#midnight writings

[stressed-and-queer]

My creative writing teacher had this exercise where we would just write what came to our minds. Found this in my drafts and did exactly that. Enjoy

Arthur can't pinpoint the exact moment when gold became his favourite colour. If he had to guess, he'd say it was the first time he had seen Merlin do magic without fear in his heart. Finding out Merlin was a sorcerer was…a lot to say the least. In that moment he had felt many things. Confusion and denial being the first, for he couldn't believe his Merlin could ever be a sorcerer. Ever since Arthur could remember his father had instilled in him that any form of magic was the epitomy of evil and, by default, so was anyone who used magic. All his life he was led to believe the use of magic would be the downfall of the kingdom, that anyone who uses it is pure evil. But, try as he might, anytime he looked at Merlin, he didn't see a shred of evil and that confused him to no end.

Maybe it was because he had come to know him as a bumbling baboon. His clumsy man servant who did the weirdest things. Like look for woodworm. Maybe if was because in all his years knowing Merlin, he had seen nothing but a kind man who had most of the castle in his sleeve. A loyal man who had fought a dragon with him when no one else would. A man who had proved over and over again since he had first saved him that he would do it again. The man who had drank poison for him.

That was supposed to be evil?

That was supposed to be a sorcerer.

No.

The world's greatest sorcerer? Magic itself?

Which begged another question. If Merlin was the embodiment of magic, then didn't that mean he represented magic itself? That was both comforting and not to Arthur. Because on one hand, he knew Merlin. At least, he thought he did. That man did not have an evil bone in his body. But on the other, if he was the embodiment of magic, the representation of magic....what about all the people who had made an attempt on his life.

An attempt he had learned Merlin had stopped every time.

And as Arthur looked at Merlin, who was currently sat on the ground with a little girl. His eyes casted that beautiful golden hue he loved so much, his hand hovered over the ground as a rose magically grew underneath it, Arthur had made his decision.

Magic was not evil. Not completely anyway. Not if Merlin had it. And Merlin would've probably been the only exception.

But still it was hard to say thatbhis father had been wrong. But he knew he must as he pulled a paper out of his desk. Dropped his quill in the black ink and started on his proposition to unban magic. His eyes glancing over at Merlin every once in a while.

Merlin was the only one currently allowed to do magic. And try as he might, he couldn't keep his best friend locked in a cell. He had unlocked the door, unable to look Merlin in the eyes. And yet the man stayed. Loyal to a fault but dumb as rocks in that moment. And so he let him wonder, having good faith Merlin would not go anywhere.

And Merlin had been bold. Using magic in front of Arthur and others. And Arthur had gotten used to it. Used to seeing the sun in Merlins eyes. Every time he did magic. Like light reflecting off of a coin. And he doesn't know when he began to enjoy it. He doesn't know when he became unafraid.

He knew it would be a long journey before Camelt came to accept magic like he had. He was still struggling to tell the truth. But in his heart he could not bring himself to kill any more people. To execute people who may be just as good as Merlin is. People Merlin didn't even know, yet cared about.

And Arthur couldn't help but muse that that's what a true king is after all. A reminder in the back of his head that Merlin was technically magical royalty. King of the druids. And he began to wonder how important an alliance would be between his kingdom and the druids. The best way to do that would be through marriage. And Arthur didn't want to admit he didn't hate the idea. He would be marrying his best friend after all. He would he able to see gold anytime he wished.

Eventually he would come to ask this of Merlin. And eventually Merlin would say yes. For alliance sake after all.

So in conclusion, yes. Gold was Arthur's favorite color. And in conclusion, it was utterly and completely because of Merlin.

[midnightmoodlet]

Wait hold on, I just realized:

[Love language imo oscillates between words of affirmation and touch, so expect him to use at least 50 pet names in the same sentence]

....what pet names would he call them? ...I gotta know!

OKAY so he's big on pet names for sure, so expect some super varied ones! A few exceptions, but they are mostly two categories:

❧ Flowers or plant-based pet names -> I see him having an encyclopedic knowledge of plants so instead of going for all time favs like "rose", he'd instead use ridiculously obscure plants as pet names: examples include "my lovely passiflora" and "pretty little ghost orchid". There's a 50/50 chance the pet name comes from a poisonous plant so take it as you will XD

❧ Sweets or candy-based pet names -> yes I KNOW cookie run is gonna naturally tend to this but he's in an absurd degree. Classics like "honey" and "sweetie" will be prominent but sometimes (especially when feeling dramatic) he'd say ridiculous descriptors like "the sugar cubes of my life" or "the honey to my yogurt" or some other cheesy compliments like these

You may ask now "what's the few exceptions, Midnight?" and my dear readers, we all know which one it is.

"Darling"

He would abuse it SO HARD. Like we are talking him purposefully extending the word and have that little melodic twinge at the end. With him you discover that there's at least 50 ways to pronounce it and he keeps adding more. Someone stop this cookie

[tellmeyoursoul]

“What have they done to us” caitvi fanfic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64473616

Chapter 6: This melody of mine

***************

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you play.”

Caitlyn startled, head whipping up as she turned to see her father leaning against the doorframe.

“I’d almost forgotten how beautifully you played, darling.” He said fondly.

“How long have you been there?” Caitlyn asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“I’ve always been here.” He whispered sadly.

Shame filled Caitlyn as she looked at her father. It had been too long since they had sat down together. She was often too caught up in her work, too caught up in her own emotions to remember her father was also grieving. Was also navigating existence without the love of his life.

Caitlyn dropped her gaze and her father gave her a soft smile.

“She always loved those songs.” He murmured as he entered the room. He came to sit beside her at the piano, running his fingers over the keys, but never playing a note.

“I remember how she would sit and watch you play, even as you stumbled over keys in the beginning. She loved seeing you create such beautiful pieces.”

He nudged her playfully.

“What was that last song you played? I don't think I’ve heard that one before?”

Caitlyn blushed and looked down at her hands, shrugging. “It’s a new one, it just came to me as I was playing I guess.”

“It was beautiful. Who was it for?”

Caitlyn’s blush darkened.

A knowing smile lit his face. “It was for that Zaunite girl wasn’t it?”

[onefiftyeightam]

Nostalgia

Nostalgia is like a ghost: A ghost you can only see so vaguely. You can make out the outline of what you're so familiar with, yet you can't make out a vivid picture.

Nostalgia is like a ghost: A ghost that haunts you in the middle of the night, in the corner of your eye, or in the chilling breeze of wind.

You cannot make it out. You cannot go back. You are stuck with this faint imagery of what used to be so distinct.

Nostalgia is like a ghost: It will haunt you forever until you find your peace within them: within yourself. It will haunt you until you have decided they're mere memories, not ghosts.

[midnightfrappe]

Sometimes i think if my y/n should have a story or something when drawing them with Sun and Moon, so i recently made some writing in the form of a simple conversation for when they get interviewed for the job at the pizzaplex. I tried to show up their personality (which it's going to be like the opposite of a workaholic, something i mostly see)

So with that in mind and the fact that i'm not a writer (and i might not draw this soon), it goes a little like...

Interviewer: Tell me more about yourself, why do you want the job?

y/n: I've always been amazed by this place and i would love to expand my experience in this marvelous place! (( i need the money so i can buy unnecessary stuff online ))

Interviewer: I like your attitude, we always need to show a smile with families here at the Mega Pizzaplex. Speaking of, how good are you with kids?

y/n: I get really well with them, some even see me as a big sibling. Oh those little rascals, we sure have a connection! (( i don't hate them, but they can be really mean sometimes… they can smell insecurity ))

Interviewer: I'm glad to hear that, most people stress easily with them on busy days. Now… tell me about your skills, do you know anything about robotics?

y/n: Sure, i'm really familiar with it! I do have some years of experience on the field, especially IA, some could say i'm a master at it (( I mean, i know how to fix the wifi… and i chat a lot on character.ai, it's like, the same thing here, right? ))

Interviewer: Well… i've checked your curriculum, which seems extremely good, hell, i even ask myself why would you want a job here, some could say it's suspicious…

y/n realizes that they might have fucked it up with how much they were lying

Interviewer: But, who am i to judge? You can show up next week, we still need to see wich department you will get, so we will give you different tasks around the place to see at what you're best at. You don't mind extra hours right? Your food would be covered

y/n: (( ffuck they're going to pay me with pizza ))

[uhhwhatamidoing]

just wrote a scene in my novel that made my friend (who loves horror/gorey stuff) writhe in her skin.

Love that for me

[miedei]

Honey.

helping clark housesit for his parents leads to: 1. lots of teasing, and 2. getting very familiar with his childhood bedroom (aka fucking in clark's childhood bed)

a/n: watched superman (2025) like 10 hours ago and my childhood crush is soooo back i need him bad, went into a different plane of existence and wrote this in a two-hour-old gdoc, first dc fic!!

cw: clark kent x fem!reader, established relationship, smut mdni, banter, fingering, praise, lowkey size kink he's HUGE, slightttt dumbification but not really by clark, unprotected piv, he almost breaks the headboard, defiling clark's childhood bedroom, you want each other badddd

wc: 2.8k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”

A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes. 

Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad. 

“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”

He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room. 

“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”

You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed. 

Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves. 

“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”

His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door. 

“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”

You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.

The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not. 

The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into. 

Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in. 

It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window. 

“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”

You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall. 

“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”

You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—

“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”

His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.

Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”

You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.

Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing. 

“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”

He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him. 

“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”

His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again. 

“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”

You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore. 

It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.

“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”

His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him. 

A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 

“Thank you, honey.”

He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face. 

“Clark…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you. 

“I want… You know what I want.”

You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull. 

“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”

Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes. 

Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently. 

“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”

He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence. 

Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal. 

Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.

You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower. 

However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.

“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”

He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric. 

“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”

He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant. 

“Fine.”

He sees right through it, of course he does. 

“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”

You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping. 

Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first. 

He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision. 

It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it. 

The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit. 

Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower. 

“Here we go, honey.”

He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. 

“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”

His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix. 

The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you. 

“Clark—!”

He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm. 

“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”

You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.

One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge. 

A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”

He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes. 

Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his. 

“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”

You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again. 

“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”

He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.

That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time. 

He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly. 

You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.

“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”

He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides. 

“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”

He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you. 

You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him. 

He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear. 

“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”

His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel. 

“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.��

He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this. 

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly. 

However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves. 

Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.

“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.

His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you. 

He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.

The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close. 

It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home. 

Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him. 

“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”

He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance. 

“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”

Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it. 

“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”

He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours. 

One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time. 

He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.

The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips. 

“Feeling okay? Tired?”

“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”

He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.

“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”

He’s blushing again.

[mournfulroses]

Kim Addonizio, from What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems; "''Round Midnight,"

[linipikk]

Aziraphale shielding Crowley from water

and Crowley shielding Aziraphale from fire

[wherethenightspeaks]

[hexhomos]

dress me in midnight (hold me tight)

[stressed-and-queer]

*cracks knuckles*

Time to hyperfocus on writing fanfiction for until its unreasonably early in the morning and wayyyy too late to regret my choices

[midnightmoodlet]

https://www.tumblr.com/midnightmoodlet-art/766860562375294976/hey-if-youre-up-for-iti-got-an-idea-for-a-cute?source=share

I'm sorry to hear about the hospital thing...I hope you feel better soon! I'll send it, hopefully it makes you feel better emotionally.

(OK this idea is based on how affogato desired to be lazy and wants to reap rewards and desires luxury...)

Y/n noticed this about affogato and, wanting to prove themselves to affogato and truly loving affogato, works their ass off to provide for affogato in every way. Like they try to work as hard as possible and stuff to make sure they have enough money to please affogato...also making sure they show affection, even if they are super tired from working their ass off at work. Maybe, knowing affogato's rep, they are scared affogato would leave them for a richer partner and that's why they push themselves to the absolute limit...because they wanna provide for him financially so affogato loves them. Also trying to do everything so they can please affogato.

...affogato eventually figures this out. Y/n spreading themselves thin via doing all the chores, working as hard as possible at their job to try to make as much money as possible, and trying to be affectionate as possible, even if they are on the verge of passing out.

This is sorta an idea of if a poor y/n took him in and fell in love with him and wants to make sure he is as happy as possible...truly in love with them and clearly willing to make any sacrifice to make affogato happy. Maybe the comfort is affogato recognizing this and showing y/n...he isn't going anywhere, he's staying right here, he loves them too...so y/n can finally relax and sit on his lap and let him take away y/n's stress with comfort...

aaaaa thank you!!! I am feeling better now so ty for the warm wishes!!!

Also.

YOU.

BROOOOO THE OVERWORKED PARTNERRR AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I AM EATING THIS UPPPPPPP

Also consider,,,,,,,, affo figuring out is the moment that it clicked for him the whole affection thing. Like what if there was a barrier mentally before and it's like a switch that flipped.......

So the following morning after the realisation (he was kept up all night thinking and reevaluating everything about them), he just sees them starting already breakfast and he just goes over, steals the cooking utensils and go "Let me have at it now~"

SO he just starts taking over stuff little by little so that they aren't spread so thinly GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

just silently does it and THEN they have a talk when they notice it (roll for perception for how long it took /j) AND THEN HE SAYS THAT HE LOVES THEM

DO YOU GET ME

[tellmeyoursoul]

“What have they done to us?” Caitvi fanfic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64473616

Chapter 10: My heart Song

Final chapter.

***************

Caitlyn focused on that voice, focused on red hair that glimmered pink when freshly washed. She focused on eyes that she knew gave away all Vi’ secrets, until slowly, the stormy grey of her irises became clear.

Caitlyn reached a hand towards Vi’s face, cupping her injured cheek gently.

“Vi,” her voice hoarse and barely above a whisper, “you’re hurt. Are you okay?”

Vi choked out a laugh, holding Cait’s hand to her cheek. “Am I okay? Cait, you’re– You’re– Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, darling.” She wiped away a tear before it spilled down Vi’s battered face. Her gaze tracked over every inch of Vi, looking and assessing for more wounds, for any hint of discomfort. Something had dulled behind the grey eyes, but Caitlyn couldn’t place it.

She watched as those eyes flicked behind her, to the healer who held her, as if for reassurance.

She wasn’t sure why. Of course she would be fine, Caitlyn had no plans to leave Vi ever again.

“She’ll need surgery.”

Caitlyn frowned as those traitorous words caused panic to ignite across Vi features. Her fingers traced along Vi’s brow, attempting to soothe the furrow that had taken up residence.

Violet’s gaze flicked back to hers, and her expression softened.

“Cait–” She broke off, tears filling her eyes again. “Please, I can’t lose you too.” Her arms slid around Caitlyn, taking her from the medic as she cradled her to her chest.

Cait pulled Vi down until her forehead was resting against her own.

“You won’t. I’m right here.”

Vi let out a sob as she pulled back just far enough to watch Caitlyn’s face. Her lip trembled and Caitlyn traced her thumb across the scarred, yet smooth skin.

She looked up into watery, grey eyes that held her whole world.

“I love you. Violet.”

[filyahehh]

Midnight Strangers by @seriouslycalamitous i don't even know... spoiler is not here anymore

[im-not-a-pleeb]

After Midnight

John Price X Fem!Reader

John Price steps in as Reader's fake boyfreind when her ex stalks her in the club.

Next Part

"Put your hands on me, dove."

"What?" You chirp.

"He's comin' over. Put your hands on me."

"Fuck."

Your muttered explitive is completely drowned out by the music shuddering through the air in the club.

You'd recognize that godawful haircut anywhere. Apparently even through a dimly lit room crammed with people. Flashing lights and all, there was no doubt that your ex was here, and that he was scanning the crowd for someone.

You.

Panic laces your bloodstream on the middle of the dance floor. Your lungs seize abruptly and the sheen of sweat on your skin cools, leaving you shivering. You weren't a party girl. You didn't go to clubs. You were only out tonight because you wanted- no, you needed to prove to yourself that you were still desirable after all the nasty things he said about you during the breakup.

It's like dropping a pebble down a well and listening for the splash, left with the anticipation for some eventual sound that could come at any moment. And every second the stone doesn't plunk into the water below, time stretches until it's still. Until it snaps. Your eyes meet his across the room. Your stomach pits.

You run.

Taking off, you aim for the back of the club where it's darker. You nudge and slide your way through the sea of grinding couples and a spike of anger parts your fears momentarily. Because isn't it just like him to show up and ruin your night. Not that you were having a particularly fantastic time to begin with- but still. It's the sentiment of it all.

You stalk towards the dingy 'staff only' hallway where a few people ( who definitely aren't staff) are making out. Hopefully your ex will take one look at the blatant PDA and head the other way, because yeah. It does make people uncomfortable.

The soles of your shoes stick to the floor as you duck next to a mountain of a man - who is thankfully standing alone. He towers over you by at least a foot and you use his wide, sturdy build to hide yourself further from the room. If he does notice you, he doesn't show it. Instead, he seems more focused on sulking down here in the tunnel of shame and fumbling hands. 

You groan and fall back against the postered walls, covering your eyes. The papers advertising various underground DJs are a little soggy from what you hope is beer (at least it smells like it) so you straighten back up with a grimace. Definitely showering when you get home. A draft of cool night air slips through the hall from beneath the exit, making you wrap your arms protectively around your middle.

You bite your lip, eyeing the door. You could slip out into the alley and leave that way... with that route you'd be able to avoid your ex, but you'd only be trading your bad situation in for a worse one. Frankly, you weren't terribly keen on the idea of dealing with whoever would be hanging around the back lane at this hour. It might be better to risk leaving through the front...

"A'right?" The big strangers deep, gravely voice tugs you back from your spiraling thoughts. It hauls you to dry land as easily as a mother cat grabs her wet kitten by the scruff and delivers it to safety. You tilt your chin to face him and with one look up at this man's eyes, you knew that's exactly what he offered. Safety.

His face was a little weathered. Big nose, smallish, blue eyes that would make the ocean jealous. Well-maintained beard and mutton chops. He was built masterfully, too, all shoulders and hard lines. All in all a gorgeous man, but more than that- he exuded a sense of protection and control that was damn near palpable.

It was unexplainable. In the same way that you knew your ex was here for you, you knew that this man would help you. So you answered his question honestly.

"No." You weren't alright.

"What's wrong, then?" He shifts his body to sheild you further, while still keeping half an eye on the rest of the room. Your gaze roams quickly over the bulge of his arms as they fold over his broad chest.

With a deep, albeit shakey breath, you recount how your recent breakup went bad. How your ex won't leave you alone. How he keeps showing up to your home, your work, and now you're almost positive that he is here to confront you. You'd hoped that blocking him on everything would be enough to dissuade him from talking to you, but clearly you'd been praying to a false God on that account.

Much to your surprise, he doesn't try to inturupt you while you talk. The man simply listens, his chin tucked down and expression unreadable, brows furrowed and eyes fixed intently on your face. He nods once when you're finished speaking, grunting when he spots your fingers playing nervously at your sides.

"Can you describe 'im for me?" He asks, stopping you from peering past his shoulder with the mere lift of his pointer and middle fingers that rested on his bicep. "Without lookin'."

"Oh. Yeah." You rub your own arms, trying to soothe away the goosebumps. "Tall- well- not as tall as you. Green eyes, blond hair. Horrendous man bun and shaved on the sides, you know?" Making a gesture beside your own head, you look up to make sure he's understanding. His mustache twitches.

"Mm, I know the type." He rumbles, a smirk playing at his lips. "What's he wearin'?"

"I don't know." You deflate. You'd been more focused on getting out of sight than on what he'd been wearing.

"S'alright." He touches your arm, attention slipping away from you momentarily. His easy posture doesn't change, but he stiffens. "Dark jeans, white jumper?"

"Jumper?" You wrinke your nose in confusion at the unfamilair british term.

"Hoodie." He translates for you.

"Oh. Yeah. I mean- maybe?"

Before you can blink, he's caging you in against the wall, both hands planted on either side of your head. Maybe you squeak, but the music swallows your surprise readily. There's no time to react before he leans in next to your ear, beard tickling your cheek as he murmurs:

"Think he's lookin'."

Automatically, you go to turn your head only to end up brushing your lips along his jawline. His facial hair prickles and you think you like it. Blushing furiously, you open your mouth to apolagise but the words die on your tongue when he moves closer. He consumes you without being invasive, crowding you now, but still careful not to touch you directly. He's so near that you can feel the heat radiating off of him between the scant distance of your chests.

"Put your hands on me, dove."

"What?" You chirp.

"He's comin' over. Put your hands on me." It's a demand this time. There's something in his tone now that you can't ignore, something that compells you to shiver and obey. He drops his head, nosing along the curve of your neck and collarbone as you slip your hands inside of his unzipped cargo jacket. The warmth of him instantly envelops you, seeping into your very bones. You're not cold anymore, you're almost too hot.

It's a casually deceptive act from both of you, and there's something so respectfully intimate in how he breathes you in, lips skimming up to your chin and leaving behind a trail of sparks. A hot puff of his breath tousels your hair and you ball your fists in the back of his shirt. It's only at his chuff of laughter when you realise you've tilted your head for more...

"Hey man, what the fuck you think you're doing with my girl?" Your ex's voice breaks whatever spell this man had put you under. The breath you'd been holding whooshes out of your lungs like you were punched, and the muscles that had turned to honey from just his proximity grow tense again at the unwanted presence.

The towering man doesn't lift his head immediatly. Instead, he hums beside your ear - a low, almost annoyed sound - and lets his beard rasp along your cheek lazily before looking up at the intrusion.

"Doesn't look like she's your girl anymore, eh?" He says casually, but there's an edge to his voice as he sizes up the other man. You're still practically engulfed by him. He hasn't given you back a millimeter of space, keeping himself all but pressed up against you. His hands haven't moved either, you note. They're both still beside your head, braced on the wall. Haven't even touched you and your knees are weak.

"Well she is, so I reccomend that you get the fuck off her, pal." Your ex repeats, tone haughty and he squares his shoulders like he actually thinks he could go head to head with this guy and come out victorious. He turns his attention to you then, still for the most part hidden by the stranger's frame. "I didn't come here to see you throwing yourself at whoever will take you like some common whore." He sneers.

Your cheeks flush in agitation at the insult. He's said such things before, but never to embarrass you in front of other people. The man previously dominating your personal space finally takes a step back, rolling his shoulders and expanding his chest. But before he can say anything, you're pushing in front of him to stand up to your ex. Because how dare he?

Ever since he got comfortable in your relationship, your ex had treated you like shit and you'd put up with it because really he was a sweet guy when he was happy. But you were done. He'd crossed the final line by insulting you in front of someone else, and the burly man standing behind you gave you enough confidence that your ex wouldn't deck you the second you laid into him.

"I don't know what part of 'never talk to me again' is so hard for you to understand! I don't want to see you, I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to call you... nothing! You need to accept that this-" You gesture between the two of you, "Is over. It's been over for a long time and I've told you every way I know how. We're finished, Okay?" You explode.

"Okay, but I just think you should give me another chance. I'll change." Your ex tries, pathetically trying to sweettalk his way back into your life. It might have worked on you once, but not anymore.

"No! I don't need to do anything else for you. I 'just think' that it's your turn to do something for me, and you can start by getting the fuck out of my life."

"Baby, I-" your ex starts, but you cut him off with a humourless laugh.

"Are you even hearing me right now? Are you hearing yourself!? We. Are. Over. I'm not your baby. I'm not your girl. I'm not your anything. Clear?"

He blinks stupidly. It was the first time you'd actually held your own against him. The first time you'd talked back and clearly he didn't know how to take it.

"Am I fucking clear?" You snap.

"Yeah." He swallows, brushing it off with a shrug. "Yeah, it's clear. It's whatever." He clears his throat, trying to play off his discomfort with an attempted smile. A smile that you mock and twist right back at him.

"One more thing." Your grin is sugary sweet and poisonous. Pure saccharine. "Call me whore again and I'll break your fucking nose."

The slapped expression on your ex's face is priceless. He wisely decides not to say anything else before walking away, seeming stunned.

Still grinning, you turn to the man behind you. He's stood unwavering, looking entertained and seeming more than a little impressed. With a surge of confidence and heady elation, you reach up and tug him towards you by his neck.

His eyebrows raise a little in surprise, but he leans down to meet you where you've stretched up on your toes to close the distance. He ducks his head, lips barely skimming yours before pulling away. You pout, glancing at him in displeasure. And then he's kissing you.

This time, he doesn't hold back. An arm snakes around your middle and heaves you against his chest, keeping you anchored to him with a heavy palm pressed to your lower back. His other hand tangles in your loose hair, tugging your head to angle you how he wants.

A breathy groan slips from your mouth, lips parting beneath his as thunder rumbles behind his sternum.

"Knew you'd be a needy little thing."

You feel your cheeks flush but you nod, just wanting more of him. The pulse of the bass hijacks your system and you're not sure if it's his heartbeat or yours that pounds in your ears. You tug at him desperately, and he huffs, smirking while you card your fingers through his hair. The scent of burnt spices envelops you just before he does.

"Christ, you're a sight."

His lips are on yours again, licking into your open mouth. He tastes like whiskey, you think leisurely, and you eagerly sip the flavour from his lips. The man - you still don't know his name - steps you back against the wall and slips a knee between your thighs.

The movement elicits a gasp as you clutch at him, hips pressing forward. He greedily swallows all the sounds that he draws from you, letting you grind against him for a moment before he stops you. His fingers tightens at your waist, stilling your restless motion. He doesn't want you to be greedy. He wants you to take what he gives you.

Instead, he rocks his thigh against you, letting the feeling build. You're gasping shamelessly against his lips, beard scratching your chin while he brings you nearer and higher. It makes it all the more cruel when he begins to slow before you can reach the peak you crave.

"Not here, dove. Not tonight." His voice thrums in your ear.

Protest leaves you in a whine. As badly as you want more of him, you have to reluctantly agree. The shame that would come with getting off in some dirty hallway with a guy you barely even know... it would fester the rest of the night.

He kisses you a little longer though, a little deeper. His lips are softer now, less demanding. Like he's trying to gradually calm the storm he evoked within you, to soothe that same ache he is responsible for.

When he finally breaks the kiss you're left flushed and panting, clinging to him to stay standing.

"Oh god." You breathe. "I don't usually do that- kiss random men in clubs."

"That so?" He asks, seeming amused.

"Mhm. I don't even know your name." You touch your fingers to your mouth and hope that your lipgloss isn't smudged to oblivion.

"S'John, sweetheart." He brushes the rough pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, smearing some of the remaining moisture.

"John." You repeat, trying it out. It's a good, solid name. Hefty on the tongue. "Thanks for... you know, scaring him off and everything."

"Oh I think you did all the work there, love." John chuckles, and you can't help but laugh too. "I wouldn't like to be on your bad side."

"You'd be hard pressed." You murmur, marveling at how the blue strobes highlight his features, dancing across his face and blinding you. But they dim in comparison to those eyes.

"Would I?" He lowers his voice to a pleased rumble. The hand on your hip kneads the flesh there gently.

You nod, blushing. The few shots you had earlier must be filtering through your conciousness now, because everything's a little hazy and your cheeks are hot. Hotter than just a blush.

The floor dips gently and you sway into him, barely bracing yourself with hand slapped haphazardly against his ribs.

"Sorry." You giggle, pulling back. He doesn't let you go far, though, holding tight at your waist to keep you from tipping over again.

"Alright, dove?" He asks, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

"Mhmm." You hum, still captivated by the lights playing exquisitely over the lines of his face.

"How'd you get here, sweetheart?"

"Took a cab." You tell him.

"Let me drive you back."

You hesitate. "Are you sure?" The last thing you want is to take advantage of his goodness.

John just hums and presses a kiss to the corner of your lips.

"Course" He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Gotta make sure my girl gets home safe, don't I?"

GUYS I'm so excited this is my first work in years! I'm still getting back into writing, but i hope you enjoyed it <3. Personally I'm not thrilled with how it came out, but my perfectionism needs to calm down, I'm sure it's good enough.

I realized there isn't actually that much Price in this Price fanfic.... I'm sorry! I swear there will be more of him in my next work!! You guys are gonna go crazy, I promise 😏😌