#jar of dirt challenge

[willowbelle]

Stay Here, With Me

part one

❤︎ trafalgar law x fem reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, afab!reader, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw & summary: established relationship, piv sex, cervix kisses, mating press, comfort and reassurance. mentions of reader's unidentified trauma, reader has a habit of crying after sex, law is comforting.

word count: ~1,300

note: this one is more poetic, and i wrote it to help me through something i am dealing with. :')

i hope you all enjoy soft, sweet law ♡︎

part two is here! : You Know Me

Stay Here, With Me

part one

Law challenged you in ways you weren’t prepared for. 

He beckoned you into realms uncharted, testing the fibers of your being unanticipated.

You had always buried your anguish; covered it in dirt to be forgotten, locked it away and swallowed the key.

And it petrified you, an inexplicable fear, the way that your pain always trembled on the verge of unveiling itself in his presence.

Not because he echoed your burdens, or reminded you of your baggage, oh no, quite the opposite. It was because, with Law, you had finally discovered solace in the company of another soul. And for once in your life, you wanted to let it out, unlock your chest, crack open your skull, expose your brain, and let it out. 

You wanted to tell him; to cry to him, to sob until your lungs gave out, to rid of all the contributors of your displeasure. 

But you didn’t; too frightened of the guilt you’d feel if your burdens were to meet the weight on his already-heavy shoulders. You were stubborn, and you were determined to keep this distress as yours and yours alone. 

You chose to stay numb in the home that you had built in your mind; made of iron walls and iron doors, shackling you to the metal. Each chain of your confinements spell out your anguish, far too long and far too heavy to name, so you locked yourself in your iron brain.

But, he knew, you poor thing, of course he did. 

Law’s analytical, observant nature kept your relationship, unbeknownst to you, essentially secretless.

He didn’t miss a thing; from the way in which your eyes told a different story than your mouth, to the tears rolling down your cheeks that you disguised as sweat, he knew why you opted for excusing yourself to the bathroom following intimacy. 

In defiance of his accustomed nature, this stone-faced “surgeon of death” taught himself to be comforting. Because he had come to learn that, above all else, this is what you needed. 

You needed him to hold you, to redirect your restless mind, to curb your enigmatic sorrow. 

Because when your tears threatened to escape; unexplainable, uncontrollable, Law remained, like he always did, lingering by your side, a constant presence in the ebb and flow of your emotions.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to cry after sex, though you didn’t know why; tears flowing down your cheeks without remorse, betraying your intention to conceal your trauma in the recesses of your soul. 

And Law would listen, though it broke his heart to do so, to the cries you tried so desperately to muffle from behind the bathroom door. 

And as the echoes of your cries made their way to his ears, he made a vow to himself. 

He studied you intensively, silently, making a map of your body inside his own, determined to understand your tears in the only way he knew how. 

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

The grasp he held on your delicate body remained gentle and kind as he fucked you into the mattress, a stark contrast to the jarring heaves of his able hips. 

The softness of his touches, coupled with the sweet words of reassurance he whispered into your ears, made up for the unruly pace of his thrusts. 

The lewd sounds of moans and skin slapping together dismissed the silence that hung in the air earlier, and even amidst the noises, the movements, he could sense you starting to slip away and into your mind. And so, he decelerates, a gentle hand on your cheek, ushering you back to the shared embrace of the present.

“Hey, y/n,” he begins softly, his velvety voice beckoning you out of your head. His hips stall, throbbing member still engulfed within your tight warmth, “Are you okay? Do you need me to stop?” he asks, his countenance and voice carrying an earnest concern.

“N-No, Law, please keep going,” you whimpered softly, nails digging down the muscular flesh of his back.

He kisses you in response. But not a typical Law kiss, no, this was different. This kiss was an ardent embrace of lips, a dance of passion. This kiss conveyed an unspoken promise solace, of pure understanding and security. With your cheek in his hand, tongues still dancing together, Law begins again, bringing his hips back to thrust into you. The sensation of being stuffed full again forces a moan to escape from within your throat, into Law’s mouth. You feel the corners of his lips twitch upwards against yours, satisfied with himself. 

It’s hot. The room is hot. Your bodies are hot, pressed together, intertwined. Law breaks your kiss, tilting his head down to watch himself disappear into you over and over again, groaning at the sight. 

“God-, you-take me so-well,” he slurs, enunciating each word with a harsh thrust. 

With one arm holding him up, he uses the other tattooed limb to press one of your legs down, forcing you harder into the mattress, and it turn, pressing himself deeper into you. 

Another moan emerges from your lips, this one more of a cry, as the tip of his cock now hits that one sweet spot within you dead-on, over and over again in time with his thrusts. 

“A-ah-! Law-!” 

His breathing begins to grow heavy, low groans and huffs rumbling out of his inked chest. He grips your leg tighter, his thrusts becoming sloppy and unsynchronized. He’s close. 

He sits up a bit on his knees to give himself more room to move faster, now bringing both of your legs up to rest on his strong shoulders.

You throw your head back and moan loudly at the sensation. Goosebumps begin to bud all over your spent body as his blunt tip continues to bully your cervix, sending shivers down your spine with each bump to your sweet spot.  

One more glance down at you, writhing and whimpering beneath him, causes the coil growing within Law to snap, and he shudders, groans, and unapologetically paints your insides white. He looks heavenly like this; head thrown back, damp hair clinging to his sweaty forehead, inked chest rising and falling with each exhausted breath, his powerful, tatted hands now trembling as they gradually relinquished their bruising grip on your legs. 

As the two of you come down from your highs, your unspoken vulnerability begins to surface, like it always does. Law senses the impending swell of tears in your eyes, even before you do.

He knows it’s coming; it’s routine at this point for you to dart away afterwards, retreating into the bathroom to come undone on the cold, harsh tile. He wants nothing more than for you to abandon the hard and unforgiving flooring, stay in bed with him, and just unravel in his arms, instead.

So this time, he stops you. 

The moment you begin to stir beneath him, he gently grasps onto your wrist, halting your movements. 

“Law, what are you-” you begin, your lips trembling, trying your hardest to keep your tears at bay. 

“y/n,” he starts, his free hand finding its home on your cheek, “You don't have to grin and bear it,” he smiles weakly, “Not around me.” 

You could feel tears pricking in your eyes, and as you stared into his nurturing steel irises, you swore you could feel all your pain and discomfort seeping out of your skin.

His thumb rubs gentle circles into your cheek, 

“Stay here, with me.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

part two is here! : You Know Me

©this work belongs to willowhaze26.

do not repost, modify, plagiarize, translate, or share on other platforms. 

comments, likes, and reblogs appreciated!

#one piece #trafalgar law #law one piece #trafalgar law one piece #one piece law #trafalgar d water law #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law smut #one piece fluff #one piece headcanons #Trafalgar law x reader #Law x reader #Trafalgar law imagine #Trafalgar law one shot #One piece imagine #One piece fanfiction #One piece x reader #One piece one shot #One piece fic #Trafalgar law headcanon #Law headcanons #Trafalgar law headcanons #One piece headcanons #one piece smut #op x reader #one piece trafalgar law #one piece x y/n #trafalgar law x y/n #one piece imagine #trafalgar one piece

[mushroomates]

aragorn headcanons:

sketches in his free time. likes to draw plants he’s come across, writes down descriptions for later. makes maps and draws animals.

cannot draw people, for the life of him.

except for arwen. draws her all the time.

used to very bland food, cooking on the road. prefers unseasoned meat, likes to taste the “natural flavor.”

dislikes nutmeg. cinnamon feind

favorite cookie is oatmeal raisin

has very grimy hands all the time. it’s never ending. even after he washes them, it’s like immediate dirt and grease

current theories are: his sword is just really dirty, his clothes are dirty so when he touches them it makes them dirty, or legolas’s favorite- humans naturally produce grime so the dirt is a natural protective layer above the skin.

in actuality it’s because he knows it grosses (some) elves out and likes to be a menace. specifically targets erestor. legolas will also go great lengths to make sure aragorns hands star far, far away from his hair

knows some card tricks. has great slight of hand specially because of these card tricks. didn’t really do anything with this until pippin discovered this fact and aragorn was forced (politely asked) to preform for the hobbits.

this is, in spite of the fact, that they all know a literal WIZARD (gandalf was salty at abt this “false magic”) and also a ring that turns ppl invisible??

sews. really well, actually. enjoys it but rarely showcases this talent- mostly patches and mends garments weathered by his lifestyle. would one day love to sew a dress for arwen but doesn’t know where to start

masterful at subtly deflecting compliments.

very generous with compliments of his own, but are again, subtle.

years of living with elves has made him quite reserved. yet, he is doing his best to unlearn this behavior. such examples include:

telling arwen he loves her. telling elrond he loves him. telling frodo he loves him. really just telling everyone he loves them. he’s even worse when he’s drunk- he rarely gets even tipsy, but under the influence of a fine wine (or mead, he prefers mead or ciders) he will get very emotional.

hugs!! aragorn loves to give hugs. he really tries his best but they’re a bit awkward at times. he’s getting better.

breaking away from the elven raw-diet and dine seasonings with grilled meat and more lately grilled everything.

he will try his best to cook for himself at any opportunity. it was a jarring shift going from being served gourmet eleven dinners to raw venison

love language is acts of service. he likes to cook for his friends, though he’s not as good as it as sam, who cooked a majority of fellowship meals, so he mainly hunts. then legolas offered his hand and gimli felt challenged by that and at this point boromir just felt excluded-

he just wants to do nice things for the people he cares abt.

arwen has not, for a good chunk of her life, tied her own shoes, peeled her own oranges, made her own tea, or woken up without breakfast being made or ready for her.

just. guys. he really really loves arwen. he will do anything for her and it’s almost obnoxious.

it IS obnoxious if you ask legolas. but this is why aragorn does not go to legolas for romantic advice. (legolas once told aragorn that the next time he ties her shoes he should tie them together so that when she falls he will catch her. this is why arwen stoped flats with ties and opted for anything she could slip on instead.)

will never cheat at any sort of game. he will get extremely upset if you accuse him of such.

he does not believe that counting cards qualifies as cheating. boromir strongly disagrees. he mainly sticks to chess, now

is not allowed to play chess with erestor, (sore loser and prone to trash talk) elrond (matches take to long due to overthinking on both ends and this annoys arwen to no end) and either of the twins (they cheat by working as a team)

would 100% believe in bigfoot.

#lord of the rings #jrr tolkien #lotr #legolas #lotr headcanons #elves #rivendell #imaldris #elrond #arwen #aragorn #aragorn son of arathorn #aragorn headcanons #strider #rivendell elves #lord elrond #jrrt #lord of the rings headcanons #the lord of the rings #boromir #lotr imagine #lotr elves #arwen undomiel #arwin #erestor #tolkien elves #legolas greenleaf #gondor #tolkien headcanons #headcanon

[upsidedownwithsteve]

emmy!! if you’re still taking requests i have one for cockwarming with steve <33 maybe post upside down chaos and you just need to be close to him. you astound me every time!!

18+

It happened every time the world fell apart. When monsters crawled out from under the earth, when one or both of you got hurt, when Steve did something stupid and heroic like throw himself in between you and danger. You’d follow him back to his big, empty home, both of you stumbling and leaning on the verge of being too tired.

But then something you would happen when you met Steve’s gaze and you were on him when you saw it was as hungry as your own. Clothes would be shed, buttons popping, shirts ripped, hair pulled and skin bitten, ‘cause it was nice to feel that you were alive, that the person you loved most in the world was still there and able to be touched.

It was usually frantic, rushed, all moans and groans and kisses with teeth, scraped skin and bruises that would show in the morning, both of you burning up and simmering over with adrenaline, the absolute elation and shock that you were both still alive.

But this time you both came too close, straying too far to the edge of something going wrong. You’d been thrown to the side, a long arm with longer fingers and sharp nails slashing a little at your waist, head thumped against brick. Steve ran to you, ignorant to the seven foot beast that was still doing it’s best to take down his friends and the result was a vine wrapped around his ankle, body dragging rough over the ground, wet and slick with spilled blood and who knows what.

He remembered fire and then shrieking, horror movie style noises and then Hopper was patching you both up in Steve’s too clean kitchen, bloodied rags a comically bright flash of red in the skin.

Steve followed you up the stairs, bone tired, throat still tight with emotion ‘cause every time he blinked he saw you lying in a heap on the ground. So instead, he kept his gaze on you, watched you turn on the shower until the water was hot enough to sting, steam filling up the room, hazy, sweet smelling. He stared when you stripped, flecks of dirt and grime and dried blood on the floor by your clothes and he winced at the marks on your skin, cleaned by Hopper but still too jarring to look at.

But you leaned in and pushed yourself onto your toes, naked and quiet, all soft for him. A kiss to his grubby cheek, another to the cut on his bottom lip, your nose grazing the line of his jaw in a touch that was agonising in its affection.

You got into the shower, the water turning pink and grey at your feet.

Steve followed. Steve would follow you anywhere.

Neither of you had even begun to wash your hair - too tired and sore to lift your arms - before Steve was on the floor of the shower, back against the wet tiles and you were in his lap. Legs curled around his waist, skin hot and slick, chests pressed together with his cock seated inside of you.

Steve had protested softly at first, despite how he’d been hard the second you’d stripped yourself of your jeans. Told you that you were hurt, it was okay, he didn’t wanna make you even more sore.

But your eyes had turned glassy and you’d clung to him, desperate to get closer, mouth searching for his until you grabbed greedy at his jaw and held him to you, silently asking for what you wanted. What you needed.

Please please please please please please.

The boy hissed when you slid yourself into him, lower and lower until every inch of him was inside of you and the stretch burned more than the water did. You felt full, overwhelmingly so, and Steve’s hands were big and wide, curling around your waist, skimming over your shoulders, your arms, pushing back your wet hair so he could pepper the lightest kind of kisses over your face.

You tried to lift yourself off of him, just to slam back down but it was too much, you were too tired, too achy, your sore sides yelling at you in protest and even rocking your hips felt like a challenge you weren’t ready for. Steve shook his head, thumbed gently over your tear filled eyes and caught your chin in his hold.

“S’okay, baby,” he murmured, barely heard over the pouring of water over the shower floor. “Just stay there for me, I’ve got you. Gonna keep you nice n’ full, yeah? S’what you want?”

You clenched around him at his pretty words, nodding enthusiastically, nose grazing Steve’s as you leaned in for another kiss. Cunt fluttering, Steve’s cock kicked up, nudging sweet spots inside of you and you clung to his shoulders a little tighter.

“M’right here, honey. Feel good, yeah? Fuck, does, doesn’t it? Just need you close, I know, I know.”

Nonsense, barely there sentences, a babble of words under the stream of hot water but it made your heart ache, made the pain in your body a little less intense and all you could focus on was the boy. Big hands soothing over wet thighs, the trickle of water over skin, running down Steve’s neck, over your lips, down the arch of your back.

“Gonna stay here for as long as you need, yeah?” Steve asked you but it sounded like a promise.

He watched you nod, watched your bottom lip tremble again, fear still clutching at you and god, he felt the same. So he pulled you closer, arms wrapped around you as best as he could without causing you more pain and when you were pressed to his chest with your face in the crook of his neck, he fucked his hips up into you, slow rolls that made you cry out.

It was a dirty grind that he kept stopping and starting, his head knocking against the tiles when he paused to look up at you, eyes half lidded and jaw slack with pleasure. And when you tried to move yourself, he held you down on his cock with a heavy hand and a shake of his head, throat bobbing when your cunt tightened around him. He soothed your cries with two fingers in your mouth, pressed to the flat of your tongue, his words soft and sweet.

“You got it, baby, c’mon.” Steve cooed, his free hand rubbing soft circles on your thigh. “Lemme do it, yeah? Don’t hurt yourself, sweet thing, just take it, I’ve got you.”

It went like that until the water ran cool, lukewarm and the steam melted away. It ended with Steve nudging himself up against that soft, spongy spot inside of you, eyes flickering between your fucked our expression and where he was splitting you open. That same slow, filthy rock of his hips and then his thumb on your clit, making you keen, whisper his name with a crack in your voice and then he was spilling inside of you and suddenly everything was a little bit more okay than it had been before.

….

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader smut #steve baby blurb

[ya-boi-haru]

Part 3 of Coffee Shop AU (until I can get enough to make a story lmao)

Part 1

Part 2

Practice sample

---

• Quixis has a variety of sun/glasses, some normal, some funky. (They mainly wear the funky ones at the club)

• Kai challenged Centross to make a drink, improvise the recipe. He made a blue/green drink. He refuses to tell Kai what inspired him to make it, but he did say he called it Sea Breeze

• Icarus developed a very special, extra strong coffee for hangovers (kind of had to, since they're the closest shop to The World Port)

• Caspian was interested in Rae and Aax, but he learned that they were dating before learning they were poly, so he tried - and failed - to keep some distance and move on, thus Rae and Aax have to be the ones to make the first move

• Ulysses likes non sweetened coffee

• vs Athena and Jamie who prefer them really sweet

• Rae always gives Athena an extra marshmallow in her hot chocolate and Jamie extra honey in their tea

• Quixis has actually stepped into The Alchemists Brew and ordered, but how damn convenient that Icarus wasn't on at that point and it was during the hour their cameras were out for an update

• Quixis has piercings! 2 lobes, 1 and 2 on helix and lip (im debating adding the earring to lip chain pricing, but is that making them serve too much?/hj)

• Yes, the Sea Dragon plays sea shanties in amongst their playlist of songs. On a good night, the whole place is singing it

• Quixis and Centross can do those fancy moves/motions and tricks when making/pouring drinks. Centross is trying to teach Kai how to do them

• Rae can do some latte art. However if it's a special one (Birthday drawing, a new art, a flirty heart for a certain writer-) he gets a little shakey

• (we don't tip here so I'm not sure how to give tipping headcannons lol)

• Will has little jars of sand, dirt from places he's actually been. Some he keep at his place others are decor for the shop.

• In The Traveller, there's a large map with little notes of where certain tea and coffees are from

• Quixis calls Icarus "Sherbert" cause their mix match/split colour aesthetic reminds them of sherbert. It's started because they didn't know their name, but then it just stuck for them

• Athena, Rae and Jamie have matching little embroidered flowers on their aprons

• All of them managed to get custom pronoun pins ordered, so they all wear one

• Rae hums when lost in his work and Aax tries - and fails - to not stare

--

Open to adds on/suggestions

What would be a good name for the au?

#fable smp #fable smp headcanon #fablesmpblr #fable smp coffee shop au #fable smp au #fable smp fanfiction #coffee shop au

[thegoofyfanaticus]

(( Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me. )) Liam's vision was coming into focus just in time to see Damion take a step in towards him and with his massive left fist come in with an uppercut. Liam barely had time to react, but he did move his head just enough to feel the punch connect with this cheek instead of his jaw. The force of the punch jarred Liam. He instantly felt his arms and legs go weak as he collapsed to the dirt. Liam had moved out of the way enough to avoid the knockout that surely would have happened if Damion had connected with the jawbone, but he hadn't moved fast enough to avoid the knockdown. The crowd gathered around the two fighters collectively gasped as they watched the fierce uppercut crumble their champion. The crowd had wondered why Damion had not finished off the champion when he dazed him, and now they had their answer. Damion meant to not only beat the champion like he had all the others, but he meant to make a spectacle out of his domination as he had all the previous fights. Damion knew the fight was over as soon as he caught the fist in his hand. Now it was a matter of destroying every shred of manhood left in this champion leaving him a worthless pile of bone and flesh. Champions were all the same. Strong until pressured. Arrogant until pushed. Confident until challenged. None had been a worthy opponent. This one seemed like he may provide the challenge sought, but, in reality, he was exactly like all the rest. Damion stood over the dazed Liam as Liam slowly tried to prop himself up. Damion glared at the weak pathetic excuse for a champion and bluntly stated, "Pathetic." He then turned to the crowd and grinned. While not looking at Liam, Damion pointed to Liam, who laid behind him, and slowly with dramatic deliberation, Damion used his thumb to slide his hand across his throat in a cutting motion as his grin grew sinister. The crowd erupted in applause cheering the drifter on to brutalize their once proud champion.

#malevmale #submissionwrestling #submissionhold #wrestling #submission #fight #maleryona #submissiongrappling #fight scene #wrestling match #punchedout #uppercut #deviantart #3d render

[innerchorus]

Okay bonus Dark Temple details as promised.

it looks pretty dank but it might actually be quite warm down there? The passageway leading to it that is discovered in Book 12 has an 'unpleasant hot wind' blowing out of it, along with a rather foul smell (more on that later)

having entered the passageway later, Kishward and Zaravant are described as being 50 gaz (approximately 50 metres) below the surface, with the way continuing on and down

they start to see creatures like ghouls and four-eyed dogs

eventually they emerge into 'a space that could rival the great hall of the royal palace' and that's only part of it — the light of their torches is not even sufficient to illuminate it all

countless snakes and scorpions are carved on the walls

there is an altar made of black stone (very likely this is what we are seeing in Shinobu Tanno's illustration where the black steps lead up to the cauldron full of blood)

okay now we're getting to the bits that made me 👀👀👀

there are 'several fireplaces large and small' so that's why it's hot but what exactly are these and what are they used for? It feels like it's for more than just heating the place. The Japanese is 炉, which Jisho.org says is 1. hearth; fireplace​ or 2. furnace; kiln. Are they burning fires for magical rituals as they seem to in Arakawa's manga? (I always thought that was interesting that given Zoroastrianism's fire temples / holy fires etc, the only time we see anything remotely equivalent it's being used by Team Zahhak.) Are they... cooking something...? I don't want to think about what. Or are these kilns used for baking Zahhak's creatures into being? Honestly this made my mind reel, I know they make them out of mud/dirt (clay?) and there are evidently plenty of those creatures living down there. Alchemical furnaces came to mind, too.

...there are also candlesticks (not that interesting but I'll just note for now that an earlier reference to Team Zahhak candles mention they are 'made of hardened sulfur')

...and jars, earthenware pots and bowls (read that sentence and don't think of the head jars challenge: failed)

The stone platform / altar is stained with blood and there's a blade with what seems to be flesh and/or bone fragments stuck to it. The presence of chains and numerous human bones makes it clear there's been a lot of human sacrifice going on (personal headcanon on this, supported by Tanno's illustration, is that they need the blood for their rituals etc, and the flesh is eaten by the ghouls, four-eyed dogs and winged apes, leaving the skeletons picked clean)

It looks like the place is very old - Kishward and Zaravant speculate that in the 300 years since the defeat of Zahhak, his supporters may have been hiding here

Above the ceiling is a pool/lake (a reservoir, I think?) which floods the temple when the roof collapses, and as the water level rises it flows into the liquids in the jars and pots and mixes with it, giving off steam and a foul stench, which fades as it's diluted and mixed with the large volume of rising water

To give you an idea of just how many of Zahhak's creatures were down there, the Parsian forces killed around 300, but there are plenty more still there when some of Arslan's forces return there in Book 13 to try and clear it out

...between rotting blood and remnants of dead bodies, sulfur candles, whatever's in those pots and jars, and the general dankness of life underground, I really doubt Team Zahhak smell very good, lol. I feel like it might be mentioned somewhere that the winged apes smell bad but I'm not digging around for that reference. (It reminds me that I did read something on Encyclopedia Iranica that mentioned those who practice magic 'grow hideous of appearance, and foul of scent' due to its nature. I'm not here for that sort of 'mages are gross' headcanon but I can't lie to myself and pretend they smell good)

Anyway I hope Team Arslan discovers this place beneath Ecbatana in the manga too because I'm super curious to see it and I would be delighted if it still floods because it seems Team Zahhak really need to be rinsed off lmao

#arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #arslan senki spoilers #team zahhak #ArAkAwA sHoW mE tHe DaRk TeMpLe

[evermorehqs]

CATCHING MY BREATH, STARING OUT AN OPEN WINDOW

Daimaō Bowser is based on King Koopa from Super Mario Movie. He is a 34 year old immortal turtle, florist, and uses he/him pronouns. He has the power of creating small balls of fire through his mouth. Daimaō is portrayed by Daniel Radcliffe and he is NPC.

CATCHING MY DEATH, AND I COULDN’T BE SURE

Bowser could still remember that day like it’d been yesterday. The moment when the Mario’s brothers hit him with the star’s super power. Everything changed. He changed. Suddenly he wasn't King Koopa but a small turtle in a jar forever changed. The love he held for Princess Peach had been thrown out to the dirt cast out forever into the dirty mud. What was once pure and magical had been ruined by a bunch of good for nothing plumbers. Nothing could go worst than it already had until one day it did. Evermore found in an unusual body form, in an unusual town with unusual people. Stranger was the fact that he was working on a flower shop creating beautiful arrangements for weddings, dates and all the couple stuff. Gazing into the distance as he remembered his love Princess Peach while gently caressing a rose. Walking around town blowing tiny fire balls from his mouth with every huff and puff he made. His favorite past time was listening to John Cena's program every Tuesday and Thursday as he waxed on poetry about loved ones. Finding himself regularly calling asking for advice on what to do with his love Peach. He's been told plenty of times to stop calling, that he was delusional but Bowser knew Johnny was just kidding! They were the best of friends. Finding inspiration from John Bowser began a Podcast titled "Bowser's House of Love" that he puts out every other day. He has four listeners but he knows soon enough he'll get more, meanwhile he'll continue dreaming of Peach.

I HAD A FEELING SO PECULIAR

❀ John Cena: Bowser's delusional thinking John Cena and him are the best of friends. Sometimes Bowser sends flowers to the radio station where John's show is broadcasts. For some reason he always get's a return to sender must be because John is so modest. ❀ Persephone Kouris: Probably the only person that tells him to hang there but he isn't sure if she likes him. They work together at the flower shop and sometimes when he's talking about his sweet Peach she tells him he is delusional. He thinks she means it in a good way but maybe she just doesn't know what it means, after all there's nothing wrong with having illusions. ❀ Hades Aidoneus: Apparently he's not the only one that has a trick with fire? There's this Hades guy he's seen around the cemetery? That's so freaky, whatever he's going to challenge him to a fire off.

THAT THIS PAIN WOULD BE FOR EVERMORE

#this is a joke #npc male

[kelseytheballerina]

can i ask why skincare is included in your nun challenge? obviously it's important to you personally i'm not suggesting you should forgo it for the duration. but seeing something that's so consumerist, maybe vain (that's a mean word but i can't think of another) as an essential alongside anti-consumerism (products and media), reflection, etc. felt jarring. if it's just your personal goals/schedule that you're sharing then that's entirely fair enough!

I dont find taking care of yourself, keeping clean and preventing skin conditions vain. I didn’t say it needs to be some super expensive 20 step routine that only is considered successful once you’ve scrubbed off and dermaplaned every piece of evidence that you are committing the crime of being alive. A skincare routine can be a simple cleanser, moisturizer, and spf. It can be as much or as little as you want. Removing the dirt and sweat from your face and staying hydrated is a good practice. And for many who have experienced depression, one of the first things to take a nose dive is daily hygiene. We don’t want that to happen.

#ask #nun mode

[bonesandthebees]

i loved starman SO much . you did an incredible job writing the atmosphere and rising tension for it and it's still my favorite horror fic in the fandom. what was the inspiration behind it? what're your tips for writing the atmosphere of your work? :0

aaaa thank you so much that makes me so happy to hear!! I'm so proud of starman so I'm so happy that there are people who still enjoy it :)

the inspiration behind starman was partly that it was originally posted as part of a challenge/prompt event we did in a discord server I'm in. it was supposed to be a horror fic and we used a randomizer to figure out which characters it had to focus on, and by sheer chance the randomizer spit out wilbur, tommy, and dreamXD. so I knew right off the bat I was doing an eldritch/cosmic horror kind of thing with dreamXD being involved.

along with that, a few years before I participated in this challenge I had taken a trip to visit family in oklahoma. now I'd been to oklahoma several times before, but it'd been many years and it was my first time going there as an adult. the first thing I noticed while I was there was how unsettling it was to be in such an endlessly flat landscape after having grown up surrounded by mountains and hills my entire life. it made me feel like i was being watched. since I was really into cosmic horror at the time, I ended up spending that trip writing an original horror story about a giant eye watching over a small oklahoma town. so then fast forward several years to the randomizer throwing out crimeboys + dreamXD as a prompt, and I immediately thought back to that original short horror story I'd written during my oklahoma trip and decided to rewrite it as a fic.

of course there's inspiration from annihilation with the colors and the weird blood and all that. also there's the obvious inspiration from house of leaves with the formatting towards the end. I got the idea while I was in the middle of writing the fic, and while my immediate reaction was "I don't think I can actually do that on ao3" I then thought about it some more I was like "wait holy shit I might be able to make that work" and I'm so happy I did.

so that's where I came up with the idea! as far as tips for the atmosphere, I tried to focus on making the town feel restrictive and small. even though we go to several locations (wilbur's house, the gas station he works at, the cow pasture, the field he and tommy lay down in) it all circles back to the church. and I had a very specific color palette in my head while I was writing it, with the town itself mostly being described in shades of green/yellow grass, blue and white skies, and brown dirt roads. this was to contrast with all the bright unnatural colors associated with the eye to make it feel even more jarring and wrong. but to be fair a tool like that would be far more effective in a visual format rather than written format lol

there was also the game of being very careful with where I chose to fuck up the formatting. the formatting itself helped a LOT with the atmosphere because a jarring format shift like that can really fuck with a readers head. I had silent rules for myself about how I would integrate it more and more as the fic went on, and what kinds of descriptions would lead to a format shift. I wanted it to be gradual to give the readers that sense of looming dread as it became more and more common, because then they knew the end was near

overall I just tried to describe things in a way that emphasized the isolation wilbur felt from everyone around him (besides tommy). he'd grown up being the only person who could see the eye, and that alienated him from everyone else. that was one of the major things I tried to focus on, although keep in mind I wrote this in february of 2022 so I barely remember what my thoughts were while I was writing it. I wish I could give more specific advice but yeah it's just been a long time. hope that helps though!

#ask #starman waiting in the sky #bones writes

[norabrice1701]

Twist My Heart - Ch. 2

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Jake “Hangman” Seresin

- A TG:M Twister AU -

Series Main List

Also on AO3

Ch. 2 Warnings: Language; discussion of canon character death; tornado chasing drama

Even with guaranteed nationwide wi-fi service, the rural counties still prove a constant challenge. Squinting against hazy sunlight that shafts through the windshield, Bradley stares at the progress bar on his laptop, willing the radar image to update. The supercell to the south has finally started to display favorable indications for a hook echo… but then his internet connection blipped.

He sighs, resting back against the passenger seat headrest as the image continues to load. His eyes drift closed but the release of a semitruck’s air brakes jar his attention. The midday beehive activity of gas stations make them Bradley’s least favorite place to wait out oncoming storms, but their SUV did need refueling. 

Another disappointing glance at his computer screen confirms the ongoing wi-fi struggle, and he looks out the windshield instead. His gaze lands immediately on Hangman’s swaggering form, impossible to miss as he exits the convenience store. A plastic bag swings next to his legs clad in casually well-fitting jeans and his Dagger Labs polo shirt highlights the strong build of his chest. Sunglasses shield his eyes and complement all the attractive angles of his face beneath his stylish blonde hair. He passes a woman who offers him a bashful smile, and he dials his answering grin up to full brilliance. It brings out the dimples that never fail to lend him an air of boyish charm, and… fuck.

“Where the fuck are we?” Fanboy’s voice sounded over the CB radio with distinct displeasure. “Come on, Bob.” 

“You’re on County Road 31 - or should be, at least. Half a mile out, Dagger 3.” Bob responded with calm ease. 

“Tornado is on the ground!” Payback hollered, his excitement palpable through the radio static. “It’s going about 35 mph. North-northeast.” 

Bradley’s heart jumped in his chest as he pressed harder on the gas pedal. Just over the low hill ahead, he watched the black, angry funnel taking violent shape, and the sight made his blood rush. 

Hangman popped the lens cover off his camera in the passenger seat. “Don’t get too close, now. You’ll ruin the shot.” 

“Heaven forbid I come between you and your art.” 

“Damn straight.” 

Bradley turned to cast a passing glance out the passenger window, just able to make out the flashing yellow lights of Dagger 2 approaching from the west. His smile widened as the Dagger Labs team continued to move into position, each fulfilling their field assignments, and Bradley turned his gaze back out out the front windshield. Over the roar of wind and the blaring team radio calls, he heeded the sat nav directions and cranked the wheel on the next road towards Bob’s tracking coordinates. 

“Oh, man,” Fanboy chuckled with raw wonder. “We have an EF2, possibly EF3 with a very large rope on the ground!”

“Shear is 90 knots. Rotation increasing.” Nat reported, all business and calm coolness. “50 outbound, 40 inbound.” 

Bradley’s smile grew as the digital shutter on Hangman’s camera started clicking away. It was an artform that Bradley never understood, but Hangman always found a way to capture breathtaking images no matter how fast Bradley drove. 

“Axis has gone vertical!” Fanboy whooped with joy. “This sucker’s really gaining strength and we’re getting into prime position!”

The promise of victory - of good data capture - rushed a thrill through Bradley as he made the next turn onto a dirt road, tracking the twister’s visual progress relative to the target coordinates. He lived for these moments - with his hair on fire and adrenaline electrifying his senses as the power of mother nature reigned supreme, ripe for scientific exploration. 

The SUV bounced over the uneven, rutted road jarring them both in their seats. Hangman glared over, bracing one hand against the dashboard and trying to steady his camera with the other. “Where the fuck did you turn?” 

“Where’s Bob’s directions said…” 

Hangman turned his gaze out the window suspiciously, staring down at the ground as they jounced. “Are you sure this even qualifies as a road?” 

“It’s got to be.” Bradley answered as he fought the wheel to keep the SUV moving forward in a steady, straight line. “It's probably called something like… ‘Bob’s Road’.”

Hangman barked a sharp laugh that carried a genuine note of amusement as he looked over at Bradley. His cheeks held the flush of excitement and his eyes shone with bright energy as he shot Bradley a smile. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.” 

Bradley glanced over, blood singing in his veins as the perfect beauty of the moment took his breath away.

Bradley sighs again, pushing the memory aside and hoping to expel more than one type of frustration as he looks back at his computer. The driver door opens, ushering in a gust of gasoline fumes and dust as Hangman retakes his seat. Bradley stays content to ignore him, focusing instead on the progress bar of his radar update. At least until a bag of sour gummy worms lands on his laptop keys.

He’s long stopped being flattered when his coworkers - especially Hangman - remember his snack preferences. It comes with the territory after so many years on the road together.

“I keep thinking that one day you’ll outgrow those, you know.” Hangman’s words deform around the corner of a plastic wrapper clenched between his teeth as he tears it open. “Or do you actually like getting cavities? Or diabetes much?”

Bradley rips the bag open as he glances over at Hangman. The blonde gnaws a bite of beef jerky, and Bradly just arches an incredulous brow before speaking. “And what about you? Hypertension much? Colon cancer?”

The corner of Hangman’s mouth lifts as he waves the snack for emphasis. “At least this has protein in it. Something redeeming.”

There’s plenty redeeming in the gummy candy's sweet and sour flavors that burst on Bradley's tongue, but they're none of Hangman’s business. He doesn’t need to know how they were Goose’s favorite. How Bradley could always find a bag stashed in his desk – sometimes half-eaten, sometimes stale, sometimes unopened – and his dad would always let him have some, even if it was before dinner. He offers a shrug as he pulls more gummy worms out of the bag. “Vice of choice.” 

Hangman chuckles. “And you’re how old? 10?” 

“Beer’s a close second.” 

“Really livin’ on the edge there, Roo.” Hangman deadpans, words distorted as he chews another bite of jerky.

Bradley blinks down at the radar image that’s nearly uploaded before turning back towards Hangman. His elbow rests on the window ledge and the visible swell of muscle has no right to be so appealing. Bradley’s no slouch in the gym, either - the job demands a certain physicality - but something about Hangman’s has always made Bradley’s heart race. “What’s yours, then?” He asks, licking stray sugar from his lips. “What vice makes you so high and mighty?” 

A shit-eating grin grows on Hangman’s face. “Now what’s the fun in just telling you?” 

Bradley shakes his head, swallowing a wave of irritation. “You don’t have to tell me - I can only assume there’s a reason Coyote has lots of tequila stories about you.” And they absolutely, resolutely don’t make Bradley jealous. Not the stories themselves, but Coyote and Hangman’s relationship going back so many years before working together at Dagger Labs. He still doesn't know how or why Mav hired them both - or if they came as a package deal - but they’ve only helped add to Dagger Labs’ prestigious reputation. 

“Stories are just that,” Hangman answers, clearly unimpressed. “Easy to fabricate and easy to exaggerate.” 

He can’t resist arching a teasing brow. “Oh, I’m sure Coyote has photos, though. No self-respecting friend wouldn’t want that sort of embarrassing fodder for a 40th birthday or wedding rehearsal dinner show’n tell.” 

Disgusted disbelief wrinkles Hangman’s face. “If that’s your idea of what being a friend means, Bradshaw, then count me out.”  

“Well, then," he says, hoping his voice isn't suddenly too tight. "Good thing we’re just coworkers.” 

A silence falls in the SUV, broken only by their quiet chewing and the muffled sounds of the gas station around them. The plastic wrapper of the jerky stick crinkles as Hangman polishes off the last bite. “How’s Doppler looking?” 

At least the weather forecast information has finally refreshed. Bradley swipes his finger over the touchscreen. “Looks like that cell south of us has dropped in intensity. Not likely to spawn anything now.” 

“I never hung my hat on that system, anyway.” Hangman says, almost bored. “Not enough stability for the upper wind rotations to form.” 

Bradley doesn’t quite roll his eyes. “You never even saw the data, man.” 

“Didn’t need to.” He shoots an adoring look at Bradley over the top of his shades. “Not when you use your words so well, saying such pretty things.” 

Bradley just shakes his head, refusing to look over and hoping that Hangman doesn’t see the tightening muscles of his jaw. In these moments, he hates that he doesn’t have the same instincts. That he’s more data dependent, more prone to think than to act. While it hasn’t failed him yet - in fact, it’s saved his ass on more than one occasion - even Mav has told him that he needs to not think quite so much. 

Maybe he just comes by it too honestly. 

He takes a last mouthful of gummy worms and rolls up the bag, stuffing it into the glove box. With another scan of the forecast data, he glances down at the notebook resting next to the center console and picks it up. If there’s one surefire way to get Hangman to shut up, this is it. 

Nibbling his bottom lip, he starts inking out representative lines for each letter of the word that he's chosen. No matter how many times he’s played Hangman with… well, Hangman, it never fails to transport him back to his grade school days despite the mobile lab equipment around him. 

Hangman chuckles softly as he watches Bradley sketch out a scaffold. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to play.” 

“Well, I’m done listening to you talk, and you can do what you do best.” 

“Impress you?”

“Win.” Bradley states it like the fact that it is. It’s long stopped being a competition, but Bradley refuses to admit that Hangman’s mastery of the game does impress him. He glances up at Hangman and holds the notebook out for him to study. 

__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __

A toothpick materializes in the corner of Hangman’s mouth, another of his many talents. “You’re missing the category hint.” 

Bradley mentally kicks himself. He should have remembered that but like hell will he admit it. “That’s not a firm rule, is it?” 

Hangman cuts him with a sly gaze over his sunglasses. “Of course it is. Stop trying to cheat.” 

The corner of his mouth lifts without permission. “Alright - category is ‘thing’.” 

Hangman’s eyes fix on the notebook. “‘T’.” 

Bradley scratches the pen on the page, filling in the blank. 

__ __ __ __ T __ __ __

Hangman’s tongue darts out to tease the toothpick as he cocks his head. “A risk, but one I think’ll pay off – ‘C’.”

Bradley tries to hide his disappointment as he writes out the letter.

__ __ C __ T __ __ __

A triumphant smile brightens Hangman’s face. “You really picked ‘vacation’ as the word? Come on, at least make it a challenge!”

Bradley’s mouth gapes open before he can stop it, staring at the page. “How in the hell? There’s nothing obvious about that!”

“A master never reveals his secrets.” Hangman plucks the toothpick and points it towards the notebook. “Come on, write it out – prove me right.”

With gentle scoff, Bradley shakes his head and moves the pen over the paper.

V A C A T I O N

Despite the fact that Hangman is called Hangman for this exact reason, despite the fact that Bradley has seen Hangman do this countless times, and despite the fact that he’ll never stump Hangman at his own game, it still stirs the competitive part of him. Bradley stares at the blank page for the space of a breath as he tries to summon something clever. Something unusual, something harder - something with two words. 

Carrier pigeon. 

Liking his odds, he inks out lines for the thirteen letters. “Two words, this time,” he clarifies, glancing back at Hangman and holding out the notebook. “Still category ‘thing’.”

Hangman huffs a breathy laugh, scanning around the gas station parking lot before turning his attention back down to the page. “Okay, let’s start with ‘R’.”

Bradley writes out the three R’s on the page and holds his face neutral. Hangman brings the toothpick back to his mouth, rolling the wooden stick between his lips. A grin of recognition starts creeping across his face. “Let’s see if I got it – N.”

With sinking dread and absolute bafflement, Bradley writes the offending letter in the last blank.

Hangman smiles in victory with that damnably obnoxious toothpick pinched between too many teeth. “Carrier pigeon.”

“There’s no… no fucking way.” Bradley shakes his head in disbelief, motioning at the notebook. “There’s just… there’s nothing there…”

“Just because you don’t know the strategy doesn’t mean that there isn’t one.”

Bradley writes out the solution just because he can with another incredulous shake of his head. “Were you a spelling bee whiz kid in school? You must have been, to be so good at this now.”

Hangman’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “God, no. That’s a whole other level of teacher’s pet brown-nosing, do-gooding.”

Truthfully, Bradley can’t ever imagine a young Jake Seresin standing on some stage with a first-place spelling bee ribbon, but it’s something he’s always wondered about. How did the man get so freakishly good at this game? 

Hangman’s eyes meet his even behind the sunglasses, and he misses none of the contemplation happening behind Bradley’s eyes. His brows pinch together with piqued interest. “Wait…” Hangman says slowly, plucking the toothpick from his lips. “Does that mean that you… oh, god, you’re one of them, aren’t you?” 

“What?” Bradley’s face screws with disbelief. “No - I don’t even remember ever participating in a spelling bee.” Quickly, he tries to think of something else to hide the trajectory of his thoughts. “No, I… I was just thinking about the origin of the name ‘spelling bee’.”

“You mean it’s not named after some bee who’s good at spelling?” Hangman’s trademark teasing grin sounds in his voice.

Bradley ignores his stupidly obvious joke. “’Bee’ used to be the common term for a communal gathering – like a quilting bee or an apple bee.”

Silence falls for a beat before Hangman cocks his head in curious thought. “So, then… by that logic, is that seriously how the restaurant chain got its name?”

The image of Applebee’s Bar & Grill logo flashes in Bradley’s mind. His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “Well, it… you know, I have no idea.”

“Dagger 1, come in.” Nat’s voice sounds over the SUV speakers and anticipation bursts in Bradley’s chest. He reaches to unmute the team voice chat. 

“Copy that, Dagger 2.” A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Good to hear from you, Phoenix.” 

“Figured someone might need to give you two a break by now.” 

Hangman scoffs indignantly. “Ye of little faith, Phoenix. Things were just starting to get good.” 

“A twenty says you’re wrong.” 

Bradley knows better than to take that bet against Natasha Trace. “Whatcha got?” 

“Major action,” Bob’s voice comes over the speakers. “The cap is breaking. Tower’s going up 30 miles up the dry line.” 

Bradley’s heart leaps in his chest. Nothing else has even come close today. “Where are you?” 

“Near Burns Flat.” 

He reaches for his seatbelt on instinct, hearing Hangman’s also click into place. “And that’s where? North? South?” 

Nat’s voice sounds again. “Bob’s already sent you GPS coordinates.” 

Hangman’s smile widens as the SUV engine roars to life. “That shit gets me hard, Bob.” 

Bradley stares up at the speakers in the ceiling as if seeking forgiveness. “What he means is thank you and we’re on our way. We’ll catch you on CB when we get within range.” 

“Copy that.” 

The chat line mutes as Hangman shifts the SUV into gear, not quite peeling out of the parking space but coming pretty damn close. Bradley jostles in his seat, pulling up the vehicle's sat nav and Bob's coordinates. He arches a disapproving brow over at Hangman as they leave the gas station behind. “No call to be so crude.” 

Hangman doesn’t glance over, focused on the road ahead. “And no call for you to be such a prude.” 

“Not a prude.” Bradley corrects as he pulls up the latest data. “Just not rude. Especially when you know it makes Bob uncomfortable.” 

“He’ll never grow if he’s not pushed outside of his comfort zone, dear.” Hangman sing-songs with a mocking edge. “Though that sounds like someone else we both know, doesn’t it?” 

The barb digs under Bradley’s skin but he pushes it aside. Glancing at the sat nav directions to confirm distance to target, he glances up at the darkening sky. “Just drive or we’ll miss it entirely.” 

Series Main List

Tag List: @redfurrycat

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #hangster #bradley bradshaw x jake seresin #hangman x rooster #top gun maverick #top gun maverick au #top gun fanfiction #twister au #twister 1996 #glen powell #miles teller

[invisible-storyteller]

The werewolf, the human, and the hunter

For the @twpbingo prompt "Good, Bad, I'm the one with the gun". Also, for the prompt "team-up" in @polyamships' Multiamory March. (AO3 link) Relationship: Chris Argent x Peter Hale x Papa Hale (Richard) 1300 words (teen and up) Tags: established relationship, team-up, a tiny bit of violence, slightly suggestive language at the end, background Talia/Papa Hale, outsider POV

He recognized the scent curling in through the crack at the door, and knew he wouldn't get away with hiding from his visitor's senses. He plastered on an amiable smile when he opened the entrance and the three newcomers spilt into his home without further ado. The only reason he didn't fight the intrusion was that he didn't know the reason for their visit yet, and if he injured someone, it would be three's word against one.

"Peter! What may I do for you this evening?" He tried to keep his question light-hearted since the beta was pushing him into the living room with a firm hand against his chest, and the contact didn't seem all that friendly. As the door shut closed, he warily eyed the two accomplices in Peter's shadow.

"We're gonna have a nice chat, Reynard," The beta answered with an unsettling smirk and placed both hands atop the older man's shoulders.

Within Peter's hold, he couldn't stop the scruffed man - an Argent, undoubtedly - from pouring a jar of mountain ash around them in the perfect shape of a circle. It was a cage for him and the beta only as the two men at Peter's side were completely human and could escape at any point if Rey was to defend himself. They seemed adamant, though, to stay with Peter despite the danger of being in the proximity of an alpha's fangs.

"You're trying to put your own dirt on my sister's name," Peter accused with faux casualness, his claws extending to dig sharply into Rey's shoulders, "And the funniest part is that you thought you would get away with it."

"What are you talking about?" Rey peeled the beta's hands off of him and Peter didn't resist him. He was wiser than to instigate a fight with an alpha. "And what's with the backup?"

He didn't think he would have to actually engage in a physical fight with the three - their ingress into an alpha's home was enough of a bold move as it was - but that made the encounter all the more intriguing.

The Argent rose to his feet, having finished the circle, and levelled Rey with a disdainful, yet bored look.

"Bad cop," He nodded at Peter, "Good cop," He jutted his chin at the other human, "And I'm the one with the gun."

He then pulled out the weapon from his holster as if Rey couldn't already smell it or the wolfsbane bullets stored in the magazine.

"You're threatening me," Ray voiced calmly, mostly to deter the three from doing something rash, "I should report this to the council."

"You won't," The third man stated with conviction, and Ray could recognize him as Talia Hale's husband, Richard.

"Why not? Do tell me."

"I'll explain," Richard replied placatively and brought a chair into the circle for Rey to sit.

When Rey refused to take a seat, Peter promptly punched him in the stomach and forced his hunched body onto the chair. The beta then took a stance behind him, claws ready at his neck.

"You've been afflicting fatal wounds on innocents and turning them with the bite as a loophole for defying the quota," Richard recounted with a measured voice as if he were stating facts.

"Really?" Rey challenged with a flash of his eyes, "So now I'm the one violating our council's rules? You know, Talia should have assembled a more intimidating unit than her own brother and two helpless humans."

"Oh, my sister doesn't know we're here," Peter said, amused, "You know what that means? It means we can do anything we want to you-"

"Peter," The Argent cautioned from the side.

"Christopher."

The hunter rolled his eyes.

"Members of the council are on their way to interrogate your recently turned betas," Richard continued while ignoring the other two's silent bickering, "If they deem our charges justified, which they will, then you're going to be put on a trial. And if they find evidence for your crimes, which they will, you know what your punishment is going to be?"

The alpha didn't speak, but his silence was telling. "What do you want?"

"Justice," Peter snarled into his ear, claws grazing his throat, "So better get comfortable because we're gonna wait here until all your betas get collected."

"This is against our laws."

"This action was sanctioned by the council so you can't manipulate your pack into defending you," Richard corrected, still so infuriatingly peaceful.

"I saved those people!"

"You almost killed them first," The Argent snapped, gun pointed straight at the alpha's head, "The code dictates that I have every right to blast your face off."

He didn't have much time to contemplate his options. The alpha grabbed Peter's arm and pushed the chair back, knocking Peter's legs out and twisting out of the beta's hold in one smooth motion. As soon as Rey was on his feet, searing pain bloomed in his leg and spread over the injured limb with every new wolfsbane bullet that pierced his skin. Three, to be exact.

"If you admit to your crimes now, Talia will vouch for you personally, and will attempt to convince the council to soften your punishment," Richard negotiated while Rey was on the ground, groaning in pain.

"I didn't do anything worse than what she did!" Rey growled at the men, "She's the one who distributes the gift left and right with no consideration to other packs."

"Her gift saves people without trying to kill them first," Talia's husband argued, and this was the first time his tone wavered from its pacific cadence.

"She's just building a goddamn army," Rey spat as he began to mentally devise a plan to break free, "If she can do it, then why can't I?"

Richard let out a long-suffering sigh and turned away from the alpha in resignation. "We tried to do this the peaceful way."

"You broke into my home!"

"You let us in," Richard reasoned complacently.

"You can't take my betas away!"

"Talia will protect them from you," The Argent reassured with scathing self-satisfaction.

"And if she finds out about this? What would she say about her husband and brother teaming up with a hunter behind her back?"

Peter walked up to Richard's side so the human was now between the werewolf and the hunter, a smug grin on the wolf's face.

"Oh, she knows about our… trio."

With a languid motion, Peter turned Richard's chin towards him and kissed the man passionately and with more tongue than appropriate. After their drawn-out liplock, Richard turned to his other side so the hunter could place an equally long, but less obscene kiss on his lips. The alpha, meanwhile, had enough sense not to say anything to the revelation.

"Richard might be her husband, but he's also ours," Peter declared proudly, just as his phone notified him of an incoming message, "That was fast!" He read through the text while grinning wolfishly, "Bad news for you, old man, one of your betas has just confessed. Guess we aren't needed here anymore."

"I would take those bullets out before the council drags you away," The hunter suggested as he broke the ash circle with his foot and the trio exited Rey's home as suddenly as they came.

Rey was still withering on the floor, terror slowing down his healing process, when he heard the men's cheery voice filter in from outside.

"It made me so wet when you shot him, Christopher."

"Well, I liked your claws around his neck."

"Ooh, I always knew you had a werewolf kink! All hunters secretly do."

"Let's go to my place," Richard proposed, voice dripping with fondness and mischief, "We ought to celebrate."

"All night," The hunter added huskily.

"I like the way you two think."

#original: teen wolf fanfic #twpbingo2024 #MultiamoryMarch #MultiamoryMarch2024 #chris x peter x papa hale

[writeblrsummerfest]

Lemon Tree Lane

Something is wrong.

Something is -

something is wrong here.

Lizzie stares. She stares hard at the rocking horse. She feels the water dripping down her spine. She clutches the handle of the rocking horse in her paw until it feels like everything’s about to pop at the seams and then she turns and races for the stairs, taking off in search of her backpack, left in the library when she first went to try and help Sam.

Except that when she flings open the doors at the top of the stairs… The backpack is sitting there, waiting for her. Lizzie is puffed up like a cotton ball and absolutely petrified. She drops down onto her knees and starts rooting through the bag, until she finds the mason jar that she took off of the tree.

For the first time, she looks it over. The dirt streaked glass contains buttons from Sam’s clothing, and snippets of yarn from the rocking horse mane and – a zipper pull that matches the one on Lizzie’s own bag almost exactly.

She grabs the jar and throws it with all of her might.

It hits the wall and explodes in a spray of glass, trinkets, marbles, and bright white light. The light floods the hallway, brighter, brighter, until -

Lizzie passes out. Maybe when she wakes back up, things will make more sense.

Write your minky (or other character! REALIZING SOMETHING IS WRONG. This will be an ongoing challenge! Every day, we’re going to see a little bit more of Lizzy’s story and get a new Lemon Tree Lane prompt. Let’s explore the haunted house together!

-*-

Welcome to the nineteenth day of the Writeblr Summerfest! We have so many amazing things planned for this month, but first, I want to introduce Lizzy! She’s the driving force behind the community selected Haunted House theme for the festival this year!

Now, before we get started, I want you to take a look at Lizzy! She’s the mascot this year! She’s called a minky, and her character sheet was made by the lovely @mothersart! Now, Mother has volunteered her services to do what we’re calling grab bag commissions for anyone that wants their own minky explorer to take part in the events! She currently has THREE OPEN SLOTS.

Here’s a LINK to her commission sheet, but I’ll summarize it for you, too! She has two options.

$10 gets you a total grab-bag surprise minky explorer, you don’t get to customize it but you get to own the character forever onward!

$15 lets you pick a ‘theme’ for the explorer; do you love pastel goth? Cottagecore? Skateboarding? Let her know, and it will be the inspiration for your minky (ps, you still own them)!

While it’s not a requirement, I highly recommend you considering it if you’ve got the spare change laying around! Mother has been a huge help getting things together with the event this year, and her minkies are just absolutely amazing!

#writeblr #writeblr summerfest #lemon tree lane #writing prompt

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2023 - Day 30

This is it!! The finale for my @whumpril saga!! Thank you @brinkofdiscovery for letting me borrow your hot beautiful amazing dragon priest!!

TWs: Non-explicit gore (impalement)

Holding Hands | Human Shield | “Don’t let go.”

"It's okay." Mariano said, one hand resting on Santiago's bicep. "If we need to, I can distract it."

The priest certainly couldn't fight the feral, adolescent dragon that was roaring and carrying on in the field they needed to cross. It hadn't been there when they'd crossed on their way to the spring, but that didn't really matter. This was the only way into town--at least, the only way that wouldn't take them another three days to get to.

That wasn't an option; Acero needed this holy spring water sooner rather than later.

"We...what is your plan?" Santiago asked, dark eyes glancing to Mariano as they huddled under their cover. Nerves tinged his normally-steady voice.

Mariano hummed, gaze staying on the dragon. "We can't sneak past it. We just need to run." He glanced to Santiago, making sure their jars of holy water were still wrapped and secure in Santiago's bag. "I'm going to keep its attention. No matter what happens, you just need to keep running."

Santiago swallowed before nodding. "Let's go." Together, they both burst from the cover.

The mass of brilliant, red scales went quiet. It turned its head. Mariano felt his blood chill as the dragon spotted them. He locked eyes with it. With a roar it charged, talons kicking chunks of dirt and flowers high up into the clear sky. Wings spread, head low to the ground, the dragon quickly started to close the distance.

Magic springing to his palms, Mariano turned his focus to his opponent. Santiago knew what to do. He knew he had to just keep running. Two shots of magic sailed through the air, hitting the dragon square in the nose and forehead. The shining plasma dispersed over the dragon's face like sparks from a campfire, not slowing it in the slightest.

Intense red eyes locked onto Mariano, though, ignoring the colorful priest in the fluttering clothes. It snarled out a challenge, sending fire spewing towards Mariano. He dove out of the way, rolling to his feet and back into a run. He needed to stay between Santiago and the dragon no matter what.

Mariano threw more magic, aiming at the dragon's face, blast after blast ineffectively bursting against the scales.

They were almost there. The wards around the town were just there, just another minute of running away. The sound of claws ripping through earth and snapping teeth were so nearby. A massive thud made Mariano whip his head around, just in time to see the dragon turning, furious eyes locked on them both.

The dragon's spine-covered tail sliced through the air. Santiago was still too close to be safe. Mariano lunged for him, managing to shove him to the grass, below the arc. The tip of the tail caught Mariano, wicked spikes digging into him.

Mariano's breath was stolen by the impact, unable to even cry out. He was flung through the air, past Santiago, to tumble to a stop in the flowers. Something was still lodged in him, he realized in his daze, as he tried to push himself back to his hands and knees.

Mariano collapsed, his limbs only managing to tremble when he tried again. Looking down, it didn't take more than a moment to figure out what had happened. One brilliant, ruby spine was sticking out from his stomach. It had torn through his shirt. When he breathed, it made his back scream.

He looked up again.

Santiago stood between him and the dragon now, broad shoulders squared. He had something in his hands, some glass jar filled with a powder. He wasn't running.

"No...!" Mariano gasped. He tried to pull his magic to his hands, but Santiago raising a hand stopped him.

The dragon snapped its jaws toward them, and in a flash, Santiago ripped the lid off and threw the open jar at its mouth. The dragon jerked as its jaws closed, long neck recoiling backwards with a harsh cough. As though the jar had been filled with the most disgusting thing the young dragon had ever tasted, it scrambled away.

"What...?" Mariano tried to ask what that was. Did Santiago have dragon repellent on him for these trips?

Santiago's attention turned to Mariano then, as he hurried over and knelt at his side. "Oh--gracious." His hands hovered over Mariano's torso, fingers hardly even coming close to the wicked spine lodged in him. "That's. That's going all the way through you."

Mariano swallowed and nodded. "We...I have brink potions." He said. "In my bag."

"Will it be enough?" Santiago asked, eyes finally breaking away from the wound to focus on Mariano's face. "We have doctors in town."

Mariano reached a hand up to place on Santiago's forearm, trying to take a breath. "It will...it will keep me stable. Just...help me back to the temple, first. Please. I can walk."

Santiago looked Mariano over again and hummed. "Back to the temple, then. We can call for a doctor on the way."

Instead of reaching for Mariano's outstretched hand, Santiago scooped him up into his arms and stood. Mariano couldn't help the undignified squeak that escaped, or how he twisted his fingers into Santiago's robes. "Santiago, what--"

"It wouldn't be right to risk you hurting yourself worse. We aren't far now." Santiago said, holding Mariano carefully as he started picking up his pace. "I've got you." His voice was careful, exceedingly gentle, and made Mariano's chest twist in a new, different way. "You'll be okay."

Mariano couldn't exactly argue with that, especially as the pain began to dull to a consistent ache. "Thank you." He said, starting to relax in Santiago's arms. Santiago knew what to do.

It would be okay.

#whumpril2023 #whumprilday30 #human shield #gore #impalement #mage of violence #santiago #I LOVE SANTIAGO THANK YOU #he's so sweet and pretty and hot and-- #everyone fall in love with santiago now 🔪 #ALSO THAT'S THAT #THAT'S WHUMPRIL #I can't believe I actually finished a month long challenge without burning myself out #amazing

[adventuressclubamericas]

Adventuresses Like Phryne

Last month, we talked about the Van Buren sisters and their legendary transcontinental motorcycle trip in 1916. As impressive as their feat was, they weren’t the first women to cross the US by motorcycle. 

That distinction belongs to Adventuresses Effie and Avis Hotchkiss, who did it in 1915. 

Effie Hotchkiss was a young woman ahead of her time. She learned to ride and fix motorcycles when she was 16. At 18, she was working on Wall Street, something almost unheard of at the time. 

But she still craved adventure – she wanted to be the first woman to cross the US on a bike. The 1915 World’s Fair in San Francisco gave her that chance. On May 2, 1915, she set off from Brooklyn on her Harley-Davidson 11-F with her mother, Avis, in the sidecar. 

“We merely wanted to see America and considered that the three-speed Harley-Davidson for myself, and sidecar for mother and the luggage best suited for the job.” Effie said. 

The roads were challenging, to say the least, often little more than dirt paths – until the rain came, and they became mud pits. The roads took their toll on the duo’s tires. They would eventually run out of replacement inner-tubes and had to resort to cutting and rolling up a blanket to repair a flat. 

In spite of the conditions, Avis never lost confidence in her daughter. "I do not fear breakdowns. For Effie, being a most careful driver, is a good mechanic and does her own repairing with her own tools." 

She was also a good shot, which proved necessary for their less than friendly encounters with coyotes and rattlesnakes. 

The pair reached San Francisco and the Fair in August 1915. They made their way to the beach and poured the jar of Atlantic seawater they’d carried from New York into the Pacific Ocean. Then, they turned around and drove home.

They completed their 9,000-mile adventure in October 1915. In 2022, 107 years after the trip, Effie Hotchkiss was inducted into the American Motorcycle Association’s Hall of Fame.

#adventuress #adventuresses #AdventuressesWeLove #motorcycle #harley #harley-davidson

[squidyyy23]

for his honey 🍯

ian’s impressed when his husband’s business savvy helps them expand their farm. and he's going to make sure he knows it.

we all know @gallawitchxx is the queen bee of the birthday trope mashup ficlets. but what about her birthday prompt: alternate universe with characters who work together? so here you go, babe. a little something for your bee-day 🐝

rating: [be]e (<- "i was hoping for something a bit spicer". challenge accepted. 🌶) word count: 3.5k

and shoutout to sara @shameless-notashamed for the brilliant beta brain

read below the cut or on ao3 🍯🐝

Mickey’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It takes a moment for him to register the feeling against his leg out here surrounded by the familiar white noise of his bees buzzing away in their hives. He slides the frame back into the box, quickly removes his gloves, sets them beside his well-used smoker, and answers the call.

“He signed the contract!” an excited woman squeals through the speaker. He winces, holding the phone farther away from his ear. “I’ll swing by with a copy for you two to sign tomorrow.”

Mickey’s beaming when he hangs up. Victorious.

“Who was that?” Ian brushes the dirt off his hands and wanders over from where he’d been working in his garden.

It’s curiosity only, an interest in his husband’s life. Not an ounce of distrust or jealousy. They’d long gotten over all that shit. Solid for over a decade.

“Realtor,” Mickey answers.

“Realtor?” Ian repeats, confused.

“We got it.” Mickey doesn’t bother to hide his accomplished smile. Hell of a fight, but he did it.

“We got what?” Ian still hasn’t caught on.

“It. The land. The expansion.”

“Wait, what? I thought—” Mickey watches the realization wash over him. “How?”

“I have my ways.” Mickey smirks.

“‘Course you do.” Ian’s body language softens, excitement morphing into something else. Something notably hotter than even the warm summer air. “You always make shit happen.”

Damn straight he does.

Mickey looks around at all they’ve built. Their respectable plot of land. The couple acres of bee farm. The sizable garden they cleared last year for Ian’s crops. The small country store by the road where they sell their local, organic honey—and more recently, Ian’s produce and quickly-becoming-famous jarred tomato sauce—to tourists passing through on their way to their fancy-ass vacation homes in the mountains. A huge step up from the booth they used to lug around to every farmer’s market in a hundred-mile radius.

Ever since Ian followed his gardening passions to grow their business, he’s been whining about not having enough space to grow all the shit he wants. Nerdy ass motherfucker has all dozen of his beds mapped out in a goddamn spreadsheet trying to squeeze in as many things as possible.

They’d talked about trying to purchase the empty lot behind theirs. Called up a realtor. Paid a fucking appraiser to come out and give them an estimate of the land’s value. Sat down one very long night with the books and crunched the numbers. It was doable. 

Only stumbling block was the prick who currently owned it. Some old, rich, white, republican asshole whose family bought up half the town generations ago. Jackass in a suit with zero intention of ever using the land for anything other than stroking his own ego. 

So they made him an offer in line with said ego. Too generous if you asked Mickey, but Ian was so eager to make it happen that Mickey’d agreed. The response came back the very same day. No. Dickwad had refused to even consider it.

Ian wrote it off as a lost cause and sulked around for a week. But Mickey didn’t plan on letting it go that easily. If this guy thought he could bully them around just because he had a half-decent education and a pile of daddy’s money, he had another thing coming. 

Kind of shit Terry would have pulled if he’d had the power. The thought only pissed Mickey off and made him want to fuck the guy over even more. His fist-fighting days might be over, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still up for a good challenge. Don’t fuck with a man’s honey.

“Can’t believe you kept going after him.” Ian steps into Mickey’s space. Drapes his arms over his shoulders. “Thought we’d given up.” A familiar fire burns in his eyes.

Mickey looks up into Ian’s heated gaze. “My husband’s got eight hundred varieties of tomatoes to grow. Think I’m gonna let some jackass stand in the way of that?” He grins, a mischievous thing, knowing damn well what these kinds of things do to Ian.

In an instant, Ian’s lips are on his, his tongue slipping through Mickey’s smile. 

God, he fucking loves this man. All these years and it never gets old. Still that same rush. That same fluttering in his gut.

Ian’s arms slide down and wrap around Mickey’s back, those huge hands spread possessively across his rib cage. Mickey lets his hands fall from Ian’s waist to his hips where he slips his thumbs into the band of his dirty jeans and tugs. Not enough to pull them off, but enough to convey the message.

Hands drop to Mickey’s hips, pulling them forward and holding him steady as Ian grinds their already half-hard dicks together. Mickey swallows down the low moan breathed into his mouth before Ian pulls back, stepping away in his best effort to restrain himself.

“Not here,” Ian says.

“Jesus Christ. This again?” Mickey complains, wiping sweat from his brow, a combination of heat and arousal.

“I just can’t,” Ian whines. “The endless buzzing. Thousands of tiny eyes. Watching.” He makes a show of visibly shuddering at the thought.

“They’re bees. They aren’t fucking watching. Pretty sure they don’t give a shit to see us bang.”

“What if one stings your dick?”

“Seriously?” Mickey grouches. “Used to fuck behind the hives at the school almost every day. Never used to complain then.” But Mickey starts gathering his bee-keeping supplies into his toolbox anyway.

“Actually, yes. Yes, I did, but I put up with it ‘cause it was the only spot your dad would never come near.” Ian helps him pack up his tools.

There really was something funny about the fact that Terry—the big, tough, drug-running, child-abusing piece of shit—was terrified of some tiny, fuzzy insects. Maybe that’s part of what drew Mickey to bee-keeping. A quiet way to piss on his father.

Mickey hadn’t even known what apiculture was when he’d signed up for the high school’s agriculture program as his junior year elective. But it sounded like an easy class, and maybe he’d pick up some tips to up production from his weed plants. And of course Ian was there, damn hippie with a provider complex, eager to learn how to feed his whole family from a handful of seeds. 

Ended up being the only period Mickey never skipped. Surprisingly, some of the material still managed to sink in even if he did spend every class staring at silky red hair. 

They rush back to the store in record time, teasing each other the whole way. Mickey grabs at Ian’s dick, tickling his balls through his jeans. Ian slaps his ass when Mickey turns to run, a seductive waggle to his strut. Flirty and fun, always bringing out that youthful energy in each other.

Finally, they reach the back door, slamming it open as they bumble their way inside, practically tripping over each other on their quest to get behind the locking door of their office. But of fucking course, the bell chimes, and in walks an elderly couple, probably retired, traveling through in that giant-ass RV Mickey can see through the front windows.

And Mickey’s about to get real bitchy with these cockblocking customers, already sucking in a breath ready to blow, when Ian’s hand lands on his chest. Cool it, tiger. Can’t be scaring off the money makers.

Mickey lets it out, restrains himself just enough, tapping his foot while Ian goes off to greet the couple. He watches Ian show them around the store, offering samples of their most popular varieties of honey. 

It’s a small shop, but it’s nice. Theirs. Mickey ain’t ashamed to admit he’s proud of it.

After what seems like hours to Mickey’s impatiently pulsing dick, Ian finally rings them up. Managed to sweet talk them into three bottles of honey, a jar of his precious tomato sauce, and even one of Franny’s handmade bracelets on display by the register. Mickey’s always impressed by his husband’s salesman skills, but Jesus fuck, can he not be so fucking nice to everyone all the damn time?

Ian flips the sign on the door to “closed”. His eyes land on Mickey, fucking him up and down from across the room. Mickey’s ass clenches in anticipation. Then the tension snaps, the both of them darting toward the office in the same instant.

Mickey makes it there first. By the time he turns around, Ian’s locking the door behind them, shirt already stripped off somewhere along the way. Fucker really hates shirts.

Before Mickey can blink, Ian’s got him shoved up against the wall, his body pinning him hard against the old wood paneling. He smells like dirt and sun and tomato leaves. Up this close, Mickey can see the pollen dusting across his nose, hiding amongst the freckles.

“Now tell me,” Ian growls into the crook of Mickey’s neck, breath hot against his skin, “how you broke that bastard into selling you the land.” Mickey tilts his head back, exposing more flesh to Ian’s busy lips. “Into giving you what you wanted.”

“Told him— fuck.” Ian pulls the collar of Mickey’s shirt open with his teeth, revealing even more skin to be ravaged.

“Tell me,” Ian chides.

Mickey sucks in a shaky breath. “Told him if he didn’t hand over the land, the ABF, USDA, and EPA would be up his ass ‘bout fucking with an endangered species’ natural habitat. Went after the fuckers money. ‘Course he folded.”

Mickey leaves out the part about slipping his brother some cash to “look into the guy” just in case the legal threats didn’t pan out. But if he never had to use the blackmail, Ian didn’t need to know.

“Money’s all that prick’s got in his life.” Mickey hisses as Ian grinds their hips together at just the right angle. “Doesn’t have a hunk of a husband like I do.”

Ian smiles at him like Mickey just came home with the winning lottery ticket. 

“Fuck, I married the sexiest man on the planet.”

Ian reaches under Mickey’s ass and lifts his feet off the floor. Mickey circles his arms around his neck, holding on as their mouths crash together. Knocking teeth. Bruised and bitten lips.

Then Ian’s moving. Stumbling backward. Mickey’s too lost in their fervid kisses to pay much mind, trusting completely in his husband. At Ian’s mercy, always.

The back of his legs hit the edge of the desk, and Ian sets him down. The perfect height to line their mouths up just right. 

Mickey’s hands work their way into Ian’s hair, tugging at the strands and scratching at his scalp. Ian clasps Mickey’s cheeks, his thumbs rubbing soft circles along his jawline, a stark contrast to the way he sucks Mickey’s lips between his teeth and pinches.

They’re both panting when they finally part for air. Ian’s fingers frantically unfasten Mickey’s jeans. Mickey uses his arms wrapped around Ian’s neck to pull him up enough for Ian to slide them off, exposing his bare ass to the polished wood. 

He hears seams popping when Ian yanks Mickey’s shirt over his head. Ian wraps him in his strong arms and moans when their naked chests press together.

“You showed that asshole who’s boss,” Ian says, stepping back and stripping out of his own pants. “Now let me show yours.”

He rounds the desk. In one fluid movement, he swipes everything on its surface to the ground. Pens scatter, papers go flying, but it’s just a mess. They learned long ago not to keep anything fragile on there.

The handle nearly tears off the drawer Ian pulls it open with such force. He grabs the bottle of office lube and slams it on the cleared surface.

He stalks back in front of Mickey. Grabs his chin for one quick but all-consuming kiss before turning him around by the shoulder. A rough shove to Mickey’s upper back and he’s bent over the desk. His exposed asshole clenched, waiting. 

“Fuck,” Ian whispers behind him. Raspy. Reverent. Fingertips trail down his spine. “Gorgeous like this. Still can’t believe I get to have this.”

A swift palm to Mickey’s left cheek has him gasping in surprise. He melts further into the desk, surrendering to the sweet, sweet sting on his skin. 

So that’s how this is going to go. Mickey closes his eyes and curls his bottom lip between his teeth. He mentally runs through the possibility of buying up all the neighboring land if this is the reward.

Ian must have lubed up while Mickey was lost in his thoughts because suddenly he’s being filled, Ian crooking his finger into that perfect spot right off the bat. 

“Ah, fuck. Holy fuck,” Mickey moans, burying his face in his arms. 

His back arches into the pressure, his legs already starting to shake. From one finger. Fuck, his husband owns him. 

One finger quickly turns into two, Ian scissoring them open for that achingly good stretch. He folds himself over Mickey’s body, planting soft kisses on the still-warm flesh of Mickey’s slapped cheek, Ian’s lips buzzing against skin when he moans into it.

He’ll never get over the sounds of his husband getting off to Mickey’s pleasure. From Mickey just being. Just submitting. Riles Ian up just as much as having his dick in Mickey’s mouth. 

Then he adds a third finger to the mix. Fucks them into him good and hard while his other hand snakes around to stroke Mickey’s cock, his lips never leaving Mickey’s skin. Never enough to push him over that edge, just enough to keep him teetering right on it.

And then, fuck, then another. A glorious fourth finger that has Mickey drooling over the desk, his mouth hanging open as frankly inhuman sounds escape his lungs. His hips sway on his shaking legs as he adjusts to the sensation. 

Spread. Stretched. Stuffed. 

By his husband.

“Fuck,” Ian purrs and Mickey can feel him stand up behind him. “Take it so good, baby. Doing such a good job for me.”

Even with his eyes closed, Mickey can picture the look on Ian’s face as he stands back and soaks in the view. Half his hand buried in Mickey’s slick ass bent over the table.

Ian twists his fingers inside Mickey’s pulsing hole and they both groan in unison. Mickey’s not sure which one of them is enjoying this more.

“Love it when you let me use this perfect hole of yours,” Ian goes on, his voice sending shivers up Mickey’s spine. “Let me treat you like the queen you are.”

And Mickey’s preening under Ian’s attention, his body opening up to accept whatever Ian wants to give him.

It took him a while to get used to this, to get comfortable with it—Ian showering him in praise and affection—after a lifetime of hurt and neglect. Never learned how to process such positive words. 

But now he loves it. Has learned to relish in it. Sometimes even beg for it. The assurance of how much his husband loves his body, loves him, all of him, soothing like warm tea and honey. 

Ian keeps up his sensuous torment—fucking his fingers into him, spouting words both sweet and filthy into his ear—until Mickey’s legs can barely hold him up any longer.

Finally, Ian takes mercy on him. Reluctantly removes his digits, leaving Mickey empty, his cheeks clenching down hard in search of something, anything, to get that feeling back.

A strong hand wraps around his waist, stands him up, supporting most of his weight, and lowers both of them to the ground, Mickey coming to settle on his sore ass between Ian’s spread legs. Ian’s twitching cock presses against Mickey’s back, smearing wet slickness across his sweaty skin. 

His tongue licks a heavy stripe up Mickey’s neck ending in sharp nibbles to his ear. “So fucking proud of my man,” whispered so soft Mickey’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. But no, he didn’t. Ian’s just like that.

Then Ian’s flipping them, pinning Mickey on his back on the plush carpet—the first and only thing they’ve remodeled in the place. 

Ian straddles him, hovering painfully close but not close enough over Mickey’s thighs. He stares down at him. Pupils blown. Lost to the sight.

Mickey’s body writhes beneath him, hips bucking sky high in an attempt to find something to grind against. Friction or pressure or fucking something before he implodes under Ian’s gaze.

“You have no idea how sexy you look right now.” Ian has the audacity to smirk at him. Like he isn’t torturing the man in the most beautiful of ways.

“Please. Please, Ian,” Mickey begs, his voice hoarse and shaking. Full of desire and lust and need he’s long since stopped trying to hide.

He loves his husband. Loves the way he makes him feel. There’s no shame in that.

Ian smiles. A devious thing. Victory.

Mickey doesn’t even care. 

Then he dips his head, marking his way up Mickey’s body. A trail of both teeth and suction bruising over his stomach, his chest, even the soft underside of his arm, that ultra-sensitive spot Mickey never knew he loved until Ian explored every inch of him. Ian finishes up his warpath across his neck, leaving hickies Mickey knows he won’t be able to hide.

Mickey thinks briefly of the third graders Ian invited to tour the farm tomorrow. “Come on, Mick. We’ll make it educational. Gotta get the next generation interested if we’re gonna save the bees.” Hopefully, the swarm of eight-year-olds will believe the marks are bee stings. A simple workplace hazard.

Someone sure is a hazard around this workplace, alright.

Finally, Ian’s lips make it all the way to Mickey’s. Tongues tangle in search of that familiar taste. 

Ian’s splayed out against him, the full length of their naked bodies pressed against each other. Mickey squirms, rutting his cock against Ian’s, but it’s not enough. He’s still so achingly empty he’s convinced his body will turn to dust if he doesn’t get his ass filled soon.

“Ian. I need— I need—” His brain is too lost to get the right words to his mouth, but Ian understands.

His husband reaches under Mickey’s weakened legs and helps him wrap them around his waist. He lines them up. Mickey’s nails dig into Ian’s back as he braces himself. 

Then, Ian’s pounding into him in one swift motion. He sinks to the hilt on the first thrust, Mickey’s hole already so stretched and ready for him.

Mickey registers the feeling of the scream leaving his chest but can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. Finally. Filled. Perfectly. By the perfect one.

Ian keeps up the relentless rhythm—good and hard, just the way Mickey likes it—until Mickey’s close. Right back on that edge. He mutters incoherent sounds until Ian gets a hand on his dick and grants him that long-awaited orgasm in three solid strokes.

Fucking ecstasy right here on the office floor. Anywhere Ian is.

Ian drags his come-slick hand up Mickey’s chest, rubbing it into his skin. Mickey hisses, all the sensations too much on the comedown.

Ian slows his thrusts, not ready to separate just yet, but eases up on Mickey’s pleasure-wrecked body.

“God, I fucking love you.” Ian’s eyes lock on Mickey’s, boring through him as he rocks his cock inside his still pulsing hole. “Fucking perfect. No one else I’d want to do this with. All of this.”

And with that, Ian’s face screws up, his eyes slamming shut against his will as he spills inside of him. 

Ian’s arms shudder, his elbows give, and he collapses on top of Mickey’s chest where they stay. It takes a solid minute for the buzzing in Mickey’s ears to fade out. For his vision to clear. The tingling in his fingers and toes to subside.

He swallows. His throat feels raw. Must have been too lost to realize just how loud he’d gotten. One of the perks of being out here in the boonies. Not that neighbors would stop Mickey anyhow. Nothing a shot of homegrown honey won’t soothe.

When they’ve finally recovered, Mickey crawls his way over to the desk and opens the bottom drawer. The one where they keep the financial shit Ian avoids at all costs.

He watches Ian’s face as Mickey pulls out the supplies he’d stashed there days ago when it looked like the deal might actually go through. A picnic blanket. A grocery bag of Pringles and Snickers bars. A couple joints, the good shit from their buddy’s farm. And, even though Mickey thinks it’s disgusting, a bottle of champagne because he knows Ian loves that kind of sappy crap.

Ian’s eyes well up, soft motherfucker, and he smiles.

“For the official celebration,” Mickey says, holding up the bottle.

“You…” Ian trails off, for once at a loss for words.

“Here,” Mickey grabs one last thing from the drawer. A packet of seeds. “Let’s go plant some fucking tomatoes. As many as you want.”

Ian grabs Mickey’s face. Presses their lips together again. But this time they’re soft and slow. An I love you and thank you. 

Sweet as honey.

#little sweet. 🍯 little spice. 🌶 #who knew we needed beekeeper!mickey in our lives? #content warning: excessive bee-related content 😂 #fuck this went off the rails somewhere #but you know i can’t resist a good bee pun #i’m just sticking to your brand okay?!?! #sticking. like honey. #alright alright. i’m done now. i promise. #happy birthday sweet thing! hope you have the most excellent of days. 😘 #shameless fanfic #gallavich fic #ian x mickey #squid words 🦑

[fireandcrimsoncrowns]

Fuilech (Teaser)

She ignored their words, focusing only on her breathing, the soft and controlled intake of breath before she let it free again.

While the dramatically timed entrance of the Sea Snake’s brother would have typically made her giggle, she had other things to consume herself with. Surprising him. It was a game they had established years before, one they continued to play, and she did so love when she managed it. She had come down to the training courtyard some time before, blending well into the crowd with her dark cloak that swallowed her body, the snow and silver strands of her hair braided back for stealth, and ease of movement. Her hood had been pulled up as well, hiding away the blinding hue and the long length of the tail as it settled somewhere near her hips. Many were ill at ease as she lurked, a guard or two had even approached before she flashed them a familiar smirk from beneath the dark cowl and pressed a finger to her lips, a sign for their silence.

She had done this many a time before.

Wincing as gravel and dirt shifted beneath her feet when she took a step into an opening at his back, she froze. Eyes, cut from the heart of an amethyst, darted back and forth over the expanse of his muscular back, searching quickly for any shift in stance or tension suddenly pulled tight. A sign that he had heard her, that he now knew that she was there. But there was none. Grinning in victory, she slowly slipped her oversized cloak from her back, holding out a hand and trusting one of the guards who stood nearby to take it from her. The murmuring of the crowd over the Velaryon arrival was a boon, helping to cover up the influx of whispers and fond chuckles that took to the air as her form was revealed. This was not the first time that The Realm’s Indulgence had attempted to get the best of her uncle.

Nor would it be the last.

She was dressed similarly to him, though where he preferred a black darker than the still of night, trimmed and chased by gold - she preferred red. It was a deep crimson, so dark that it blurred the line between red and black, darker than a pool of blood. The outermost coat was trimmed in gold as well, tiny motifs displaying an array of dragons bordered the hem. Her sword rested at her hip, twin short swords spanned across her back, and the few escaping wisps of silver and snow stands fluttered on the breeze.

Hesitating just a moment, she bit into her lip, waiting as his attention was pulled back toward her brothers, ones she had not seen for some time, to draw the sword from her hip, the steel singing as it was freed. He opened his mouth, no doubt to challenge the two to embarrass themselves in front of the crowd -

She struck on the next heartbeat.

Leaping forward, holding the intent to playfully tap him on the thigh with the side of the gleaming steel in hand, the jarring sound of steel kissing steel was heard, quieting those mutterings of the onlookers. Her eyes flicked up wildly, amethyst connecting solidly with indigo, trapped there while a smirk worthy of making hearts give out curled at the taller man’s lips.

“I was wondering when you would come out to play, sweet niece.”

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