fair to you, nor to our marriage.”

You stare at it, then at him, stunned into silence by his magnanimity. The Loki you know would never do such a thing. He’d hold onto it for leverage.

Your husband rolls his eyes, almost like he knows what you’re thinking. “If you do not take it, then I will destroy it in a similar manner to the gift you so graciously decided to bestow upon me, after…” he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, then, “after what I did to you that morning.”

He means his own letter – the one you’d returned to him, torn to shreds after he’d all but thrown you into the entry table. The very same entry table upon which those lovely flowers now rest.

You sit up straighter at the memory. It sets you on edge, and though you’re tempted to cower, instead you overcompensate. “Oh? Go on, then.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It is incredibly cathartic, you know,” you drawl, delicately picking up a biscuit between your thumb and forefinger to examine its intricate design. The sugar granules glimmer in the light. “To destroy one’s heartfelt letter in a fit of anger. Though I must confess,” you hold your head high, smug as can be, “I did not read what you’d written before doing so.”

That doesn’t seem to faze him either. “You say that as if you expect it to surprise me.”

You scrunch your nose at him in annoyance. “Well? Go on. Or will you not follow through on your promises?”

His promise not to harm you. His promise not to touch you. His promise not to lock you away.

Maintaining eye contact, you use your teeth to break off a piece of the biscuit with a crunch.

Your challenge isn't lost on him. “Very well,” Loki sighs. He swiftly opens the letter to pull out the fine stationery upon which you’d so hastily scrawled all manner of insults, after which he makes a point to show it to you, front and back, to prove its authenticity. “I’ll not have you thinking I’ve stowed it away to use against you later on.”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “I see you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Charming,” Loki comments dryly, but you don’t miss the humour in his tone – nor in his eyes as he skims them down the page. “I must say, darling, you have quite the talent for castigation. It would be a waste not to read such a heartfelt letter aloud.” His eyes flick back up to yours, then, and you know for a fact that he’s taunting you. “For posterity. You understand.”

Posterity. There is no doubt in your mind that he knows you only wrote it yesterday. You’d even sealed the envelope with the ink still wet, as evidenced by the dark smudges littering the page.

“Stars above,” you grouse. “Get on with it, then, seeing as you are positively chomping at the bit to humiliate me.”

“Humiliate you? No.” Loki holds your gaze, resolute, and for once, you’re inclined to believe him. “I want you to acknowledge exactly what you’ve said of me before we put all of this to rest.”

Of course he does. Gracelessly, you wave a hand at him as if to say go ahead.

Loki clears his throat before he begins to read your letter verbatim, surprisingly in a manner that befits its serious nature. His voice holds not a single shred of mockery.

“To my dear, despicable husband,” he arches an eyebrow at you, “I fear I cannot stand this any longer. My chambers are in such close proximity to yours that I’d sooner return home than sleep here for another night, knowing that a wolf in sheep’s clothing rests his weary head so near to mine.”

Whether he intends it to be or not, it is humiliating to hear what you’ve written become spoken word. All too soon, you feel your face start to flush.

“I find myself ill with the knowledge that the Einherjar would allow such a predator to prowl these halls while I remain entirely defenceless. Nay, it is hardly reassuring to know that not a single soul shall protect me from the animal who would bring me harm, either in his own chambers or in our marital bed.”

When Loki pauses, you immediately recognise the real reason behind this exercise. Though you’d written the letter to be purposefully harsh in order to invoke a reaction, in the light of day, your spiteful words seem to imply something else.

You haven’t just told him of your fears in a general sense, using your marital bed as an example. You’ve alluded to a significantly more heinous act.

“You will not see me become your prey, thrilling though the chase may be to a brutish man with little regard for others. I refuse to become the spoils of a war you’ve so savagely waged upon me and my body for no other reason than your own entertainment.”

No wonder he’d been so angry with you last night. The implication that he would assault you in such a way is bad enough on its own, but there is another layer.

For centuries, the two of you have harboured a forever unspoken secret. Neither of you have acknowledged it outright, but it’s there. You’ve seen each other at the den – the covert, invitation-only club which caters to the niche sexual preferences that both you and Loki seem to share. Namely those that are, and have always been, less than socially acceptable.

“One cannot expect an animal to behave in any way but his basest nature. As a scholar of grey morals, you have always preferred books to people, but a snake, however erudite, is still a snake.”

There, on multiple occasions, your rooms have been next door to each other—through no fault of your own, though you suspect Loki has done it intentionally. After all, what he’s seen of you through the window in between are things that you’d never tell another soul, and you’re sure he relishes in holding that over your head, if not your letter.

But then, you’ve also seen similar of him. His proclivity for consensual non-consent is just one of the great many things you’ve witnessed, time and time again, and you realise, now, that Loki thinks you’ve used that forbidden knowledge against him. He thinks you’ve used it to hurt him in a way that most others could never.

“No ruffian should ever be permitted to walk freely as you do. Until such a time that you do not, for my continued health and wellbeing I have made arrangements to return to my family’s manor.”

Of course he’s bothered by what you’ve implied – albeit unintentionally. And he has every right to be.

“I will only be persuaded to stay if you grant me a new set of chambers as far from yours as possible, for I have no desire to encounter any manner of beast in the wild.” Loki snorts derisively and drops the letter down onto the table between the two of you. “Disrespectfully yours, your dutiful wife.”

There is no laughter to be elicited, now, nor anger, but something else entirely. Loki hides it well, but the implication has clearly gotten under his skin. You can see it in his eyes, and in his posture, how guarded he is as he looks to you for a response.

Thoroughly humbled, you swallow the lump in your throat and focus upon your lap. “I… I did not mean what you’ve understood my words to mean.” 

When you glance back up at him, you immediately have to look away again in shame when you find him watching you, jaw set, waiting for a proper apology. 

“Of course, that does not matter when they have made such an impact,” you rush to add. “I sincerely apologise for my thoughtlessness. I did not mean to imply that you would do something terrible.”

Silence stretches uncomfortably between the two of you as you begin to pick at the skin around your nails. At the very least, you should have reread your own letter before you sent it. Perhaps then you wouldn’t feel so guilty.

After a prolonged few moments, he asks quietly, “What else could you have possibly meant?”

“I meant to paint a picture of my fears.” You accidentally draw blood from a hangnail, and it stings. “My intent in mentioning our marital bed was to offer an example of one such fear—not that sort of fear, mind, but I fully understand how it could have sounded like an accusation.”

“I see.”

Finally, you muster the courage to look at him again, impassioned because you would never, ever use what you know against him. “You’ve been nothing but a gentleman in that regard, Loki. You respected my wishes on our wedding night. You have asked for my consent during every one of our trysts. Please know that I would never accuse you of anything untoward.”

His eyes search yours for a long time, trying to discern the lie, but there isn’t one. Then he exhales a long, weary sigh and leans back in his chair, the tension visibly lifting from his shoulders. “Norns,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Yes, I suppose not even you would stoop so low.”

A jab.

You respond with the opposite: a jest. “Ah, but how could you know for certain? What with our—” you clear your throat, nearing ever closer to openly acknowledging the forbidden secret that you both share, “our history?”

It’s the closest either of you have come to doing so. You and Loki have been playing this game for centuries, trying to see who will cave first, but you continue to tiptoe around it.

Just as you predicted, the layered meaning instantly captures his attention. “Our history?” he repeats, as if he doesn't quite believe he's heard you properly, before his lips curl up into that same insufferable grin you so adore. “Oh, do go on, sweet. I’m all ears. What about our history?”

You try to give him a deadpan look, but find it impossible to keep the smile off of your face. “Only that we have never enjoyed each other’s company, you and I. You know that as well as I do.”

It isn't at all the history you’d originally mentioned, and you’re well-aware he recognises that when his voice takes on a note of smooth, persuasive silk. “In what way do you intend for me to take that, darling? Because I suspect that there are many things for a husband and wife to... enjoy.”

His insinuation is absolutely not what you meant, and he knows it, but your heartbeat quickens all the same.

Just in the knick of time, two rapid knocks resound on the door. 

“Enter,” Loki calls out, never taking his eyes off of you. Something about the heat within them, however slight, makes you think he isn’t done with you just yet.

You find yourself silently thanking whoever has chosen to interrupt.

The door opens, and another servant pushes a small gold cart into the room, two shelves stacked high with breakfast delights. The spread is much more elaborate than your typical morning meal, and your mouth waters.

“Now, I believe you said I would find this cathartic?”

You glance back over at your husband, only to watch him deftly pluck your letter up from the table. Before you can get a word in edgewise, however, you watch as your stationery sets aflame in the palm of his hand.

It’s an impossible sort of fire, for it doesn't seem to burn his skin. 

Magic.

You’ve always loved his magic, even now, loathe as you’d ever be to admit that you find Loki’s mastery of it in any way appealing. He wields his seidr like one might a paintbrush, creating masterful works of art from intricate spells and enchantments.

As the flames burn away your spiteful letter, your eyes follow the curling wisps of smoke as it drifts up, up, up towards the intricately-painted ceiling. Instead of the colourful collection of wildflowers you expect to see upon it, however, you find a field of white daffodils in their place.

A symbol of forgiveness.

In that moment, as you stare at the illusion he’s cast, you realise that your husband will forever be an enigma to you. Perhaps he’s changed in the great many years you've known him, or maybe you've never really known him at all.

Then Loki lazily waves his hand, and the illusion dissipates—as do the singed remains of your letter.

He’s manipulating you. He must be. It’s the only conclusion you can come to, but when you meet his eyes once more – when you see the mischief shining within them, and the softness hidden just beneath – you desperately wish that he wasn’t.

Part Eight

And because I’m a clown, here’s my ko-fi / patreon if you’ve got a buck or two to spare so I can buy a new laptop! Otherwise reblogs and keysmashing in my ask box are more than welcome 🤡🤡🤡 Thanks so much for reading!!!

#loki x reader #loki #loki imagine #loki smut #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki laufeyson #loki odinson

[onsunnyside]

ghostface ari asking what your favorite scary movie is so he can hold your hand (fuck you stupid) during the scary parts

oh my goodness, or alternatively: he asks what you think is the scariest movie just so you could be a clingy little thing !! consider this a snippet:

"Bunny, nothing is happening."

"I don't care!" You squeal, shaking in his arms with your face buried in his neck. Your eyes are squeezed shut and if you could, you'd cover your ears too but you refuse to part with your big, protective boyfriend. He was your unofficial bodyguard! "P-Please, turn it off! It's too scary!"

"You said you wanted to do something fun." Ari rubs your back under your shirt, gently dragging his nails down your spine. "Isn't this fun?"

"Not fun at all." You huff in frustration and fear, trying to ignore the creepy music flowing from the speakers, it paints the entire living room eerie and deeply unsettling. "Ari, please!"

"Stop being such a baby." He scolds, spanking your ass. "It isn't even gory."

You pull away with a pout, "not a baby..."

A slow, sinister smile crawls onto his lips. "No? Why are you crying like one then?"

"You're bein' mean..." You move to climb off his lap but he locks his built, firm arms around your waist. "I don't like it."

He ignores you and swoops forward, kissing from your forehead to your wet cheeks, across your nose and finally your lips. He makes obnoxious puckering noises, nibbling on your warm skin. Your teary-eyed sulk faded into a sweet, giggly glow.

It never takes much to distract dumb little you.

"How about we get your mind off it, huh?"

"Are we gonna go upstairs?" You ask cluelessly as he lays you on the couch, bracing himself above you. "You said you'd help me with my math homework, remember?"

"I know, baby, I know." Ari sighs softly, lowering his hips between your spread thighs. "You still don't understand? I just tutored you last week."

"I-I tried, but it's still too hard!" You sputtered, "I promise I did all the steps you put on the checklist, but I just—I can't, daddy."

He coos, "Don't worry, bunny. I'll dumb it down for you again."

Your eyes flutter shut when his hard length rubs against your core, and only then do you notice the sticky mess. You squirm, embarrassment flooding your body.

"You're so wet, baby, how long have your panties been soaked?" He asks, kissing from your jaw to your neck, his thick beard tickles your skin.

You moan quietly, "I d-don't know, daddy."

"Pfft, what do you know, ya little dummy." His voice lowers as he rocks subtly into you, his muscles flexing under his weight, "Just let me feel you, yeah? You've been grinding on me all fuckin' day."

#fic drabble #sneak peek time #fic ask #ghostface ex bf ari #sonnyskinktober2022 #wimwim drabble #wimwim: thots #wimwim ask #wimwim: fluff

[goodluckclove]

Various "Failures" From My Google Docs

Good morning! I'm at my usual coffee shop and got inspired by the troubles of a few friends to embarrass myself.

Sit down with me. I'm enjoying my usual blended chai. There's room on the couch if you'd like to join me.

So I've written thirteen novels. I think thirteen, I've actually lost count. Let's say, like, five full-length plays and twelve to fourteen finished novels. Impressive, right? Maybe. I'm realizing that I consider that not much of a brag, if only because I know the amount of trips and stumbles it took to get to one completed project.

I've ditched a lot of ideas. A lot. If I need to I can dig into my old hard drives to find all the doc files from my youth, but I also have the same Google Docs I've had since middle school.

It's mostly plays and ghostwriting assignments, but if you did you'll find some snippets from my constant attempts at growth.

Some stuff like this is okay. The line "hair slicked back/suit black silk" is pretty good, but a little too the writer thinks they're clever for me now. I don't really remember where I planned to go with this. I think the narrator was somehow going to be given the identity of Roy Fontaine. I was really fixated on the surname Fontaine at the time. I don't know why.

But then there's also a lot of stuff like this:

Hey look it's Fontaine again! I guess he's a doctor, too! Also I am astounded by how casually the main character just pulls out the Necronomicon. He pulls it out? From where? His pocket? Is it a zine?

I don't know why, but something about how suddenly this jumps in terms of dropping specifics makes me think that Sonic the Hedgehog is about to show up. I can't explain it.

This is the only thing in a Doc titled "Psychosis". I have zero memory of what I was planning on doing with this. What's kind of crazy though is that I wrote this in 2014, and six years later I'll use essentially this exact bit in a finished novel without even realizing it.

Another bit from 2014. No clue what I planned to do with this. It's hilarious to me that something stopped me from finishing the sentence. What am I, Franz Kafka writing The Tower? I didn't die. I wasn't raptured. I just apparently tried to think of something a large oak door would do and immediately gave up. It was 2014 I had finished, like, four novels. And this idea was fully stalled by what had to be a fucking huge oak door.

My favorite part of this radio play I tried to write is that somehow, believe it or not - when I wrote this I did not fully understand the Quantum Suicide thought experiment. And for along time I still kind of thought that this could be salvaged into a good idea, until last night when I asked my wife to put on a video describing the experiment and I immediately found it so dumb. Just ridiculously stupid. The only good thing about Quantum Mickey is that the title kicks ass and I'm definitely keeping it for something.

I've written a lot. A lot. I've earned the severity of carpal tunnel I currently have. If I had to put it into a statistic, I'd say maybe seventy percent ends up finished. fifty percent ends up polished to be read or published. Thirty percent actually ends up being read or published. I'm okay with this, because I enjoy the work. But for me, part of enjoying the work is not panicking when a project doing work.

If I need to end a project in the middle of a sentence, I do. I've clearly proven that I do. Sometimes I write for thirty pages and lose interest, other times I get a paragraph in and get distracted forever. That's okay.

That's okay. As long as you're doing something.

I could've included segments of Carnation, my first novella that was supposed to be a novel but I never finished it. But I fucking guess that's getting it's own post when I hit 150 followers so I hope you're prepared for what the type of stuff I enjoyed in middle school.

There's an Irish child that speaks exclusively in slang. You aren't ready.

#writeblr #writing community #on writing #writers on tumblr #authors of tumblr #writing #writing advice #writing tips #writing inspo #writing inspiration