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amazingmaeve · 3 years

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After Party - Michael Gray

Michael Gray Masterlist // Peaky Blinders Masterlist

Michael Gray x Fem!Reader

Request: Can you do 4 and 80 of the smut prompt list? with michael gray please??🤍🥵

Summary: Y/N and Michael have a special after party after one of Tommy’s parties.

Warnings: Smut (18+)

AN: Love Michael and haven’t written smut for him yet well until this! 😊

Throughout the whole night, Y/N had been bored. It was another one of Tommy’s parties and it was nothing really interesting.

Michael, her boyfriend, brought her. And even though he promised to not run off with his cousins for business he was gone 10 minutes in.

This always happened when they went to parties. Y/N understood why but he usually left until the party ended or when she wanted to leave.

They’ve been dating for a year and it was an amazing year. But the last month felt weird. Michael always came home late which made things for their sex life worse, she never saw him during the day unless Polly brought her to the office.

Every night Y/N would cook dinner for him and wait for him to show but he never did so she just ate by herself and went to bed. Sometimes she would cry feeling like her life was going up in flames. He would usually return home late, around 2 or 3.

Y/N felt like their relationship was going to go sour. Like their flame was dying.

Polly would always notice his son’s girlfriend look longingly at Michael wondered what’s wrong. They would usually be close and touchy, holding hands, arms wrapped around each other.

Michael didn’t seem to notice Y/N’s feelings. But in his defense Y/N never let him see her cry at all.

And when Michael wasn’t around when Y/N was in other words horny, Y/N would pleasure herself with her fingers. Michael usually didn’t like her touching herself since it was his job to take care of her needs but he hasn’t been around so what was she supposed to do.

When Y/N was usually craving Michaels attention she would always stay up as late as she could but in the end she feel asleep.

Y/N thought Michael would get sexually deprived after a month like her but he seemed to busy with work.

But Y/N was getting tired of it and was going to put her foot down.

As the party dragged on Y/N stood at the bar and had about 3 drinks which made her slightly tipsy. Michael had disappeared abou an hour ago and Y/N was getting bored.

As she took a sip of her fourth Gin she felt someone stand besides her by the stood. She looked and saw her boyfriend who looked confused at Y/N.

“How many drinks have you had love,” Michael asked taking the empty glass out of her hand and setting it on the bar.

“Only 4,” Y/N let out a hiccup after she answered his question. Y/N was a light weight she didn’t drink often unlike the rest of the family.

“You usually get tipsy after your first drink ,” Michael teased Y/N who pouted at his response and crossed her arms over her chest. “Come on love I’m only teasing you,” He walked in front of her gave a kiss to her forehead. He wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Can we go,” Y/N asked playing with the color of his coat.

“Yes but when we get back I’m gonna need to do some work before we go to bed,” Michael explained giving a squeeze to her hip. Y/N frowned she thought tonight may be the night he would stop working.

Y/N thought back to her plan she had earlier and decided she may go through with it. Y/N was almost sure Michael had to be horny unless he was cheating on her.

Y/N nodded letting Michael grab her coat and put his on after helping her.

When they got to their home Michael went to his office and Y/N went to the bedroom. The house wasn’t small but it wasn’t a house like Tommy’s and she liked it.

Y/N stripped of her dress to fully nude and put one of her smallest nighties on. She had loads of lingerie but decided to do something more simple.

Y/N waited about 20 minutes to see if Michael returned to their bedroom and when he didn’t Y/N had to go to him.

As her feet padded on the wooden floor she got nervous. She hadn’t never need to ask Michael for pleasure he was always the one who initiated it. Y/N didn’t want to make a fool of herself.

As she entered the doorway of his office she noticed that he took his suit coat off and loosened the tie as he worked on god knows what.

“You looked stressed,” Y/N finally got the words out and walked into the room.

“Tommy’s been giving us a lot,” Michael rubbed his face out of stress.

Y/N hummed and walked over so she could sit on his lap. When he looked at her and what she was wearing, it looked like to be a small nighty. Michael could see her nipples harden through the clothing and he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Whatcha doing here love,” Michael smirked and trailed his hand up her thigh and noticed the way her breath hitched.

“Dunno just missed you,” Y/N’s hand went to his chest and travelled to his cheek were she stroked the bags under his eyes.

“Missed you too,” Michaels hand started to makes its way higher up to her core where she was soaping wet. Y/N withdrew her from his cheek.

His hand could feel something.

“No panties?” Michael asked with a smirk and dipped his finger between her folds and gathered some of her wetness to circle up to her clit.

“Nope,” Y/N let out a moan when he started to move his finger faster. Michael love the affect his finger had to her.

“The only way you’re getting off is on my thigh love,” Michael withdrew his hand with made Y/N let out a whine.

“Why,” Y/N pouted.

“Have to finish some of this work,” Michael pointed to the papers in the table.

Michael grabbed her hips so that each of her leg was straddling his leg. Y/N let out a moan as the material of his pants rubbed against her aching clit.

“Go on love don’t be afraid I’m just going to be continuing working,” Michael explained as his he started to work.

Y/N took that and started to roll her hips on his thigh and placed her head in the crook of his neck. Y/N let out little moans as her clit dragged against his pants giving her friction. She could feel herself dripping on his pants.

Y/N started to lift her head and moan as she bounced faster and faster. She could feel her pit in her stomach about to explode.

Michael wasn’t really working since his girlfriends was there and getting off on his thigh. He could feel his boner tight against his pants.

Michael noticed the way she was bouncing faster and knew her release was coming and decided to attach his lips to hers.

As Y/N kept brushing her clit against his thigh faster and faster with his lips on hers she could feel it about to snap.

“Just let go,” Michael whispered in her and one more bounce on his thigh made Y/N throw her head back in ecstasy and moaned as she tightened her pussy around nothing and finally came.

“M’sorry made a mess,” Y/N tiredly said and looked down on at his pants where the was a clear wet stain.

“No need to complain love,” Michael kissed the top of her nose. “But don’t get tired yet I’m not done with you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

#michael gray headcanon #michael gray imagine #michael gray one shot #michael gray x oc #michael gray x reader #michael gray smut #michael #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders smut

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adamwatchesmovies · 2 years

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Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son (2011)

There aren’t enough ‘u’s on Earth to correctly convey how much Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son suuuuuuucks. To be fair, it stood no chance. Big Momma’s House was bad, but I guess it had to happen at some point. The sequel was puzzling but I can at least understand it on a business level. A third film? It’s so insane, so terrible fans of bad movies should sit through it just to say they did.

FBI agent Malcolm Turner (Martin Lawrence) and his son Trent (Brandon T. Jackson) witness a murder at the hands of a Russian mobster (Tony Curran as Chirkoff). While they look for evidence to put the bad guy away, they are forced to go undercover as women at the Georgia Girls School for the Arts.

It's nothing but the same jokes we’ve seen before regurgitated. Once disguised, Trent has to help his new female best friend try on underwear while hiding an erection powerful enough to punch a hole through steel. Big Momma becomes an unexpected man magnet and plays along with her role until she must do something so outlandish she breaks cover in a resounding “Awww Hell Nah!” These gags and the like are essentially all the "plot" we get. Some plot points, like the fact that there’s a mole in the FBI that is feeding Chirkoff intel are never get resolved. The whole Russian mob thing is introduced at the beginning and then promptly disappears. You forget about it and suddenly, it rears its ugly head again when there are about 15 minutes left.

This is a fascinating mess; the kind of picture that makes less sense the more you think about it. It almost reaches the same level of insanity as 2012's Branded. If you'll permit me to tell you a bit more, here is your

The most cerebral-exploding scene happens once Trent and Malcolm are firmly planted in the school. Trent’s love interest, Haley (Jessica Lucas), walks into the art class and announces that she’s the nude model for the day. Yeah Right. I went to art school. No student would ever volunteer to pose nude for their peers. I don’t care if it’s one of those all-girl schools where no one does anything at night but compare bras, practice making out, and frolic in their nighties. It doesn’t happen! That’s not the crazy part though. The moment that will make you tear off your ears in frustration is when Big Momma offers to take the young woman’s place to shield Trent from seeing a woman naked. Next scene, Big Momma is posing nude. This means when Malcolm put together his fat black woman suit, he put the care and detail, just in case he would have to be naked, of realistic-looking breasts and a vagina as well. It’s madness!

There’s nothing I could do to properly describe the sanity-grinding experience that is Big Mommas House 3. At one point, the plot literally screeches to a halt to show us a full-length music video, complete with choreographed dancing! It's one of those movies that’s better because it’s so much worse than you think it’s going to be. If you're brave enough to look into the abyss, then do it And I checked if the extended version contained any traces of Nia Long it does not. I guess two times was enough for her. (Extended Version on DVD, June 3, 2016)

#Big Mommas: Like Father Like Son #BigMommas #movies #films #MovieReviews #FilmReviews #JohnWhitesell #MatthewFogel #MartinLawrence #BrandonT.Jackson #JessicaLucas #2011movies #2011films

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animalsatwildlilac · 3 years

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Power Outage with Bearded Dragon

This beardie has a job. His name is Stripy, and he is a working lizard. His life is full of adventure at Wild Lilac preschool. But he does get weekends off, vacations, and even mental health days, just like me. I think he is lonely when we are not together.

On Thursday, when WL announced an early release because of the winter storm warning, I got the whole day off because I only teach in the afternoons. But I still needed to go in, briefly -- to tend to the animals before the roads got messy.

On the way there, I stopped for supplies at my local pet store, Tropical Hut. I bought 100 crickets and a package of frozen bloodworms.

When I parked in front of the school, rain was falling and the temperature was dropping. Masked parents were picking up their unmasked kids. I left 50 of the crickets in my car with plans to take them home for Stripy, my bearded dragon, and then I went to the animal room.

I fed and tucked our critters in –

Two cubes of bloodworms for the Axolotl;

Cucumber and carrots for the just-hatched baby snails;

Fresh pinecones and toilet paper rolls for the gerbils;

Hay for the new-found guinea pigs (see previous post);

Crickets in with the animals that eat crickets: the tarantula, the geckos, and the cane toad;

And food for the crickets themselves (some apple, some dog food);

The Madagascan Hissing cockroaches still had food;

The walking sticks are all out of bramble – I’m sorry, but they will be okay for a few days without food.

I headed home.

As I brought the deli container of crickets into my house (they had been in my car for about 45 minutes) I realized something was tragically wrong -- all 50 of them were on their backs, heels to heaven. My first though was carbon monoxide. How could they all have DIED in such a short time? Then I realized maybe they weren’t dead – they were cold! Or did they freeze to death? It just hadn’t been that long. Such drama! I set them on a table and watched them, and as they warmed, they started to move. First a leg twitched, then another, then one flipped over. I was thinking how cool is this! Definitely something to explore with the kids – the freezing and warming of crickets.

And then, as I was deep in contemplation watching the flipping crickets, it’s 3 in the afternoon and -- the power goes out! There was no accumulation of ice or snow. The storm had hardly started. PGE said the power would be back on at 5pm. But at 5, they said 6, and at 6, it was 8.

When the temperature in Stripy’s tank dropped to 65 degrees, I had lifted him out and put him on my chest, zipped up a fleece vest over him, and put a fuzzy blanket around my shoulders.

My husband ventured out into the cold night to find a restaurant with power. He arrived home with salted peppered cod and garlic broccoli and kung pao shrimp from Powell Seafood, and the news that there were now 100,000 people without power in the greater Portland area.

At 8:03 our lights came on! Stripy was glad to get into his warm tank and eat some crickets. The humans were glad to catch up on what we had missed electronically in the past five hours.

Stripy poops biweekly, and does so in a predictable way – pretty much every time I put him in the bathtub; warm water brings it on for him like coffee does for me.

His poop in interesting. Part of it is white and rubbery, part of it loose and greenish brown.

At 2 in the morning my partner woke me. The power is off again, he says. PGE says the cause is under investigation and there is no estimated time for the power to return. In my Ambien induced slumber, I mumbled, “Please … bring me Stripy…”.

Stripy settled on my chest and closed his eyes. He clung to my nightie like a bur on a wool sweater, both of us covered with the duvet. Our dogs are not happy about Stripy joining us in the bed, and they move as close to my head as they can.

My partner kept checking on Stripy, to make sure he was staying on me, not straying into the sheets. But he needn’t worried. Why would this lizard leave the best heat source in the house -- a woman going through a menopausal transition?

Flanked by dogs, a lizard, and my partner who at this point in the pandemic has not just a beard, but a full wizard’s beard, we sleep. But not well. Our thermostat now says 54 degrees. I am worried about the crickets -- they are no longer chirping. but I am not going to snuggle them.

It is windy. My neighbor's roof is covered with snow and smoke is coming out of her chimney. Branches come down from the weight of ice. A car explodes and burns when a power line falls on it. All over Portland, people are lighting candles and caressing their reptiles, trying to keep them warm.

Stripy has two tanks – one at school, and one at home. His at-school tank is what I think of as his studio apartment; it’s furnished with a doll’s bed covered with a patchwork quilt, a hammock, a tiny ceramic toilet, and a small, hard copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. At home, he has a “desert” tank where I’ve built him tunnels and hillocks out of excavator sand.

In the summer, at the end of the day, he likes to join my family on the patio. We have cheese and crackers and glasses of chardonnay, and Stripy gets his own glass platter of mealworms. Yes, I know the mealworms are fatty and are supposed to be a treat, not a regular staple, which is why I’ve been trying to transition him to crickets. I want Stripy to chase crickets like how the beardie in the YouTube video chases blueberries, but he doesn’t.

I believe he doesn’t chase his food because he doesn’t have to.

He waits until a cricket crawls up on his hillock and then -- a quick snap nom nom nom -- he chomps on them. A drop of cricket juice spatters from his mouth.

But I know he still has his instincts, because I have watched him shoot across the patio to catch and eat a bee.

At school, the kids touch Stripy with one finger, and they know not to pet his head. Heads are personal spaces, and plus, that third eye! The first time I saw his third eye, I thought a child had drawn on him with marker.

When not roaming about the animal room, or sunning himself under a UV light, Stripy is carried in a woven sea grass basket filled with silks. He has castles built for him out of Magnatiles. The children pick fresh arugula for him from the garden and hand feed it to him. They sketch pictures of him that are pinned to the wall. The kids love him. They tell him this on a daily basis. They don’t imbue him with meaning, they just recognize him as sentient being.

The kids marvel at how his spikes look so sharp but are actually soft. They touch him and talk about his textures and colors, the orange rings encircling his eyes, his soft belly, his pointy tail. We watch his torso expand as he sighs, relaxing into his body.

What are those holes in the sides of his head?

What do you think they are?

Can he hear me? Why aren’t his ears on the outside like mine?

Will he lick me?

He might.

Why did he lick me!

He is tasting you. He’s finding out who you are.

This bearded dragon, does he know how to fly?

Not yet.

Well, his mommy needs to teach him!

I ask him questions in front of the kids … Stripy, do you want some dandelion greens? Oh, you do! Oh, Stripy, I can see you don’t want to be held right now. You want to move across the floor on your own!

I regularly give animacy to inanimate objects, too.

What is he saying now, Teacher Nikki?

What do you think he is saying?

Caring for animals helps us to build compassion. I want the kids to know that the animals are communicating with us, we just have to listen.

Sometimes, on my way home from work when I stop at Trader Joes, Stripy tells me that he doesn’t want to be left alone in the car, so I set him on my shoulder and he lies very still (but is supremely alert and watches everything) as I walk around the frozen foods and the wine aisles. Kids always notice him and want to connect. The crew usually notice him, too, and greet him with a wink. My sister, who likes animals but doesn’t have any, when I tell her about my experiences in Trader Joes with Stripy, says “Oh, Nik-Nac, you’ve become one of those people.”

And yes, I guess I have, it’s true. I have become that lady with the bearded dragon.

No, we are not supposed to have a lizard in a preschool -- because of the salmonella risk. However, I believe that risk is an inherent and natural consequence of childhood. Our preschoolers take turns on a broken seesaw that was homemade to begin with. They build with crates and cardboard boxes we scavenge from the furniture store on the corner. There is sometimes a sprinkling of nails in our sandbox. We have earthquakes here, and floods, and ice-storms. Our children breathe harmful air from wildfires. We have lockdown drills to prepare us for potential active shooters in our schools – a little salmonella isn’t going to shut things down for us!

In my more than 30 years of teaching with animals, I have probably exposed thousands of children to salmonella. It will be okay. For those of you who are still worried, let me tell you a little story.

I hosted a special COVID sleepover for some school-age kids recently (the kids were all from the same pod) and when it was discovered that one child had forgotten to bring a tooth brush, I said, “that’s okay, just borrow someone’s toothpaste and brush with your finger.” I mimed a demonstration and all the kids made faces of disgust. “I would never brush my teeth with my finger,” I heard. “I put my fingers in my butt too much!”

We do wash our hands as often as possible.

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headoverhiddles · 4 years

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Hair and Bone - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut/Angst]

Synopsis: The new album your boyfriend is recording takes its toll on not only him, but you too.

Notes: Antichrist Superstar era! I never thought I’d write anything for this era, but I was re-reading his book, and these parts that were mentioned of the recording process for AS were just so raw, I really connected with them. So, here’s a self insert to feel all the feels! Warning: Not-so-recreational drug use and brief thoughts of self harm.

This fic can be read as a later sequel to Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn. Otherwise, it can be a standalone too.

It was the conversation that needed to happen.

It was less of a conversation, really, and more of a tension release, the pop in the balloon you had known was coming. You just wish it had happened at a more convenient time-- not 3 in the morning.

You don't care if your boyfriend gets home at 6 pm or 6 am. You’re used to his schedule being irregular. It was different when he was just starting out-- he’d record music with the guys in the closet or something, or in Jeordie’s bathroom, since it had good acoustics. Now after the success of his first studio album, the pressure for the next one is greater, and he’s putting a lot more work into it. He's in the studio, and you trust him. Tonight, he had ambled in at 2:45 in the morning, and you had been sleeping.

Hearing a faint crash and a string of 'fuck's, you open your eyes, yawn, and get out of bed. It’s either a serial killer, or your boyfriend. Not much difference.

"Bri?" you whisper, holding onto the wall.

"Yeah," he grumbles back. He sits down in the dark living room, and holds his head in his hands, lacing his fingers behind the back of his head. The only light is that of the streetlight across the road from your big, cold New Orleans house.

"You okay?"

He doesn't answer, and you sit on the hardwood floor with him. The black paint that you'd both been meaning to use on the walls still sat, unopened, beside you. It always reminded you of the times you and he would joke around and say how you'd buy a suburban house with a white picket fence, then paint the fence black and watch the neighborhood fall to pieces in uproar. Causing trouble with you always used to bring his spirits up. He doesn't look like he's in a good place right now, though. He hasn't for a while.

"How'd the day go?" you ask softly, crouching down on your knees in front of him.

Marilyn looks up, and you notice how glazed his eyes look. Well, you think, it's no different from any other night. He's always high now. It's not a judgement; merely an observation. He used to say drugs were all for appearances, to act the part of the rock and roll star he wanted so desperately to be. Now, you’re not so sure, but it’s not your place to say anything about it, and you’re not about to.

He looks at you, eyes travelling downward to sweep over your tiny black satin nightgown. You suddenly become aware of how cold you are right now, sitting on the under-heated living room hardwood. Your boyfriend's dark stare, however, heats you up.

Wordlessly, he licks his lips. You let out a breath, and let the thin strap of the nightie fall down your shoulder. It's an invitation... you did miss him.

A quiet moan escapes his lips, and he reaches forward, pressing his mouth to yours. Putting his weight on top of you, he pins you to the floor, peels off his shirt to reveal his pale, thin body, and reaches underneath the nightie. When he finds you naked with no panties, he reaches down to touch himself, unzipping his pants and lowering them just enough. He gives himself a few tugs, letting the blood rush down to his cock.

A breath of hot air on your face, and you feel the head press in, your body slowly accepting him inside. He gives you three seconds to adjust, then starts to fuck in fast and hard. A jolted cry escapes you, and it turns into a sigh as your back arches. Marilyn keeps his hands firmly braced on the hardwood as he pounds into you, each pump of him inside you feeling as if it's bruising. Your hands scramble downward, and you move your fingers to rub your clit, helping yourself along. Marilyn is unaffected by your attempt to pleasure yourself-- he doesn't tease you by taking your fingers away, and doesn't offer to take over. He just keeps fucking you, deep, punched out noises coming out of him with each thrust.

After a minute, one of his hands finds your breast, squeezing roughly, like his hand can't get enough. You choke out a noise, and you look up at his face to see that he's glowering down at you. His hair is draped around you, and it again brings you back to fond memories of Brian grinning, calling it a curtain so that the world can't see the two of you fuck.

He's not smiling now. His face is completely devoid of emotion-- at least for a moment. His black eyeshadow makes his eyes appear hollow, and you usually find it sexy, but tonight in the dark, on top of you, he looks ghoulish. His face contorts, and his lips part. His slender hips stutter, and you rub your fingers faster, desperately, feeling your release build, needing it as you grind down onto his cock.

"Wait, wait," you beg, panting into his neck, "Wait..."

He grunts a couple of times, slamming in hard, and you feel the trickle before you or he can bring you to an orgasm first. His breathing evens out, and with a sigh, he pulls out. As if he's mechanical, like he knows he’s expected to, he replaces his dick with his fingers-- three, he's not wasting time-- and starts to mercilessly shove them in. He knows all your spots. His fingers brush your G-spot as he bends them right where he knows you'll cum, and you do, gasping his name as he painfully gives you what you need.

The two of you just lie there, staring at the dark ceiling. After about five minutes, the dark starts to move before your eyes, making you see stars, and you need to sit up.

Rubbing your head, you yawn. "You wanna talk about it?"

He doesn't look at you.

"Brian?"

"No."

You look out the window, facing every possible reality. "Is there another woman?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

The fuse that your initial question lit now explodes in your face.

"Sometimes I don't want to fucking speak, okay? Can you just respect that and shut the fuck up?"

It’s like a slap in the face. Worse. "...Okay," you murmur, curling in on yourself as he stands up. Then a voice in your head tells you, fuck that. You're always here for him. You've been here for him since he even had the glimmer of an idea for a band, and had supported him through everything. Sure, he'd supported you too in everything you'd done since then-- graduating school, moving with him, saying goodbye to your family to come out here. But these past few months, it was as if he was possessed by something darker than all the demons he sang about.

"You know what?" you whisper, "You can't tell me to shut up."

"Really?"

"You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I've kept my mouth shut for too long. It's your life. I will always be proud of you, and supportive of you, and I will never tell you what to do. But when you say shit like that to me? I don't deserve that." He doesn't answer, and you feel your blood rising. "You'd better agree with me real fast."

"You can't possibly fucking imagine the stress I'm under right now," he shoots back, "My band is falling apart. I feel like I'm falling apart."

"And I'm trying to help you," you insist.

"You can't help me. You're just in my way." The weight of his words are crushing. "I feel like a hamster in a wheel, (y/n), and I'm ready to chew my own arm off. I'm not getting anywhere and it's because I have some fucked up idea of a perfect life with you, some stupid notion that entered my stupid unconscious grey matter back when I started this disjointed excuse for a fucking band. I can't make the record I want to make to get to the future I want to make with you, it’s all dead ends and it's killing me!"

You balk. And this is somehow your fault? "What am I supposed to do about it?"

"You can't do anything. All you can do at this point is fuck me when I need you, and leave me the hell alone otherwise." Through the darkness, you can't see the tear running down his cheek. He doesn't mean it. He doesn't mean any of it, he wishes the automatic wiring of his jaw would stop, just stop, stop talking you fucker!

"Wow. You are something. Why don't you go run to your boyfriend Trent? I'm sure he could help with all of that."

Apologize. Hold her in your arms and make her forget this stupid fight happened. "Yeah, you know what? Maybe I will. He probably gives better head than you too!" That stings. You've always prided yourself on your blow jobs.

"Fuck you, Brian Warner."

He doesn't answer. He just glares, a glare that seems to drill right through you, like he's not even glaring at you anymore.

You put a coat and his pants on, since they're the first ones you find, pick up your bag, shove a few things into it, and leave. He watches you go, numb as he seems to feel every waking moment of his life now. The stubbornness in him won't let him break down and cry, or throw something, or beat himself in the stomach until he throws up. He can only stand there, the silence like knives digging into his ears.

---

It's 6:15 am, and you're waiting for the bus to the airport. Your mom had offered to come pick you up when you get home from New Orleans, and you had gladly accepted. You need your family right now more than ever.

Approaching the flight desk, you look up at all the listings of flights.

"Excuse me, is flight 237 updated?" you frown. She types something in.

"Yes, that's the latest. I'm afraid the cancellation is due to unforeseen weather conditions at the destination. We can get you on another flight tomorrow."

You thank her, and leave the airport. You could just sleep in there, but you honestly don't know what to do with yourself. You just want to lay on the floor and cry away those six years you had been with him... and crying on floors is usually frowned upon in airports.

If Brian was here, he'd tell you to do it, just to see what people would say.

You walk out of the building.

---

"Hey."

Marilyn doesn't notice Twiggy's greeting as he enters Nothing Records' studio, which is just Trent's glorified rockstar pad. Jokingly to get his attention, Twiggy takes off his shoe, and tosses it at Marilyn's head. Marilyn stops, picks it up, takes Pogo's ligher, lights the shoe up, and sends it crashing through the window. If Twiggy had eyebrows, he would raise them. Trent's head appears in the doorway from the other room.

"Yeah. You’ll be billed for that. I take it you didn't have a good night." And just like that, the light mood he had walked in on was now compromised. Great going, Brian. You fuck up. Now they’re not only gonna wanna not work and do coke all day, but they’re gonna wanna not work and do coke all day without you.

Ginger wisely stays out of it, opting instead to use the kitchen for some weird yoga thing he'd been getting into. Daisy is sitting outside on the steps of the house doubling as a studio, recording personal shit into his tape. Pogo walks through the broken glass to go upstairs, and Twiggy awkwardly shuffles backward that way.

"Mar. There's, uhhh.... there's a table of blow upstairs if you need it. Y'know... you... look like you could use a line or two." His best friend gives a sympathetic half smile, offering solace the only way he knows how. He looks like he wants to say something else-- to offer council, comfort, anything, but he dashes skittishly the other way as soon as Marilyn turns. The frontman really can't blame Jeordie. He's fallen even further into the dope than he has himself, he started a long ass time ago, and moreover, Jeord knows by now that talking to him like this is like poking a bear.

The singer gives a quick glance out the window to make sure he's not currently burning Trent's house down with pyrotechnic footwear (he can pay for a broken window, but a burned down house would seriously deprive their touring funds). When he sees that the shoe is just burning calmly on the sidewalk, contained in its own little bubble of anarchy as it quietly disintegrates to ash, Marilyn relates the shoe to his own life.

Or maybe he just wishes that were him.

Promising himself he wouldn't break down again, he floats like a ghost over to the recording equipment. Their label manager is in the den, watching hockey with Trent or some stupid sports bullshit like that, which leaves him alone, again, to actually try making music. That's what he does, right? That's what he’s supposed to do.

His rough recording of the track 'Tourniquet' is open on the laptop, and for no reason in particular, he starts to play it. Listening to the words, he closed his eyes, and thinks of you. He thinks of your hand holding his, how happy you get when you watch him perform. He hears you whispering that you love him, that he’s enough, that he isn't broken, that maybe it’s just the system that’s broken.

Leaning his head down on the table, he lets all the emotions wash over him, lets the tears drop and watches the red carpet beneath his knees turn them into drops of blood. Digging around under said carpet, he takes out a small bag they had all stashed under there for "emergencies." He doesn't want to do it. He almost splits the bag, almost watches it all pour out, sifting through the floorboards like sugar. But he can't do that. Not that he doesn't have the willpower to quit it now-- he most certainly does-- it just seems like a bigger fuck you to do the coke than to throw it away in favor of self reflection.

Lifting a bump on his knuckle up to his nose, he snorts the powder up, and squeezes his eyes shut. He's becoming numb to it. He gives himself another, and another. After five, he quits when he finally gets the high he wants, dropping the bag and digging his forehead into the table.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Reaching for the mic, he sets it up with shaking hands, turning those hands into fists and tapping an S.O.S into the table, wishing you could hear it and come running to him. He holds the mic, and whispers, clear as day, into it:

"This is my lowest point of vulnerability.”

---

An hour must have gone by, and Marilyn finally drags himself up. Walking out to the front steps of the house, he sits down next to Daisy, the Sexual Janitor, his oldest friend and the only soul on the premises who isn't hopelessly doped up.

"You're not having a good day," the guitarist remarks softly, not looking up from his strings.

"What gave me away?" Marilyn mutters sarcastically, rubbing his sore nose. Daisy looks up, studies him. Marilyn doesn't like to be studied, so he looks away. "(y/n) left." Daisy runs a hand through his green hair, nods.

They sit for a bit, just exist. Daisy picks up a half-smoked cigarette from the step beside him, and offers it to his friend. The singer glances at it, repulsed, but accepts it anyway between his fingers. He takes a pull, then remembers why smoking is one of his biggest pet peeves. Whipping it into the street to join Twiggy's burning shoe before Daisy can take it back, he coughs, waves the offending cloud away and groans into his hands.

"My life is falling apart, Scott. I feel like I just lost the last piece that was holding it together."

Daisy nods again. "I get it. You're losing it. We're all losing it."

"Says the most conscious man here," Marilyn laughs bitterly, almost envious of Daisy's sobriety.

"You don't have to be high to feel like you're out touch," Daisy says, strumming his chords, "And I certainly don't have to be high to know you are out of touch with not only this band, but who you want to be."

"Shit. Thanks, doc. This is really helpful. I think I'm gonna go inside now and blow my brains out."

"Hey. Dickwad." Daisy puts down his guitar. "We've both known (y/n) since Spooky Kids. You were closer to her, obviously, but she's a special one. She's stayed for this long, through your worst. And you've been terrible. Don't lose her now."

Marilyn sighs, rubbing at his eyes, wondering if his headache is from sleep deprivation or a long overdue brain aneurysm.

Daisy doesn't encourage him to open up. He doesn't tell him to accept that it's human nature to be co-dependent. He doesn't tell Marilyn that's love or some stupid shit like that, doesn’t mention that it's in his nature to push people away. He knows his friend too well to even attempt it. He just leans back against the door, and hums.

"We could all die tomorrow. Wouldn't you want to be with her your last night?"

Marilyn pauses. He's never really thought of it like that. "Hey. When did you get so wise?" the singer chuckles.

Daisy just smiles, going back to his guitar. "You haven't talked to me properly in like, 4 years. We used to be close, man."

"Yeah," Marilyn muses, "Yeah."

---

Standing in front of the house, you wonder why you're back. You've told yourself at least ten times it's to grab the rest of your stuff so you don't have to pay him to ship it out to you, but the more you stand here, key in hand, the more you doubt that's the reason you returned.

Taking a deep breath and shaking your head, you force yourself past the walkway, and let yourself in.

"Hello?" the door creaks, and opens to an empty house. Good. No distractions.

Walking around, you start to pack all your things properly, and see evidence of a very tough morning in the bathroom. Writing out a note, you think of what you want to say to him. You'd given him so many years of your life, and he you, since you were both angsty kids who just wanted to make your mark on the world. You write out one of his lyrics he had shared with you in bed the other night... if you could just remember them right:

I wrapped our love in all this foil

Silver-tight like spider legs

I never wanted it to ever spoil

But flies will...

Ah, fuck it. You crumple the paper. You can’t remember the lyrics properly, and that’ll just do more harm than good. After all... he's the poet, not you.

Just then, you hear the door knob jiggle, and keys in the lock.

Oh god. You do not have the emotional stability right now to deal with this confrontation. Ducking behind the couch, you lay on your back and try to keep quiet.

He tosses his keys onto the table, and sighs. He starts mumbling something, but you can't hear.

---

Marilyn rubs his face, starting to think about dinner. He had an opened packet of kraft dinner somewhere in some cupboard, and even though it would be stale, that sounded pretty good. Mac and cheese with ketchup. White trash through and through and more unhealthy shit to ruin his body with. Whatever. Mac and cheese is comfort food... or so his mom told him.

He runs over the events of the day in his head as he counts how many things he had gotten done. Pissed half his band-mates off, reconnected with one. The middle of the day was a coked up white blur, and... well... he had finished Tourniquet, and Dried Up, Tied was pretty much ready for demo. That's more than he'd done in a month, but he felt as if he had gone backward, not forward.

Grab a razor blade, take your shirt off, and check and see if your worthless heart is still pumping blood.

He stamps the intrusive impulse down, and gives an indifferent huff.

As he walks past the dark living room, not bothering to turn on a lamp, the streetlight from outside catches the metal of something he has sitting on a shelf. He backtracks, and finds a few of his lunchboxes from the collection he hadn't finished unpacking yet. He half smiles, looking at the Scooby Doo one, the Planet of the Apes one, and the one that even had his old band's name on it. Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids.

He feels a stab of guilt, and makes a mental note to go easier on Daisy. He did contribute a lot in the days of the old gigs.

Why is he referring to it as his old band? It's still the same band. But somehow, it isn't. They had grown up, into darker, scarier versions of themselves, each one of them on their own personal path of destruction, taking out everything and everyone in their way. Fundamentally loathsome.

Marilyn scratches his bony rib cage and turns away from the shelf, muttering about filing that one away for a future song or something. He walks over to the fridge, blows off dinner, and grabs a beer, chugging half of it down and heading back toward the living room. With any luck, he'll have put down three bottles by midnight.

---

You bite your fist. Hiding definitely wasn't a good idea. Just telling him you were grabbing a couple of things and leaving for good would have done just fine, not... hiding behind your old couch in the dark like a goddamn Nosferatu!

Shit. He's coming over here... maybe if you try and crawl around the cushions...

Marilyn frowns as he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. This time, it isn't metal glinting. This is real movement.

"Satan? Is that you?" he whispers, and lets out a humorless laugh. Ah, the small joys of sharing an inside joke with yourself. (y/n) would find it funny. He swings the beer bottle in his hand, setting it down beside the couch. "If it is... I could use a bit of your black spell shit, you magical goat motherfucker. See, I've got this girl. She's everything I want, but of course, I fuck up things that're good in my life-- you know me-- so that's done. Congratu-fuckin-lations, Manson, you’ve done it again. So, if you wanna... take my soul or something, if it's not too damaged, you can go right ahead, buddy. No returns. If I didn't have a soul, I'd have a lot less pr--" He lets out a piercing yell as he sees you crawling on his floor. That's not Satan.

Flicking the closest lamp on, he sees it’s you. "(y/n)!"

You glare at him. "I was getting my things."

"On the floor?!"

"You hide drugs in the floor, why can't I?"

"You don't d... what the fuck are you doing here, and... oh god, I thought you were some crazy girl who got in through my window or something.”

“You thought I was Satan.”

“I thought you were gonna kill me!"

You shrug. "I still might." Marilyn almost lets out an incredulous laugh of relief. It's almost like old times again. You frown, and remember why you're there, and that it is not, in fact, like old times. "Just... I'm not ready to talk to you. Please don't try."

You quickly grab your things, and he stands there. "Why'd you come back when you knew I could be here?"

"Don't make this about you. I'm leaving."

"Go ahead, leave. I'm just asking a question, god forbid." Shut up! Don’t do this again. Tell her you're sorry, you stupid prick, tell her you love her, like you rehearsed!

"Yes, god forbid you try and talk to me after you told me last night I was a useless fucktoy, Brian."

The room fills with the same old silence again, and you roll your eyes. You should have known nothing would change. He sits down, and watches you pack. He watches you put everything in your bag, everything he'd committed to memory over the past 7 years... stuff of yours that had become stuff of his too. It was so strange, seeing everything hidden away in the flaps of your duffel bag.

He isn't numb anymore. He's in pain, and he knows you are too, because of him. That's not fair, and if his ambition proved anything, it was his capability to unfuck things that were not meant to get fucked in the first place.

"I miss laughing."

"What?" you demand.

"I miss laughing," he repeats. "I haven't smiled properly in a year. I'm depressed, sure, but who isn't? It isn't an excuse. Sometimes I wonder if there is a hypocritical, horrible, sick bastard of a god watching me. Sometimes I wonder if he would laugh at me if I prayed to him."

"Yeah. Well. I pray sometimes, to whatever the hell's out there. Sometimes I pray my life was just a dream," you say, and he looks at you.

"(y/n). I love you so damn much."

You suck in a breath. If you turn around and look at him, you'll be lost again. But like any good drug, you just can't resist.

Turning around, you walk over to him. Sighing, you sit in his lap, moving your legs over the arm of the chair so that you're draped over him. You two sit like that for a bit, neither one of you willing to be the first one to make physical contact. You're both too stubborn. Eventually, you know you're going to have to be the one to do it. You know he's already hugged you a billion times in his mind in the last minute, and he's punishing himself more than you ever could.

"You're still an asshole," you whisper.

"I'll always be an asshole," he mutters back, "It's in my DNA. I can't change that." I can be less of an asshole to the people who love me. I promise. His eyes seem to say it, and you understand. You take his hand, which allows him to subsequently pull you in and cradle you.

"Yeah. Just don't forget who was there for this asshole's first show."

"Mmm."

"You dedicated Lucy In The Sky With Demons to me."

"Yeah. I remember."

"Listen. I love you too. I don't wanna leave. Okay? So I'm not going to."

He buries his face into your neck, and you let him release anything he's been feeling since last night, anything he's been repressing. You rub his back gently, and he squeezes you tighter as he chokes out your name, shaking violently with every sob.

"I know, Bri. I know. I'm here."

A few minutes go by. He wipes his face, and it starts to rain outside. You glance out the window. "Guess I'm really not leaving tonight."

He hums. "You want mac and cheese?"

"Uhhh, is that even a question?"

You roll off him. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and walks over to the kitchen to root around in the cupboard. You lay on your back again in starfish position, staring at the mildewy ceiling of this crappy old house.

"I lit Jeordie's shoe on fire today!" your boyfriend calls out to you, "Nearly burned Trent's house down. Would've been an improvement, it's an ugly fucking house and sad excuse for a studio. You should see it. That jerk-off should pay me to burn it down, swear to the holy old bastard in the sky." You giggle into a pillow.

There's your antichrist.

178 notes · View notes

copias-thrall · 4 years

Note

hiii, I know people dont usually hc copia as a dom but I saw your papa 3 ask and was wondering how he would be with a shy sub? (F)

Hello nonny!

I actually think Copia would be a perfectly adequate Dom. Just because Copia likes to sub doesn’t mean he can’t Dom you. He’s at his core a shy, awkward rat man—but he didn’t make Cardinal without being able to give orders and put people in their place.

*D/s; impact play*

He’ll happily bring it to your domestic life, telling you when and what to eat (you need more greens in your diet—have some spinach, dear), making sure you’re not late to services, and that you do your chores (this is an Abbey, not a hotel—it’s your responsibility to do laundry). And if you don’t follow his rules, he’s more than comfortable meting out a punishment. Unlike Papa III—who’s in it for the sexy punishments—or Papa II—who enjoys watching you suffer (how else will you learn, darling?)—Copia’s consequences are all perfunctory. To him sexy spankings aren’t a punishment, and he doesn’t enjoy hurting you to enforce a lesson. He’s more like a headmaster keeping you in line—he wants you to do your best, but he’ll bring out the paddle if he has to.

And he can bring it in the bedroom. It’s just a performance, right? He does those all the time on tour. You want the sexually aggressive front man? He can give you that.

Being shy himself, he knows that you need clear directions to follow, no surprises. He’ll email you some suggestions beforehand, then a script of what you picked, so you know what’s coming.

When you arrive at his quarters, you’re already expecting that you’ll have to strip, so you’re fully prepared for that. He opens the door, and you see that he’s in his tight red suit, a couple of top buttons undone.

“Come in, pet,” he says, gesturing you inside. You enter, and he closes the door behind you. “We go to the boudoir now, yes?” He ushers you into his bedroom where there is a nightie set laid out on the bed.

“Change into those, per favore. When I come back in 5min I expect you here,” he points to a cushion on the floor, “in position.”

When he leaves, you scramble to change out of your habit and into the lingerie. There’s a filmy, red baby doll top—it covers you from your breasts to just below your hip, yet leaves nothing to the imagination—and matching opaque, crotchless panties. After changing, you fold your clothes—leaving them on a chair in the corner—before kneeling, hands behind your back.

Copia comes back into the room in what feels like at least 15min later, but you’ve kept your position on the cushion. He’s lost his suit jacket, and has his sleeves rolled up—showing off deceptively muscled forearms under his thickness. Your bottom knows from personal experience how powerful they can be.

“What a good girl you are. So patient,” he coos as he runs a hand through your hair. He grabs one of his chairs and swings it around in front of you; he makes himself comfortable on it.

“Now, have you been a good girl this week? Followed all my rules? Or do you want to confess anything to your Cardinal?”

You gulp, eyes cast down. “I was late to service twice, and on Tuesday I ate a wedge of brie for dinner.”

He tsks. “Well, I had hoped you’d warm my cock—”

You moan—you love warming his cock … the easy, mindless task that allows you to shut your brain off and float pleasantly in your subspace.

“—but I guess we start with your punishment, no?” He pats his knees “Up. Up up up!”

You get up as fast as you can on stiff legs, and position yourself over his lap. He runs his leather-clad hand over your bottom.

“Lovely,” he says. “Let’s warm you up, hmm? And then the cane—if you’re still ok with that.”

“Yes, Cardinal,” you say.

“Mmm,” he rumbles, pleased. “I think I will enjoy this.”

He pulls your panties down, giving the curves of your ass another caress before he lands a firm smack right in the middle. You gasp.

“Hmm—I think 20 on each cheek will do. Now, I expect to be obeyed, so do not raise a leg or an arm, or I will add more. Sì?”

“Yes, Cardinal.”

“Okie dokie. Here we go.”

His gloved hand comes down firm on your one ass cheek, and then just as crisply on the other. His pace isn’t quick, but it’s steady and constant enough that he’s about 4 in before you draw in breath to gasp at the sensation. At 10 it’s just beginning to sting, at 15 you start to squirm, but by 20 there’s a throb going between your legs.

“Very good, dear,” he says, drawing your panties back up. “Now, go bend over the bed, palms flat down.”

On wobbly legs you straighten up and follow his directions—even though you’re a little self-conscious about having your ass sticking up in the air. Copia runs a gentle hand down your back.

“You are beautiful like this, pet. Sweet and submissive for me.”

You relax a little. If your Dom is telling you that you’re beautiful like this, then you are. You stay like that until Copia appears in your line of sight. He holds out his walking cane for your consideration. You feel a thrill of anticipation.

“Yes, pet?”

“Yes, Cardinal.”

He shuffles behind you, a grounding hand on the small of your back.

“You know the number for each infraction. So that is 5 total, yes? Agreed?”

“Yes, Cardinal. Five.”

His hand slides down to your rump to remove your panties again.

“Okie dokie. Please count each one and thank me.”

He rests his cane across your ass before you feel it move away, then there’s a swish and a crack before the sting explodes across your cheeks.

“One!” you gasp. “Thank you, Cardinal”

You’ve barely got the words out of your mouth before the second strike lands, a little lower.

“Two!” you squeak. “Thank you, Cardinal.”

The third hits you on the crease of your legs, and you grunt, leaning forward. After a moment, Copia taps you on the backs of your thighs.

“That’s one more for moving and neglecting to count.”

“Yes, Cardinal,” you say, and you move back into position.

Copia’s hits are sure, but moderate. You pant through the fourth strike, whine through the fifth, and gasp out the sixth.

“Thank you, Cardinal!”

His leather caresses your bottom, and you don’t know whether to press into it or to shy away. You wish he’d address the pounding between your legs. The hand runs up your back, over your neck, and under your jaw to lift your face up.

“Very good, amore. You did very well. I am very proud of you.”

He raises his cane to your face. You kiss the decorative topper.

“Thank you, your Eminence.”

“You’re welcome, my pet. Now, up on your stomach.” He pats his bed before moving away.

You slowly slither prone onto his bed and pillow your head in your arms. A sudden cold lays across your ass, and you hiss at the sensation.

“Relax,” coos Copia as he slides off the panties. He reappears in your vision. “We will let that sit for the moment, yes? Now, please.” He offers up a bottle of water and two tablets of ibuprofen, which you greedily take up. “Slowly,” he chastises as you gulp down the liquid.

Once you’re done, he sets the glass aside and crawls onto the bed, resting his back against the backboard. He arranges your head onto his meaty thigh, and you notice his bulge. Following your gaze, he chuckles.

“I guess cockwarming is out, eh?”

You nuzzle his thigh and work an arm around to pet at his hardon through his pants. He tips his head back and closes his eyes..

“Mmm … that is nice, pet. Thank you. Such a good girl.”

You flush at the praise.

His hand comes around to massage your scalp as you slowly massage him. You squeeze your thighs a little to get some stimulation on your clit, the slight pull at your sore bottom adding to the arousal. Forgetting yourself, you start rocking slightly into the bed. Copia cracks an eye open.

“Ah ah ah, pet,” he says wagging a finger at you. “You know I control your pleasure tonight. Or is my naughty girl asking for more punishment?”

You still immediately still. “No, Cardinal. Sorry, Cardinal.”

“Hmm. I won’t punish you further, but I think waiting will be punishment enough, no?”

You bury your face in his leg, your clit giving a frustrated pulse. “Yef, Kerdinal,” you mumble into his thigh.

“What was that, pet?”

“Yes, Cardinal,” you say as you turn your head.

“Very good. I should like you to pleasure me orally, I think. But first things first.”

He grabs up the arnica from his night table and pats his thighs. You shift to crawl over his lap, the now warm ice pack slipping off your ass onto the bed. He yanks his glove off with his teeth and runs that hand over your cheeks. You twitch at the contact before he dips a finger between your folds. You moan.

“Hmm. Must not have been much of a punishment, eh? You are very wet, mia cara.”

He plays a little at stroking your clit and rubbing up and down your slit before yanking off his other glove in the same manner. Fumbling a little one-handed, he squeezes some cream from the tube into his palm. When his hand makes contact with your sore bottom, you hiss and press into his finger.

“Easy now, pet,” he soothes. He proceeds to spread the cream evenly over your cheeks with one hand, while the other plays with you. You melt into both sensations until they are suddenly removed. When you whine, Copia just taps you on the back.

“None of that now. You knew the rules. Now, hands and knees over me, please.”

You obey quickly, scrambling to reposition yourself. Copia licks you off his fingers—rumbling in pleasure—before he unzips his pants and takes out his fat cock and his balls, which he cups. He settles himself back into his pillows against his headboard.

“Please,” he says, gesturing at his cock.

Eagerly, you dip down and suckle the tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head. Copia moans and begins to roll his balls in his hand.

“Yes, amore. Yes, just like that.”

You take him deeper—as deep as you can in your position—making sure to press the flat of your tongue into the vein on his shaft.

“Ah! Yes, right there.”

You work him like that—teasing his cockhead and hollowing your cheeks out on his shaft—until he’s giving little abortive thrusts, and your limbs are trembling. He cups your jaw so you have to look at him.

“I will fuck your face now, yes?,” he growls lowly. “Say I can. Please, can I?”

Usually you shy away from this act—self-conscious at the ugly noises you make—but it had been an option in his script, and he’d assured you that nothing could sound lovelier to him than you taking his cock. But you say so, and we stop he’d promised you.

You give a tentative nod, and he closes his eyes chanting, Thank you thank you. He gets a grip in your hair and starts with a slow guide of your head down shallowly onto his cock. He does this a few times—trembling with the effort of not thrusting up into your mouth—then begins to push you a little deeper, a little faster. You give yourself over to his control, making sure to hold your limbs steady.

“So good, so good,” he moans as he begins to incrementally increase his speed.

Soon his gentleness is replaced with a frenetic desperation, and he holds your head in place as he begins to thrust up into your mouth, his hard cock hitting the back of your throat over and over.

You know you’re making Those Noises, but Copia moans out, “So gorgeous, so lovely. So good for me, my beautiful one.”

A sudden hardening of his already stiff cock is the only warning you get before he shoves your head down as he thrusts up. Any sound of surprise you would have made is cut off by his cockhead down your throat.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he breaths out in time to each spurt of cum as his cock throbs against your tongue. And then suddenly the hand at the back of your head is gone, and you pull off his dick, coughing and sputtering. Copia grabs at you, pulling you up his body to kiss you soundly, his lips insistent and his tongue unrelenting.

“So good, so sweet,” he coos when he comes up for air, resting his forehead against yours.

“Did I please you, Cardinal?”

“Yes, mia dolce.”

He puts a finger under your chin. “I am going to devour you now.” You shudder. “Do you wish to stay as is, or can you lay back?”

“I can lie down,” you say.

“Good. Scoot to the end of the bed, pet.”

You go to lie down on your back—carefully arranging your nightie to best affect—as Copia stands up to hastily shuck his pants. He gets one leg off, only to hop and teeter on the other, bumping into his nightstand and knocking some of his belongings off.

“Ai, cazzo di merda!”

You bite your lip hard to refrain from laughing.

He finally removes the other leg, then shakes them out and tosses them onto a chair with a flourish.

“Ta da!”

You do giggle at that, and he turns to grin at you.

“I enjoy hearing you laugh, pet. Such a lovely sound.”

He kneels down at the edge of his bed and arranges you more to his liking. There’s still a subtle pulse of pain on your ass, but it’s manageable. Copia leans in between your legs and takes a deep breath, eyes closed.

“Ah, such a delicacy.” His eyes snap open, mismatched and seeing into your core. “I can’t wait to lick all of it up.”

He dives in, messy and artless at first—the flat of his tongue lapping you in great sweeps, warm and rough over your folds. You moan—anything on your sensitive area feeling wonderful—and grip the sheets. Then he wiggles his tongue into your slit and begins to flick in a steady motion over your clit. You cry out, tossing your head back and forth at the sweet feelings his motions elicit.

The pad of a finger rests on your hole, and when you don’t protest, Copia slips it slowly into you. Your eyes roll at the feeling, and you press down; when you do, the sting from your ass jolts through you—but it just makes your pussy spasm in pleasure. Copia hums into you, and takes your clit in his lips to suck as he tongues at you in a press press press of glorious pressure.

You’re moaning and gasping as Copia circles his tongue around your clit, then flicks it with the tip. At some point a second finger entered you, and he’s slowly thrusting both in and out—a sweet pass that’s aided by how slick you are. You feel your orgasm right there, and you back arches with the tension.

“Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn,” you moan out, and Copia speeds up the flick of his tongue and curls his fingers to press into your sweet spot. You tense further, the pressure of your bowed back sends a throb through your sore bottom, and suddenly you’re cumming, screaming out as your pussy pops and your clit pulsates. You feel yourself clench hard around Copia’s fingers, and he lets out a tiny moan.

He licks you through the aftershocks even after you relax back into the bed. After he removes his fingers, he gives them a long, hard suck. His eyes meet your hooded ones.

“So sweet, mia cara.”

You just reach your hand down, and he grabs it, stroking the web of your thumb. Then he gets up, his knees cracking.

“Rest for a bit, pet. I’ll run us bath.”

You roll over and rest your head in your arms, dozing lightly until you feel him lean over to whisper in your ear.

“Come now, amore. I used those Epsom salts you like.”

#asks #cardinal copia #D/s

63 notes · View notes

xxxvioletskyxxx · 4 years

Link

Rating: T

Fandom: Harry Potter, J.K Rowling

Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter

Characters: James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black, Marlene McKinnon, Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore, Peter Pettigrew, Alice Longbottom, Amelia Bones, Mary Macdonald, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

...

It took her a moment to remember the events of the night before, and she smiled quietly at the firmness to which James held her, even in sleep. They were pressed closely together, and as he breathed she became aware of the way his form moulded to her own, the warmth of his body, the faint puff of air into her hair as he breathed deep and slow. Gently, she twisted about so they faced one another. His eyelashes were so long, she thought, relaxed and soft. He looked so small in sleep. Not like a war hero, or a freedom fighter. Still so much the boy, but the man James Potter was there as well. In his words and actions, in the way he held her, in the respect he held for his friends. She raised a finger, quietly as to not disturb him, and softer than soft she mapped his features with her finger in the way she had always wanted to, wishing she was brave enough to touch him this way when he was awake.

His eyebrows were thick, scrunched up at some quiet emotion, and she smiled at the sight of touching him the way she was. How far they had come, even in two months. How far they’d come to not speaking to sleeping together, touching, snogging in their own Common Room. His hair was so endearing, she thought with a sleepy smile. Wavy and wild, with a part in the back that didn’t lie quite flat, despite the faint smell of his father’s hair tonic. She ran her fingers through his fringe and traced a freckle on his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. Beneath the sheets, she could feel his legs stretching, sliding deliciously against her own. He woke slowly, and with a sloppy smile pulled Lily close to him and tucked his face into her neck.

“Morning, Evans,” he murmured into her hair, his breath hot, every part of him pressed up against her. She kissed the top of his head, and he hummed happily into her neck. His arm slid over her breasts in his effort to get closer to her, but he didn’t quite seem to notice to effect it had on her, the quiet gasp of surprise and happiness from such a small touch, even an unintended one. He kissed her neck with clumsiness and devotion, sliding his hand down her waist towards her hip and froze when he came into contact with bare skin.

Lily started and James pulled his hand away in a flash, and the two of them stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Hearts beating fast, staccato, not synchronized but complimentary, a tenor to a bass. One after the other, eyes blown, covers exposed, a hand where it was not meant to be. Not yet, not so soon, not without express permission.

“I’m sorry,” James began, shaking his hand as if it was on fire. “I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean to—,”

Lily swallowed, trying to steady her heart. She hadn’t meant to embarrass, for him to realize what they were working towards. Exposure where it was not meant to be, she never meant to fluster him, and who was she for doing so? If it was love they were reaching towards, fighting towards where was the exposure in the moment of perpetual ease? What was a fork doing in the middle of the road to happiness?

She had meant for this to be a secret, but her nightgown must’ve ridden up in the night. She didn’t want to embarrass him, to make a big thing of it, but wasn’t it a big thing? Hadn’t she worn what she was wearing for his benefit, for his enjoyment?

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said, feeling quite contrary to her tone despite the steadiness of her voice. “Look at me, James,”

He pulled his gaze towards her, and fear looked back at her. Not a virgin fear, nor a veteran stance but a myriad of confusion and lust and joy and shame. He had done nothing worthy of dishonour, and she needed him to know that.

“Do you remember what I said earlier?” Lily said, not making any moves to pull down her nightgown, taking his hand in both of her own. They were shaking, and Lily steadied them in hers.

“Uh, what?” James said, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Earlier, when you tried to watch me change,” Lily said. “I didn’t let you, because—,”

“You’re joking,” James said, rubbing his forehead in embarrassment. “That’s it, you’ve had me for a laugh,”

She shook her head, very aware of how high the hem of her nightgown was and how exposed she must be to him. He still looked afraid, and that just wouldn’t do. She made a sudden move, pushing him onto his back and settling herself above him, her knees bracketing his thighs. Her hair was intoxicating, and when she leant down to kiss him, his brain nearly exploded in pleasure.

She tangled her fingers in his curls, and he wrapped his hands around her waist instinctually, pulling her closer. They were shaking, but growing stronger every moment, chasing her with his intentions, with determination, with his blatant love for her. She responded in kind, pulling at his shirt with an intensity that left little room for misinterpretation. He straightened his legs, and she fell to her elbows, shaking the headboard against the posts, and she grinned as she chased after him, with the feeling of his hands on her waist, dipping back towards her hips. Hesitant, but more sure than he had been moments ago.

“Did I frighten you?” James said, his eyes intense and so close to her own. “When I touch you like this, do I scare you?”

“I’m not afraid,” Lily said, her eyes lowered but a smile played at her lips. “Mm excited,”

“Excited,” James breathed, his eyes boring holes into her own. “I make you excited.”

Lily forced herself to meet his eyes, and he took her hand gently in his. “Did you mean it?” James said quickly, his words feeling thick in his mouth. His lips were swollen, eyes wide and intense and alert. “Yesterday, when you— when you got out of bed, and I was watching you change, did you mean it?”

Lily played with the hem of her nightie, sitting back on her heels, a blush reddening her cheeks.

“Did you dress… did you dress that way for me?”

Lily mustered up all the courage she had and kissed him with intention, with purpose, with no room for misunderstanding. He responded in kind, flipping them suddenly so she was beneath him. “Well, Evans,” he said with a saucy smile. “Now that I know that I can touch you, there’s all sorts of mischief we can get up to,”

“Yeah?” Lily said, her heart beating nearly out of her ribcage. Her voice was breathy and thick, and she tried to belay her excitement with a steadiness of mind. But it wasn’t working, because his hand was on her hip, on her thigh, inches and centimetres higher than he had ever explored before. Her heart beat madly in her chest, and when he rested his hand on the crease of her hip, she reached for him instead.

Her fingers were on the buttons of his pyjama shirt before she truly knew what she was doing. She undid one after another and kept her eyes trained on his shirt and the new inches of skin she was uncovering, hearing his breath quicken and thicken as she felt his eyes on her. When she pulled away the last button, he helped her pull it off, not particularly worried about where it landed.

Now that he was bare, she took a moment to admire him, to slow down, to savour the moment. In the times she had seen him like this, it was accidental, circumstantial, not intentioned or prepared for. After a shower, that time he had slid in mud after Quidditch and pulled his jersey off in the Gryffindor Common Room. That time in the Hospital Wing in fourth year, the day after exams in sixth year when they went swimming in the loch. But this was different, this was for real, and they were finally both on the same page. They were seeing one another with intention.

His breast heaved with breath, and his hands shook as they reached for her, and his gaze was raw, full of emotion.

“Evans, I—,”

Continued...

#Lily Evans #James Potter #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #jily fluff #jily #marauders era #marauders era fanfiction #marauders seventh year #head dormitory #first kiss

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marvelsuperfangirl · 6 years

Text

Writer’s Block ( Pietro Maximoff x Reader)

A/N: This imagine was written right after I finished my exams and I was having a very bad case of writer’s block, thanks to the horrible stress I had. Also I missed Pietro. Enjoy:)

As well as you could say writing was the most wonderful thing in the world, it was also a pain in the ass.

When you start to write, you can't stop the flow of ideas that are filling your brain at the moment. But always come the time where it all comes crashing down. In the middle of a sentence, maybe the one that is the most important of the story, it all stops, leaving you with a headache and an undescribable feeling in your guts. You surely know that feeling, everyone does, that feeling of unachievement and failure, twisting your insides. And this only managed to increase the headache which anger you even more and it goes on and on like a vicious circle.

Sokovia had always been an inspiring place for you. Since you moved here with your parents at a young age, you were marveled at the new world you'd put your feet in. A new language, new people, new traditions and a new found creativity. Sokovia was just the click you needed to realized that you were made for some kind of art. And after a few years in your new home you took a liking in writing. It was when you wrote letters to your friends, describing how your new environment look like and how it makes you feel safe that it came obvious to you. You were a writer.

It's been months that you've been cursing writer's block but this A-hole never seemed to understand the message.

The lack of inspiration became haunting and it made it hard to fall alseep. That's how you found yourself sitting in a booth at McDonald's at 2 A.M with a full menu. If you couldn't manage to feed your inspiration then your stomach would surely be happy to be filled instead.

There wasn't many people in there, in a withdrawn corner was a guy, probably a junkie, a few tables away from you, a disgusting couple was making out and stopping every few minutes to take a breath and some fries before going back at it. With a roll of your eyes you decided to report your gaze on the notebook you'd taken with you. You favorite pencil was next to it, the ink level unchanged since you lost your spark and the notebook not any fuller than the last time you opened it.

For the second time you gave up and just went back to eat silently, occasionally looking around to see if there was something worth being immortalized on paper.

You repeated the process many times but nothing caught your eye, until the clock turned to 3:11.

The doors of the fast food opened, letting a cold breeze enter and flew to you as if to announce you that something was coming.

And effectively, a guy, you assumed, came in and walked straight to the counter.

You didn't see his face since the hood of his hoodie was up, to complete the outfit he was wearing sweatpants and trainers. The first idea that came to your mind was that he was coming back from a nighty run and was stopping for fuel. But you could be wrong since your ability to guess, imagine and create was also out of fuel like this apparently creepy night runner.

Curious of how that guy looked you changed your position, turning to him and extending your legs on the bench seat. Taking your box of fries not to look too oblivious and continue to stare at him. The cashier placed the tray in front of him, meaning that he was going to stay ; meaning there would be more chance to see his face.

If your eyes could shoot laser beam you would have make his head explode with how hard you were staring at the back of his head. As in purpose he quickly turned to you, his eyes boring into yours at that moment you realized his eyes were a shade of blue you've never seen before.

So blue it could only belong to a fictional character directly coming out of a sci-fi novel.

A thin dark beard and mustache decorated his pale face, like he forgot to shave for a few days, giving a manly side to this youthful figure. A few strands of dark hair were falling from the hood and onto his forehead. After longs seconds of looking right into each other's eyes, you could see a smile, slowly widening on his face and he sent you a wink before turning back around.

After blinking to register what just happened you grabbed your notebook and pen and started writing a descritption of the stranger not to forget how blue his eyes were and how is face could become one of your future character’s.

Talking about characters, you had a fresh idea. If a guy was coming at McDonald's after a run in the middle of the night, he obviously had something to hide. And only with that information you could create a great character and a great story.

You'd managed to produce a few lines, inspired on the handsome stranger and you looked back up to where he stood a minute ago but he was gone.

Furrowing your eyebrows you scanned the entrance and even checked outside of the window but there wasn't any trace of him.

" You're not a good spy"

You were startled by the voice coming out out of nowhere and jumped in your sit. Your writing tools flew out of your hands and you turned toward the source of the voice. You only saw a blue blur and the next second your notebook and pen were on the table next to your tray and in the seat opposite yours was the said handsome stranger.

His hood was now off his head and you had a full view of his hair. A wild mane of dark brown hair and the wildest strands falling over his eyes, some of them were a silvery white. And by the randomness of how they were placed it didn't seemed natural, even for early white hair,and if it was dyed it was really badly done. You noticed that his tray was in front of him and you intended to make him stay .

You watched him carefully not knowing what was going to happen next. Both of your eyes were boring into each other's again and he leaned over the table to get his face closer to yours

" If you wanted to spy on me, you could have done better" he whispered and laid back against the back of his seat while starting to eat.

" I wasn't spying on you. I was there and you just came in. I like to observe people that's all."

He pointed his index fingers to you and smiled mischievously.

" That is called stalking" he accused playfully before going back to his food and taking a bite of his burger.

" And why are you sitting there? I didn't invite you"

He looked up at you and put down his burger.

" Because I want to. Why should I eat alone when I can spend some time with a pretty girl" he smirked as you blushed at his comment.

You tried to keep a neutral expression, not to seem so affected by him.

" For what I know, you could be a serial killer or something as equally creepy. Because who comes at Mc Donald's in the middle of the night after a run?" He scoffed.

" Well...You, for example."

You narrowed your eyes to give him a mean look.

" I'm seeking inspiation"

" In there? At this hour there are only creeps or handsome men" he said, sending you a wink.

" I wonder in which category you stand" your raised your eyebrows at him.

" And by the way " you added " Those superpowers you of yours are making you even weirder than you already look"

" Maybe I'm a superhero"

You chuckled

" Of course! You're a bored superhero who comes here to get a midnight snack and end up talking to a random girl, sure, really super hero-ish!"

He was looking at you with a smile. He slightly leaned over the table and extended his hand for you to shake.

" Pietro Maximoff."

Sighing, you took his hand and shook it quickly before retrieving your hand to continue to eat.

" Y/N Y/L/N"

Pietro started eating again and you fixed your eyes on him to try and guess what this man truly was and what he was doing in his everyday life.

" So, Y/N, What kind of inspiration are you looking for in a junk food place at this ungodly hour?" he asked in between two bites of his burger.

You glanced at your notebook then back to him.

" I'm kind of ... a writer. Amateur, of course, but I'm on writer's block and it annoys me so much that I can't fall asleep"

Pietro seemed to be thinking about what you just said but the next instant his eyes were back to you.

" Maybe, you could ask yourself why you are doing what you are doing? I do it sometimes , when things get too hard and I think about what makes me want to be a superhero"

You rolled your eyes at what he just called himself.

" For real !" he assured after he's caught you." I remind myself that I can save people and protect the ones I love, that I am somehow blessed to have my special ability and that I can do good things with it. It pushes me to carry on. You probably should ask yourself why you wanted to write in the first place"

You stayed silent and looked out of the window at the sleeping Sokovia. This country welcomed you and treated you like you were a real Sokovian. The new life it offered you was at the origin of your love for your craft. The landscapes and the kindness of the inhabitants were your main source of inspiration. But Sokovia wasn't the richest of countries and the poverty was at every corner and the young girl you were thought imagination was the answer to all the problems.

" I started to write when I was 11. At the beginning, it was only realistic stories because I thought that it was what people wanted to read and also because people always told me that I had too much imagination. Then I grew up and I realized that life was harder than it seems when you’re a child. Everyday I spent on earth brought me a little more of truth. We, Humans, are complex beings, we can have equally good and bad parts in ourselves. But we are strongly better at being bad. That's when I started to write fictions, at the beginning it was only fanfictions. I used already existing characters to put them in the adventures I wanted them to live. But I wanted more. I wanted my own characters, my own world and all of this becoming my biggest achievment. I wanted to make my family proud, to prove them that writers aren't just alcoholics and drug addicts who get lost in their own alternative universe. Writers are dreamers... And I am too scared to lost myself in my dreams only because I am too afraid of the reality surrounding myself. I want to change the world, create world for all the others who wants to keep dreaming to be able to do it. And offer them a new reality to travel through without moving from where they are, a little piece of happiness for each of them. That's why I'm writing"

After saying those words, you realized that you were ready to take over the world and also that your face was burning with all the emotions your speech was showing. And probably beacause you just opened up to a stranger.

You were taken out of your trance by the sound of clapping hands. Reporting your eyes on Pietro, you saw him clap cheerily with a big grin.

" That's was ...WOW ! You are so passionate about writing! I think you should write more, artist can be inspired by everything and anything right?"

You smiled at him and grabbed your writing equipment and settled, ready to fight this asshole of writer's block.

" How about a man with beautiful blue eyes who has the ability to run extremely fast and uses it to save people and make the world better? And we could call him..."

Your eyes fell on his silver strands and you felt like a lightbulb was lighting up above your head.

" Quicksilver!"

Resting his said beautiful eyes on you the speedster smile to himself. The next second he was sitting beside you, his arm resting on the back of your seat.

" That sounds like a wonderful idea"

#marvel #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff imagine #pietro maximoff x reader #marvel imagine #avengers #avengers age of ultron #avengers infinity war #avengers 4

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teamalmatorran · 7 years

Note

Sorry the ugo ask was sent early. Can I get hot a hot and spicy scenario making out with ugo? Female s/o please!

Ugo precious babe

[Y/N] was in a sour mood.

It was late at night, and after a long day of missions and sparring, the only thing [Y/N] wanted to do was relax and cuddle with her adorable, nerdy boyfriend. After taking a hot bath and dressing in her comfortable pajamas she made her way to his laboratory.

And that led to her current predicament.

For Ugo was so endorsed in his work, that he didn’t even notice her come in! Maybe she should’ve knocked first, but he wouldn’t have cared. She called his name around 4 times and yet, still no answer from him. She knew he was in here. Ugo may have breathed science and magic, but surely it wasn’t more important than her, right?

Resting her hand on her chin with a sigh, [Y/N] pouted as she watched her lover scribble away some notes, not even passing her a glance. This was not how she planned on spending her night. And she absolutely adored Ugo, but times such as this he was such a—as Ithnan put it— a science otaku!

She was about to just give up and go back to her room or maybe even bother Solomon, but suddenly a thought came to her. And an evil grin slowly spread across her face.

Ugo had been so entranced by his work, that he didn’t even notice his S/O leave. He did feel guilty for not giving them any attention, but he would be sure make up for it later.

“Ugoooo~” Ugo nearly jumped from his seat as he felt two arms wrap around as neck and the seductive purr of his S/O echoed near his ear. He gasped when her felt her soft lips on his neck, littering it with small kisses and bites. Blood rush to his cheeks (as well as other areas) as the feeling of her touch.

“[Y-Y/N]” He stuttered out as she stepped from behind him, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head at the short, revealing nightie she wore. Then to make it worst, she crawled into his lap, straddling him.

“You’ve been ignoring me, Ugo.” She pouted, leaning and nibbling on his ear. Ugo was speechless, words forming but falling from his lips in awkward, broken little stutters. A giggle escaped her lips as she pulled away, giving him a soft smile.

“You’re so cute, my little otaku.” Ugo opened his mouth to speak, but was prevented from doing so when she presses her lips against his, his open mouth allowing her tongue to enter. Heat flourished throughout his body, and the way her body was pressing against his was making it harder to contain his growing need.

A low groan escaped the back of his throat as he placed his hands on her hips, bringing them closer. She moans as his tongue rubbing and twisting with her own, fighting to dominate it. She slips a hand under his shirt, fingers caressing his toned chest as the other hand slid in his hair, gripping it tightly and pulling at it. He broke from her lips and trailed his lips down to her jaw, the heat of his lips against her skin as well as the friction between their bodies was causing overwhelming tension to build up, that would soon explode.

The two were so lost in each other, that they failed to realize Solomon who had wandered into Ugo’s lab. Solomon, who had his head stuck in a book as usual, had yet to realize the situation at hand and would soon be in for the surprise of his life.

“Hey Ugo, how are the— holy shit!” What Solomon had not been expecting was the sight of his two friends, [Y/N] pinned to Ugo’s desk, nearly undressed as well as Ugo in a similar state, locked in a deep make-out session. Needless to say, the blue haired magician left the room as quickly as he entered.

“Oi, Solomon, why are you so pale?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

#this is so cheesy omg DX #but wow this got long my bad #Ugo #alma torran #magi scenario

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wren-likethe-bird · 7 years

Text

Your Move

The nine times Simon and Baz prank each other and the one time they don’t

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

March 31

Simon

In hindsight, I probably should have expected a trap right away, from the moment I heard the voice. High and light and familiar, and shrill with fear. Agatha.

I’m running towards the Wavering Wood before I can take too much time to think about when I’ve last seen Agatha. If I’d been thinking, I would have remembered seeing her at lunch and in classes, and that she’d only gone back to her room after lunch to grab a book or something, not into the Wood. But here I am, following her voice, summoning the Sword of Mages as I run. Because what if?

“Agatha, where are you?”

“Simon!”

“Where are you?”

“Here!”

I always thought that monster attacks only happened deep in the Wood, if you stumbled into a lair or something, not that they would seek people out, and not this close to the edge of the Wood.

But apparently I’m wrong.

Because before I’m even four trees into the shadows, something explodes against the back of my head and I drop like a stone.

***

When I come to I’m face-down in the dirt and something with deft fingers is securing the knots in the ropes around my wrists. I start to thrash and find my ankles bound as well, and I receive another smack in the head, which almost has me losing consciousness again. I wait for the stars to pass from my vision and go still, even though every part of me wants to kick, fight, escape. Instead I listen.

Whatever has its foot on my back (at least I think it’s a foot) is human-shaped, but that is not to say that it is human. It has long, spindly fingers that seem to shake as they tie. It breathes loudly and quickly, like it’s in a hurry. I hear a twig crack to my left, a little way off. Something else is here.

“There you have it, then.”

The voice is cool and familiar, and my heart sinks like a stone.

“As you said,” comes another voice, this time from the creature on my back. It’s gravelly and high like nails on glass.

“I didn’t lie.”

“You did.”

“When?”

“You said you required no payment,” the higher voice hisses like it’s smiling.

“I stand by the statement.”

“Then you’re either lying, or you’re a fool.”

“A fool how?”

“A fool to come here.”

There’s a dull thud, and then the crunch of the leaves as the body hits the forest floor. I want to turn my head and look, but I can’t reveal that I’m conscious.

The harsh, loud breathing continues, this time scuttling around to my left, no doubt tying another set of wrists and ankles.

Something crawls across my hands, maybe a spider, and I shake it off without thinking.

I can actually feel it when the creature catches me moving.

“Nighty-night,” it sings in Agatha’s voice before its foot connects with my head and everything goes black.

Baz

I don’t open my eyes right away when I wake up, my head aches too much. Like there’s a needle from one temple through to the other.

I feel something shift against my back there’s the stink of sweat and long-dead meat. The air is cold and damp and for a minute I think I’m in the catacombs.

Then I remember.

I open my eyes slowly and to my relief there’s no blinding light to aggravate my headache. I’m staring at my navel, and I’m in a sitting position, my back against something warm and solid. Rope stings my wrists and when I lift my head I see it wrapped around my torso and ankles as well. The ground around me is cold stone and scattered with bones and tiny, sharp rocks. Moisture trickles down the stone walls, patchy with moss and spider webs.

A cave. It’s brought me to its cave.

And not just me.

Snow shifts against my back again and I have to roll my eyes, even though it burns. It tied us together. Figures.

“Waking up, are we?” comes the goblin’s rasping voice from behind me. I don’t turn my head to look at it, I already know what it looks like. Short, pale, gaunt and wide-eyed, with graying brown hair in a mess on the top of its head. An old-looking suit that’s covered in mud and bits of dried-on… well, let’s just say that goblins aren’t elegant diners.

“Let us go,” Snow growls at it, and I can picture his defiant glare. It’s been directed at me more than once. It’s actually kind of cute, if I weren’t so often on the receiving end, I’d turn to mush inside. As it is, I can’t help but smile a little. Stupid, brave Snow. No wonder he’s the Mage’s Heir.

“Why in the name of magic would I do that?” the goblin laughs. “Look at me. Look at you. You’re not just any old snack, are you? You’re the Mage’s Heir.”

“Which is exactly why you should let us go before you get hurt.”

“You’re not going to kill me.”

“That so? Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to kill you.”

I can almost feel Snow balk in confusion.

“Not yet, anyway. I’ll say it again: you’re the Mage’s Heir,” the goblin goes on, “and do you know what happens to the lucky goblin who kills the Mage’s Heir?”

Snow doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows. I know.

“So why wait until now to attack?” Snow questions.

“Unfortunately, your little school has some pretty strong magical defenses. I couldn’t get close enough until someone let me through. You can thank your little friend for that.”

I grit my teeth and don’t say anything.

“Why not just kill us now, then?” Snow spits. “You’ve got us where you want us.”

“Ah, but who would that convince?” the goblin chuckles. “Anyone could claim to have killed you, and believe me, many have tried. No, a simple claim won’t do. You’re coming with me to the goblin court, where I will kill you, and your meddling friend, in front of many witnesses, and no one will be able to deny that I have killed the Mage’s Heir.”

“And you’ll become the Goblin King,” Snow finishes.

“As is my right.”

“You won’t get away with it.” I roll my eyes again at the cliché.

“Spare me the theatrics,” the goblin groans and I hear the flick of a switchblade. Snow cries out in pain and jerks back, his head hitting mine and my eyes explode again. A scent fills the air, familiar and terrifying. Blood. His blood.

It’s a good thing he can’t see me because my fangs pop instantly at the smell.

Snow yells again and I don’t know what the goblin is doing to him but it’s making my stomach sick.

“Stop,” I growl.

Snow gives a gasp of pain and the smell of his blood grows stronger.

“I said, stop.” This time I shout.

Simon

The goblin stops, leaving me to pant away the sting of its knife in my shin. My head is pounding from the many blows in the past half-hour (maybe more, I don’t know how long I was out after the kick) and blood trickles down my cheek to my neck.

I don’t know if Baz is trembling against my back, or if it’s me doing the trembling.

The goblin pockets the switchblade and turns its attentions on Baz, kneeling beside him and speaking close to his ear.

“What’s wrong?” it sneers. “Don’t like the smell?” It drags a grimy finger across the cut on my cheek and waves my blood in Baz’s face. I feel him go tense and still, like he’s holding his breath.

“I’m surprised at you, boy,” the goblin continues, “weren’t you the one who set all this up? And now you don’t want me to hurt him?”

“Just leave him alone,” Baz seethes.

“Make up your mind,” the goblin tells him. “Or would you rather I paid you more attention?” There’s a crackle and I turn my head to see the tiny fireball the goblin has conjured in its hand.

I’m feeling more and more sure that Baz is a vampire by the minute, because even though he’s obviously trying not to react, he shrinks back from the flame automatically. If so much as a spark hits his skin…

“Get away from him,” I spit at the creature, “it’s me you want.”

“And it always has to be about you,” Baz pipes up, sarcastic to the last.

The goblin stares at me for a long second before extinguishing the fireball in its fist and standing up again.

“You boys will want to get some rest,” it says, “we’ll be leaving at sundown.”

Baz

Goblins are nocturnal creatures, and this one has been up pretty late in the day, so it doesn’t take long for the wretched thing to fall asleep. Somehow it doesn’t look as peaceful in its sleep as Snow always does.

“Alright Baz?” Snow whispers to me.

“What the fuck are you asking me that for?”

“Thought I’d try some compassion, since we’re in the same situation, but clearly it’s a waste of my time. Fuck you.”

“Likewise.”

Silence.

“Snow.”

“What?”

“Your move.”

I feel him whip his head around. “You have got to be joking.”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“This is your idea of a practical joke?” he asks incredulously. “Selling me out to a goblin? And where does your own capture play into this brilliant plan?”

“It doesn’t,” I admit, “I was going to kill it before it could do you any real harm.”

“Brilliant.”

“I thought so.”

“It’s not even your turn, you twat.”

“Thought I’d go for the element of surprise. Besides, you haven’t made your move yet today.”

“Clearly you haven’t checked your closet yet.”

My head drops forward and I sigh. “Great.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Seriously though, you’ve been slacking off. Where were you on Monday?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Snow?”

“I heard you.”

“Well, then?”

A defeated sigh.

“You know those terrible nightmares you had that night?”

Simon

It takes a second for the penny to drop, but when it does it’s louder than a bomb.

“Unbelievable.”

“It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“You cursed me into having nightmares?” He sounds angry enough to burst into flames, which I’m not convinced he couldn’t actually do if he lost control.

“It was an accident.”

“So you just accidentally formulated a curse to attack me in my sleep.”

“You were only supposed to have minor nightmares,” I insist, “not start yelling in terror.”

“Sorry,” he snarls, “did I keep you up?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I cannot fucking believe you.”

“You took my voice,” I shoot back, unable to keep the childish defensiveness out of my whisper. “That’s practically unforgiveable. And now you’ve almost gotten both of us killed, and you didn’t even know that I was responsible for the nightmares.”

“The moment we’re out of this cave, you are dead.”

“Shocking.”

“So if you wanted me to have nightmares, why did you wake me up? Why not just let me suffer?”

“Because you were terrified, Baz,” I say like it should be obvious. “You were crying out for your mum and it was awful.”

He’s quiet for a second before replying. “What else was I calling out for?”

Me.

“Nothing. You just kept saying ‘no’ a lot.”

Baz lets out a long, shuddering sigh like everything he dreamt about is rushing back. They must have been some of the worst nightmares of his life the way he’s reacting.

I should have held him. I should have comforted him. I wanted to comfort him. But I didn’t. Because I was too proud. I was too scared.

I want to comfort him now, but we’re tied up. That and he’d probably vaporize me if I tried.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

I take a deep breath. “It was wrong of me to give you nightmares. I should have known better, or I should have told you that it was me, I…” I’m almost too afraid to say it in a register that he’ll hear. “I’m sorry, Baz.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

“Baz?”

“Don’t expect me to forgive you.”

“I don’t.”

Pause.

“But thank you.”

“For?”

“Apologizing.”

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Baz

“So,” Simon ventures after a heavy moment, “what now?”

“We wait for the goblin to kill us.”

“Yeah, right.” I can practically hear his eye-roll. “We need to get out of here.”

“Any ideas?”

“One.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“We’ll need to work together.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “How inspiring, Snow, I thought you said you had a plan.”

“Any plan we come up with is going to require teamwork,” he explains in a whisper. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re literally tied to each other.”

“I had noticed, thanks.”

“So, we’ll have to work together to get out.”

“You have a sword,” I reason, “can’t you use it to cut us free?”

“I can’t summon it without spearing you,” he says, “it would appear in my hand, the blade would probably end up in your stomach.”

Two birds with one stone, my mind supplies darkly, but I push the thought away. “Maybe I could burn through the ropes.”

“Yeah, and send us both up in flame. Great idea.”

“Got anything better?”

“Where’s your wand?”

“Back pocket.”

“Can you reach it?”

“If I could, we’d already be out of here.”

“If I can get it to you, could you spell the ropes off?”

“Any chance to get your hands on my arse, eh Snow?”

“Fuck off.”

“Yes, I could spell the ropes off.”

“Alright, what then? Sneak out?”

I cast a glance at the sleeping goblin. “Not until we deal with Goblin King over here.”

“You have a plan?”

A grin spreads across my face. “Oh, I have a plan.”

Simon

Baz insists that I make a noisy show of escaping, to wake the goblin. Why he would want to do that, I can’t imagine (he hasn’t told me all of the plan, which should probably make me suspicious), but he seems to be getting more excited about whatever he’s going to do by the second. The smirk I’m so familiar with is glued to his face, but instead of making me feel sick, I’m buzzing like I’ve had too much sugar. Maybe because he’s not directing it at me this time, but sharing it with me.

I have to wonder why we’ve never teamed up before. Granted, we’re usually at each other’s throats, but something about this, the working together, the shaky alliance, is making me giddy. I’m almost giggling as I throw the ropes to the cave floor.

Baz has already disappeared from view as the goblin wakes up, turning to find me frozen on my way to the cave entrance.

“Where do you think you’re going?” it sneers.

“Goblins,” I shake my head, “you really are as stupid as they say.”

The goblin pulls its blade from its pocket again, but doesn’t respond with any more than a growl.

“You see,” I go on, “you were smart to take us both.”

I can’t help but watch Baz as he appears behind the creature, silent as a wraith.

“But you were a fool,” I grin, “to leave us both alive.”

A flame appears in Baz’s hand. In a flash he wraps an arm around the creature’s neck and shoves the fireball into its open mouth.

Its eyes widen and steam pours out of its ears as the fireball takes the path of least resistance: right down the throat. The human illusion starts to disintegrate and I see flashes of the goblin’s true face, gray and leathery with red eyes and sagging, pointed ears. It struggles but Baz holds on tight, until the thrashing stops and the goblin droops in his arms, and he drops it, limp and smoking, to the ground.

He hasn’t looked away from me the entire time.

I haven’t looked away from him.

Baz

It’s still light outside when we emerge from the cave, but we’re clearly much deeper into the Wood than before. I don’t recognize anything.

“Hang on, I’ll climb a tree and get our bearings,” I tell Simon.

He gives me a quizzical look and unfurls his wings without a word.

I shrug and take my place at the bottom of a tree. “I bet I could still beat you.”

“Come off it.”

“You haven’t seen me climb a tree.”

“And you haven’t seen me fly.”

We stare each other down for a second, tasting this new dynamic. Still rivalry, but different. Less hateful, more fun.

I leap into the tree without warning.

I can see his eyes widen as he takes in my speed, and he kicks off the ground an instant later, but we reach the halfway point around the same time. He beats me by seconds, perching at the top like a bird while I scramble to the branch below him.

“See anything?” I ask, catching my breath.

He scans for a moment before pointing behind us. “There’s Watford. Not a bad view from here,” he says as I climb up a branch to meet his level, “we should climb trees more often.”

I peer the few inches up at him, a strange expression on my face. “We?”

Simon meets my gaze suddenly, like he’s realized what he’s said. “I, um… well, whatever,” he stammers.

Is his face going red from flying? Or from…

I’m not used to looking up to meet his eyes, and he’s not usually framed by the pure white sky and the smell of pine and mountain air.

I’m not used to him looking at me the way he is now.

Simon

I’m not used to being this close to Baz, or holding his gaze for this long, or letting down my guard with him, or seeing him framed by pine branches and treetops, or wanting to touch his hair…

Baz

There’s a fresh scar on his cheek from the goblin’s blade.

Simon

His hair is black again, and I still want to touch it.

Baz

His lips part slightly, and my heart stops entirely.

Simon

I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I lean in…

Baz

I’m just closing my eyes as the bough breaks beneath me and I fall through the branches.

Simon

He only falls about halfway down, but he hits just about every branch on the way. I jump from my perch and dive after him, grabbing onto a limb where he stops his descent, groaning.

“You alright?”

“Perfect, thanks Snow.”

We both climb the rest of the way down and head back towards the castle. We don’t speak, and my head is still spinning with everything that’s just happened, not to mention what’s almost happened.

“So,” I venture, “who’s turn is it again?”

Baz shrugs. “Tomorrow’s the first of April.”

“I know.”

We look at each other for a moment.

“Fair game?” I suggest.

He nods. “Fair game.”

We walk another few minutes in silence.

“So, you’re not going to kill me for the nightmares then?”

Baz shoots me a sideways glance, but he’s smiling. A real smile, not a sneer. Genuine.

“Not today.”

#tw: torture mention #falls to the ground dead after writing this #i'd like to thank writer's block for not being a little shit today #guys we're almost done #it's almost over #but don't worry #it's still gonna be fun #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #carry on #rainbow rowell #my writing #your move #chapter 9

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curvymommy70 · 7 years

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Today was up and down. No binging, at least on unhealthy food. For late lunch at 3:30 PM I ate: an apple, a banana, a bag of asian salad mix (no dressing), leftover grilled veggies from last night, and a fruit smoothie. This was over the course of 90 minutes. Luckily, my stomach did not explode. My only hiccup was an egg mcmuffin. My youngest daughter went to work with me, and wanted McD. I caved. I adore Egg McMuffins and they were on sale... So, day 4 is over and a success. Food was good, and had a 90 minute brisk walk with my friend. Nighty night, and happy holiday weekend to the US tumblr group.

#day 4 #minor hiccup #healthy binge #ramblings #egg mcmuffin

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anneedmonds · 5 years

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Life Update: I Am Not A Rope

Angelica, aged three and eight months, has taken to telling us all precisely what she is not. We’ve had this before, when she first learnt her name – or a shortened version of her name; “I not hungry, Daddy, I La-La!” “I not cute, Granny, I La-La!” “I not testing your patience today Mummy, I am La-La.” But this is a different game, a year or so on, and I suppose it stems from her trying to constantly put her growing vocabulary into practice. It involves her drawing a comparison between herself and a (mostly inanimate) object and then rejecting the comparison and it usually happens when Ted is doing something vaguely annoying/violent to her.

For example, when Ted (two years and one month old) was trying to climb onto the same chair and using her as a pull-up support, she shouted “No Ted! Stop using me to steady yourself, I’m not a rope! I’m not a rope, Teddy!”

When he tried to put all of his dinosaurs into her nightie, “Stop, Ted – I’m not a pocket!”

“Ted, Ted, stop it, I’m not a slide!” “I’m not a mat Ted, stop treading on me!” “I’m not a cake Ted, don’t munch on me!”

Ooh, I feel a new book idea coming on. Instead of That’s Not My…. it could be I’m Not Your [insert name of object]. I’m Not Your Bed, Ted (Don’t Lie On Me).

Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this anecdote, which is no doubt brain-shreddingly boring, because most anecdotes about other people’s children are brain-shreddingly boring, is that I feel as though I suddenly have an actual small person living in the house rather than a baby. I’m sure I’ve said that before – probably at the aforementioned “I La-La” stage, but recently it’s really hit home. She’s a fully-functioning little human with complex mind-games going on, able to reduce my brain to a twitching mass of useless jelly in the space of around eight minutes. I can have all of my wits about me one second, taking part in an important international conference call with one ear and using the other ear to decipher strange, toddler-on-the-loose sounds from the neighbouring room; but if I’m subjected to more than a few minutes of Small Child Interrogation then I just completely lose the plot.

“Mummy can I play a game, can I play a game on your phone?”

“No, not now, I need my phone and you’ve already played one game today. Go and set up the dolly hotel and I’ll be in in a minute.”

“Oh please, Mummy. Please! Only one game for ONE MINUTE, I’ll be quick. Please Mummy! Please! Oh what? This is not the plan, Mummy. I don’t agree with this plan and I don’t like this plan…”

Ominous pause.

“You said yesterday that tomorrow I could have a game and now it’s tomorrow. Mummy please! PLEASE!”

Change of direction to take me off guard…

“Mummy where does fleece come from? Where does tables come from? Can I have a game? Can I have a cake?” “Mummy where does rice come from?” Repeat for seven or eight intense minutes at which point my head explodes and splatters the walls with bone fragments and gelatinous bits of stringy brain. (If that’s even a thing, I have no idea how brain matter behaves when exploded. I’d Google it but I don’t want to disappear down that particular wormhole.)

If Angelica has turned into the world’s most fist-bitingly persistent negotiator then Ted, since the last update, has morphed into a WWE wrestler complete with energetic roar and superhuman levels of strength. My gentle little toddler has started to launch himself from any and every surface he can climb up on, battlecrying as he hurls himself from the footstool, whooping as he attempts to mount the cat via a split-legged jump from the kitchen chair. It’s as though he turned two and someone flicked a switch.

Thank God the cuddles are still there. And kisses, too, although there’s so much slime that goes with a Ted kiss it’s hard not to flinch. It’s like being gunged. But so impromptu and so unprompted, who could refuse a gunging? Angelica now has to be virtually bribed in order to part with a kiss and cuddle so I’m taking all of the unconditional love whilst I can still get it.

Oh, and I was horrified the other day to hear Angelica say the F word. Not THE F word, but the one that rhymes with Cart. I’m not by any means a prudish woman, but for some reason it has been drilled into me that F-rt (rhymes with cart) is a terrible, gross word. I think it was my Dad who started this and I actually rarely heard my brother or sister say it when we were little. I’m not sure they use the word now, even – I’m trying to remember what we used to refer to them as and I have a sneaking suspicion that it was “blow offs”. In adult life I greatly amuse myself by calling them trumps or guffs (obviously I don’t do them, because I’m like the Queen, I’m talking about when I refer to other people’s) and I had come up with an entirely new phrase for Angelica that I was pretty proud of:

Bottom Burps.

There’s something very Roald Dahl about bottom burp, isn’t there? It sounds nicer and more naive than any other word or phrase that describes the act of breaking wind and I was really happy with it. (You can use it, thank me later.) But it turns out that I was the naive one; how could I have thought that she would go to pre-school and not hear the f-cart word? It’s not as though it’s a swear word – people say it to their kids all the time.

Oh well. This is a small taste of things to come, I suppose – but it’s a terrible shock, the first moment you realise that your child is being influenced by the outside world and you have no control over it. Crikey. It makes me want to set up a home school and pull down all of the blinds. Except that I have no blinds and if I had to home school my kids I would end up sticking skewers through my ear holes by eleven o’ clock on the first day… You’d have to have the bloody patience of a saint! Imagine! I can barely survive a sticker session unless I’m able to secretly rearrange them afterwards – and colouring in when the crayon marks don’t sit properly within the lines makes me all kinds of itchy.

Also, the fact that I haven’t even thought past “stickers” and “colouring in” speaks volumes for how inadequate I would be as a teacher. Fun fact: I was about to do my interview to start a PGCE to be a primary school teacher when I decided, instead, to do a Masters in English and Creative Writing. Which was what kick-started this blog (I wanted to have somewhere to practice writing, but also loved talking about beauty) which is why I now sit here before you, spouting utter nonsense.

I also sit before you with the sort of honking cough that sounds like a sea lion being repeatedly squashed under a giant’s shoe, an old fashioned car horn, a comedy sound effect. It’s so utterly boring, this cough – it wakes me up at weird hours and has me spitting things into my water glass like a dying cowboy. It’s actually the reason I now have to go, because I’m writing this late at night and I don’t want to wake everyone up.

I had loads more to say about various life things, but it’s all a bit dismal because winter in the sticks is dismal and I don’t want to bring you all down. So I’ll save that for another post and bid you farewell until the next time I put pen to paper. Or clackety gel nails to keyboard.

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Life Update: I Am Not A Rope was first posted on March 3, 2019 at 11:12 pm. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at [email protected] Life Update: I Am Not A Rope published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

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