#not very beta'd

[totallynottinsel]

🌄 Whiskers for Wicks

A day in the mountain, Bilbo comes across a strange spirit casting itself in the form of a short legged, fire making cat. Heats rise in more ways than one as Thorin becomes jealous of the creature taking all his husband-to-be's attention.

Thorin had told him not to venture far off, and Bilbo promised to be careful as he wandered away into the corners of the forge. The two of them had made the trip down to assess all the damage that Smaug had caused it during his livid game of troll and dwarf with the company. Needless to say, it had been bruised significantly---though nothing a bit of dwarven ingenuity couldn't mend with time. Thorin lost a small beat of time as he discussed the meticulous matter of the repairs with a contractor and her crew, only then shook back by a sudden cry calling his name.

He drew his sword in a blink, his feet already trekking against the rubble. Even if it took far longer than he would have preferred, he found Bilbo stumbling his way from a heaping of crumbled stone beams. "Bilbo! Have you been hurt?" He placed a hand along the hobbits shoulder, scanning him for injury.

"No, no, it's---" Bilbo fell short of breath, sucking in his words and blowing them back out with a huff. "There's---there is something here! I saw it--"

"What did you see?"

"I don't know! That's why I called you over here in the first place. Thorin, I do not like the sound of whatever is hiding over there, and I don't believe it fancies us, we should---"

Suddenly, a deep rumbling growl echoed near only a few feet away, drumming their ears with its increasing pitch. Then grew an imposing shadow out from the crooks of broken stone, painting a ghastly figure; large like a warg carrying a snaking tail, teeth bared, its steps heavy. There in its silhouette rose outlines of crackling flames, glowing with heat. "Get behind me!" Thorin roared, guiding Bilbo to the rear as he kept his blade trained on the shadow.

"Thorin, we have to get out from here! We are not doing this again!" He tugged at the dwarf's sleeve as they fell back with quickening steps, though they had little chance to run or find cover before the creature had stepped into the light at last.

What they had been met with in the end was shocking for the both of them. Just in varying difference...

Bilbo had begun laughing, of all things---causing Thorin to double-take between him and the creature, certainly unsettled. "...What is so amusing?"

"It's only a cat!"

Thorin's brows furrowed. He peered back to the strange being---or 'cat', as it was named---cautiously. It was small, smaller than any animal he had laid eyes on before. It was nowhere near the size of a warg, hardly enough to make up one's paw. It's head was round and body slightly longer, with pointed ears and a swishing tail and barely visible legs under its belly. It wore a short orange coat along its back, while underneath was purely white. Strange.

"Thorin, it's alright," Bilbo assured, placing a hand to the arm that still held to his sword tightly. "Hm, I had no idea they lived in mountains."

"I have never seen something like that."

"Really? Oh, well, it can't hurt us. Eh, sort of..."

As Bilbo took a step forward Thorin grasped for his arm to stop his tracks, still ill at ease with the creature despite it being deemed harmless. He particularly didn't like how it's sharply bright eyes blankly bore into his without much movement---unnatural in every sense. "You have come across one of those before?"

"On occasion, yes. There used to be a fair few living in the Shire... the farmers used to have them catch all the nasty pests, if memory serves me right! I tried stealing one for a pet as a boy once. Did horrible things to my mother's curtains, unfortunately."

Thorin hung his blade back along his hip, his shoulders falling as he sighed. "If you say it to be so that this... cat means no danger, then I trust your judgement."

"Don't hold me to it, some of them can be rather grumpy. A bit like you." Bilbo tossed a playful smile his way, one that Thorin had given up fighting against after all the attempts of saying he wasn't grumpy, he just looked quietly displeased at times in frequent spurts.

Surprised to see, the cat had been friendly. It made a soft sound Thorin had yet to hear in all his days, almost like a greeting as it sauntered to Bilbo's palm to run its head under. He watched as it circled the hobbit, bumping itself over him with its tail held high. Perhaps he had wrongly accused it of malicious intent after all.

"Oh, goodness, your... warm?" Bilbo ran another curious strum over its back, his nose scrunching in sudden confusion. "That can't be right... she's burning up!"

"She?"

"Well... yes. Come feel her fur---I must be imagining things, surely---"

Before Thorin had the moment to kneel down to the pair, the cat broke into a sneezing fit after burying its nose in Bilbo's shirt. Though no ordinary sneeze it was, as its fur sizzled into flames, its underbelly shifting into dark cracked rock. Tiny sparks of fire and heated pebbles jumped from it, catching to Bilbo's clothes. He teetered away, quickly patting the heat sticking to his chest.

Thorin brought himself between the two, glaring down at the cat who now appeared in its furry state again. "Is that what your cats in the Shire do?"

"No... usually they, er.. don't catch on fire. At all."

The cat raised its head, looking up at them awaiting their next move. They certainly had more on their hands than just a friendly feline, and Thorin hardly had anticipated to be outplayed by a miniature fur ball.

------

"Ah, I'll be there in a moment! I have to finish brushing out Calendula's coat." Hummed Bilbo as he crossed-leg on their bedroom carpet, the cat in his lap cozily, arching its back upward with every stroke of the wooden comb that looked suspiciously like one of his own.

"You gave it a name?"

"Of course! And she seems to be fond of it, yes?" Calendula shifted her weight to face the hobbit, replying with a quaint 'maow'. When they inquired the knowledge of Gandalf on a visit of his, he had assured Thorin that their unexpected guest had no ill intent towards them nor the mountain. A hearth spirit, he called it; no one knew just how long it could have lived in the forge, (or why it chose such a cuddly form) perhaps it may have since Erebor itself was raised from the ground. Still then, something about the little firecracker brushed Thorin the wrong way.

And apparently, Calendula felt the same. When Thorin had stepped behind them, his hand only inches from grazing the hobbits curls, a set of claws swat at him. He pulled back before she could nick him any further, and those eerily big eyes looked at him with no remorse. That in all he could excuse for friendly fire, but when he came to find Bilbo reading in the library, their preferred spot to have time together when Thorin had a break from his royal business---(or afternoon tea, in Bilbo's words)---they had a third joining.

"How was the council?" Asked Bilbo, lifting his head from his pages.

"Well enough, though half the time was spent by Fíli reading off a list of requests from Kíli."

"Was it his plan to fish out dragon scales and use them to build a wall?"

"Worse." Thorin grumbled, about to take his seat across the other till he was met with the tragically fuzzy form yet again. The cat lay curled in his chair, peacefully asleep, a glow of heat floating up and back down with each of her breaths. He barely had gotten close enough to even try and move her before a hideous growl shook from her, banishing him to sit on the floor. No amount of kingly power had any say over the demands of such a fowl creature.

"I don't believe I want to know what he's planning. Well, in any case---you've come at the perfect time! We were just discussing plant roots." Said Bilbo.

"We?" Thorin quirked a brow, shifting an eye to his side. "It speaks?"

"Ah, not exactly. But she seems rather interested."

Gandalf had told them that it could very well be a spirit of higher knowledge, fully well capable---and likely---of understanding them. And interested Calendula was. She'd easily become bolder with her complaints, incessantly meowing and swatting at Thorin when ever he would even so much as touch Bilbo's shoulder. And there she would be in the hobbits arms, entrancing him with those big eyes and softly pink paws...

For Mahal's sake, he couldn't even be in the same room with his own fiancé without that cat scraping at his boot strings. Unfortunately, Bilbo had found it rather amusing, swearing she was simply showing affection towards him.

The coming days had been particularly grueling, fixing Thorin to meetings with elven ambassadors for more hours than he was able to count with his fingers, as well as halting his nephews attempts at crafting themselves an entire boat to go search for those scales they were so set on. By nightfall, he'd ached to shed his heavy layers and huddle into bed with his One; he hadn't the chance to see Bilbo all day, which no doubt stoked his weariness further. He came to their courters, stepping carefully inside as to not wake Bilbo who was fast asleep already. He'd made it just to his side of the bed when---her.

Calendula was obnoxiously spread out over the sheets, taking up far more space than he thought her to be capable of, leaving practically no room for him at all. First the chair, now his bed, as if she had any claim to it? Thorin bit back his tongue, grumbling tiredly as he squeezed his way in, his arms and legs contorted in every which way in order to avoid touching the fuzzy furnace.

Not a wink of sleep he got, eventually abandoning his twisted spot during an early hour when a sudden rumbling of hunger coaxed him away. He went his way to the kitchen, deciding to nab a single slice of bread. He left it placed on the counter, turning his back in search of jam, only to return to the cat with her teeth sunk into the bread fully. Both of them paused, taking in the sight, until Thorin lunged forward to swipe it from her unsuccessfully. The absurdity and sleeplessness made him laugh; Had the Maker truly condemned him to such a strangely cruel fate for the rest of his days? "Is that what you've been sent here for?"

She continued gnawing on the bread. He wasn't sure what sort of answer to expect other than that.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, far too exhausted to argue with a cat. He got himself another wad of bread, now carrying a heaping of jam, and sat down from across Calendula. They both quietly ate, though nearing his last bite Thorin forwarded it to her. "Truce?"

She silently blinked, then nibbled up the offering. A satisfied sounding mew she gave afterward, and that he took as well as words. It was not long before his eyes drooped, his shoulders slowly sinking as sleep finally took him---a low thundering sound of sorts he could not name lulling him.

-----

He didn't move her from her spot this time around, as she slept cozied to Bilbo's back. He slipped into bed, closing his eyes, not wholly prepared for when a sudden weight planted itself on his chest. He froze, watching Calendula's paws disappear under her belly and make herself comfortable. Then came that sound, the purring. He became tense at first, completely bewildered by her odd rumbling---but the more it caught his ear, it wasn't so nerve-wracking. In fact, he found it to be soothing.

Bilbo shifted across the bed, a sleepily pleased hum escaping his lips as his arm snaked under the dwarf's, holding to him. Thorin found no trouble drifting off as he was cuddled with warmth.

[vole-mon-amour]

for your artistic consideration (feel free to draw that with the credit, that would be wonderful):

Astarion feeling like shit one evening. like, it's one of THE worst evenings for him since he escaped Cazador. he's mad, he's heartbroken, he's furious. he paces around the camp, he can't keep still, he's on edge all day. he goes into the woods at night and catches the first wild animal he sees. he does it in a completely feral way, like the predator that he is. he's hungry, but as he drains that animal, it doesn't really quenches his thirst. or at least he doesn't feel like it does. blood is rushing in him, yet doing nothing.

he's still mad when he goes back to the camp (and he wouldn't mind killing somebody, but not a single kill will help him as much as killing Cazador—at least he thinks so), but he let off steam—at least a little. he knows it's all in his head (and in his nightmares, in his past, and his future), not his current surroundings. he's terrified about that, and he's heartbroken. so knowing that no more time in the woods will help, he goes back and there's that urge inside him—go to Halsin. find Halsin. he always feels better with Halsin somehow. he barely ever feels truly safe, but he feels safer with Halsin.

and so Astarion goes to Halsin's tent and plops down next to him, but without actually touching bodies. there's a considerable amount of distance between them and it's Halsin's presence for him at the moment. Halsin, in his turn, is not a fool. he saw Astarion's mood and how gradually worse it got since the morning; he gave him space, he felt like Astarion needed it. now that Astarion next to him, Halsin asks, "You want to talk about it?"

Astarion barely thinks—maybe for a second, before he shakes his head without making eye contact with Halsin or even looking into his direction. Astarion looks right in front of him, his gaze focused, but he also feels very far away—kilometers away. he's truly going through it.

"Okay," Halsin says in a calm and soft voice. if Astarion wants to quietly exist next to him while they both do their thing—he can be whittling or reading or writing in his journal, as he often does, while Astarion is just there, he can give him that.

until, after a while, Astarion suddenly reaches out for Halsin's hand. he still doesn't look at Halsin, but there's such confidence and determination so that his gesture is undeniable. it's his way of communicating tonight—wordlessly, with emotions and body language. and Halsin answers with the same grip, showing him that he's not alone. that he's got his back. that whatever it is, they can get through it—together.

and Astarion is both grateful and relieved for being understood. his Cazador problem didn't go away, but at least he knows that when it's time, Halsin is going to be there by his side and help him deal with the bastard. that whatever is going on between them, something he's not ready to label just yet, it's mutual, and that Halsin won't abandon him upon facing Cazador. despite acting tough, Astarion IS afraid that Cazador might end them on the spot. at least he knows that with Halsin (and the reast of the party), they are going to put up a fight and they are going to fight until the very end. that there's still hope for him and his future.

for the first time in his life, not only he is truly not alone, but those people believe in him. and that makes the dread of what he has to face slightly better.

***

(honestly, I have this vivid vision of Halsin and Astarion sitting under a tent, apart yet together. Astarion reaching out and finding Halsin's hand, Halsin looking at him silently, slightly surprised, then kind of moving to the side whatever he was just doing and holding Astarion's hand back. and so Astarion sits there, lost in his thoughts (but also supported though this gesture), while Halsin holds a book/journal on his knee. they're doing their things, looking in different directions while also holding hands and communicating through that. and after dome time their grip relaxes and Astarion scoots closer to Halsin. he looks at him with a 'Thank you' in his eyes and, yet again, Halsin understands that. he's glad he can be there for Astarion.)

[nicogayngelo]

do we think i can finish this fic tonight

[vivacia-18]

I'm about halfway to two thirds through You Feel It Just Below the Ribs, and asdjasdlkajsadjal

The reveals, the implications, I can't even - mentally I'm rolling on the floor frothing at the mouth. I want to go back and listen to season 3 and season 1 all over again, holy shiiiiit

[suraemoon]

It Couldn’t Be Better

Elvis x Reader - snippets of Elvis’ first Christmas with your family

Warnings: None really, just fluff and flirting

WC: 3.8k (was supposed to a blurb idk what happened)

A/N: Look, I’m aware that this isn’t good and is all over the place. I’d spend a few more days on it if I could but today is Christmas (yay!) and it would make no sense to post it any other day. I put in my masterlist that this would hopefully be out by the 25th and here it is. It’s based on the prompts “It could be worse” and something along the lines of “a character’s parent makes them tacky christmas sweaters” Merry Christmas y’all!!!!! I LOVE YOU.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“It could be worse.” Your voice radiates fake optimism as your manicured nails pick a piece of lint from the homemade, bright red knitted sweater on your upper half.

You look up from your quick maintenance to be met with Elvis’ scrunched nose and concentrated eyes as his hand pulls on his sweater's borderline turtleneck collar, a bright “Christmas tree” green to complement yours festively.

The sweaters were beautifully knit with white stripes going back in forth in turn with the chosen festive color. Glued on the knit were an array of tinseled pompoms and ironed on were different designs of patches. Smiles, hearts, stars, animals, santa’s, snowflakes, etc; they all looked like they’d be better suited on a girl’s poodle skirt. “Eh..I guess.”

Your mama had sent you two up to your bedroom to get ready in time for Christmas dinner with your whole extended family.

From her spot next to the stove in the kitchen, one that seemed permanent for her during the holiday season, Mama was cooking up her signature feast and the scent of food filled the air teasingly. The smell enveloped everyone and only built up anticipation for later in the day.

Earlier in the day, when the cold wind flowed in anticipation and the white snowflakes made themselves home, you and your boyfriend had been tasked with cleaning the whole house from top to bottom.

One of the most famous men in the country having his first Christmas at your house? Mama was quick to put a broom in his hand for she had the elder generational quality to not spend her time focusing on pop culture and society but instead what needed to be done in order to keep her home running smoothly, especially during the holidays.

“You need to wash my windows, clean my counters, sweep and mop the floors…”

You couldn’t stop a huff from leaving your lips at the housekeeping task for this was the first year that you desired to be in the kitchen, observant to her methods and helping when you can.

Your mother was easily the best cook you knew, she knew the kitchen like the back of her hand, and with your growing relationship with Elvis starting to become more and more serious, you started thinking about your own cooking skills…well the lack of.

One day you will be handed the baton of Thanksgiving and Christmas meals and there’s no harm in trying to learn the ins and outs of it now.

“You need to give the dog a bath, make sure every bedroom in the house looks neat…”

The urge to be a housewife never striked upon your young ambitious mind until you met Mr. Elvis Presley. He unknowingly had the ability to cooking, cleaning, and raising children seemed so much more desirable. A life centered around being his subservient, supportive wife seemed delicious when his hand was intertwined in yours. A few years ago, a younger and singler you would’ve called yourself crazy. Nowadays you just call yourself in love.

“You got it, ma’am.”

Elvis met this list of chores as long as Santa Claus’ list with a smile for he was a restless person always looking for something to do, always searching for an excuse to move, and you knew deep down that he missed his own mama telling him to do stuff.

Now, a few hours later, that genuine go-with-the-flow grin was replaced with the tug of his lip genuinely trying its best to exude politeness as his hand tugged on the collar of his christmas sweater again, the top of his pale collarbone teasing you in the process.

The sun was now lower in the sky but the clouds did not tire from dropping snowflakes anywhere they could. The warm light of your lamp illuminated your freshly tidied room.

It fit the comfort of the holiday spirit better than the sunshine of the early day where brightness flowed through every window as you cleaned them with a rag, the circular motion of your hand mirrored the making of a snowball. Now the view out of the window was a grayish storm of flurries, weather in which a warm sweater would come in handy.

To make light of an awkward situation, you decide to embrace it and do a quick spin in front of him, showing off your full festive outfit. The cranberry red of your oversized sweater is paired with a black leather mini skirt and black leather boots to match.

It’s an outfit that you wouldn’t usually ever wear for a family event like this. But your boyfriend's overwhelming presence: fingers that you knew would always intertwine with yours as if meant to be, an arm that would never fail to wrap around your waist, feet that would always gravitate towards being around you, it all filled you with an indescribable sense of confidence.

The pure sex appeal Elvis exuded 24/7, seemingly effortless as if the attraction comes with his nature, always inclined you to put your all into matching it’s magnetic energy. The spin stops and your feet go to tippy toes to reach up and kiss his sugar plum lips. “What do ya think?”

Elvis wets his lips as if your lipstick had a flavor and his eyes look you over your figure fully as he takes your hand to give you a quick little twirl. Instead of a full 360 it was more of two 180’s since he stopped a second to take a quick look at your back side.

A low whistle was the background music to the rest of your orbit and his cheeky little smile seemed to glow when in the presence of your maroon red lipstick. “I think I gotta see what’s under it. Gonna let me do a little inspection? Wanna make sure everything’s sitting right…working the way it’s sposed ta.”

“Elvis! It’s Christmas…gotta be family friendly.”

He chuckles as a response comes too quickly to brain, “I wanna get real friendly with you, honey.”

You hit his shoulder playfully, “Stop that.”

“Hey! It’s Christmas, honey. Thought we had to be family friendly and that hitting ain’t very holly jolly of ya. I’m surprised Santa didn’t give ya coal this year.”

“Oh please. I don’t think Santa would mind me putting ya in line for naughty thoughts.”

“I don’t think Santa would mind me bending ya over my knee for a smart mouth but…” He shrugs, putting his sleeves in his pants pockets.

You stick out your tongue at him and he laughs his beautiful laugh. Gliding as if on ice back to the mirror of your vanity, you apply some more blush to your cheeks. Getting a little too warm and secretly having the cheeky desire to show more skin, you subconsciously fold the ribbed collar of your sweater down a little bit.

When met with the black and purple of a hickey on the side of your neck, immediately the collar is put back in its original place, the fabric willing to revert back to how it was supposed to be worn and mocking you in the process as if saying “told you so”.

A whisper escapes your lip, “Jesus…”

Elvis perks up from the seat he has taken on your bed in response, for he loves an opportunity to talk to (and tease) his favorite girl, “Lord’s name in vain on his birthday?”

Your eyes, framed by black liner and an eyeshadowed lid, meet his through the mirror of the vanity, “Elvis what’d ya do to my neck? It ain’t ever been this much before.”

“Hmm…” His arms are at his sides, stabilizing himself against the plush of the comforter, and he looks simply adorable with his false pout as if thinking of a smart remark to respond with.

“Hm indeed.”

He chuckles, “Today about love ain’t it? You don’t wanna put ya collar down and show everyone how much I love ya?”

“Elvis…”

As if automatic, your eyes roll playfully and he decides to continue, “Not gonna show off that pretty little neck, huh? You always look pretty but you look even prettier when you’re all marked up…all claimed.”

“You’re too much.” You shake your head, trying to cool off the influx of red that has awoken on your cheeks.

“People wanna know which one’s E.P.’s girl? Oh, they’ll know. She got the love marks to prove it. She’s the only girl I wanna love on.”

Your soft hands go up to cover your face but they make sure to keep a safe distance in order to not mess up the canvas of progress you have made at the vanity. “Shoo…you’re too distracting. I gotta finish my makeup.”

“So…?”

“So…they’re staying covered.”

A few minutes later, he speaks again from a spot on your bed as you apply the finishing touches of your makeup. “No offense to your mama, honey, but…I don't think homemade holiday sweaters are really in trend. Not these ones at least.”

His slight frown gives way to a bright laugh, a sound prettier than the jingle bells adorning the sleeves of his sweeter.

“Everyone’s gonna be wearing one so we’re all gonna be weird together.”

“Mm.”

“Last year was polka dots…polka dots. So count yourself lucky you weren’t around for that.”

Your mother’s homemade knitted wool Christmas sweaters have been a longstanding tradition in your family since….forever. When asked, it was your great-great grandmother that started it years ago. Or was it your great-great-great grandma? No one would be surprised if the family’s Christmas sweater fascination started way back in the simple days of the cavemen when your neanderthal ancestors were in need of warmth and for some odd reason in addition to fire and sharpened sticks, they had the supplies to create tacky garments of clothing.

You and Elvis started dating in January, so this year was full of firsts with this cold December wrapping it up lovingly in a snug little bow.

When dinner was served at Elvis’ first Thanksgiving with your family, the unusual but warmly content silence around the large, wooden dinner table was interrupted abruptly by your mother’s sudden thought. A soft gasp called for hungry heads to look up from their plates.

You would think there was a lightbulb above her head or that an epiphany to solve world hunger was in her thoughts. Your mama looked at Elvis with a gleeful smile, “I’ve gotta ‘nother Christmas sweater to make this year!” You remember the way Elvis’ smile was apprehension coating in politeness, wondering what the hell she was talking about. Your mama made clothes? How has that never come up?

His blue eyes widened for a full second about two weeks later when he was sat quickly by your mother on the couch with a gift box practically shoved in his hands. “Sit, sit ,sit!” Your mama said as if a little kid again.

The same eagerness did not translate to when you sat down, as by now you knew the routine by heart. You got practically the same gift two weeks before Christmas every single year. Just different designs, patterns, and decor but in its essence the same gift filled with the same love. This was always around the time when mama gave everyone there sweaters either in person or by mail.

Now that you think about it…this giftbox looks suspiciously similar to the same one you opened last year. Is that why your mama made sure you were careful not to break it?

The ornaments on the tree, a brand new one from last year right next to one you crafted out of popsicle sticks and cardboard in kindergarten. The nostalgia and newness blended seamlessly on the forest green branches.

The opening of boxes takes attention away from the tree, a happy presence willing to blend into the background the best it can. Your perfectly wrapped and ribboned rectangle has not even been touched but you watch intently as Elvis tries to carefully peel the tape off the side of the box. Your mother wouldn’t have minded if he tore it to shreds. She would’ve told you off if you had dared, but with Elvis it would’ve been alright.

“Y-you really didn’t hafta get me anything, ma’am. It’s real kind of you.”

Your mother replies matter of factly, “Are you kidding? It’s Christmas! Of course I had to give my son-in-law something.” You and Elvis weren’t married. Not yet. But the law of the heart doesn’t care about physical papers. In the minds of your welcoming family, new people were accepted with open arms and once their hearts got on Elvis they never want him to go.

Elvis brings his attention to you for the first time in a while, lifting your chin up gently with his hands as he admires your face. “You already blessed me with your beautiful daughter. She’s better than any gift, no doubt.” A shade of pink flushes over your face as Elvis gives you a quick, soft kiss.

“Awww. My two little turtle doves. Well, I’m allowed to give ya more than one gift so go ‘head.”

When the top of the box is lifted off, a tiny sweet sounding gasp escapes Elvis’ lips as his eyes fall on the christmas sweater. “O-oh…wow, ma’am. It’s, it’s really somethin’.”

Mama watches intently, “Do ya like it?”

He could pass for a deer in headlights. “More than like it. I can’t wait to wear it for um..Christmas.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at the false enthusiasm and at this noise mom’s attention turns straight to you and the box on your lap, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms, “Are you too cool in front of your boyfriend to open yours?”

Shaking your head, the faint sound of Christmas radio sings in your ears as you open your first gift of Christmas. It’s red to go with Elvis’ green. Youthful to contrast with a growing daughter, homey and nostalgic to compete with a fast, changing lifestyle.

Your smile is genuine as you reply, “Thanks mama. It’s really nice.”

All three of you share the most comfortable of silences. It wasn’t silent really, music flowed through the room and firewood crackled; the background ambience that makes any December day anymore special.

The memories of your mother and her cute interactions with your boyfriend (all of which showing she approved of him greatly) was interrupted by the voice of the man himself. All of sudden you were brought back where you were: in your room getting ready with the person you love the most on the 25th of December.

“You ready to go down, honey? I think I heard some people walk in.”

“Oh..yeah! Let’s go.” Taking his hand, you walk over to the door.

“Wait a second…” Your mind immediately goes to the lamp you left on but his mind is somewhere else completely. He leans down to kiss you, long and hard. The unexpected passion takes you back but your heels stay steady on the ground, all of your attention on kissing him back with the same fervidity. His calloused hand is on your soft cheek and your fingers flow through his black hair. You want the moment to never end but like all things in life it inevitably does.

“Now we can go.” His smirk is teasing and playful. He knows the effect he has on you. He knows by your red cheeks and wide eyes how weak he can make you.

“I-” Practically speechless you just nod and take his hand, walking shakily out of the door. He laughs at the sudden urgency, slapping your behind playfully as you walk in front of him.

When your face, your whole body for that matter, started to become less warm and all of the many happy greetings to family and friends were finished, the evening was going splendidly. Laughs and cheer filled the space and joy at being back together radiated off of everyone in the room.

This year, you started to become more aware of not only yourself but your surroundings. What would this look like to a fly on the wall? What would it look like to a man attending his first Christmas with the loved ones that you have grown up being accustomed to? The Christmas tree shined brightly, decorated with a mismatched array of ornaments that went together perfectly. Every seat had a person and the garlands that Elvis hung up on the walls looked down at everyone adoringly.

From your spot standing in the open arched doorway connecting the dining room and living room you are a true wall flower for a moment. You notice how the group of younger teenage cousins brought their friends over for dinner for the first time ever and it just so happened to be the year where Elvis Presley started to attend the gathering. Giggles and whispers came from the corners of the living room, juveniles no longer embarrassed by matching tacky sweaters.

Looking away, your knowing smirk turns into a wide, adoring smile as you turn your attention to Elvis playing with your littlest cousins on the fluffy rug.

Unlike their older counterparts, their innocent smiles are refreshing for they are oblivious to the fact that it is the Elvis Presley playing with them.

To the little ones, he’s just Mr. Elvis, a friend to play with. He’s cradling the youngest baby gently in his arms while sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor. A toddler in two pigtails and a bright pink knit sweater plays in his gelled hair as if on an oblivious mission to mess it up.

Little Jane managed to get her hand on a brush and was trying to play make-believe hair salon with your boyfriend. “Sit still, Mr. Elvis!”

“Oops.” Elvis winces as the hard brush hits him on the side of the head. “I’m trying, honey, I really am. Hard when you’re trying ta pull my hair out.”

“I’m tryna make ya look pretty! If you wanna look a mess just say it.”

“Maybe sometimes I wanna look a mess.”

She groans, “You hardly got a lotta hair anyway. It’s all shiny and too hard ta make ponies.” And just like that, with an attention span the size of her tiny legs, she abandons both Elvis and the brush to go play with a group of older kids about older elementary age.

Elvis chuckles lightly and focuses on the small baby still in his lap, trying to grab at him with chubby hands. His plush lashes flutter gently as he looks down and gives the little cherub all of his pretty attention and you swear right then and there, your heart was about to escape from your chest.

“Ain’t you the cutest? You’re the cutest, ain’t ya?” The baby giggles an infectious giggle and Elvis’ smirk is just as adorable.

“I gotta get myself one of ya. A cute little baby. A littlun just like you.”

“I gotta get myself one of ya.” He’s talking to a baby, and you’re his girlfriend, the only one who can help him with that wish. Stuck in place, your legs feel weak as you lean on the wall next to you for support and your stomach can be easily compared to a snow globe filled with a flurry of snowflakes. If hearts can do somersaults, yours has many times since you’ve met Elvis.

His hand envelops one of the baby’s white socks gently. “Tiny little sooties too.”

The baby’s gummy grin gets wider as he kicks his feet, fascinated with Elvis’ hand like a new toy. Your boyfriend moves up from the itty bitty feet to tickle the tiny belly lying in front of him, then his palm relaxes, moving up and down in a soothing motion over the little one’s soft sweater. By the way Elvis’ pink lips move you can tell he has started to sing a song. It’s a quiet melody just between him and the baby he's holding. The most beautiful, adorable secrets.

When you remember that you are an actual person in the room and your legs feel less like jello, in your head you decide to walk over to the spot on the rug where Elvis is sitting but before your heels could move a second step, the ringing of a bell fills the room.

“Dinner everyone!” The voice of your mother is a saving grace to every hungry soul in the house.

Elvis stands up, holding the baby securely as if he has been a professional at holding infants his whole life. The mother, your eldest cousin, walks over shyly with a blush on her face as she carefully takes the baby from Elvis’ arms so he could go eat.

“You’ve got a really cute daughter, honey…well her mama’s cute so I know where she got it from.”

Flustered, her mouth parts a little as she adjusts the smiley baby on her hip. “O-oh. Um..thank you. Thank you very much.”

He had a way of speaking, a beautiful charm, that could make any woman he comes across blush. No matter how long the sparkly wedding ring has been on their ring finger. By the way she looked at Elvis, you wouldn’t know that the young mother has been married to her actual husband for two years. You’d think the baby in her hands was Elvis’.

Elvis smirked his “I know what I’m doing” cheeky grin and kissed the baby’s cheek before walking away.

Suddenly, You and Elvis start to walk to each other simultaneously as if all that time apart wore you out and you needed another dose, attracting like the opposite sides of the strongest magnet, the two of you meet in the middle of the room.

You’re the next to get your cheek kissed and he whispers to you, “Remember when ya said earlier that things could be worse when I was grumbling ‘bout the sweater.”

“Oh, I remember.”

He holds your hand and begins to lead you to the kitchen as he finishes his thought. “I’ll tell ya. Today couldn’t get better, honey. It really couldn’t.”

As you walk, the voices of tiny children ring out suddenly, “Mistletoe! Mistletoe!” It took Elvis tapping your shoulder and pointing up to notice that the audience was addressing you and him. Through long lashes you look up and indeed a piece of green hangs above in the archway that you and Elvis stand in. To any on-looker the image of you two could’ve been a painting. You indeed felt frozen in time.

“It’s the mistletoe! That’s your boyfriend, you gotta kiss!” The tiny voices continued their protesting.

Elvis smiles at you, “Well, I guess it could get a little better. It’s bad luck to ignore the mistletoe. Need to feel ya on me…been too long.”

“Merry Christmas, Elvis.” Just like that, you reach up and kiss him, your thumb moving back and forth on his cheek as you tilt your head to the side. He starts kissing you back immediately and an eruption of tiny cheers fills the room.

[theyre-in-love]

A Letter From Moscow

summary:

He’s apologized a hundred times in a hundred ways, but now it’s time for Napoleon to hear what he has to say. Or, some of chapter 11 of Love is a Losing Game, but from Illya’s perspective.

notes:

inspired by Love is a Losing Game by @cha-melodius

tags:

Reunions, Alternate Universe, 60s Chess AU, Mutual Pining, Confessions, POV Illya Kuryakin, the happy ending to don't you try and make some fool of me, inspired by another fic

excerpt:

He thinks he might actually be hallucinating, that maybe the exhaustion has finally gotten to him, when he sees Napoleon standing outside the bar. He’s on his feet almost before he’s aware he’d moved. Their eyes meet and his heart drops to his stomach at the unfettered pain swimming in Napoleon’s eyes. He’s no idea how he can make it out from this distance, and it makes him sick to see it. The bell chimes cheerily, announcing Napoleon’s presence with the sort of store-bought joy that neither of them feels. It seems almost mocking, as though the universe knows that Illya’s about to lay his naked heart at Napoleon’s feet and watch it get trampled.

read more on ao3

[unearthlycat]

the downside of writing longer fic is that i have so many thoughts and i cannot express any of them because it is. spoilers

[sauron-kraut]

A Call for Loyalty

Listened to too much viking folk today and this quick thingy is what came out. Basically somewhat written out scenes passed between @lvsifer and me so please take credit for this too Mausebär 🧡

3rd age Sauron haunts the woods.

Probably set shortly before his necromancer era when he has regained some corporal form again

The woods lie bathed in blue twilight, the woods know a full moon will rise.

It is silent, just a breeze in the trees, making their leaves rustle in the wind.

The creature crouches, turning his head towards the sound of branches snapping. 

An animal, he thinks, and rises slowly.

He walks between the trees that look as old as time. They are not, but the creature is.

He walks carefully, putting one bare foot in front of the other. The moss withers away under each step.

Where his feet touch the ground leaves shrivel and flowers die.

The creature is clad in long black tattered robes. His paleness rivals the moon itself.

His hair is as black as the nights in this forest he calls home and blows gently in the wind.

These days he struggles to remember.

Memories, images, they tend to blur.

All the creature’s strength had been spent in creating this form he walks in. 

It is never enough.

The creature claws at memories and his very being like he claws at the clammy soil under his feet when he cannot endure it anymore.

He walks carefully yet sometimes stumbles, holding on to trees and branches.

He hides in the woods like an animal.

Withered to an old wives’ tale.

In the village there is talk of a shadow prowling in the dark. Something haunting the hills.

A wraith, possibly.

The shadow comes at night and tears into their goats and sheep with bare hands and teeth.

Blood red snow in winter.

All that had burned loud and bright and golden has long faded to darkness.

All that once was fire is now ash.

A moon has risen, reflected in silver eyes.

Is there a hint of gold still? He does not know. 

The creature walks and tries to grasp memories that threaten to disappear in a raging river of time, change and sorrow.

A face. Love. Power. Violence. 

Water. Death.

A second death.

He is gathering strength.

He remembers syllables and words.

The creature sings, not more than a quiet whisper to himself at first.

He breathes the words into the cool night air, he inhales. The singing continues.

Louder, louder.

Desperate.

The creature screams.

He sinks to his knees, gasping for air.

The incantation has cost him everything.

It is a call for aid.

He has called The Nine.

When the woods darken, when a circle of nine shadows closes in on him, the creature sits quietly.

When one of them approaches him and holds out an iron-clad hand, he takes it.

And lets himself be pulled to his feet.

[folerdetdufoler]

Hi, I wrote my first evak fic in early 2023, before that I had been an avid reader for years. I know the fandom is a little quiet but there's this hardcore group of writers and readers that seem to have been around since the start and all know (of) each other. I don't know how to word this without sounding envious but it seems to me that group doesn't really read, comment on, give kudos or support new fics outside of their little circle. I want to believe it's a time issue but I have to say it comes across cliquey and a little hurtful. I really hope I am just being an insecure baby but I would be so happy if the established and popular writers would give me feedback and leave comments.

hiya! congratulations on writing and posting! i know it can be a big, scary jump from reading to writing and sharing, so applause for that in the first place.

i'm sorry your contributions to the fandom haven't been received the way you'd like them to be. if i'm included in this group of writers and readers, then, well my reasons for not reading/commenting/supporting are possibly going to be more hurtful than what you're already experiencing! i've whined about it years ago (first here, then here), and unfortunately it all still stands, because i have done absolutely zero work on bettering myself as a human being. i think i've read a handful of fics, mostly because they've been sent to me directly, with someone asking for my thoughts, and i managed to put in the effort to read it and offer a polite response. but there are also a bunch of fics that have been shared with me that i haven't read, even when i've said i would. i'm sorry if you have specifically done this with me in the past, because i have not treated your work, your creativity, with the respect it deserves.

i can't speak for anyone else, on how they choose to spend their time reading or writing, or the relationships they have with other fans. on the one active skam discord i'm in, i think a lot of them know each other from other fandoms, or have different relationships beyond writing/reading skam fic. also, as skam fades, people might only have the bandwidth for enjoying and supporting fanworks from established relationships, the same way you still want to support a favorite author even when you or they have changed genres or whatever.

but in reality i don't know the group where this is happening or why. i agree, it would be nice to receive more readers and commenters in general, and being jealous of the attention other people receive is natural. but i don't know how to change your relationship with that group, or my relationship with reading & supporting.

[silvvergears]

Every time I listen to Would You Fall In Love With Me Again from Epic the Musical, I remember that I accidentally made a parallel to Odysseys and Penelope in Succession with Hunter's bed in the castle.

You know, the one that Willow grew a canopy over when they were 17 and 19 respectively? The one with glowing flowers and a nest for Flapjack and Clover, a symbol of their friendship and love? The one still alive and thriving long after Willow vanished? The one that Hunter constantly thinks of as too big for one person and is haunted by the vastness of?

The Laws of Succession is just Hunter as Penelope waiting for Willow to come home. Goddamnit, Homer.

[stormyrainyday]

gingka and hyoma fic already hit 10k. oops. update coming tuesday

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Relationship: The Bell Keeper & Meiri (OC) Category: Gen Word count: 2.9k Chapters: 1/? Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Found Family

🌲Read it on AO3♾️

Preview:

A thing about Ed, one that Meiri could have never foreseen wouldn’t get on her nerves until she wanted to bite another hole into his decrepit overcoat, was that every time she thought she had him completely figured out, he’d go and surprise her.

Which was exactly what happened shortly after they arrived at the cabin the very afternoon he had signed the papers declaring that he, of fully informed and free will, was taking Meiri to be his problem for the rest of his life.

(That, by itself, should have already hinted to her that the guy was very strange, if she were being honest.)

Meiri had been setting the dishes on the table, organising them the best she could. It was hard to do much when the material she had to work with were two plain white plates – one of them with a barely noticeable chip, which she placed before her usual chair – and mismatched cutlery, but at least she was trying. Maybe too much, in fact, considering her vision was beginning to play tricks on her with how obsessive she got about placing the fork and knife perfectly parallel.

Luckily, Edmund leaving the small bathroom after his shower saved her from escalating to frustration, then anger, then most likely throwing the cutlery across the cabin to hang from the opposite wall.

That would not be a very good show to put on on her first official day at the cabin.

The steam that accompanied the man’s entrance smelled of cardamom from his soap and sandalwood from his deodorant (she had read every single label in the cabin one day when she was bored), and it was strangely soothing. Meiri sat back on Ed’s chair, huffing, when the fork’s placement still looked off to her

Maybe it was a secret cutlery rebellion. Or they just hated her in particular.

She felt a hand on her head, and scrunched her nose when Edmund ruffled her hair, feigning an undignified “hey!” before he walked by her to sit on the opposite chair.

This was wrong. They were in the wrong places. She’d even put out the cutlery they were each used to using already. She was about to point this out when he said it.

“Want to go out for dinner tonight?”

Meiri blinked.

“Dinner?”

“Yes. It’s the meal we have in the evenings.”

She glared, but it seemed to amuse him so whatever effect she used to get out of that was apparently ruined.

Continue reading

[impawsiblecat]

100 Days of Deathduo

Hero and Sidekick au- inspired by Clover's lovely lovely art found here! https://www.tumblr.com/3leafstem/749953414037913600/sidekick?source=share

Tw: Character injury, kidnapping, torture and violence

    Clover wakes up confused, in a damp room, her brain sluggish and confused as she blinks blearily. She doesn’t realize the situation or how serious it is until she tries to bring her hand up to her pounding head and finds it bound in ropes, restricting her movement. Its only then that she realizes that her mouth is also gagged, preventing her from making too much noise and muffling everything she tries to say.

    God, her head is killing her, and if she really focuses she can smell a scent of sweet disinfectant. Chloroform. How cliche. Still, it manages to get her, and now here she is, gagged and disorientated and bound to a chair. Tightly, too it seems like, and the knots in the rope are in too awkward a placement to try to untie them, no matter how hard she struggles.

    Her mask is still on. Which means this is definitely a superhero thing, although Clover doesn’t know why they would bother kidnapping a sidekick. She doesn’t know any confidential information or future plans for this exact reason, and even Starstorm only knows the minimum amount of information needed for certain plans.

    She feels a jolt of fear shooting down her spine when she hears the distant echo of heavy footfalls as they come closer and closer. She glares at the door to the room. They didn’t assign anyone to watch her while she woke up, which meant they were either cocky or understaffed, both good options for Clover. And well, she would probably need all the good things she can get, being tied up tightly and about to face someone who had kidnapped her.

    Her glare hardens even more when a woman walks in the room, in boots clearly meant for practicality and with a bat strapped to her back. “Hello there. Sonar, is it? I hope that your stay here has been lovely.” She says, smirking, cold eyes watching Clover as she can do nothing but glare.

    “Ah, right. How rude of me! That gag must be so uncomfortable, isn’t it? Here, I will take it off, but if you even think about screaming, it’s going right back on. It’s not like anyone can hear it from here, but that would cause such an inconvenience to the rest of the group, don’t you think? Especially if you used that handy little ability of yours.” She says, and reaches for the gag. As soon as it’s off, Clover tries to lean forward and bite, do something, but her teeth clamp on nothing but air.

    Less than a second after her attempt, her head is whipped to the side by a fist to her cheek, and already she can feel her lip becoming puffy. As much as she wants to cry in pain, to whimper, Clover doesn’t let herself show any weakness in front of the enemy. 

    “Don’t try that with me again, little sidekick. I will be lenient with you this time, but next time that punch will be hard enough to knock out those teeth you are so eager to use. I will even be polite and let you keep the gag off this time. Isn’t that nice? The least you could do is return the favour and not be difficult. This will all go much smoother if you do.” The woman’s voice is as sickly sweet as the remaining taste of chloroform, and it makes Clover’s skin crawl. 

    It’s strange to have a conversation with villains without Starstorm’s quips being said in response, or their brave speeches being said. Clover misses them dearly, but she is glad that they aren’t here right now. She has a feeling it will only get worse from here.

    “What do you want from me.” Clover says, and the villain just laughs in response, the kind of laughter that feels like eels sliding across skin, uncaring and evil.

    “My, my, straight to the point, I see. You see, Sonar, your hero has quite a few things we need. Their information on the hero’s headquarters and plans, their promise to stop investigating and interfering with our operations, and of course, their identity to prove their compliance with our terms. So it’s really not what we want from you, but what we want from them. You just happen to be the easiest way to get to them.” Clover’s blood runs cold at the words.

    The thing is, Starstorm is tough. Clover has seen them walk on a broken leg without flinching, and run into a burning building without hesitating. These villains would not be able to break Starstorm, would not be able to get them to agree with their terms if they tortured them or hurt them or did anything of the sort.

    Clover has also seen Starstorm put their life in danger because of her. She’s seen them stop fighting because she was pinned by a villain. She still remembers the time they abandoned a bomb that had not yet gone off because she was stuck under the rubble. Even though everything turned out fine, she was still mad at them for that.

    And worried for them, because of this. Because Starstorm was tough, but she would comply with their demands if Clover was in danger. She would hate it, be forced to leave the hero business that she so adored, but she would do it, and the world would be so much worse if it didn’t have her to try to make things safe.

    “They won’t comply with your demands. I’m just a sidekick. I’m replaceable, theres a dozen other people who have been training just to take my place.” Clover says. Clover bluffs. Because she can’t let the lady use her to get to Starstorm. She has to try to protect them.

    The swing to her face catches her off guard, and she can hear a sickening squelch when the fist collides with her nose. It makes her even dizzier than she was before. And ow, that hurts, and Clover tries her best not to wince, not to show how it affected her,and her cheek and lip still stings from earlier. She knows that if, no, when she gets out of here, her wrists are going to have rope burns on them where she is being restrained.

    “Don’t try to lie to me, Sonar. You are that hero’s most obvious weakness.” The villain says, and for some reason it is those words that get to Clover. She is gonna be Starstorm’s downfall, and that hurts, and it takes everything in her not to show that. “Even so, I guess we could always call them and ask them though, right?” The villain pulls out a phone. Clover’s phone, the second one she owns, the one used for all hero communications. She hadn’t even known it was missing, too preoccupied with everything that had happened.

    “I’m gonna need your fingerprint to get in. You don’t mind, do you?” The villain says, as she reaches back to where Clover’s hands are tied. She clenches her fists in response, but that doesn’t deter the lady from forcefully prying one of them loose. A jolt of searing pain through her finger makes Clover finally cry out, and she cuts off her yelp as soon as she realizes.

    “Ah, there we go.” The lady scrolls through Clover’s phone. “I was wondering if you would react to the pain. I expected more from you, to be honest. Don’t you get into fights with villains often?” She says absentmindedly, and she’s right, which is the worst part, but Clover is usually too busy battling to pay attention to the pain until afterwards.

    “Really, you shouldn’t call her. You shouldn’t. She is not gonna listen, it will be your downfall.” Clover warns, and she isn’t sure of that, she doesn’t know how many people are here and willing to fight. It’s inside, too, and Starstorm’s power won’t be very strong, but she has to try, or at least distract the villain for a bit, or something.

    The woman ignores her, and dials Starstorm, pressing a button that causes the ringer to be on speaker. Clover hopes and prays that this will be the one time that Starstorm doesn't answer, that they are busy or their phone is dead or something-

    “Hello? Sonar? What’s up?” Starstorm’s voice says, sounding grainy through the phone’s video call, and while Clover normally feels happy to hear them, now she can hear nothing but dread.

    “Hang up Starstorm! Hang up right now and don’t answer if I call you-” Clover’s pleading is interrupted when she gets kneed in her stomach, her breath knocked out of her, making her unable to continue speaking until she catches it.

    “Don’t listen to her if you don't want something bad to happen to her. Starstorm, was it? A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I just had a few things I wanted to discuss with you, if that is alright.” The villain says, and Clover is so dizzy, and has such a headache, and Starstorm is on the other side of the line which is not good. 

    “Fine. I’m listening.” Starstorm says, and they sound mad, scared, and Clover wants to yell at them to hide their emotions better, to refuse to listen, to hang up and just leave her but she can’t yet form the words.

    Clover is just forced to listen as the villain outlines her terms again, and hates it when Starstorm appears to actually be listening.

    “Starstorm, its fine! I’m fine. Don’t listen to her!” Clover says as soon as she has enough breath in her lungs to speak again, to plead with them to stop. She isn’t surprised when her face stings from a backhand to the face.

    “Why don’t you stop talking and convince your hero to comply with our demands?” The lady says coldly, warning Clover. 

    “Sonar? Have they hurt you? Just sit tight, okay?” Starstorm says, and Clover can hear the worry and panic bleeding through the phone but she can’t focus on it right now, only on the rage rushing through her veins at the lady in front of her.

    “Go to hell.” Clover says, glaring with everything she has, as if that were enough to burn a hole through the lady.

    The woman ignores her, and turns back to the phone. “You’ve heard our demands. I would highly encourage you to consider them, and soon.” She says, and Clover can hear the click of the dial tone as she hangs up on a panicked Starstorm.

    ‘Now then. You really should have been more compliant, Sonar. No matter. There’s a bit of time before Starstorm can even give us the information. Hopefully you will be a little less rude afterwards.” She says.

    Clover closes her eyes, and hopes with everything in her that Starstorm ignores what is happening, even though she knows that they won’t.

[fluxweeed]

yes I agree that you’re implicitly required to rec a fic you’re involved in which is why it HURTS WHEN PEOPLE DONT like oof. you said yes to work on it but then you didn’t like it that much hey. obviously I’d rather that than people rec something they don’t actually like, I’m not saying it should be disingenuous, it just hurts you know? ouch

nahhh i don't think ppl should feel obligated to do marketing for a fic they've already put time and energy into helping the writer with!

[hadsephone]

I hope this isn't too weird, but I wanted to thank you for No One Loves The Light Like The Blind Man, Im legally blind and the fic really means a lot to me, I love how it was a perfect balance of "Hades is blind and that is important" but also "Hades is blind and he has way more to himself than that", thank you, if it makes sense at all, it was representation while also just being a story that happens to have a blind character, and for that I'm grateful

oh wow! it's not too weird at all, i'm so glad the fic meant that much to you!

Yeah obviously I put A LOT of minority rep into my HT fics - I'd even argue that's what I'm known for, if i can be that egotistical - but I never want or intend for my fics to start or end with rep. Like yeah i write a lot about queer/NT/Disabled/POC/etc HT characters, and i love doing that and it's often very personal to me...but i never want that to be the ONLY focus, yk? And it appears my blind!hades fic has done just that for you, so this is really one of the highest compliments <3

[rottingpink]

little house in the woods | jason todd

cw: shy! reader, threats, angry jason, fingering, cum eating, smut, unprotected sex, corruption kink, pussy eating, feral jason, not beta'd MDNI

synopsis: You're a sweet recluse who allows her home to be Jason's safe house. What happens when he starts to get too close to her?

masterlist

The screen door creaks open late one evening. Jason Todd steps inside your little kitchen like it's a habit, almost as though he's lived here all his life. In truth, you'd only known Jason for about two months now since he came stumbling to your doorstep one stormy evening. Things seemed to pass in a blur since then.

Jason's shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his jacket, bruised from the constant fights he participates in. His jaw is sore and his knuckles are split from punching again. He's already in one of his moods.

He kicks off his boots by the door without looking, the way he always does, listening to the familiar sound of dirty soles thunking against the wood floor. Then, he heads straight to the sink like he's on autopilot, having memorized the layout of your house like it's his own. He doesn't even need to look down to where the fluffy hand towels are as he dries his hands.

There's a plate of dinner waiting on the table that's still hot and steaming, and you're standing near the counter, looking at him like he didn't just come home covered in bruises and blood. You're smiling in the cutesy, innocent way you always do. The way that boils Jason's blood in both a bad, and really good way.

"Hi, Jay," you say, your voice smooth like honey as you look up at him with big, sparkly eyes, like he's just your husband coming home late from work.

Jason swears under his breath and marches through the kitchen, hovering around you for a moment, before muttering a gruff "Hello." in return, slumping down into his usual seat at the dinner table, looking down at tonight's meal.

The plate's got roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and a pile of vegetables on the side. It's very balanced. It looks like food you'd see in a magazine with a recipe underneath. You cooked. Again. Like you do every night.

"Thought you might be hungry," you say, cheeks all pink from the stove's heat, or maybe just from looking at him. You get so bashful when he stares. "You want me to get you a knife or anything else?"

"No. S' fine." he grumbles, picking up a fork to start stabbing at his vegetables. You nod, still smiling all cute as you take out a jug of lemonade for him and pour him a class without asking, setting it down beside his plate, right before leaning down to press the softest, most innocent kiss to his cheek. Right near the cut on his jaw, his sweet spot. "Glad you're home safe."

Jason goes still at the feeling, a little grunt leaving him involuntarily. The second your lips brush over him, it's as though every muscle in his body tenses. His eyes flick to you, but you're already walking away, humming to yourself like you didn't screw him over with that little gesture.

What the hell are you doing, letting a guy like him into your house? Letting him sleep in the extra bedroom you cleaned just for him and eat off your table without asking for compensation? What kind of sweet, naive girl lets a man with knives and guns in his duffel bag and scars up his back and shoulders stay in her house like he's not dangerous?

"You shouldn't do that," he grumbles as you have your back turned to him, a deep scowl on his face. You blink, turning back toward him, confusion soft in your eyes. "Do what?"

"You know what I mean. The kissin'. The..." his voice gets tight, jaw ticking, "...the 'Jay' with your little giggle. Don't."

"Don't act like we're friends?' you ask, so innocently, head tilted in a way that makes him want to pounce on you. "We are friends."

Jason clenches his jaw. His fingers curl around the fork, knuckles white. "You should be more wary, is all" he mutters, frowning as you respond with a little huff and a playful eye roll, going over to check on the pies you made for dessert that are cooling on a rack.

He stares at the curves of your body, gaze panning from your hips, down to your thighs, and back up to your ass, plump in the cute little nightgown you're wearing, with the hem riding up your thighs enough to show your panties if you bent over. He can't take his eyes off of you, not for a second. He's looking at you to figure out how someone like you could possibly be real, let alone a part of his life. You feed him. You made him a safe house with gingham curtains and a soft bed and dinner waiting on the table every night without fail.

He's coiled so tight it feels like his skin doesn't fit right, seeing you flutter around the kitchen like everything's fine, apron tied snugly around your waist. You turn and meet his gaze again as he continues.

"Why aren't you scared of me?" Jason mutters all gruff, pushing back his chair and standing. His eyes are all dark and stormy. "You let a guy like me in your house. You give me food, a bed, clothes. You let me walk around your kitchen like I belong here." He steps forward slowly. "You don't even lock your fucking door."

Your throat bobs as you swallow, but your expression doesn't change. That soft, quiet sweetness still on your face like you've never even heard a threat before.

"I don't have to lock it because the only person who comes around here is you, and I know you."

Jason's frown deepens, and he crowds your space, hissing at you coldly. "You don't know shit about me." He stares down at you, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. He keeps coming closer and closer to you, all while you don't even realize what you're doing to him, standing there in your cozy little kitchen, smelling like a dessert.

His body pushes you back into the counter, his jaw is clenched and lips twisted in a snarl. You open your mouth, but he cuts you off, his voice rising. "You let me in here. You open your house up to someone like me and think I'm not gonna hurt you? You think I'm just gonna be your lil' prince charming?"

He shoves his hand against the counter beside you, trapping you in place. His face is inches from yours, but this time, you don't see the same tired, frustrated guy you've been taking care of. This time, all you see is the threat, the dangerous man who doesn't think you should have trusted him at all.

"I could strangle you, you know," he says all soft. His hand shoots out, quick and brutal, grabbing your neck just below your chin. "You think I wouldn't do it? You think I wouldn't snap your neck like a twig if I wanted to?"

Your pulse spikes. His grip isn't tight enough to suffocate you, just enough to make your heart pound harder. "Or what if I wanted to cut you?" His thumb presses into the side of your neck. he's learned you can make someone pass out if you push there hard and long enough. wouldn't take long if he did it to you, though. another reminder of how fragile you really are. "What if I wanted to steal everything in your house and leave you with nothing?"

You look up at him, whimpering softly at the feeling of his huge hand wrapping around your throat. Your smaller one grabs at his wrist, staring up at him with big, glassy eyes. "J-jason..."

"What if I wanted to tear off one of those flimsy lil' dresses you wear around me and fuck you?" He lets out a low mumble, tipping your head up and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip. "You think they're cute, huh? You think I don't notice the way you dress like 'm not gonna want to tear you apart?"

Your breath hitches, and for a second, you can't find your words. He's crowding you now, pinning you to the counter so you have no way out. His thumb pushes harder on your lower lip.

You stare at him, your face flushed. Your chest is rising fast now, like you're trying to keep calm, like your body's betraying you even if your voice hasn't cracked yet. You're not saying anything, but your fear's loud enough without words.

Jason's still holding onto your throat, the heel of his hand digging into your pressure point while his thumb smushes against your soft lips. His chest heaves with each breath, his face twisted up even though deep down, he's thoroughly enjoying himself. He relishes in the slight tremble your body gives and the way you look up at him like you're starting to realize he's not savable.

He leans down to your level. "You scared now, sweetheart?" he mutters. You try to speak, but it catches in your throat. He can feel it under his hand, that flutter in your pulse. "Yeah," he breathes. "That's what I thought."

He tilts his head, leaning down to slot his mouth over your cheek, mocking the little kisses you always give him when he's home. He moans against your skin, starting to press sloppy kisses down to your jaw. He's done holding back, finally indulging in the terrible, heinous thoughts he's had about you since you let him into your home.

His hands roam under your dress, hiking it up to squeeze the plush globes of your ass, all while you moan softly, eyes fluttering shut.

He kisses up the side of your throat and up to your ear, huffing low so you hear every bit of how hot he is for you. "Lemme show you what bad men do to pretty girls who play house with 'em."

his hands move again. they don't stay in place for long. he's very unpredictable. one moves back to grip on your throat, while the other hand drags up the back of your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown until his rough fingers find bare skin. his breathing is ragged now, lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he's trying to inhale you.

"You smell s'sweet," he growls, nose brushing the soft skin beneath your jaw. "Always smell so fuckin' sweet."

He's spreading you apart before your brain can comprehend it, lifting you up with his free hand to guide you up onto the counter, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. Slotting his body between your legs, he looks down at your pretty cotton panties. Just as adorable as you, all lacy and pastel like you didn't have a clue what they'd do to him.

Jason huffs a breath through his nose, low and unsteady, staring at the soaked little patch in the middle. "Fuck," he mutters, dragging his thumb over the wet spot slowly and teasingly. "Look at this. You want me like this." His hand grips your thigh to keep you open, his gaze locked on your panties as he takes two fingers and pushes them up against your panties so he can trace your plump little pussy through the fabric, firm enough to make you twitch.

You jolt, grabbing onto his shoulder while your tummy flips. "Mmh... i-its good... b-but 'm sensitive..." you warn softly, trying to fight against his grip ever so slightly, but he keeps you spread for him with his firm hand. Your breath catches when he starts tugging your panties to the side, baring the warm air of the kitchen onto your even warmer hole.

His hand grips your hip, anchoring you in place while he teases your entrance with the pads of his fingers, just barely pressing in. You let out a strangled little sound, back arching as he slowly presses a finger inside you with a low groan. Your body clenches around him and it makes him twitch, a guttural sound leaving his chest. "Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, nose nuzzling yours. "So fuckin' warm. This pussy's been waiting for me, hasn't she?" You nod helplessly, eyes wide, lips parted as he pumps his finger inside you slow and filthy. He watches you fall apart for him, cheeks flushed and pretty little moans leaving your mouth with every curl of his finger.

His thick digit curls just right inside you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs circles around your clit, not too quick, just firm and steady like he's testing how fast he can get you to fall apart. You whimper again, your hips rolling into his hand without thinking.

He watches the little faces you make while you're in heat like this, as well as the way your body reacts to his touch. His eyes are locked on the place where his finger disappears inside you with that delicious squelch, and once you're relaxed, he slides in a second to fill you up even more. You jerk, nightgown bunching up more at your waist as he shoves his fingers deep inside you, wanting to see how tight you can squeeze around them.

"Damn," he mumbles, "You're squeezin' the fuck outta me." His free hand grabs your thigh harder when you flinch back, nails digging just a little into your flesh to keep you still and wide open for him. He leans in, breathing heavy against your cheek as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers keep stroking inside you, that slow, steady rhythm that's driving you crazy because it's just enough to have you trembling, but not enough to tip you over.

You whine out a soft "Jay," all desperate and teary eyed, your grip on his shoulders tightening as your legs start to shake. You don't even realize you're grinding down onto his hand until he growls, "Yeah… that's it. Use your words. You need it that bad, don't you?"

He keeps his face close to yours, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, watching how dazed you look already, lips all swollen and wet from how much you've been panting. "Feels 's good! M-more..." You whine, your body starting to move on its own, hips rolling into his hand, trying to chase the pressure that's curling in your gut.

Jason doesn't let up. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers, deep and slow, his thumb pressed firm to your clit, working you in tight little circles until your legs are twitching and your mouth is open like you're gasping for air.

"You're already gonna cum, huh?" he murmurs, voice low and thick. "Already cryin' on my fingers like a needy little thing." You nod, head falling back against the cabinet behind you, your breath coming in short, desperate little bursts. " 'M gonna...Jay, I...I'm gonna..."

"Come, then," he orders, eyes locked on yours. "Cum on my fingers like a good girl. Show me how sweet this fuckin' pussy is."

You shatter around him body locking up tight before it all melts down at once, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you can't even stay upright without holding onto him. Your whole body trembles and he watches it all, jaw clenched, eyes dark and blown wide with how fucked he is for you.

He keeps his fingers inside you even after, not pulling out until you're twitching too much to take it, and even then, he pulls back slow, glancing down at the mess he made of you. He brings his fingers to his mouth without even thinking, licking them clean while he keeps his eyes on your face.

Then he leans in, mumbling in your ear. "You made a mess on my hand,"

Jason's gaze drops down to the tent in his jeans, thick and straining against the zipper, and he lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl.

"Take my cock out," he says roughly, eyes never leaving yours. Your fingers tremble a little as they reach for his belt, heart hammering in your chest while you work it loose, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet kitchen. Jason's eyes are burning into your face the whole time, watching the way you fumble a little, the way your lips part and your breathing gets uneven while you tug his belt free, then pop open the button on his jeans.

You slide the zipper down slow, hands shaking just the tiniest bit, but you don't stop.

He helps you just enough to shove his jeans down his hips, groaning softly when you reach into his briefs and wrap your fingers around him. He's thick and hot and already leaking against your palm, and the second you touch him, his whole body stiffens.

"Jesus," he mumbles, chest rising and falling hard. You glance up at him through your lashes, a little dazed and shy, but your hand stays wrapped around him as you stroke him once, then twice, making his head fall forward, forehead bumping into yours while he groans.

He looks into your eyes, his voice all rough and shaking with how close he is to snapping. "You're gonna do it, alright? Not me." he says, jaw clenched. "You're gonna show me how dirty you are, and take me in your hand, and you're gonna line me up with that sweet little pussy like this was your fuckin' idea."

You nod even though you're buzzing and feel your body burning, and he watches you slowly wrap your hand snugly around his cock, his face close to yours as you guide him between your legs.

"Yeah," he mumbles, watching your face. "Just like that." You whimper when the head of his cock bumps against your entrance, slick and warm, and Jason moans low in his throat at the feel of you, the head of him just barely pushing inside.

Your fingers tremble as you line the head of him up with your entrance, glancing up at him as you press him against your folds. "It's so hard," you whisper, all breathless. "Your cock..."

"I know," He responds, watching you continue to guide him, soaked folds parting around the flushed head, barely nudging it in just enough for both of you to feel that first slide. " 's... fuck... c-cause I want you s'bad." He hunches over you a little, mouth hanging open as you finally line him up just right. His tip catches on your soaked entrance and he groans deeply, forehead pressing to yours again like he's trying to stay tethered to something.

He pants, grinding the head against you, not pushing in all the way yet, smearing your wetness all over the flared head of his cock while your thighs twitch around his hips. You make a tiny noise, all high and breathy, and he grins against your cheek. His nose brushes your temple while he shifts his hips just enough for his tip to nudge inside, slow and heavy. "Fuck... there we go, sweetness. 'S suckin me in now."

He grabs your thigh with his free hand, pushing it up until your knee's hooked over his forearm, giving him more room, more access, more of you. He doesn't push all the way in yet, just slides in a few inches, slow and aching, just enough to make your mouth drop open and your nails bite into his shoulders.

"Keep lookin' at me," he hisses. "Don't you dare look away. You let me in, shit... now you're gonna watch what I do to you."

Your eyes flutter open again, all teary and glassy and overwhelmed, and he groans and thrusts in deeper, hips jerking forward like he can't help it anymore, burying himself with a low, breathless curse. Both hands grab your thighs to hold you wide open while his cock sinks alllll the way inside, thick and throbbing inside you.

He sinks in all the way, slow but deliberate, forcing your body to stretch and take every thick inch, and the second he bottoms out, he stays there, buried deep inside you, breathing hard through his nose like he's trying to stay composed, but he's not even close. His hands grip your thighs so tight it makes your skin dimple, holding you still like he's afraid you'll run, like he knows you're not ready for how far he's about to take this.

"Fuck, it's good," he mutters, voice wrecked as he stares down at where you're joined. "Look at that. Fuckin' swallowed me whole, didn't you?" He gives a rough roll of his hips, just enough to make you jerk and gasp under him. "Tight little pussy- already squeezin' like she wants to keep me."

Your head tips back as a choked little moan slips out, your hands clinging to his shoulders now, nails dragging across his back without thinking. He groans, fucking into you harder now, faster. Your body jerks with the impact of his rough thrust, and he moans, loud and low against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he bites down like an animal.

He keeps fucking into you with rapid, punishing thrusts, his body bracketed over yours, your legs forced wide apart so he can get deeper. You moan loudly, not bothering to hold back on being responsive. You're slicing into his back with your nails, mewling and panting his name harshly.

He growls at the pleasure pain you give him, rutting into you harder, like the sound of his name like that flipped some switch in him. "Say it again," he pants. "Say my fuckin' name."

You do, a little louder this time, all breathless and shaking. "Jason, mmh! please!"

"Fuck," he bites, his whole body shuddering as he pounds into you now, hips snapping forward again and again. "You're gonna let me ruin you, huh? That what you want, sweet girl? Gonna let me fuck the good right outta you?" You nod, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, not even sure if it's from how good it feels or how deep he's inside you, but it makes him groan, deep and ragged, like he's never seen anything more perfect.

His voice is nothing but a harsh whisper now. "I ever catch you lettin' another man in this house, I swear to god-"

You cut him off with a soft little moan, too blissed out to process the threat, and Jason grunts, cock pulsing inside of you as he scrapes against your gummy inner walls. You let out a loud, high whine, clenching tight around him, and he curses under his breath, leaning forward to kiss you rough and messy, dragging his tongue across your bottom lip.

The taste of you is too much for him, and he groans loudly, grabbing onto the back of your head so he can fully suck your tongue into his mouth and buck into you faster, like a dog in a rut. "Gonna cum f'you, sweetness." He grunts, tearing out of you suddenly.

You whine at the loss of the full feeling inside your belly. and he grabs onto your plush thighs again, squeezing his throbbing, flushed cock and pumping it a few times before splurting all over your pussy. You pant, heart pounding in your chest.

He cums load after load on you, before dropping onto his knees and stuffing his face into your cunt, needing you to cum for him too. He doesn't want to wait for your sensitivity or that coil to fade away, and so he thrusts his tongue deep inside your sopping hole, eating out your cunt like it's the only dessert he needs.

You scream, ecstasy washing over you so suddenly that you can't even warn him when you cum into his hot mouth, watching him eagerly drink it all up and tongue fucking you through your orgasm.

He groans at your taste once again, unable to get over how sweet you taste. He stands and scoops some of the cum off his thighs and pushes his fingers lightly to your mouth. "Open f'me, sweetness." He mutters, watching you oblige with a dazed look in your eyes. He feels his cock twitch to life once more at the sight of you tasting him and looking into his eyes like he's just ruined you, which he has. Your hair is a mess and your lips are swollen, and your lower half is soaked with his cum.

"That's my sweet girl."