#but the vitriol in those comments forced my hand

[icaruspendragon]

my alabama public school education having ass: *learns about the troubles and the partition of ireland and shares said newly acquired knowledge on tiktok so others who were unaware can also learn*

the men in my comments section: YOU DUMB STUPID BITCH. YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT. LEAVE ALABAMA BECAUSE IT MADE YOU A BACKWARDS BACKWOODS BUMFUCK GO FUCK YOURSELF AND AFTER YOURE DONE GO FUCKING KILL YOURSELF

[iamthecomet]

Thots on the new Ghouls first impact scene?

What if he saw Mountain putting Rain back in his place over his knee in the middle of the common room after he had been real bratty all day. To start the new ghoul was shocked and worried that seemingly sweet, gentle Mountain would do such a thing to his mate but when Mountain asked Rain for a colour after a particuarly hard hit started the tears flowing, he put two and two together from the gentler, sensation and teasing based scenes he has been part of so far. Watching Rain endure his 'punishment' has his brain shorting out and he decides right then, he absoloutly wants a piece of that.

Which ghoul does he go to about it, does he bring up the subject and ask nicely for what he wants or does he just try bratting like Rain and Dew on for size, to see where it gets him? how does the scene itself go down? I have so many questions i am gnawing the bars of my enclosure!

Thoughts below the cut. Not quite a ficlet and not quite headcanons, just nearly 1,000 words of unhinged ramblings.

Two things happen when he watches Mountain spank Rain. The first, is that he realizes he really likes to watch. He likes the way Rain shudders, the way he yelps. Loves the way his body jolts with each solid hit. He feels the sound in his bones.

There is something about the way Mountain asks for a color that makes Aeon feel insane. The care evident in his voice. The way he pushes Rain's sweaty hair out of his face when he asks. The desperate nod to Rain's head when he says he's green. 'm green, Mount don't stop.

The second is that he realizes he needs this. Needs to feel that sharp sting. Needs someone to talk to him like this. Needs the vitriol mixed with the love like his life depends on it.

And you might think Aeon tries to broach the subject with Mountain or Aether. Maybe even one of the ghoulettes. He definitely doesn't try to just brat himself into it. He's seen enough to know that there's negotiation involved. And it would be smart to ask one of the bigger ghouls. The level headed ones.

But he doesn't want Mountain to hit him. He thinks he does, when he's watching the scene unfold. But then Dew strides into the room, looks at the scene and barks out a laugh and Aeon knows exactly who he wants.

Dew makes a comment about Mountain not hitting Rain hard enough and suddenly Aeon needs to know what those bony hands feel like on his ass. He's staring before he realizes it--and worse, Dew's staring back. Mouth quirking up into a sly smile that makes Aeon's stomach do a disastrous flip.

Dew leaves the room without a word.

Aeon tries to think of ways to ask Dew for this without embarrassing himself. He really likes Dew. Wants to impress him. He rolls possible ways to get it to happen around in his head for two days. He watches Dew during practice, during dinner.

He knows he's making a mistake. That Dew isn't going to treat him nicely like Mountain treats Rain, and Aeon's ok with that. He doesn't particularly want nice. He wants Dew.

He doesn't end up having to ask. Dew corners him in the hallway on the way back to their rooms from dinner. Comes up behind him, twists one arm behind his back and shoves him, chest first, into the nearest wall.

Strong despite his size, and Aeon can't think of anything except being bent over his knee. The smell of Dew invades his senses. He's hard already, dick grinding against the stone wall as Dew pins him.

"You want me to hurt you, don't you?" Dew asks, and Aeon nods, he whispers please against the wall and he can feel Dew's grin on the back of his neck.

Aeon half expects Dew to get right to it. To force him to undress, to drag him over his knee and just start. But Dew makes him talk about it first. Sets ground rules. Explains the color system. Tells Aeon that he isn't allowed to force himself through this if it's too much.

That conversation alone is almost too much. Dew's as serious as Aeon's ever seen him. Arms crossed, eyes focused on Aeon's as he talks and forces Aeon to answer.

By the time they're ready and Dew orders him to strip, he's shaking. He's hard, embarrassingly so. His cock already dripping. And Dew takes one look and huffs out a harsh bark of laughter.

He drags Aeon over, bends him over his knee, and tells him that if he makes a mess on Dew's jeans--he's going to have to clean it up.

Dew makes him keep count. The words stuttering out of his mouth after every sharp hit. Dew starts off easy. Sharp hits that sting but don't ache. Aeon lurches with each one. Gasping as Dew's hands land on alternating cheeks. Purring as he kneads at them between strikes. Melting deeper and deeper into Dew's lap. His face pressed into Dew's sheets--they smell like him.

Aeon grinds his dick against Dew's thigh and mewls.

The first hard strike takes him off guard. He yelps. He feels the sting of it deep. Feels the impact in his legs.

Dew tells him he's going to make sure Aeon thinks about him every time he sits down for the next week and Aeon suddenly believes him. Knows that by the end of this his ass will be a myriad of colors.

He can't wait to see.

The yelps turn into moans after a while. Dew fists his free hand in Aeon's hair and drags his glassy gaze up so he can really look at him.

"Fucking pain slut," Dew accuses and Aeon can't deny it. He just nods, and when Dew asks him for a color, Aeon tells him green.

And then he asks for Dew to hit him harder.

Aeon only makes it two more of those hard hits before he's cumming all over Dew's jeans. Sobbing with it. Tears soaking into Dew's bedspread.

Dew scoffs. Calls him pathetic. Tells him to clean up his mess. Aeon slips off Dew’s lap and kneels between his legs and dragging his tongue over the rough denim while Dew keeps a firm hand in his hair to guide him. Dew drags his mouth over his cock. Tells him if he really wants to be his good boy—he’ll suck his cock.

Aeon is more than happy to oblige.

[odinsblog]

how do you avoid right wingers (& centrists that use slurs) when making political posts? i want to be able to help inform other people but the nastiness i’ve received makes me want to give up. i understand why some people avoid politics entirely

Hello there, @land-shark-is-here

Honestly, I don’t avoid them. What I mean is, you can’t avoid them.

They drop into my asks just to sling the n-word at me and then they just keep strolling by like nothing happened

They’re literally out there by the tens of thousands, and they’re loud

After a while I’ve learned that instead of internalizing their vitriol or letting them get me down, the best I can really do is delete their comments and then block them (in that order - it matters). Most of these trolls are looking to ride the coattails of your posts to gain the visibility that they cannot get on their own — unless you can crush their foolishness with a particularly witty or devastatingly insightful comeback, deny them that visibility. Don’t, as they say, feed the trolls

(please see also: x, y, and z)

And even when comments and reblogs by other trolls might make it *appear* that dozens and dozens of other bloggers are expressing agreement with a troll, that is almost always an illusion. Online trolls travel in packs. Seriously. If you visit a comment troll’s blog, you will probably see the following things: their blog is almost exclusively nothing but them shitting on someone else’s posts, or they are in constant communication with other comment trolls who do the same thing, or they’re just bored conservative porn bloggers. Anyway, when a comment troll sees one of their ilk latch onto a post, they dog pile it. I have witnessed this repeatedly with pro-gun bloggers and anti-choice bloggers. I’ve seen them force some bloggers to delete some really great posts over the years, because the person felt overwhelmed and outnumbered due to being ganged up on

And learn to spot sea lions - they’re the disingenuous trolls who always seem to be interested in genuine discourse, but no matter how many times you answer their questions, somehow it’s never quite enough—that’s because their true goal is to keep peppering you with “simple” questions that require a ton of thought on your part. They could care less about your answers. Their mission is to wear you out. Death by a thousand cuts, so to speak. Their job is to remain unconvinced, no matter how much sense your replies might make. Please understand: they want you to get discouraged and give up. Because as you and others like you quit, their version of reality becomes more accepted, and they gain control of the narrative, and they eventually become the “common sense” gatekeepers, and ultimately their way of thinking will shift the Overton window ever rightwards. If we let that happen

Look, on the other hand it’s always a good idea to open ourselves to the possibility that we might be wrong. There is nothing wrong with honest and respectful debate, if that’s how you want to spend your time. No one is right all of the time. No one is wrong all of the time. We’re human. So sometimes we do need to hear what those who disagree with us are thinking. (Within reason, ofc. I’m not talking about Nazis or people who think Black people and/or LGBTQ, etc people are second class and less than human - fuck those so called “viewpoints”) If nothing else, we learn how to retort their disingenuous arguments—but that has its limits. You are not a doormat for trolls to amuse themselves

But if you dO decide to engage the trolls, it’s never a bad idea to invest in learning logical fallacies and how to debate, so that you have the skills to thoroughly deconstruct a troll’s specious arguments (and honestly I need to take my own advice here)

So unless you genuinely want to enlighten an audience with your response to a troll, my advice is to go heavy on blocking. It may take a while, but just like tending a garden, eventually you will see your online space become more de-trolled. It’s self care. It’s not living in a bubble or being a snowflake. If you spend a significant portion of your time online, please remember that you deserve some peace of mind, even in online spaces

I hope you found this helpful

Good luck

[priestessofspiders]

Dreams can come true

It’s different for everyone. Some of us figure it out when we’re in elementary school, others realize only very late into our lives. Me though? I’ve always known. Some of us interpret it as a very literal transformation; “I used to be a girl, now I’m a boy”. Others feel like we were always our “chosen” gender, simply forced by fate into a body we never asked for. I fall, very strongly, into the latter category. As long as I can remember, I dreamed of being a man, and I mean that very literally.

When I fell asleep, my dream self was quite different from my physical body, with broader shoulders, a square jaw, larger hands and feet, and a deep voice that fills any room I am in like an upright bass. It wasn’t always such a pronounced change of course. When I was very young, the differences were subtler, the unwanted waking nightmare of sexual dimorphism not yet wholly foisted upon me, but changes were still there. I always felt like something was wrong when I woke up to find myself with the long hair my mother insisted I couldn’t cut to the short length I desired. I remember once, after a birthday party, looking at myself in the mirror, wearing a nice, expensive dress I’d received as a gift, and thinking to myself how much happier I’d be wearing the suit I had on in my dreams the night before.

I didn’t have a word for it until high school though. My family was somewhat strict about my access to the internet and what sorts of films I was allowed to watch, so the first time I heard the word “transgender” was when I met someone else like me.

His name was Timothy, and in all truth we weren’t friends. Nobody was friends with Timothy, nobody wanted to hang out with the freak. There were many comments like “So if you’re a man, am I allowed to hit you?”, whispered slurs, and exaggerated caricatures drawn on scrap paper and surreptitiously passed around to a chorus of barely contained snickers. I’d like to say I never joined in, but peer pressure is a powerful force, especially when it comes to those of us who desperately want to fit in. I think part of me resented him too, for so flagrantly living the life I wanted to have. He wore a binder to flatten his chest, his hair was short and slicked back with gel, and he always dressed like someone out of a prior age, a holdover from an era of leather jackets, fast cars, and switchblades. I was jealous.

Eventually the bullying got bad enough that one of his bolder tormentors broke his arm. Nobody confessed to the act, and the school’s administration was less than cooperative in trying to find out who did it. Timothy’s parents wound up pulling him from school, and I never saw him again. My own parents saw it as a relief, saying that he was “a dangerous influence” and that his family should have sent him off to a psychologist rather than “indulging her delusions”. It was the first time I had ever heard them talk about someone like me, and the memory of my own mother and father describing with such vitriol how much they hated Timothy was permanently burned into my developing mind, a scar which I don’t think will ever heal.

I knew there was never any chance of being accepted by my family. At best, they’d see me as a victim of some perverted campaign to corrupt innocent young women into hating their bodies, at worst they’d treat me like a delusional freak. Either way, they would still see me as their daughter, and I very much doubt there is anything I could do to change that.

After so many years of being forced to hide who I am, I finally have the good fortune of living alone, far away from my parents and their bigotry. It was almost unbearable during the final few months of my living with them, when people like me became a political wedge and the hate spewing talking heads on the idiot box began telling horror stories of “groomers” and “radical gender ideology”. But I managed to get out and find a job. I was finally free to be myself. Well, more or less. I was out publicly to friends and coworkers, I bound my breasts, people called me Victor rather than the stupid name on my driver’s license, but in terms of actual medical treatment I was still stuck at square one.

The thing that they don’t tell you is it’s actually rather difficult to get on hormones, at least if you’re a transgender man. Estradiol and the like aren’t controlled substances, if worst comes to worst an uninsured trans woman can get her hands on some hormones via the gray market, and the process of getting a prescription is far quicker. Testosterone, however, is a Schedule III controlled substance, the same tier as anabolic steroids or ketamine. Getting a prescription is a bit more of an involved process, and going through unofficial channels could result in a felony if you get caught.

So, finally liberated from my family, I now had to deal with the frustration of the medical system. My crummy job working at a movie theater didn’t exactly have the best insurance plan, and by the time I did manage to get in touch with a doctor about getting an appointment set up, I was informed the soonest I could see someone would be several months at least. Without going into too much detail, certain conservative politicians in my state had made it rather difficult to get gender affirming care via telehealth, out of a fear that it would be too easy for “impressionable adolescents to permanently alter their bodies”. So I simply had to sit around and twiddle my thumbs, waiting for my turn at one of the rapidly dwindling number of clinics that offered consultations for getting on hormone replacement therapy.

Of course, I knew that hormones aren’t mandatory for being a “real man”, and I knew that even if I did manage to get on testosterone it wouldn’t make the bigots any more convinced of my masculinity, but I still couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness whenever I looked in the mirror. The reflection that stared back at me didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel like me. Do you have any idea how terrible it is to feel trapped in a body which is utterly wrong? To have your own flesh and blood betray you every second of every day?

I coped as best as I could, and spending time with supportive friends helped. But really, the most comforting thing throughout this ordeal was my dreams. Even if I couldn’t pass as male in the waking world, even if I had to deal with the “thank you miss”s and “howdy ma’am”s from the customers at work, when I slept it was as though my mind and body were in perfect alignment. It sometimes felt like my own mind was comforting me, covering me with a blanket of fantasy to soothe the pain. Even in my darkest nightmares, I always had a body that felt like it belonged to me.

Though my dreams are especially vivid while they last, I do find they tend to fade quite quickly upon awakening, something which has only seemed to get worse as I get older. To cope with this, I began to write down records of my nocturnal visions, first in a notebook, then later on a blog under the pseudonym of “DysphoricDreamer98”. I found it easier to reach for my phone to jot down a quick post while the memory was freshest than having to fiddle about with pen and paper. Besides, while my little blog wasn’t especially popular or anything, seeing people comment on my posts, especially other trans men, made me happy. It brought me a little joy to know I’m not alone.

Now, obviously I didn’t put out any sort of personal information on my blog. No photos, no mention of where I work, not my real name, Hell, not even which state I live in. This is why it was so odd when I found the package on my doorstep one morning, all wrapped up in brown paper and twine, addressed to DysphoricDreamer98. There was no return address, so I had no idea who could have sent it.

In a panic, I simply shut the door and left the package outside, running over to my computer to search the web to see if I’d been doxxed or something like that. I didn’t think I’d ever said anything particularly controversial, and it wasn’t as though I had any sort of wide audience. I wrote a digital dream journal with a follower count in the double digits for goodness sake, it’s not like I was a celebrity.

Once I was satisfied that I hadn’t had my personal information posted publicly or stolen in a leak of some sort, I opened my front door again and peaked out at the package, feeling oddly nervous, as if worried it was going to sprout teeth and bite me. After I was satisfied that it wasn’t going blow up or catch fire or anything like that, I brought it inside and set it down on my desk, cutting off the twine with my pocket knife and unwrapping it. I was greeted with an old wooden box, of the sort that would be used to hold expensive jewelry. It was covered all over with elaborate ornamentation, a combination of floral and geometric designs. There was something oddly hypnotic about the patterns formed by the embossed flowers and curving lines, and I spent about a minute simply admiring the craftsmanship of the thing before I actually set about opening it.

The contents of the box were a small glass vial filled with liquid, a metal syringe that looked as though it were fashioned in the Victorian era, and a note, written on very old parchment in elegant looking cursive. This is what it said:

Dear Sir,

You’ve spent every night dreaming of who you truly are. It is time to make those dreams into reality. Inject intramuscularly once per week, one milliliter. Expect results in 3-4 weeks.

Sincerely,

A friend

Now, I’m not stupid. Obviously I didn’t immediately start injecting myself with mysterious fluid I found in a box left on my front door by an anonymous stranger. As a matter of fact, my first thought was that someone was trying to poison me. I didn’t know who would want me dead, but given the circumstances I thought a little bit of paranoia was the healthiest approach to take. Part of me wondered if my family had somehow been informed of my blog, and were trying to discreetly assassinate me in order to ensure I’d never be able to medically or legally transition. I didn’t have any evidence of this, but it seemed far more logical than there being some hormone gifting Good Samaritan wandering about leaving vials of testosterone on the doors of disadvantaged trans men. Besides, whatever was contained within the vial didn’t look like testosterone, at least not in any form I was familiar with. It was tinged slightly purple, and seemed to sparkle when I held it up to the light.

I did consider calling the police, but I decided against it. Realistically all they’d do is confiscate the box, and I was worried that I could get in trouble if the contents of the vial did end up being some kind of poison or illicit substance. Besides, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

And so, I tried to do my best to forget about the box and its contents. I didn’t tell anyone about it, not even my friends, though I’m not entirely sure why that is. I suppose I may have rationalized it as trying to keep myself safe from being reported to the police, but that’s not really true. Something about it just felt private to me, inherently it was a subject that necessitated secrecy. Its presence kept nagging at me, however, and it never felt like I’d ever be fully able to erase it from my mind. Sometimes, I’d open up the box and just stare at the vial for a while, considering it silently, before shutting the lid and pushing it back under the bed.

Regardless, I managed to more or less successfully ignore the box for around a month. It was a combination of many discrete factors that led to me giving in, and even after what I’ve experienced and even though I know it was a stupid decision, I’m unable to bring myself to feel any sort of regret for it.

The day I gave in started off terribly, with my period having decided to start a day earlier than usual. I don’t feel very positively about my reproductive system at the best of times, and my distaste only grows deeper when it decides to punish me for not getting pregnant with a torrent of blood. After dealing with that unfortunate surprise, I was then faced with my biweekly phone call with my mother, during which I had to play the unfortunate role of dutiful daughter, gritting my teeth whenever she referred to me by the name she gave me instead of my real one, and clenching my hand into a fist as I expressed in the politest tones that I could muster that no, I did not have a boyfriend yet. When she started to go on a rant about the latest news story she’d seen about “woke indoctrination” in schools, I made up some excuse about poor connection and ended the call. Then it was time for work.

The gendered politeness of the South is truly a tailor made Hell for people like me, and that day saw a constant stream of “ma’am”s and “miss”s that culminated in an elderly gentleman remarking “If you don’t mind me sayin’ miss, you are quite the beautiful young woman” while I tried very hard not to strangle him. But really, truly, I think that the deciding factor that made me open up that box and try my luck with my anonymous benefactor’s vial of mystery fluid was the text message I received as I walked through my front door, informing me that my consultation had been postponed again.

I’ll be honest, when I readied that first injection, part of me hoped it was poison. It wasn’t a large part of me, but that urge to just give up, embrace the call of the void and descend into a peaceful oblivion, it was there. “To sleep, perchance to dream”, as Shakespeare put it. When nonexistence no longer frightens you, it is far easier to take risks.

I didn’t use the syringe that came with the box. While it seemed to be in pristine condition, I didn’t trust something that looked that old, and I certainly had no desire to contract tetanus or something. I walked down to the farm supply store across from my apartment building and purchased some sterile syringes and needles there instead. When I got back to the apartment I spent a few minutes looking up where was best to inject, how to make sure I avoided pricking any veins and arteries, etc., until I finally felt fairly confident that I could actually do it successfully. There was no stalling after that, I didn’t want to give myself a chance to change my mind. I popped the cork on the vial, got a milliliter of that strange purple fluid into the syringe, and plunged the needle into my thigh.

It hurt far less than I thought it would, if I’m being honest. If you’d asked me before that day if I would have been able to perform injections myself, I’d have told you no. I’ve always felt slightly uncomfortable whenever I had to get a vaccine or have a blood test done, something about needles just made me deeply nervous. But this felt right, and outside of a slight pinch and some pressure as I pushed down the plunger, it was largely painless.

I pulled out the needle and applied a small bandage to the tiny puncture mark, though the needle was so thin no blood actually welled up at all. Then I went to bed early, hoping that tomorrow would be a better day.

I woke up the next morning, writing down my latest dream on my blog in the haze of half-consciousness, and then got out of bed, pleasantly noting that I was not, in fact, dead. Whatever the liquid in the vial was, it at the very least wasn’t toxic. There wasn’t even so much as a raised bump at the injection site. Thus began my routine of injecting the purplish mystery fluid into my thigh every Friday before bed.

Just as the note said, it was around the 4 week mark when I started to actually see results. I was washing my face as part of my morning routine when I noticed something faint on my upper lip. I looked closer to see it was a few dark hairs, sprouting out from the previously smooth skin of my face. Excitedly, I looked closer, seeing with delight that all over my jaw, here and there, little hairs were poking up from my flesh. I was beginning to grow facial hair. As a matter of fact, on closer inspection of the rest of my me, I was beginning to grow more hair all over my body. It wasn’t as though I’d awoken looking like Bigfoot, but it was a noticeable change from my appearance the night before. I was ecstatic.

Now, I have to be honest here, I didn’t actually know exactly how quickly testosterone was supposed to work, nor what the exact effects were. It may seem lazy but I never really had sat down to read out how long it would take, what specific results I could expect to see, etc. I think a part of me always saw it as a borderline unachievable fantasy, so there was no reason for me to ever look up the details. However, even I should have known better than to think what happened was normal.

For one thing, the injections worked fast. Once the four week mark was hit and the changes began, it was like a dam had broken. By 5 weeks my voice was already starting to deepen. 6 weeks in and I was able to grow a faint mustache. 7 weeks and I had chest hair. Looking back on it now, it should have been obvious to me that this was too fast. These sorts of things take months and years to accomplish, not weeks. There was a faint tinge of nervousness during the 12th week as I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I was taller than I was before. It was the first hint that something was wrong. Testosterone can do a lot of things, but it can’t change your bone structure.

That wasn’t the only sign that something was off. I began to get these feelings of deja vu on occasion, about once a week, and I could never place exactly what it was. I didn’t keep track of every time it happened, obviously, but I do remember a few of the most noteworthy examples.

The first time was when I was doing a bit of shopping downtown and saw a street performer, a clown riding atop a penny farthing bicycle. He wasn’t frightening at all, I’ve never been afraid of clowns, but there was something unsettling about him. He didn’t seem to fit in with his surroundings as he glided through the crowd, occasionally honking his horn and taking his hands off the handlebars to juggle some balls. Nobody else seemed to pay him any mind though, they just kept on walking past him. He seemed so familiar, and I struggled to try and remember if I’d seen him in some viral video or something.

Another incident I remember was at work. I was selling tickets, when a pair of customers walked up to the booth in lockstep. They were identical twins, each the spitting image of the other, and wore the exact same style of formal black suit.

“We’re here-” started the one on the left.

“-to purchase some tickets-” continued the twin on the right.

“-for the 2 o’ clock show” finished the first twin.

The pair of them frankly freaked me out, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I did as they asked and got them their tickets. They paid in cash, using only 2 dollar bills. They bowed in unison after I handed them their tickets, and then marched in time to the theater I had indicated. I actually checked the purchase logs later to make sure I hadn’t imagined it all, as well as looking in the register to see if their 2 dollar bills were still there, and everything was still there. Like with the clown, the oddest part was that they seemed so familiar, as if their names were right on the tip of my tongue.

I had another encounter at a thrift store. I was shopping for some new clothes (my increased height was making some of my older outfits not fit particularly well) when I was approached by a short gentleman with white hair, who asked me “Can I help you to find anything sir?”

I turned to respond that I was fine, when I noticed that his eyes were two different colors, one blue, one brown. Something about this made my mind scream at me to remember, that this was someone who I had met before, but I just couldn’t place my finger on why. I stuttered out some noncommittal grunt and he nodded before walking away. I stumbled out of the thrift store without buying anything and went straight home.

The most recent incident is what made me put all the pieces together. I was taking a nighttime walk, something I felt more comfortable doing now due to my increased bulk and deeper voice. I felt safer knowing that any creeps would be less likely to see me as a potential target, plus I’d been hitting the gym so I felt confident in my ability to fight off anyone who’d try. I was thinking about how much my life had improved since I’d gotten the package, and wondering about what I’d do once the vial had run out. There were only a couple doses left, but my HRT consultation was only a few days away. Should I try and get more of what I was already taking, or should I switch over to a more legitimate source? It wasn’t as though I had any method through which to contact my anonymous benefactor. As I pondered this, I heard a faint hissing noise from a nearby alley, a “pssst” like someone was trying to beckon me inside.

I peered down the alleyway cautiously, trying to get a good look at whoever was trying to attract my attention. I could see the faint outline of a figure hidden partially by the shadows, but I couldn’t make out any details. I gently touched my pocket knife, just to remind myself it was still there, and then stepped into the alley.

I know it sounds like a stupid decision, and it was, but at that moment I thought that they may have been the mysterious “friend” who’d given me the vial in the first place. I figured they may have wanted to deliver the next supply in person, and frankly I wanted to thank them for changing my life. I was still nervous, of course I was, but after all that had happened I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

I stepped into the alley, cautiously, and made my way over to the figure. They hissed at me again, beckoning for me to come closer with a gloved hand. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that they were a thin man in a long overcoat, wearing a wide brimmed hat and, despite the night, a pair of dark sunglasses. They looked like some sort of secret agent stock character. His mouth was stretched wide in a toothy grin. When I was about 10 feet from him, I stopped, and asked “Hello? Are you the person who gave me the package? With the vial?”

Without moving a muscle on his face, he hissed at me again, and then held up his hand in front of his face. Using his other hand, he began to slowly pull off the glove. It was hard to tell at first, in the darkness of the alley, what exactly I was seeing, besides the simple fact that the human brain has difficulty recognizing that which ought not to be. His fingers shone slightly as they moved sinuously in the pale reflected light of the far away streetlamps, glittering like stars. Then he began to walk towards me with shaky steps, and I realized with a sudden shock what I was looking at.

The man’s fingers were snakes.

I tried to back away, but he lunged for me, hissing erupting from his writhing fingers as they latched onto my shoulder, extending out several feet from his arm. I didn’t feel them break skin, however, fortunately my denim jacket seemed to take the brunt of it. I slashed at the wriggling serpents with my pocket knife and ran when they retreated from the flashing blade. I kept running all the way home, and didn’t stop running until I was safely in my apartment with the door firmly locked and bolted.

Despite the completely surreal and impossible nature of what had just happened, it all felt so familiar, and finally the gears in my brain started to move, and I realized what it was that linked all of the strange interactions I had. I turned on my computer, and went to check my blog, searching up keywords and reading through my recorded dreams with a sense of dawning horror.

September 12th, 2023

Dreamed I was a lion tamer in some sort of circus. The lions were full of stuffing, one accidentally got caught on some fencing and was ripped open, the audience loved it. They were still heavy though, I lifted one up and everyone cheered. I guess I was a strongman as well as a lion tamer. Dream ended with a clown on an old fashioned bicycle riding across a tightrope over a big pool of water. The ringmaster said the pool was full of piranhas, but all I saw were what looked like eels or big worms. I woke up when the clown fell off his bike.

October 24th, 2023

I was a knight, going to save a princess who was trapped in a big floating tower. Accompanied by a sloth for some reason. On the way there, encountered a very polite two headed ogre. Each head would finish the other’s sentences, and it would bow at me frequently. Eventually reached the tower, but the princess was happy there, and told me to go away. Woke up soon after.

November 17th, 2023

In an old library, trying to do some research for something, can’t remember what. Went to go get help from a librarian, but he was a husky with two different colored eyes, one blue, one brown*. Got distracted by this and we got to talking for the rest of the dream, my research forgotten. It was very philosophical, but I can’t actually really remember what we talked about much. He did call me a “handsome young man” though.*

January 2nd, 2023

Nightmare. Man made of snakes. Don’t want to think about it.

I sat back in my chair, one hand over my mouth. I felt sick. This wasn’t possible, this wasn’t something that could be real. I told myself that I must be hallucinating, that it couldn’t possibly be real life, but then I looked over at the shoulder of my jacket and noticed the bite marks in the rough fabric. There was even a broken off fang sticking out. I thought about the strange twins and their 2 dollar bills in the register. Besides, it wasn’t as though I was the only person who had noticed the changes to my body. My friends and coworkers had commented on it, customers addressed me as “sir”, I had to buy new clothes to fit my changed physique. This was real. Whatever it was I had been taking, it was making my dreams into reality.

There was a knock on my front door. I got up and checked the peephole, but nobody was there. Opening the door, I saw a new package, wrapped up in brown paper and tied up with string. It was addressed to DysphoricDreamer98.

I don’t know what to do from here. I’ve spent the past day just going through all the posts on my blog tagged “nightmare”, weighing the pros and cons of continuing my treatment. The package lies unopened on my kitchen table, for now. You’ve got to understand, this substance, whatever it is, has made me happier than I’ve ever been before, but I’m worried for my safety. I got lucky this time, I managed to get away, but what about the next time? And the time after that? Do I risk acting out my nightmares in the waking world to live the life that makes me happy?

To make matters worse, I got a text message. My consultation has once again been pushed back another 3 weeks. I don’t even have the luxury of a third option. I have to choose between going cold turkey or sticking with whatever my “friend” has sent me.

I hope I make the right decision.

[nachtyr-haus-comics]

Together

💛🤍💛🤍💛🤍

Mello slumps next to his boyfriend along the bed’s edge. The action is uncharacteristic, and Near is quick to notice. 

Mello always sat properly, adhering to a series of strict, self-imposed rules. But the current action is unruly, clumsy even; it’s as if the weight of the world rests upon the blonde’s shoulders, leaving him without the patience to care about proper etiquette.

Historically, the brazen blonde was constantly on-the-go, giving a minimum of 110%, if not more, to any number of tasks throughout his day. He would gladly bear any hardship, weather any storm and do so with a lively, arrogant glint to his eyes.

Today, though, Mello is but a husk of his former self. His features are dim, eyes vacant, with parted lips that release labored breaths, one after another. That enormous weight of the world’s problems, often supported without strain, began to slowly crush him.

“Mello,” Near chances with a soft tone, “are you hungry?” 

“No.”

“Are you thirsty?

“Can it,” he spats with an antagonistic click of the tongue. “I’m not in the mood to answer your inane questions.”

Such a quip serves as another sign of Mello’s soured disposition. Though their rivalry from Wammy’s was years behind them, the second successor would occasionally jab at his adversary; but of recent, it was in jest. The curt remark is defensive, as though Mello has raised hackles, prepared to attack anything that moves. It did, however, lack the usual bite of Mello’s retorts, plainly revealing his despondency.

Ignoring the sentiment, Near lifts a hand to massage Mello’s lower back. “You seem weary.”

“Look at that; Mr. Genius figured it out all on his own.”

Again, Near ignores the vitriol. “Mello, I know you’ve been through so many difficult experiences today-- no, there were countless occurrences throughout the entire week.

“If insulting me relieves some stress for you, however little, then by all means, continue.”

Those selfless words have a marked effect on Mello, who comes to rest his head against Near’s shoulder.

“No, I…” Mello collects his thoughts, readying his next comment with the release of a particularly long breath. “I…I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I’m actually…really glad you came all this way.”

Fingers lift to twist and twirl silken stands of gold. “I’m glad I can be here for you.”

Silence blankets the room, but is swiftly broken by Mello’s respiration steadily increasing. First, he attempts to stifle the gasps and sniffles. But forcing the lid tighter on the bottle of his emotions proves to be a vain effort.

Lips quiver.

Shoulders shake.

Before long Mello’s face is buried in his beau’s lap, with delicate fingers entwined in his hair, gingerly soothing him as he sobs.

The usually unemotive lips of Near curl into a grin. His bright, joyous expression seems out of place with the sorrowful Mello huddled in his lap. But the tender smile is a sign of relief, of gratitude that circumstances allowed this meeting to transpire.

Near cradles his love’s head, reassuring him, stroking his head and neck, and reveling in the contact.

💛🤍💛🤍💛🤍

Banner artwork by UnoDayStudio on Twitter, FourTwoNine429 on Twitter and Lazulapin on Instagram!

Hello! I've decided to post some ficlets on my Tumblr once a week (likely on Friday's) Give me a follow if you're interested in MeroNia, MellodraMattic, Natebit and NearlyMellofdraMattic content! You can find similar works on my AO3:

[collymore]

This baby was callously dumped in a pub's filthy toilet, less reverently so than a piece of shit!

By Stanley Collymore

I've no sympathy whatever for this evilly callous but cowardly bitch, whomsoever she is! This vile moron should effectively, unreservedly and unquestionably, unsentimentally, be prosecuted, with the full force, of the law. And don't any of you, come with your feigned, sanctimoniously induced crap, that she didn't know what she was doing. Logic and as well natural commonsense rather simply contradict that irrefutably! Unquestionably self-evidently it's clear she effectively consciously discernibly, quite literally, had no problem going into a pub; rather than her crucially and obviously actually and realistically calling an ambulance, to normally take her to hospital; as pubs usually one would have thought are, in essence the very most unlikely of places to naturally go, when you're knowingly about to give birth to a baby in any situation.

And, just as incredibly, with her presence there why not tell someone around her in that said pub what was happening to her and have them fetch an ambulance, and equally call the hospital? None, of these basic things, this evidently odious bitch did, literally preferring, instead, to make her own way, clandestinely to the pub's toilet; there to spew out, then wantonly, and clearly obviously callously discard her quite undoubtedly, purposely given birth to, in that simply, unquestionably, very specifically chosen, locality; baby very crucially on the toilet's dirty floor! Then just as evidently malevolently to egregiously and evilly very uncaringly, actually simply, purposely leaves that aforesaid location, without informing anybody, of this unmitigated tragedy!

And one realistically should thus feel empathy with this blatantly very perverse moron? No way! A baby, obviously essentially, doesn't just automatically crucially pop out randomly from any woman's pussy! And therefore, the clearly appropriate solution coupled equally with a terse condemnation both of this woman and undeniably similarly her blatantly likemindedly evil kind, is a lengthy and non-parole, stretch of hard labour incarceration in a secure prison.

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 31 January 2024.

Author's Remarks: To those of you specifically basing your comments: vitriolically condemnatorily and racially egregiously on your odious speculation of whether this sick female is non-white or white Caucasian, and obviously quite understandably and also supportively if she's the latter, I really don't give a toss what race she actually is and simply concern myself by objectively dealing with the facts I have at hand, utilizing my astute understanding of how things actually are, as apart from pretentiously, dealt with in the UK; and similarly naturally factor into all this my own trusted experiences and common sense.

For the lame brained this female could have been, they speculate, the victim of rape, familial incest, sexual trafficking, a consensual one night stand while she was already in an obviously meaningful relationship with someone else; simply an underage girl, or even basically one of majority age. Whatever the distinct circumstances however, this female knew that she was obviously pregnant and from my objective perspective wanted to be permanently rid of the baby that she was then carrying.

Underage schoolgirls and furthermore one who is very consciously and visible pregnant and in labour and who clearly doesn't want her situation to be public wouldn't go into a pub of all places and rather ostentatiously draw unwarranted attention to herself. Similarly the astute traffickers of any female involuntarily made pregnant wouldn't run the risk of her solitarily going into a public place, and a pub least of all, running the risk of her going there and basically literally shouting for help whilst there, having the police and other quite significantly requisite authorities involved and for these traffickers to find themselves rounded up and accordingly dealt with.

So this female was very obviously from my logical perspective in that pub quite voluntarily and well aware of what she was about to do, and naturally actually subsequently did. A very growing trend among British women, like the one very recently who left her new-born baby in the freezing weather, the coldest day in Britain so far this winter, after 9.15 PM outside a park and decked out only in a carrier bag; with the said child evidently fortuitously for its own survival, and no thanks to its bestial mother, found by a dog walker, whose dog sniffed out the presence of this quite abandoned child and gratefully saved its life!

So spare me the bogus and indulgently proffered sanctimonious crap that very perverse cunts like you are spewing to make your own pathetic lives feel much better! Britain is a country in view of the vast multitude of bastards that crucially and obviously festoon this island really does have a very competent and also a fully and rather impeccably magnificent integrated contraceptive health system, where contraceptive advice and equally similarly medication, tablets etc. are, as well, both freely and readily available on request through one's own GP or clearly alternatively at a contraceptive clinic. A state of affairs where the patient's own privacy is stalwartly guaranteed even if they are sexually underage and sexually a danger to themselves. Abortions also are free across the UK, so basically put very bluntly there is absolutely no need for any of this barbaric, baby dumping shit that the country is experiencing!

And the only plausible explanation that I can surmise for it, is that these rather kiss me ass Karen's with their evidently very obsessive social climbing agendas who when they don't manage to pull off a Kate Middleton scenario and are left abandoned and forlorn, like the noxious and patently unquestionably selfish and toxically verminous lowlifes that simply they are, they effectively behave badly!

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

AaAHDSGGSGAGS I saw the Batman in theaters a few days ago and KNEW i needed to check if you had any Thoughts about the riddler <3

Oh, boy. Do I have thoughts on the Riddler? Fuck… although, I feel anyone that knows my blog and knows the shit I write, KNOWS I have horrible fucking thoughts on this guy. I know there are a lot of Riddler headcanons out there and stuff, but I’ve actually been amassing my own while I’ve been writing. Here’s are just a few of my favorite things. <3

SFW Headcanons

Never felt comfortable with himself until the first time he donned the Riddler mask

Gradually lost most of his empathy for humanity once he entered adulthood, quickly finding out that it wasn’t just the system that was corrupt, but people in general

Fantasized about responding to verbal attacks and criticism with violence from a young age, maybe even acted on those impulses once or twice to great punishment, resulting in his repressed rage

Self soothed these violent tendencies by losing himself in brain teasers, puzzles, riddles, and mysteries

Became a social outcast early, and continued to distance himself from people as much as possible

Submits to the most basic of social norms, though ‘acting out’ with inappropriate comments, laughter, and even verbal threats gives him great pleasure

Antagonizing the wrong people has granted him many black eyes, busted lips, and - in one instance - a chipped tooth, but they were worth it to get under their skin

Stumbled onto the online scene through work, after having to calculate mined cryptocurrency and its monetary value on an illegal operation alongside a lucrative exotic pet dealership

Made his first blog that morning after his shift was over and chatted with like-minded strangers until his next work shift that evening, and by the time he was done, he’d developed an obsession with the internet

His internet usage is unrelated to stumbled across the Gotham Renewal Project but gave him an immediate platform to engage in his hatred and vitriol, much to others' matched disgust

Finds great comfort in engaging with likeminded individuals consumed by their own hatred of the corrupt system forced upon them

Gave up Sudoku puzzles to learn how to manufacture homebrew explosives

Started journaling after a coworker suggested it when he found himself slipping into a depression, it wasn’t that they cared, just that the numbers didn’t add up one too many times and they needed Edward’s head back in the game

Began keeping a leger of his every day, then every moment, then his fantasies and dreams, but especially his violent desires

Thrives in organized chaos, knows where everything is, and likes that no one else would if they tried to find something in his place, not that he has many house guests

NSFW Headcanons

Realized he could only delve into his deepest desires once he was someone other than Edward, hence even something as simple as masturbating to pornography, became possible with the mask

Covets domesticity due to growing up without a shred of it as a child, now it’s become a tangible thing that consumes his every interaction with the opposite sex

Has a small list of failed relationships that barely got past second base due to being emotionally and sexually repressed due to being ashamed of his more violent desires

Gets off to the idea of having complete and total sensory control over his sexual partner

Finds ruined innocence erotic enough that most of his private fantasies involve very sweet-looking women succumbing to their baser sexual desires

Particularly enjoys the idea of ruined mascara, tear-covered cheeks, snotty noses, and tousled hair

Wants to cover a woman’s face in his cum, just drown her in it until she can’t even open her eyes

On the other hand, a part of him longs to feel comfortable enough to be weak in front of someone, especially a sexual partner… especially in a submissive role

Hates that he’s as sexually inexperienced as he is at his age

Is comfortable with the idea of using toys in order to make up for his lack of skill

Easily finds himself overwhelmed

Used to have a problem with premature ejaculation but made it a point to train himself to stave off his orgasms for longer and longer periods of time with masturbation and extreme porn

Has indulged in nonconsensual porn several times, but finds it ‘lacking’ and mildly offputting

Wants to overpower his partner during sex, so much that they’ll do anything he wants

[ramp-it-up]

...And Forever

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Enhanced!Reader; Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

AU: MCU A/U, after TFATWS

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk. Alternate MCU facts/timeline, lies, cursing, angst,  oral, (F, M receiving) fingering, spit play rank kink, size kink, unprotected sex (wrap it up!), sex on a pool table, semi-public sex, a special surprise, stalker-ish behavior, almost Dark!Steve? Not Beta’d. All errors my own.

A/N: I am an MCU nerd but not a timeline detail gal. Please forgive me if the timeline is off. This is an alternate universe and a work of fiction. Please have fun with it! This is the second part to Always.  Enjoy!

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

You opened your eyes to see that you were in what looked like a break room. There was a coffee machine, a round table with five chairs, a row of lockers, two Captain Americas, and a Winter Soldier.

There was some strange conversation going on.

“Then who gave me the shield at the lake…?”  

Sam was questioning Steve, but he stopped talking when you started moving around.  You must have still been in the wedding venue, because you saw the name of the historic building on various items in the room. 

You scowled up at Sam, Bucky and Steve.

You moved to sit up and Steve was at your side. “Easy…”

“Sweetheart, are you okay?”

You squinted at Steve. His hair was shorter and he was clean shaven, but he was still gorgeous. Those blue eyes were full of concern. 

You raised your hand, and he held it, holding it and caressing it as you raised it to his face.

“Is it really you?”

Steve smiled ruefully at you. “Yeah, it’s me.”

You held his cheek and looked at him, bringing your other hand up to the other side of his face. He smiled at you. 

You grabbed him and hugged him hard, and then pulled back again as he held you in his arms. He moved back and pursed those ruby red lips. 

You had this irresistible urge to...slap the shit out of him. And so you did.

The sound reverberated in the room. Steve just stared up at you, with that fucking beautiful face, and then smiled, rubbing his jaw as if it hurt. 

But you knew it didn’t. And you were tired of the bullshit.

Sam and Bucky moved to calm you down, but you were too quick for them, pacing to the other side of the room. 

“All of you can stay the hell away from me. Y’all have some fuckin nerve. Especially you, Steven.”  

Your Houston accent was shining through with your anger.

“Wow, Sweetheart, that was harsh. But I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You pointed at Steve.

“Fuck you.” 

You were seething, especially when he raised his eyebrow at your comment. But he quickly fixed his face when he saw the rage on yours. You looked at Sam, who just looked down, and at Bucky, who looked like he was in pain.  

Fuck thier feelings.

“I deserve your anger. I didn't tell…” Steve tried it. 

“You don’t deserve a got damn thing. Not even my anger.” 

Steve was stone faced at your vitriol. You were shaking, trying to control your emotions and not cry.  You were so hot. You fought to keep your voice steady.

“I thought you were dead.” It came out as a ragged whisper. But you knew everyone heard you.

Your voice was low, even, and scary. Bucky looked at you with wide eyes. Your own were brimming with tears.

“I thought you were dead and that they didn’t want to tell me.” 

You waved your hand at Bucky and Sam. And you waited until Steve looked you in the eyes again. 

“I thought you were in prison, that someone, on some alien star, forced you to play some sick gladiator games. Or that HYDRA was still around and they turned you into an agent for them. Or that you lost your memory in the blip. So many scenarios played in my mind, Steven.”

Steve knew better than to talk. This was his time to listen.

“But I never ever once thought that you chose this. Never thought it was your choice to leave and to stay away.”

“Listen…” Sam started speaking.

“Shut the fuck UP, Samuel.” 

If you had Bucky’s knives, all of them would be seriously injured right now.  

“You knew that he was alive and you didn’t tell me. Despite me begging for any kind of information.”  

Sam just pursed his lips and returned your glare.  You were right.

You went and stood in front of Bucky.

“James…” 

He looked at you, those pained eyes making your stomach flip.  

“How could you?  You knew?”

He just stared at you. Retreating into not speaking.

Steve spoke up.

“Yes, I left. Yes, it was my choice.  I thought I could… Well, let’s just say that hindsight is 20/20 and you can’t ever go back. I swore Sam and Buck to secrecy and I asked them to take care of you.  This all just got out of hand.  Didn’t it Buck?”

You watched Steve in disbelief and you swiveled your head toward Bucky and Sam again.

“You both lied to me. And Sam. Did you tell Steve to come back and ruin my life?”

Sam scoffed, offended. “No. I didn’t. S.H.I.E.L.D gave Steve quarterly updates.  You and Bucky happened so fast…” 

You ignored his explanation.

“But you knew exactly where he’d gone.”

“Yes.” Sam was cornered.

You turned back to Bucky. 

“I asked you a question earlier. Did you know?”

He nodded, imperceptibly.  “Doll… I…”

“James Buchanan Barnes. You knew?” Your heart was breaking even more than it was.

“Yes, but it’s complicated. He didn’t come back, at least not the way he left, and I thought it was a done deal. I thought he found…”

You interrupted him. 

“What. Happiness?” 

You turned back to Steve. “Is that what you were looking for, Steve? Happiness?”

“Sweetheart, you made me happy, I just had the chance to finally settle some unfinished business.”

You nodded.

“So James here took advantage of your little vacation to get with his best friend's girl while you explored your other options. Cool.”

It was not cool.

“Do you remember when you asked me if you could trust me, Steve?”  

He just gave a little smile and came to stand before you, looking down at you in that way of his.  He was trying to shake you. You were unshakeable. You raised your chin and looked right in his eyes.

“What you don’t understand is that you can’t pick and choose the pieces of life that you want, Steven.” 

You moved away from all of them. Steve stepped toward you, but stopped when you held up your hand.

“I’ve lived my life for everyone else, for this country, for as long as I can remember.  I deserve a little piece of life, Sweetheart.”  

Steve really believed what he was saying.

“What about me? Do I get a choice?”

Steve looked around at his two best friends, who were now best friends, and his best girl.

“You’re right. I think you should. You should choose.”

Your mouth hinged open. You spoke at the wall, then looked at Bucky.

“What about you, James? Do I need to choose?”

Bucky walked in front of you

“No Doll. You don’t have to choose.”  

You looked up into his eyes.  Damn, he looked so handsome in his bespoke grey suit that he chose for the wedding. And the tie that you gave him set off his eyes.  

“I just….  I just wanted a piece of happiness too. I knew you were Steve’s girl.”  He took both of your hands in his. 

“I don’t deserve you. When Steve didn’t come back, and you and I connected, I couldn’t help it. I was just going to keep an eye out, but…”

He gave you that cute little side smile of his.  And then he kissed you. It was short and sweet and oh so hot. You looked up at him, shook to the core. And then he ruined it all.

“I love you Doll. It was nice while it lasted.” 

Bucky was giving up. 

You nodded and backed away. Not believing this situation. 

“Ok. I’m making my choice.” 

You raised your chin and looked at Steve and Bucky.

“I’m not some fucking marble that you pass around, play with, and trade with your friend.” 

You took a deep breath.  “I choose me.”

You were gone in a flash, before they could even register it.  And although they ran, they couldn’t catch you before you were out of reach.

-----

Three months later, you walked through the late August soup of Houston heat to the bar, pausing when you thought you heard footfalls behind you. You used your speed to zip along to Willy’s; you were safe there.

You were back sharking with the best of them.  But your training was put to good use.  You never got burned and you never got caught.  You were making a good living.  

There were a jumble of misfit super humans who had gathered there with you.  You were a leader now. And you were doing well on your own. It was a life.

You already knew he was coming, and maybe that’s why you moved to the back room to play.

You were prepared, but when you felt him, you still lost your breath.  But you recovered quickly, straightening your spine, despite the fact that he was standing so close to you.

You looked at the dartboard on the wall across from you and chalked your cue.

“Don’t you have other things to take care of? Other wheres? Other whens maybe?”

You learned more about time travel since you’d left New York, and you understood more of what happened. 

The Avengers had access to time travel.  If only you could go back… but no. You were stronger than those men.  You could live with your decisions. And move forward.

“No. What I need to take care of is right here. Right now.”  

His deep growl stirred something inside you, and you fought your body, which was becoming moist at his proximity.

You bent over the table, super soldier dick poking you in the ass before you drew your pool cue back sharply into his stomach.  Abs of steel met the cue and nearly broke it.  He just stepped aside and shook his head at you.

You turned your head to look into his aqua blue eyes and you fell in love all over again.  Shit.

You gave up and turned around, leaning back against the pool table, because he wasn’t giving an inch, not moving from your space.

You scanned the room and your people were watching, but keeping your distance. They all knew who he was, and your history. They gave you space, but wouldn’t let you be hurt without a fight. You nodded at them and they all went to the front, giving you more privacy.

He nodded in their direction. 

“People fall under your spell fast, I know that all too well. They trust you.”

You lifted your head. “I’ve never done anything to make them not trust me.”

He sighed.  “Point taken.”

“Why did you come here?  I know that you’ve known where I was. Sam must have told you.” 

“I’ve known where you were. How could I not? I didn’t need Sam to tell me. It’s not like you were trying to hide.”  

He cocked his head at you.

“But the reason that I’m here, now, is that I’ve always been slow at math. And I just put two and two together.”

You smirked up at him. “You’re right. This is home. A leopard doesn’t change her stripes.”

He just chuckled at your evasion.

“You wanna play a game?” 

His eyes followed you, undeterred by your challenge.

You walked around to the other side of the table, leaned over and gathered the balls to be racked. 

You held two in one hand and looked at him.  He smiled and the electricity at the small of your back was everything. He slowly walked around to you as you racked them.

He took in your form (including your ample cleavage) as you bent over the table and your mouth as you said the word, “Break.”

“I’m tired of playing games, Doll. I’m just here to win you back.”

You turned around and faced him, looking up at him, now aware of his smell.  You closed your eyes and inhaled leather and metal. You opened them again and his eyes were blazing.

“James.. I”  

Bucky grabbed your face, hands gently cradling your head, and cut you off with a kiss, his lips gentle at first. Then his hands moved to your hips and lifted you onto the table. He slotted himself in between your thighs, your bodies separated by the same brand of black denim. 

His lips and tongue seemed determined to possess you. Bucky kissed and felt your body like he hadn’t in a lifetime. His hands roamed you like they were starved from touching you. 

Your hands were on his neck and in his hair, relishing the feel of him. You’d  missed him so fucking much. You drew apart, and his breath fanned your face as you two panted together, his forehead resting on yours.

“I am never going to let you go again.”

“James…”

“Hold on Doll, I’ve got to say this.” 

He smiled and gave you another quick peck.  You nodded, solemn.

“I said the wrong thing back in Brooklyn. I don’t care that you were with him first. I don’t care if you think that you might want to be with him. When I fell for you, I fell harder than I ever have. Even from the train.”  

He was whispering the words you wanted to hear months ago, causing you to cry.  But a lot of things caused you to cry lately. 

Bucky smiled at you, his eyes crinkling in that adorable way that you loved. You opened your mouth to speak and he kissed you, silencing you again. You responded with a smile. He continued.

“I know that you think that I folded and just gave up on you on our wedding day. I was just thinking that I don’t deserve you. Especially next to Steve.  I mean, you won’t find a better man.  But in the time since, I’ve realized, even though it’s hard. I’m a good man too.”

“You are, James…”

“You helped me come to terms with everything that’s happened. Sam has helped me deal with everything I did...and I’m not perfect, and neither are you, but we can be perfect for each other.”  

You nodded, smiling a little.

“I’m in love with you and I deserve you. You deserve me. We deserve each other.  And I’m not saying this because I think you saved me. But you are the strongest woman I know, enough to be with me when I am weak. I figured out that I can be strong for you too. I have to be now. I am so sorry that I let you walk away. But I’m not going to let you out of my sight now, even if you don’t want to be with me.  But I am asking you, again. Be my family. Make one with me. Choose me.”

You shook your head as tears fell from your eyes.

“James Barnes, there was never ever any choice. It’s you. It will be you. Forever.”

Bucky let out a sigh of relief and started kissing you all over your face, down your neck and into your cleavage.

“I was scared shitless, Doll! I love you so much,…”

You kissed him now, your hands under his jacket, slipping it off his shoulders. Next, you went under his shirt, feeling his nipples, playing with them as he shuddered. Then your hands went up to one cold shoulder and one warm, grasping them as he ground his hard jeans covered crotch into yours.

“Too many clothes.”

You ended up helping him pull his shirt over his head. You trailed your hand back down his abs to the button on his jeans.

“I missed you James. My hormones are going crazy, Baby…”  

His eyes got wide as you popped the top button and bit your lip.  Bucky moaned.  He was about to explode just being near you.

“Th-that’s what we need to talk about…”

“Talk later. Fuck. Now.”

Bucky looked over your shoulder to the other room. To his surprise, the door was now closed.

“Wow, they…”

You hopped down from the table and got on your knees in front of him.

“You gonna let me suck your dick or not James?”

He looked down at you smirking up at him and could feel himself leaking in his jeans.  Three months of his hand had been torture, thinking of you.  

It seemed as if he unfastened and pulled himself out without knowing.  For a moment he feared mind control. 

But it was just love and lust.

You grasped him, testing his girth and admiring how your fingers did not meet around his cock.  

“Mmmmmmmm,” you moaned while you thumbed his tip, collecting the pre-cum and lubricating him as you pumped.

He stared at you, slack jawed and sexy as he watched you.  He reached down and put his hand in your hair, massaging your scalp.

You commanded him. “Eyes on me, Sergeant.”

Bucky locked eyes with you and watched as you licked your lips, opened your mouth, and spit on his cock.

“Fuck.”

You pumped him a couple of times before you opened wide and took him as deep as you could, relishing the feel of his wide, smooth, hard unit in your mouth.  You pulled off of him with a pop.

“Damn I missed this dick.” 

Then you deep throated him again, making Bucky have to hold on to the side of the pool table as he held your head while you spluttered around him.

“And I missed your pretty little mouth, Doll. Damn.”  He watched as you did it a few more times.

When you looked up and  he saw your ruined face, Bucky went feral.

He pulled you up by your shirt, pulling it over your head and wiping your face with it.  Then he kissed you.

“Fucking love how you do that, Doll.”  

He started kissing down your chest, pulling your breasts out of your bra, pinching and rolling your nipples gently, a little more carefully than usual. He looked at you knowingly as you squirmed in pleasure.

“I’ve been doing my research.”  

Then, he leaned down and suckled them with that mouth until you almost came, writhing in his arms. Bucky unbuttoned your pants and pulled them down, kneeling, and staring up at you as you leaned against the green felt table.

You stepped out of your jeans and panties and watched as his flesh hand glided from your ankle to your ass, palming it and then sliding back down as he lifted your thigh on his shoulder.  You shuddered as you could feel his breath on your cunt.

“I’ve been dreaming of this.”  

His eyes held yours as he leaned in for a kiss, then a long wet lick of your cunt.  You grabbed his brown hair as his blue eyes hypnotized you and as he ate you out. When his metal fingers came up, whirring, you started begging.

“Please, James…please…please…..”

He laughed, mouth still fucking your pussy. He pulled away, chin glistening with your juices. His fingers began pumping inside you, the vibration driving you up the wall.

“Are you begging me to stop, or to continue, Doll? Talk to me.”

“Unnnh, unnnnh, oooohhh shittttt. Don’t ever stop.” 

And then you came all over his face,  Bucky slurping it up happily.  He stood up, taking you with him and maneuvering you so that you could feel his thick tip at your hole before it breached you. 

Bucky’s cock stretched you out and made you see stars as you slid down his thick pole while he was standing up, pumping inside you as he deposited you on the table.

You wrapped around him like a vine as he held you, cock pounding from the feeling of being inside you again. He pulled back to kiss you again.  He was grunting in his throat as he tried to speak.

“Fuck you feel so good...Fair warning, Doll. I’m not going to last. Been too long.”

You let go of him, and leaned back on the felt, arms braced behind you as you replied, “Just fuck me James.”

Bucky took in your body, from where you were connected up your torso to your breasts and the beautiful fucked out look on your face and started moving.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckkk.”  You took him, looking down to see the impossible stretch.

“Yeah, look at that. Looks and feels so damn good, doesn’t it, Doll? How the fuck are you so… so… fucking… tight….?”

“Yes, fuck, James, FUCKKKKK.”

All nerves were in your cunt as you went down to your elbows, and then to your back flat on the slate table, pool balls going everywhere.

Bucky pulled your hips off the table and really started digging in, hips snapping at a frenzied pace as his metal hand slid down your body. You could tell that he was almost there.

“Cum with me Doll.” 

When that metal thumb touched your clit, it was over.  You came as soon as you felt his white hot ropes of cum drench your walls. You closed your eyes for just a second, and then opened your eyes wide.

‘Why am I curled up on a pool table after being fucked by my 106 year old fiance? What is life?”

Bucky laughed as he pulled his shirt over his head and helped you off the table. He looked around, going to get you a bottle of water from the vending machine.

“You good?” 

Bucky eyed you as you got your clothes together.  He leaned next to you as he watched you drink the water.

“Baby okay?”

You ducked your head, smiled and grabbed his hand, putting it on your slightly rounded stomach.

“Yeah. I can feel him moving around.  Can you feel that?”  

Bucky just stared at his hand, then at your face.

“Not really… Him?”  He was astounded.

“That’s normal. I’m gonna be able to feel him before you can, And yeah, Him.”  

You turned more fully toward Bucky and he took you in his arms.  

“I had all kinds of tests, to make sure that he was okay.  I wanted to know if… if what they did to me would affect…. “ 

You shook your head, then smiled up at Bucky.

“He’s healthy.  I’m 20 weeks. I figured we’d call him Jamie?”  

Bucky beamed at you and nodded. 

“How did you know?”

“Well, I figured out that you didn’t faint at the wedding just because of Steve. Why didn’t you tell me, Doll?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Are you really asking me that question?”  

Bucky blanched and you decided not to be salty. 

“Well, At first, I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I was so happy that you asked me and didn’t know.”  You beamed at him. “ But then…” Your smile faded.

“I’m an idiot, Doll. Forgive me.  It’s me and you. And Jamie. Forever.”  

You two shared the kiss you missed at the altar. It was going to be okay.

“Now, let’s go get some food. I know you’re hungry.”

You laughed as you punched his arm. 

“Ass. But you’re right.” 

You two walked down the street to Ninfa’s Restaurant hand in hand. Bucky turned his head and gave an imperceptible nod as you two passed by an alley/

Steve returned the greeting as he stepped out and watched you and Bucky make your way down the street.

“That’s okay Sweetheart,” he whispered. “Buck’s a good man. But I know you’ll choose me. In another time.”

He walked to the quinjet, which was pointed toward New York.

-------

Did Reader make the right choice? What do you think about the surprise?And what the what is Steve thinking? Let me know if you liked it by commenting or reblogging!

Tagging:

@olyvoyl @summerofsnowflakes @sillyteecup @riiyy @honeysucklechocolatedrippin @theselilwonders @lonelydance @chattykathysquietsister @anh1020 @nissameta1782 @afriendlyblackhottie @betterkeepmewetterthanabayou @jbrizzywrites @stilltoyou  @donutloverxo @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @kiwisa @food8me @aiikaa @marvelfansworld  @london-grunge @pheebsyells @thesecretlifeofdaydreams-bl-blog @douxtille @ximaginexx @fofisstilinski @bertieandberries @ladystrawberry @bit-of-a-timelord @chesca-791 @calimoi @fangirlfree @bbaengtan @karolsboo @aliceforbes @insertpithyusername @sickknik @photmath @whorekneebrain  @anacrcarvalho @iconicshit @spicybibimbap @fineanddandy @olyvoyl @chaoticsteverogers@txtsfromyourex @sadthotsonlylove @ikatieebabyy@nerdymugsharkempath @maroonsunrise83 @curlyhairclub @spookyparadisesheep @keepingitlokiii​ @weaselbeedisneygeek @toofab4utheatrediva

[theladyofbloodshed]

AU where we pretend acosf didn't happen - part 14

Taglist: @sv0430 @nehemikkele @mis-lil-red @confusedfandomslut @emily-gsh @sunsetsofanemoia @a-court-of-valkyries @nestaspegasus @swankii-art-teacher @moodymelanist @nestaarcher0n

Any business with Eris was bad business. Mor had been in uproar upon the discovery that her cousin had entered into an agreement with him concerning the Autumn Court’s soldiers and Illyria. Whenever it felt like they had an upper hand against Eris, he changed the rules of the game.

None could stomach him for long. A tentative alliance was growing between the male and Rhys; a handful of Autumn Court soldiers would train in Illyria, far away from the war camps in secret, to improve their ability to withstand the elements. Eris wanted his soldiers to be harder, better fighters. In return, he would support Lucien and Azriel’s missions in the mortal land. Lucien might not have found the arrangement too uncomfortable, but Azriel stalked round the House of Wind in a foul mood most of the time. Cassian could imagine Nesta calling him a miserable bat – and that thought alone ripped open his heart.

They filed into the narrow chamber behind the throne room in the Hewn City after enduring Keir’s backhanded comments. Lucien followed in last, giving a brief nod of acknowledgement to his brother, having arrived in Velaris and swiftly travelling with them to the Hewn City.

‘Do you like my waistcoat?’ Eris asked, standing to show off a sleek black velvet waistcoat embroidered with silver flames that crawled from the side seams. ‘A reminder of that magnificent moment in Windhaven.’

None could muster much to the way of an argument. Had Nesta not still been missing, Rhys likely would have slammed Eris’ face into the stone table, but it was his interference that had caused Nesta to flee into obscurity.

Lucien detailed his visits to the mortal lands; it appeared he was well and truly in arms with Vassa and Jurian, but no closer to breaking the curse on the former. A number of soldiers from the Autumn Court would cross into the mortal lands to work with Azriel, basing themselves with the Band of Exiles, as they called themselves in an attempt to infiltrate the mortal queen’s plans. They were soldiers loyal to Eris, willing to risk their lives for him; if Beron caught wind, the entire garrison would be executed. They were not loyal to Azriel though – and that thought worried Cassian.

Unwarranted, Eris turned his attention to Cassian. Although he was double his size, Eris cocked his head to one side and stared at him like a cat playing with a mouse, deciding whether to kill it.

‘Will Morrigan make an appearance at any of our meetings?’

‘I told you to keep her name out of your mouth.’

He would not force Mor to endure the Hewn City, much less Eris’ oily presence. It was lost on Cassian how Rhysand could stand his presence for any length of time. He was a smug bastard who deserved to be smacked so hard his ancestors felt it. Eris straightened one of the silver togs on his jacket so they were all in alignment.

‘If only you had the same vitriol for your own mate. Does it tear you apart knowing Nesta ran from you not once, but twice? Are you that much of an insufferable barbarian that she cannot stand your presence?’ Eris only smiled. Smiled that viper’s grin.

Lucien stared down his brother, a flame sizzling in his russet eye. ‘What do you know? You were there that day. What do you know?’

Eris flexed his fingers until the joints clicked. ‘I’m surprised none of you considered it thus far.’ He flashed a gloating smile. ‘Maybe Feyre could take a peek inside my mind. I don’t mind you poking around in there, high lady.’

Cassian saw it all. Feyre used her daemati powers to flash those images into all of their heads. That day in Windhaven. How Rhys towered over Nesta. The way she clung to the other male, cowered like a lamb being faced down by a wolf. How he sought to command her. The vein in her neck protruding through her skin as she fought back against his magic. Throwing him half-way across the camp with that strange, silver fire of hers, without intending to. Setting half of Windhaven alight. Nesta clawing at her skin until it bled, tearing her nails to the quick, quaking with fear, vomiting in her lap at the thought of Rhys hurting her. The eyes rimmed with silver flames as she begged Eris to help her. Pleading with him, offering him anything so Rhys couldn’t kill her. Her collapsing on the grounds of his home in the Autumn Court, sobs still ripping from her chest, Eris laying her down on a bed.

‘Enough.’

Rhysand’s cold voice dragged them out of Eris’ memories.

‘Out.’

Eris raised a finger to stop them then retrieved a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘For the shadow singer. From the lady herself.’

He set the manila envelope down on the table then bowed.

The bastard had known where she was and said nothing last time they had seen him. Knew how much they were all hurting.

‘It seems fitting really. A bastard-born Illyrian took my fiancée. I’m merely returning the favour taking his mate. Don’t worry. I will treat her exactly how you treated Morrigan.’

‘Anything. We will give you anything.’ Feyre’s voice broke. She knew what happened to Lucien’s first love. Knew how Mor had suffered. Had seen the effects the Autumn Court had on its lady. She would bargain anything they had for Nesta’s safe return.

Eris’ eyes roved over every inch of Feyre’s body then turned to Cassian with disdain. ‘I have everything I could ever want. And may I remind you, I have a deal with your court. To enter mine is punishable by death. Farewell.’

‘Read. It.’

Azriel deftly tore open the envelope. He refused to read it out loud, merely passed it along to Cassian when he was done.

Dear Azriel,

I am so sorry for the trouble and worry I caused to your mother. Please know that my days with her were the best of my life. Her love and compassion – and yours – in my bleakest moments was a kindness I will never deserve. I miss our conversations, her cooking, and simply whittling away the time together gossiping about you.

Windhaven was an accident. One I regret terribly. I do not know what else I can say on the matter. Only that I hope it did not cause problems for Feyre.

I am safe here in the Autumn Court. Eris did not take me against my will – nor would he ever. I am sorry if it caused my sisters any distress. I am safe.

Yours, Nesta

‘It reads like a fucking hostage letter,’ Cassian boomed.

Feyre flinched from the sudden outburst. She fetched the letter from the ground where Cassian had screwed it up and tossed it in anger. Her fingers trembled as she read through it.

‘Lucien, can you get to her?’

Lucien blew out a breath at Rhys' request. ‘I’ll try. Maybe if I can get Eris to the border to the Spring Court. If my father catches me in Autumn again, my life is forfeit. I will try. I will.’

Too harshly, they had judged Lucien. The male was good through and through, willing to put himself at risk for the safety of others. But his readiness to help them, to seek a way to Nesta, stirred the feelings of worry that had long since settled in Cassian’s stomach. He knew better than any what a cut-throat, unfeeling place the Autumn Court could be. Lucien knew better than any what Beron was capable of – what his sadistic brothers could do. When Cassian raised his chin, Lucien was watching him carefully. Feyre had told him what had happened to Lucien’s first love; how his brothers had held him while she was executed. And he had been the son of the high lord. What would they do to Nesta - the mate of an Illyrian grunt?

At the return to Velaris, whatever was left of Cassian’s heart had been hollowed out. He had never felt so distraught and empty all at the same time. Not since the discovery of his mother’s death.

Feyre had shooed Rhys away, knowing that this battle was not to be fought today when the wounds were so raw. The image of Nesta cowering from him, how she likely cowered from the mortal... she had not even backed down against Beron in the high lord's meetings, but Rhys scared her. His best friend, his brother, terrified his mate.

Feyre remained with him and merely opened her arms then pressed herself into his chest. His arms came around his high lady.

‘She’s not trained to fight, to defend herself,’ Cassian sighed, resting his chin atop Feyre’s.

Feyre murmured in agreement. ‘But Nesta fights with words and I’ve never encountered a tongue so efficient at shedding blood.’

They descended into the house and Cassian slumped into a chair in the library. He had taken to haunting there, desperately trying to pick up the last threads of Nesta’s lingering scent from when she and Elain used to take refuge there. She had been devoted to her sister’s recovery, coaxing her back into existence after being forced into the Cauldron, so much so that none ever considered if Nesta struggled. What she had given up to be what she was?

‘What did she want to be? Before she was made.’

Feyre slipped off her shoes and tucked her knees close to her chest, sinking a little deeper into the armchair. ‘I think she was only ever supposed to marry a rich man. Tamlin gave us a fortune and she did want to travel. Wanted to see the world and see what she could become.’

‘And all she saw for two years was this library and a battlefield,’ he replied drily.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

The nose and eyes were Nesta’s. When Feyre laughed, her nose crinkled – and though Nesta’s laughs were rare, he had seen it once, and she had been the same.

‘No.’

Feyre reached for his hand and squeezed once. ‘When Tamlin sent me home, he’d glamoured my family.’ Her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall, losing herself into a memory. ‘Tamlin glamoured me once from Rhys and even he had to rip it away with his magic. But Nesta… I returned home and it hadn’t worked on her. She’d seen through it all. I should have known she was special when, even as a mortal, she couldn’t be glamoured.’

Whatever her soul was made of, it was spectacular.

‘We even painted together,’ continued Feyre. ‘She asked me to show her. Her way of reaching out an olive branch, I suppose. And a ball was held in my honour. I stayed by Nesta all night so she’d scare away any suitors for me. I didn’t need to ask her to. She just did it for me.’ Feyre’s face crumpled and her throat bobbed. ‘Nesta, her exterior can seem so tough, so intimidating. But when she loves, she loves entirely.’

‘When I first was taken above the wall, Nesta searched for me. Nesta – who had never done a day’s work in her life – trekked across a forest in the dead of winter to bring me home.’

Cassian sucked in a breath. ‘We’re talking about her like she’s dead.’

Feyre nodded in agreement. Cassian was grateful for the conversation. Nesta would never give up those anecdotes about herself though. She was too guarded, too careful with herself. Being able to see through a high lord’s glamour was nothing short of magnificent – but to achieve that as a mortal, did not bear thinking about. And Nesta hadn't mentioned it once. Did Rhysand know the ways in which Nesta had tried for Feyre? Would it have changed his opinion?

‘It’s almost worse now I know where she is. I can’t go to her. The thought of Eris forcing her into situations as a sick sort of punishment against me and Mor. Taking out his vengeance on her.’ Cassian rubbed his face with his hands, wishing this nightmare would be over. ‘That mortal laid his hands on her. Hurt her. It cannot happen again. I cannot let her endure that.’

[imagine-loki]

Hiding In Plain Sight

TITLE: Hiding in Plain Sight

 CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 10

AUTHOR: wolfpawn

 ORIGINAL IMAGINE:Imagine coming from a line of nobility or royalty and being in an arranged marriage with Loki in an attempt to strengthen your kingdom / alliance with Asgard. You’re not entirely on board with the idea but figured that the best you could do was to get to know your fiancé. You form an agreement with Frigga for you to pose as Loki’s personal servant for a few months so you can get to know who Loki really is – beyond the veil of his responsibility to the Asgardian throne, behind all the masks he wears when facing the public, to really know who Loki is behind closed doors as you slowly fall for each other.How long will you keep up the ruse with the God of Lies? RATING: General Audience

NOTE - I finally got my ass in gear and finished something, thank Loki.

Raven gave him a withering look. “Again with the ‘she’ and ‘her’. You are going out of your way to be insulting at this stage.” “But you are Raven? Not ‘Breanna’?” Loki demanded. 

“My grandmother called me Breanna. It’s one and the same.” She dismissed. 

“You hid yourself as a maid?” 

“I did.” “Why?” “I heard so many stories about you, so incredibly conflicting, I wanted to see for myself.” “So you pretended to be a maid? You…” Loki’s eyes widened. “You scrubbed my toilet.” He grimaced at that thought. 

“In fairness, whatever else was ever said about you, your hygiene is impeccable.” 

“Why?” “I told you.” “But why?” 

“I learnt you are intelligent and can understand many languages and are very much able to comprehend the spoken word so I don’t think I need to repeat myself again. I know it is something you also dislike. You told me that the first day I spoke to you.” She walked around a little. 

Loki studied her for a moment. Watching how she walked, so obviously well-bred and the manner in which she was speaking showing a significant education. He shook his head slightly as he spoke. “My brother said time and again that the Elven princess was raised in a manner that was meek and subservient. You have been insubordinate since the day you walked in here.” 

“How can I be insubordinate to you, we are of equal standing. The extra children of the ruling monarch, merely existing in the slight offchance our older siblings do not make it to taking the throne.” She challenged.

“I think your father would rather a republic than have you on the throne.” Loki pointed out, his tone half of anger, half merely stating fact. 

“I think he would too but the law is that I can take it regardless of my gender, I just need all four of my brothers to not get on it and have heirs.” She eyed him with intrigue, watching the glut of emotions swirling around in his face. Anger seemed to be winning as the most notable one. “I suggest airing your anger now. It will make this easier in the long run.”

“Was my mother in on this all along?” “Yes. I wrote to her to get her words on your character. Sadly, she gave the view of a biased and loving mother. So, convinced I would see your personality for myself in other ways by being your maid, she suggested I take Tatianna’s place for a few weeks. I can see you have a good rapport with her, so I can see why she would think that.”

Loki felt his anger rise at his mother’s involvement. “My brother, my father?”

“For the Allfather to know anything, he would have had to have come to your rooms whilst I was here, he never did, ergo, he never knew anything of it. Thor was not part of the plan. What I had not anticipated was that he recalled the few occasions that he met me in passing while talking to my brothers over the centuries, especially in Vanaheim. He confronted me, wanting to know why I was playing such games. He did not agree with it but the Allmother and I convinced him to remain silent.” 

Loki’s lip curled in anger at his brother knowing such things but also knowing that he had the excuse of being told to say nothing. Not that it would save him from a few choice words and more than a few spells and hard blows when Loki would be able to inflict such on him again. “You spied on me, and you thought it wise?” He scoffed in disgust. “How did you envisage this little reveal going? Pray, do tell.” “I suppose it’s obvious that I had not thought through that fully. I was hoping the Aesir I was meeting was actually a nice being so I would at least feel guilty.” 

Loki’s brow rose at that. “You have the audacity to say such things with all your deceit.”

“You literally are nicknamed the God of Lies, tricks and mischief, I would have thought you would have been impressed if nothing else.” “I am anything but.” He became irate at her answers. “You have no right to speak to me like this, you deceitful wench.” He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. “Get out.” 

Raven felt hurt but understood fully and had expected him to react in such a manner, sighing, she walked to the door. “Well, it’s done now anyway.”

“What?” Loki had no inkling as to what she was referring to. “Getting this conflict out of the way. I was getting bothered waiting for it.” She spoke as she walked through the door. 

“You anticipated this, really?” He did not believe her. 

“I anticipated this, at best. I thought you would fly into a rage and throw me out at worst but then again, I thought you had not arrived for lunch because you had realised who I was and were giving me the very much expected silent treatment. Something I would wager all the ore on Alfheim I am going to be receiving from this point forth. I did not think it would last this long.” “What would last this long?” “This conversation. It lasted far longer than I had expected.” She shrugged as she walked to the door. 

“Did you really learn to be a maid for this?” “I hardly knew how to be one before. I had to at least pretend to know what I was doing.” “You were so desperate to try and make a fool of me?” “It was never about making a fool of you, Loki. I told you, I wanted to know what to expect here. I tried to find out by other means but to no avail. Unlike you, I had to move to another realm and live with a man I had not met in almost seven hundred years outside of the briefest of moments.” “So you thought the way to get to know me was to scrub my toilet, that is your thinking of me? That is what you considered in getting to know me? I honestly expected you to have little self-respect with how you were raised, what with it being a misogynistic realm but you really do not have any self-worth with how you acted.” He walked over to the main door of his rooms to open it. 

“Well, when your muscles ached and you wanted them relieved and when I neatened your belongings, you did not complain and don’t you ever look down at those who clean your toilet. You would not last five minutes in the real realm without your seidr, you pretentious prick.” 

Irate at her venomous words, Loki walked forward towards her but stopped suddenly when she flinched as though expecting to be struck. As much as he wanted to say something as vitriolic back, he refrained. “Your little stunt was nothing more than pathetic and ridiculous and your name calling even more so, but it clearly was futile because if your observations were even the slightest bit accurate, you would know I would never lay a hand on you.” 

“I knew that. If anyone will bear any physical brunt of this, it will be Thor.” 

Loki had to admit, she did learn something in all of this with that comment. “Yet, you flinched as though expecting me to strike you?” “I am not a warrior, I have not learnt how to not flinch when someone rushes forward. But I know you would not. If you had been a risk to me, I would never have come here alone.” She ensured to look him in the eye as she spoke to show her sincerity. 

Loki had to admit, that was a valid excuse and indeed statement regarding her safety. “Good, at least you grasped that much in this.” He opened the door fully and indicated outside. 

“I guess the deceitful wench will leave the pretentious prick to his day, then.” She walked towards the door. 

“Norns but you have to have the last word, don’t you?” Loki pushed the door shut again with some force. “You’re supposed to be silent.” “You literally said one of the things you were looking forward to least about being married to me was that you loathed the idea of a subservient and silent wife. My father should have had someone warn you, I tend to be too sarcastic for my own good, always have been, but you noticed that already too.”  “If I had only known.” Sarcasm dripped heavily from every syllable he spoke. He looked at her for another moment. “How could you possibly have thought that we could even attempt to build anything on this?” “You never wanted to build anything, you spoke terribly of me the whole time I was here. You would not even use my name.” “What is with you and that particular issue? Why does it matter so greatly to you?” Loki snapped. “You are like a dog with a bone.” 

“What is your obsession with not using it? You have nothing but contempt for me, both in your actions and your words, and have done so before you even realised it was me and do not think for one second I have forgotten your horrid words to your little friend about me, much less my realms’ people. Whatever damage I have done to the idea of creating a cordial relationship, you clean blasted it off the realm long before.” “I already told you, I do not think such, I was just venting.” “I told you in that very same conversation that I do not suffer fools. And if you think me to believe that statement, you are calling me one also.” “I bear no ill thoughts to the Ljósáfar. I would not have my seidr be so strong but for the ability to wield it perfected on Alfheim. I have nothing but respect for the race, you as an individual, on the other hand, not so much since you decided to try and trick me.” “There was no try, I succeeded in doing so.” There was some smugness to Raven’s smirk. 

Loki’s lip curled in anger at that statement. 

“I recall that day too that you wished to show me that you have no ill against my race, yet my parents and brothers did not deserve the respect required to welcome them, did they?” She shook her head. “You don’t respect us, you respect no one, not even yourself.” This time, she walked to the door and opened it, not wanting to speak to him any further. 

“What comes of this?” Loki asked, not wanting to acknowledge her fairly accurate analysis. 

“I do not know. You were adamant before, I am nothing but a duty. As a prince, you will be forced to do such duty. Our parents will not forfeit this agreement. My parents because it ensures I am no longer a burden, yours because, as you so crassly put it before, it solidifies my father’s alliance. So I guess we simply avoid one another outside of required interactions. I will not bother you, and you will ignore me. When this farce is done, I will stay in my rooms, you in yours and since I know Thor is being forced to court soon, we do some form of ritual dance that he has as many children as my father and we will not be required to do such things and you can have your conceited little harpy mistress and be happy.” 

Loki was going to spit a comment back at her about the woman in reference but he noticed the genuine hurt and heartache in her features that startled him to silence on that matter. He quickly analysed her words again while she seemingly attempted to recompose herself. He did not know what in her statement caused her to react in such a way but it did startle him. “I am still trying to fathom the reasoning for all of this.” 

“I wanted to know the true Loki, the one not putting on a facade for his father, or society, the being I would see every single evening after a long day.” “For what purpose?” “I spent my whole life having to be silent in public and mostly silent in private. I spent it being told how to act and who to speak to and how to speak to them. I wanted to know if I had to do that for the next few thousand years again or if it would be different. That is why I did it. I wanted to know if I could finally have someone to actually care for me as a being and not expect me to be what they want me to be, nothing more than a living doll. Norns, but you are right, had I but known.” And with that, she left the room. 

[queenbirbs]

in plain sight | Ch. 12 | Ethan x MC

Book/Pairing: Open Heart / Ethan Ramsey x fMC

Word count: 1.7k

Rating: T

Category: AU series

Warnings: language, violence

Read from the beginning or continue on

Read on AO3

Saturday, January 17, 8:11 p.m.

The agents are forced to watch as time ticks by on the feed. Finally, the doors open -- but the space beyond the elevator is dark. Sliding on a pair of gloves, St. Yves reaches towards the panel again before turning on her phone’s flashlight and stepping out.

“Wait, see that?” Ethan points to a yellow strip of tape on the marble floor. “She’s in the penthouse suite.”

“It’s still an active crime scene,” Hirata says. “So why there?”

“She confronted Sloane about her comments after Thursday’s press conference,” Baz adds. “So she at least knows some of Sloane’s suspicions. It stands to reason that she’s probably involved in the other activity going on here. Especially since it’s been over thirty seconds and those elevator doors don’t show any sign of closing.”

A look of uncertainty passes through the security team at his words. Ethan doesn’t miss the grimace on Bloom’s face.

“Do you know what she’s planning?” he asks the older man. Bloom’s only response is a reluctant shake of his head. Ethan clenches his jaw tighter and swallows back the vitriol that wants to spill out. It will only waste time -- and time right now is precious. “Call the front desk and have them hold an elevator for us,” he orders the security director. “We’re going up after her.”

“There’s only two elevators that have access to that floor--”

“And both of them are stalled,” Ethan finishes for her. “Of course they are. The stairs, then, what’s the quickest--”

An alarm trills from the monitor bank, cutting off his question.

“Now what the hell is going on?” Hirata curses.

The director brings up another screen and swallows, glancing between the monitor and the agents. “Someone opened the roof’s access door.”

Shoving past the personnel, Ethan bursts out of the room and sprints for the stairs, Baz hot on his heels.

Saturday, January 17, 8:11 p.m.

Sloane’s heart sinks down into her stomach at the sight of Charlotte stepping out of the elevator. The elation she felt before is gone, swept away by the hot rush of dread.

“They found your little crime scene downstairs,” Charlotte tells Olsen.

She casts a critical eye over the two of them, seemingly unimpressed with what she sees if her scoff is anything to go by. Olsen draws himself up to his full height and puffs out his chest at the noise.

“Good. Let them sniff at it for a while.” He makes a show of rolling his eyes. “It’ll keep them busy.”

“I guess I should say thank you.”

It takes Sloane a long moment to realize she’s talking to her and not Olsen.

“Why?” Sloane asks, her brow furrowed as the other woman approaches.

“For bringing Teresa Martinez out of hiding. She’s been a thorn in my side for the past decade.”

She says it with a smirk, as if the older woman’s death is amusing.

Sloane curls her hands into fists; her nails dig deep trenches into the skin of her palms. An important lesson she was taught while working abroad was to not retaliate. Pissing off her captors wouldn’t do her any good, she reasons. The undignified oof Charlotte lets out when Sloane punches her across the jaw is just so satisfying, though. Charlotte stumbles back against the sofa to keep herself upright. Her dark eyes flash in the low light, her mouth turned down into a scowl.

“You are going to regret that,” Charlotte promises, then flicks her gaze over to Olsen. “And you -- why are you just standing there? Do something about--”

“I can’t,” Olsen cuts her off. “I used up my supply and Declan’s was compromised. That’s why I texted you to come up here. You have more of it, don’t you?”

“I used it in the tea that she didn’t drink, you moron!” Charlotte shouts at him before quickly schooling her features. “You’ve been Declan’s assistant for three years. You’d have me believe that he came up with all of the ideas? Don’t tell me that you can’t think outside the box, kid.”

“I’m not a--”

With a roll of her eyes, Charlotte grabs hold of Sloane’s arm and drags her through the suite. Clutching his gun with both hands now, Olsen trails behind them. When they return to the service hallway and bypass the elevator, a cold realization washes over Sloane. She digs in her heels, trying in vain to slow their approach to the stairs. Charlotte tightens her grip and laughs at her attempts to break free.

“I’ve dealt with stronger girls than you,” she says. “Come on, keep moving. I can always have Timothy brought up here with us -- that might get you to listen to me.”

The threat, combined with the now-familiar press of the gun barrel at her back, forces Sloane to continue up the stairwell. At the top, crime scene tape criss-crosses the roof’s access door. Charlotte grabs hold of a strip and rips it apart before shouldering open the door. A freezing gust of wind batters into them, sending tape shreds down the stairs. An alarm wails above their heads -- a noise, Sloane hopes, that will notify someone below.

“I really don’t see you getting away with this a second time,” she tells the two as they step out onto the roof. Wind whips at her hair, pulling the strands free from her updo. She makes a show of trying to wrangle it behind her ear, using the movement to scan the rooftop. The various vents and pipes are all bolted down, but she could use the loose gravel under their feet in a pinch. But spending time in a warzone taught her to be more pragmatic. If no weapons were available, she could always use the terrain to her advantage.

“It’s simple: you went up here to look for the ring. It was missing in the evidence collection, after all. There’s a record of Agent Ramsey requesting it to be transferred to the FBI. You already snuck up here once before, so what’s wrong with another peek?” Charlotte leads her across the roof, Olsen an annoying presence at her back. “You got a woman killed when she could have lived for another decade, if you had just left well-enough alone. So you had a few drinks -- not wasted, the bartender will admit, but enough that your reflexes were slower. And it’s not like there’s much of a railing.”

Sloane shudders -- not only from the temperature, but from the neat story Charlotte weaves. The edge of the roof looms closer and closer with every step. The building’s north side will be free of most foot traffic and is the complete opposite of the access door -- which is exactly where Sloane wants to go.

“This isn’t going to work. This isn’t the spot where Farrugia jumped, and the medical examiner, they’ll see the bruises on my--”

“Oh, right,” Charlotte interrupts. “Dr. Wen, she’s the local ME. Lovely woman. She stays with us from time to time. If I recall, she has a penchant for blondes.”

Planting her right heel, Sloane forces them to a halt as she squirms away from Charlotte’s touch. The other woman grins as she runs a hand through Sloane’s hair, clenching it in her gloved fist when Sloane fights to get away. “It’s too bad. There’s a lot of demand for redheads in the industry.”

“Is that what you call drugging and selling people?”

“In polite company.”

“We need to hurry it up,” Olsen speaks up from behind them. “That alarm is going to alert somebody soon enough.”

Charlotte shifts to glare at him for interrupting -- which is when Sloane makes her move. Twisting at the waist, she brings her other elbow up and into the hollow of Charlotte’s throat. She collapses down onto one knee as she gags. Sloane doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath -- she takes off across the roof, ducking behind a ventilation unit just before a bullet sinks into the metal above her head.

Crouching along to the other end, Sloane peeks around the edge to scan the rooftop. The route back to the stairwell is well-lit under the moonlight -- and void of any real cover.

“Fuck,” she mutters. To her left comes the sound of gravel crunching as Olsen makes his way toward her. Her only option is to hope he runs out of bullets and find another way down.

Saturday, January 17, 8:14 p.m.

His lungs burn from the strain of climbing as they pass the tenth floor landing. Baz keeps right behind him, silent save for his steady breathing. The gray of the concrete steps and the black of the non-slip tread is broken up only by the occasional chunk of crime scene tape, bright yellow against the dark stairwell. Each piece they find is further proof that someone tampered with the tape covering the access door.

From above, sound echoes down into the stairwell -- voices. Ethan freezes to a halt on the eleventh floor landing and pulls his weapon from its holster. Baz waits a moment beside him, then holds up two fingers, to which Ethan nods his agreement. A man and a woman, judging from the pitches. Then, a moment later: a gunshot, the percussion of it muffled but still obvious.

Ethan moves, taking the remaining steps two at a time until they reach the open door. Examining the immediate area, he signals to Baz that it’s clear before stepping out into the cold night. A hundred feet across the roof, two people stand together near the building’s south side.

“Come on out, then,” the man calls. “There’s nowhere left for you to go.”

Whatever the woman begins to say comes out as a wracking cough. Ethan and Baz use the noise to move closer. The cloud cover above thins and moonlight spills across the roof. It’s how Ethan is able to identify the figures as Olsen and St. Yves. It’s also how he spots a third person -- a woman, her hair and dress rippling in the wind as she stands up from behind an exhaust vent.

Every muscle in his body tightens as Olsen lifts his gun and takes aim at Sloane.

“FBI!” he shouts as he bursts forward, Baz right beside him with his own gun drawn. “Drop your weapon.”

[ardent-musings]

Sleazeballs and Submission

Murphy McNully Smut

Warning: NSFW 18+, this is revenge for @kc-needs-coffee making me feel feelings. How absolutely dare ye. It’s pure filth folks. 

You were livid. Absolutely fuming at the report’s inconsiderate assumptions about you and Murphy; although you did your best to hold in your sneers and glares from the rest of the guests at the “Kestrals for Kids” Gala. Of course, you understood that you had a sizeable reputation when it came to the world of Quidditch. That was to be expected. And yet the fact that the reporter saw you as eye candy for your former teammate made you sick to your stomach. But none of that even compared to the way he so flippantly condescended Murphy on his big night.

Yes, Murphy was in a wheelchair. Anyone with relatively good eyesight could notice that. To you, it felt like that was the only thing the reporter noticed about the man that you loved. The man who made so many sacrifices so you could live out your dream post –Hogwarts. The man who spent nights out with your dad just because they felt like it. The man that loved you to the moon and back. After hearing the reporters vitriol take on your husband made you not even angry. It was more than that. It was pure fury that settled within your chest.

But for now, those feelings had to wait. You stood off to the side of the large room after vacating the terrace with Dougan who quickly left you at the promise of another scotch. That was fine by you though. You only had eyes for Murphy.

He was currently with the little kids at the event, grinning happily as they sat with him for rounds and rounds of pictures, being blinded every time the flash went off. It was nice to see him so comfortable. So in his element and so wonderfully himself.

After an hour had passed and most of the guests had left the busy event, you decided to take some time to yourself out on the terrace. The night breeze was helping cool you skin, but the anger that festered started to build again as you stared at the spot where reporter had taken your picture not too long ago. Your painted fingertips tapped on the side of your champagne glass, hoping the smooth bubbly drink would do something to calm you. It did nothing.

“Hello, Rising Star. Care for some company?”

You turned to see that Murphy had joined you, taking a moment to look out the glass barrier to admire the lush landscape before turning his sparkling grey eyes towards you. Even in the shadows they were bright. He was warm and cheerful, and regardless of how upset you were, you didn’t want to ruin his already good mood.

“I always want your company, Murph,” you hummed, taking another sip of your drink even though you knew it wasn’t giving you the effect you wanted.

“Did you have a good night?”

His question, though innocent and well intentioned, reminded you of how the beginning of your evening played out. The reporter’s dumb questions, his gross stinky cigars, and the scathing comments about Murphy resurfaced. Before you could hide it, your glare on Murphy intensified, trying your hardest drink in the image of the man you cared so deeply for.

Instead of answering him, you busied your body by waltzing behind him, your gold stiletto heels clicking against the stone floor with every step. He craned his neck back, trying to follow your path, but he let out a surprised groan once you gently gripped his neck from behind and kissed the side of it, focusing on his beating pulse. You couldn’t help but squeeze a bit, enjoying how Murphy’s breath hitched at the pinch of your manicured grip.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s going on?” His face curled in a satisfied smirk.

“I just need you,” you admitted softly, your hot breath tickling his ear, making him stiffen in his chair. Before, at the beginning of the night when decorum was important, you worried about leaving lipstick traces on his skin. But not now. Right now, you just had to prove to him how much he meant to you.

He growled lowly as you tugged on his hair, enjoying the way your nails scrapped and messed up his perfectly styled hair while you nibbled along his neck. Murphy was reeling in the attention, surprised when you tilted his head back and brought the champagne flute up to his lips to give him a taste of your drink. After swallowing the liquor, his eyes grew dark, eating up the image of you in your golden dress as you circled around to face him like a hungry vulture. Your getup had a deep neckline, and he licked his lips as you leaned in to kiss him properly. You wore that style of dress specifically to toy with Murphy’s desire for your chest, and he knew it.

“Call me selfish, but I don’t want anyone else to ever touch you.”

You left his kiss and slowly lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. His eyes bulged at the promise you were presenting as you flipped your scarlet hair over your shoulder.

“I’d suggest locking the door, big guy,” you chuckled as you started to run your hands over his knees and up his thighs teasingly. Without a second of hesitation, he pulled out his wand and muttered a spell in the direction of the French doors that separated you two from the stragglers at the event.

With a wicked grin, you started to unbuckle his belt, finding it comical how he was gripping the handles of his seat with such strength and for a moment you wished his hands were tangled in your hair like that. Usually, you would just pull down his pants as far as you had to; however, the report’s judgement on your husband’s body echoed in your ear.

He saw Murphy as undesirable, which to you was the most outlandish idea. But even Murphy had his insecurities some days. Tonight was about making him feel sexy. Making him feel worthy. Making him feel irresistible.  

You pulled down Murphy’s pants further down his firm thighs, finding the shiny white and even the abrasive red scars on his leg beautiful. They made up Murphy; every tiny line weaved into the smoothness of his surrounding skin: a mixture of soft and rough. You wanted to appreciate all of him. So you slowly kissed the lines that littered his leg, alternating between biting the skin at his knee and then grazing the tip of your tongue along his thigh like his skin was a map for you to travel.

Once you made eye contact with Murphy, you saw his grey eyes softer than they were just seconds earlier. His brows were furrowed at the middle, confused by your subtle worship of his scars. But you loved this. Seeing him all vulnerable before you. His smart mouth was something you adored and yet his lips frowned as you continued your gentle ministrations on his leg.

You sat up high on your knees, gripping his waist beneath his dress shirt and placed a kiss over the wet spot on his briefs. His hips bucked at the feeling, finally reaching down to stroke your cheek in appreciation. He loved how you look nuzzling into his clothed cock while on your knees.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you babbled mindlessly, your thoughts clouded with the vision of your mouth on Murphy. “Please.”

Murphy nearly melted at the desperation in your voice. You usually got like this after he got you off a few times; however it was strange to see you pout at the mere thought of doing anything to him. With the hand that still hovered over your cheek, he pulled you in for a kiss. It wasn’t forceful, just compacted with all the insatiable feelings you too felt for each other. Kissing him was one of your favorite things to do; although Murphy’s need for you on him was becoming apparent as he sighed into your mouth.

“Does my darling girl wanna taste?” His jaw clenched as he looked down at your pleading form, pulling down your bottom lip with his thumb. All you could do was nod enthusiastically, already overcome by your neediness.

The ache in your knees was growing, but you had yet to fulfill your plan, so with a cheeky wink, you pulled down his briefs and grazed your tongue from the base to the tip of his cock in one long lick. Murphy grinned at the feeling, running his hands through his hair at your teasing tongue. His view was something straight out of a fantasy: your hands and deep red lips were working on him with such fervor, your copper hair was in his grip and from this angle he could tell that you weren’t wearing a bra beneath your slinky dress. It was overwhelming and yet he wouldn’t dare turn away from his beautiful girl on her knees.

All he could do was slump further into his chair as you gripped him in your hand, pumping him perfectly as you went back to kissing his scars. He had never had anyone give his body so much attention, especially the parts of him people would usually turn away from. And yet, there you were, marveling at every curve, scar, and dip of his body. You surprised him every time you did it, and every time he thanked whatever holy power there was for putting you in his life.

He was relieved that he locked the door behind him but with the way your lipstick was leaving marks on him, Murphy regretted not placing a silencing charm around you two as well. His breathing grew more labored as you took him back into your mouth, hollowing around him. Murphy couldn’t help but let out a weak chuckle at the whole situation, growing overwhelmed by the way you tightened your grip.

Before he could get off, you pulled away from him which made the man above you groan in frustration. But you didn’t leave him waiting long.

“You don’t have to be gentle with me, I don’t break easily,” you reminded him as you continued to pump him in your hands, digging your nails onto his leg to steady yourself.

“No you don’t, my little beater. Strongest girl I know, you can take it.”

He chuckled darkly at you, gripping your hair a bit tighter, growing more desperate for his release. Murphy’s hips were now unrelenting; thrusting up quickly only to grunt as you coughed around him. But you didn’t care. You rejoiced in the way he was using you, because deep down, you knew that he would only ever choose you. This was your way of reminding him that you picked him as well.

The tears on your face trickled down your flushed cheeks, your efforts working in overdrive to prove yourself to Murphy, touching him in every way you knew he loved. You hummed around him as he lifted his arms behind his head to grip at his seat, meanwhile his hips jutted up from his chair as best he could. Harsher grunts were ripped from his chest, unable to keep quiet as you started scratching the inside of his taut thighs. Your name and filthy swears tumbled from his lips, biting down on them as he was nearing his high.

“C’mon, darling. Fuck, you’re too goddamn good,” was all he could mutter as you hollowed around him, your eyes meeting his as you giggled around him.

With a final grunt, Murphy released down your throat, his clothed chest heaving as the cool summer breeze made him realize just how warm he grew under your touch. He chuckled, hips still bucking as you kitten licked every drop he offered you. Your knees were wobbling from being pressed against the stone floor for so long, but you couldn’t care less.

Murphy rolled his eyes at you, growing overstimulated as you dragged your nails along the inside of his thigh leaving light scratches in their wake. He growled at your teasing, biting the inside of his cheek as he gripped your jaw firmly, beckoning you to rise from your position and onto his lap.

His hold on your chin was strong and you couldn’t turn away from his gaze even if you tried. His gray eyes were wild with desire for you and your heart started racing from his intensity. Your face tickled from the huffs of labored breaths he was still releasing as he came down from his high. Murphy was not only staring at you like he wanted you, he looked at you like he owned you.

“How long have you been devising this little plan, sweetheart?” His words were sweet, but his tone was pure filth.

“Since cocktail hour,” you admitted breathlessly, his fingers trailed from your chin to rest at the base of your neck, holding you like a collar would.

“Since cocktail hour,” he mocked, tipping his head to the side and laughing in your face. Not in a mean way; Murphy would never be cruel towards you. He chuckled deeply at your response because he knew that your mind must’ve been reeling with the thought of him for hours as he went on and worked the night. “So then tell me, love…”

You gasped loudly at the sudden feeling of Murphy reaching underneath your lavish dress to circle your clit with a firm thumb.

“Aw, I was right, darling. You’re dripping. And I didn’t even have to do anything.”

His face twisted in a self-assured grin, one that you loved to see him wear. That meant he was feeling confident, which he should feel all the time. He was everything you could ever want.

Soon enough, his talented fingers started pumping into you as his thumb continued to toy with your body, drawing whiny moans from you with every thrust. His other hand was tangled in your hair, making sure you kept his eyes on him at all times.

“Better keep quiet. There’s no silencing spell in place and beyond those doors are some very influential people. Wouldn’t want them to see my pretty girl getting finger fucked now would we?”

Your eyes rolled back at his comment. Being caught wasn’t your game plan, but the idea of everyone knowing that Murphy owned your body so well is an intoxicating thought.

“Or maybe you do want that?” He hummed against your mouth, kissing every whimper you released against his lips. “Does my baby want everyone to know who gets to play with you? Want everyone to know how good I make you feel?”

Your release was so close, and Murphy’s clenched jaw and teasing words was bringing you to the edge. His fingers were relentlessly working your every nerve in the best way possible, making you clench around him. Until there was nothing left to squeeze.

Murphy pulled his hand away from you, making you buck against his lap which only made your gorgeous husband laugh softly.

“You don’t get to cum, darling,” he began licking your sweetness off his fingers as he stared into your stunning and blown out eyes. “Not until I say so. Do you understand?”

Beneath the thin layer of your dress was the rapid rise and fall of your chest, which Murphy took no steps to hide his gaze on your breasts. His face was no longer as stern as before, he was looking up at you with an amused expression, enjoying how your body had slumped against his from your pleasure.

His nose trailed up the side of your neck, getting lost in your perfume as he kissed the shell of your ear.

“Do you understand?” he groaned.

Wordlessly, you nodded slowly. The feeling of your delayed high made you delirious; you would agree to anything Murphy said if that meant he would eventually touch you again. He pulled you in by the back of your neck and placed a kiss over your hazy eyelids, down your nose. His lips trailed across your cheek and then your jaw until they finally landed on your lips. He tasted like your champagne and for the first time in the night you finally felt drunk off of something.

“I love you, you filthy thing,” he chuckled which made you hide your face in his neck, groaning in annoyance from his teasing. “Up, darling.”

You stood up from his lap with weak legs as he fixed his clothes, trying his hardest to look relatively normal. His fingers raked through his hair to calm the golden strands, but since the event was practically over, Murphy didn’t care that much. With a flick of his wand, the French doors which were once magically sealed shut unlocked in a second.

The distance between the terrace and the Ministry issued car was far too long, growing worse every time Murphy was halted by a remaining guest who wished to speak with him. You stood proudly beside your husband as he worked his charm, you would’ve enjoyed the moment but instead you had to clench your thighs to fight off the desire your body was still demanding. Fake smiles painted your face even though you wanted to be sincere. It just wasn’t happening at the moment.

After a few stops and curious questions, you and Murphy finally reached the black government car that was waiting to take you back to your flat. Thirty minutes. You just had to endure another thirty minutes.

Except that wasn’t what Murphy had planned. As soon as you two were settled in the car and his chair was secured in the back, he closed the partition, put up a silencing spell and immediately began toying with your clit yet again. It wasn’t what you needed and Murphy knew that, too. He wasn’t touching you to make you feel good, he was touching you because he could, and you loved it.

Thirty minutes. You endured thirty torturous minutes of gentle grazes against your clit that did nothing to silence the ache you felt for him. The whole time he whispered filthy compliments to you as you tried your hardest to sit still and look inconspicuous until you reached the flat.

Thankfully, once you reached your destination, you were able to regain some of your sense. The driver assisted with getting Murphy’s chair, although your husband quickly yet kindly dismissed any further help. He didn’t need it.

The moment you two entered the threshold of your flat, Murphy lifted himself onto the soft cotton sheets of your bed. He ripped off his shirt so his wide shoulders were fully exposed to you and your nails instinctively dug into the taut muscle. His grip on your hips was almost painful, but you craved Murphy, in anyway he’d take you.

You yelped as he picked you up over his shoulder and slammed your body down on the bed. He chuckled lowly at your reaction, but soon enough his movements proved to be just as desperate as you felt. He pulled the neckline of your dress to the side to release one of your breasts. The sudden exposure to the cold night air made you gasp, but it was Murphy’s sucking on your nipple that made you yell and grind against his thigh.

“I’ve gotta have you, my love. God, I can’t fucking wait,” he groaned as he lifted the skirt of your sparkly dress over your hips, relishing in just how wet you still were.

He held himself up with one arm as you undid his belt and made quick work of his pants and underwear, lining himself up with you.

“Hands up,” he instructed. As soon as you lifted both your hands up over your head, he captured your wrists in a single hand. You gasped at the feeling of being so powerless beneath him but it was everything you wanted and more.

“I love you,” he moaned more so to himself as he pushed himself fully into you, his head dipped onto your chest at the feeling of you squeezing him. Instinctively, your legs raised to hook around his waist, encouraging him to rock into you harder. He stretched you so good and you couldn’t help but whine as he pumped into you slowly but entirely, every inch of him was accepted by your greedy body.

Murphy marveled at you beneath him, mesmerized by the bounce of your tits every time he thrusted into you, but god your little cries were the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard. You bit down hard on your lower lip, unable to control an ounce of the situation, but you didn’t have to. Murphy knew your body better than anyone.

Your back arched uncomfortably as his pelvis grinded against your clit with every snap of his hips. You were already so sensitive but soon enough he was ravenously pounding you into the mattress.  

“Please, please, baby,” you cried against his neck before biting down on the point where his shoulder met his collarbone.

“Go on, darling. You deserve it. Cum for me.”

Without another word, Murphy laced his fingers with yours as you came hard around him, your whole body thrashed beneath him. It was almost too much to handle, but Murphy was chasing his own high. After a few more thrusts and a cry of your name, he finished, fully dropping his sweaty body against yours.

You were fucked beyond comprehension, the slick gold dress was barely hanging on you anymore and your hair was a wild mess as it fanned out behind you. But you didn’t care.

“I love you.”

Murphy sighed happily at your declaration, memorizing every line of your, now, calm and thoroughly loved body. He loved looking at you after making love to you, no matter how rough or romantic. The sight of you was too beautiful to pass up.

“Wanna take a nap, my love? We can talk afterwards, yeah?”

At the sound of sleep, you nodded tiredly. Still semi covered in your golden dress, you slipped underneath the comforting sheets of your bed. Murphy followed you after covering himself up with his discarded underwear and his crisp business shirt. They weren’t the most practical outfits for sleeping, but as soon as your head hit the pillow, you succumbed to your exhaustion.

Murphy’s strong body pulled yours to him, leaving a whisper of kisses over your exposed shoulder. He uttered a final word before he too fell asleep.

“Mine.”

[littlemixnet]

Little Mix on what it takes to survive being the most bullied band in pop

Still teenagers when they were catapulted to fame, superstardom came at a price for Little Mix. They open up to Francesca Babb about the soaring highs and crashing lows of the past nine years. It is the end of our YOU cover shoot, and I am facing the lesser-spotted sight of a barefaced Little Mix. Wet wipes swipe back and forth across their faces and, as the foundation departs in a deluge of coffee-coloured tissues, Jesy Nelson and Leigh-Anne Pinnock, both 29, and Jade Thirlwall and Perrie Edwards, both 27, visibly relax into their tracksuits and boyfriend jeans, shoulders dropping as they settle into themselves. I’m so used to seeing them contoured and camera ready that I assumed full glamour was their happy place. But perhaps the real Little Mix are not the war-paint-and-leotard-clad pop stars we’ve spent almost ten years watching grow up, but rather the four women they have become behind the glare of the spotlight. It’s those four women that I’m intrigued to meet. Since winning The X Factor nine years ago, there have been highs – selling over 50 million records globally, a significant percentage of which were self-penned, and creating enough accompanying make-up lines and merchandise to keep them and their families comfortable for the foreseeable future (recent reports suggest they have earned a combined £28.5 million to date). But there have also been lows – perpetual picking apart by both the public and the press, bullying and vitriol from online trolls. The most extreme cases of which led Jesy to attempt suicide during Little Mix’s early days in 2013 (she regards a tweet from the controversial Katie Hopkins – ‘Packet Mix have still got a chubber in their ranks. Less Little Mix. More Pick n Mix’ – as the ‘pinnacle point’ for her depression) and pushed Perrie into an ongoing struggle with anxiety. Fame has changed them. In some ways they are still youthful and silly – dropping phrases into conversation that wouldn’t be out of place in a playground – yet, in others, they are wise beyond their years, diving headfirst into battles on feminism, race and mental health. They’re fun enough to be light relief, smart enough to inspire a generation struggling with the pressures of youth and social media even before a pandemic was thrown at them, and ballsy enough to leave Simon Cowell’s record label because they didn’t feel he had their best interests at heart. ‘It’s never really been a cruise, has it?’ Jade ponders, a copy of social activist Bell Hooks’ 2002 feminist theory Communion: The Female Search For Love in her hand (not for show, I might add; when I ask her about it, she is well versed in its content). ‘It’s either been a really big high, or a really big low.’ Jesy, who has found herself the target of some of the cruelest contempt from the world outside Little Mix, agrees: ‘Some of the best times, some of the worst times.’ Comments on her weight, her looks, her place in the band, comments that she should take her own life, all led her into a deep depression and the aforementioned suicide attempt. Her documentary last year, Jesy Nelson: Odd One Out, revealed her journey through it all and, while harrowing, it is essential viewing on the realities of growing up in a world dominated by social media. ‘Before we got in the group, I never looked at myself and thought, “I don’t like that” – I don’t think any of us did. I never thought, “Oh god, I’m fat”, and then we got in the industry, and we all started wanting to change things about ourselves. It’s so sad. There are things [in the past] I definitely wish I hadn’t done,’ she says, referring to the suicide attempt, in which she took an overdose after a two-year battle with depression and an eating disorder. ‘But would I be the person I am today if I hadn’t gone through all of that?’ ‘There was a time when it was worse than it is now,’ adds Leigh-Anne, who has increasingly used her own Instagram channel to vocalise her experience of racism, both overt and underlying, throughout her time in the band. ‘I guess we’re taking steps forward, but I fear for my [future] daughters…’ ‘It makes me not want to have a kid,’ agrees Jesy. ‘Those insecurities that we all have now because of social media, imagine having that embedded in you as a child?’ Before you write them off as four very lucky girls ungratefully complaining about a lifestyle so many dream of, I should point out that they are fully aware of the paradox of their privilege. I suppose the point is, it’s not too much to ask to not be bullied to the point of hospitalisation as a by-product, is it? ‘Little Mix has changed our lives for the better, and our families’ lives, and we have achieved so much,’ says Perrie. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ agrees Jesy (a warning I will hear repeatedly throughout our hour together, perhaps thanks to almost a decade of their quotes being blasted out of context for click-bait). ‘I’m not going to sit here and say we’ve got a terrible life, because we haven’t, but I do think our innocence was taken from us.’ It’s a while since the girls last did any press. Lockdown saw a halt to any activity they had planned, including the launch of their new talent show, BBC1’s Little Mix: The Search (in which they, well, search for a new band to mentor and join them on tour). But the time apart has not diminished their ability to finish each other’s sentences and jump to each other’s aid. It has, it seems, been really rather good for them and allowed them to come back fired up for the release of their sixth album, Confetti, which came out this week. ‘It was needed,’ agrees Jesy. ‘We’re never not with each other and we’re always busy. Our mornings start early, we finish really late.’ Being at home has meant more time spent with their families, with Jade even starting her own show on MTV with her mum Norma. Called Served!, the self-filmed series saw the pair interview celebrity drag queens and challenge each other to cooking competitions. ‘I love drag culture,’ she says, ‘and me mam was by herself in lockdown, so I thought it’d be something nice to keep her entertained.’ ‘Your mum could be on Loose Women,’ Leigh-Anne muses. ‘Imagine our mams on a show!’ shrieks Jade. ‘Nobody else would get a word in edgeways with my mam,’ laughs Perrie. ‘Ooh, when Debbie goes off on Twitter,’ says Jade, of Perrie’s mum’s habit of weighing in on comments from haters. ‘My mam will text me, have you seen Debbie’s been going off on someone!’ It is interesting that all four talk frequently about their mums throughout our chat, and yet there is no mention of fathers. While their mums often appear on Instagram, a sighting of Perrie’s dad on her 23rd birthday was extremely rare. Perhaps the Little Mix dads’ absence in the narrative is because the four girls were predominantly raised by their mothers (all of their parents separated when they were younger), and another reason the group’s bond is so tight. Little Mix are each other’s wall of arms, their own personal bodyguards. Jesy, they unanimously agree, is Scary Mix (although I find her a delight), which is interesting given her own inability to bat off other people’s words. ‘When it’s you on your own dealing with something personally,’ Jesy says, ‘It’s completely different. You feel so vulnerable alone, but we are a force when we’re together.’ It’s not hard to see, in today’s social-media obsessed society where there is little retribution for cruelty, why four attractive, successful young women, with attractive, successful young boyfriends (two footballers – Perrie dates Liverpool’s Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, Leigh-Anne is engaged to Watford’s Andre Gray – while Jade is with Rizzle Kicks singer Jordan Stephens and Jesy is going out with Our Girl actor Sean Sagar), who seem to be living a dream life have found themselves at the heart of a whirlwind of vitriol. There was the infamous spat with Piers Morgan, in which he mocked them for posing naked but for the insults that have been hurled at them painted on their bodies. He accused them of using sex to sell records and called them ‘foul-mouthed, talentless, clothes-allergic little dimwits’, which is not how I find them to be. ‘I take Piers with a pinch of salt,’ Jesy says, rolling her eyes. ‘He does it to cause drama, so I take no notice. When we won The X Factor, we didn’t look like a generic girl band: we’re all different shapes and sizes, we didn’t dress sexy, so immediately everyone was, “What’s this?”’ ‘Usually, when you see a girl band, they’re perfection, they have six-packs – and we didn’t,’ continues Jesy. ‘People saw us as kids, so even though we’re now women, people still think of us that way, so when we come out on stage in leotards, they think, “That’s disgusting!”’ ‘One Direction didn’t get the s**t we get, because they’re men,’ states Leigh-Anne. ‘It’s like, “They’re four girls, let’s come at them”. As soon as it’s girls, they think, “Oh you slag.”’ ‘When it’s men, it’s celebrated, but the minute women sexualise themselves and feel powerful doing it, we’re told to rein it in,’ adds Jade. ‘We’re conditioned to think that women are there to be these innocent and pure beings and the minute you step out of that, it’s carnage.’ Little Mix, however, are not scared of embracing that carnage and of sparking a debate. For their show The Search, Jade describes how it was important for them to set the tone on respect when each new person auditioned. ‘Because we are small women, it’s important to show people that they need to respect us, that we know what we’re talking about and we need to be listened to,’ she says. ‘There’s no nastiness,’ continues Jesy about the show, which has been praised for modernising and freshening up the age-old TV format. ‘There’s no making anyone feel uncomfortable for entertainment.’ They also insisted a large part of their budget be dedicated to looking after the contestants’ mental health, understanding, first hand, the pitfalls of talent shows. The Search is not their first attempt at diversifying their talent. As a group, they have LMX make-up line and also a perfume, Style By Little Mix. Subsequently, they have become expert businesswomen, refusing to make the mistakes of pop groups past, so often left completely penniless at the end of their careers. ‘I remember walking into an early label meeting and saying, “This is who we want to be, this is the campaign we want, this is the imagery we want,”’ says Jade. ‘We knew our brand from the get go and we very much steered that ship.’ It’s a long way from their (as Jesy puts it) ‘working-class backgrounds’. Since joining the band, each one has bought their mum a house and, while their tale is not entirely rags to riches, the jump from Primark to Prada in recent years has certainly been significant. When it comes to business, Perrie describes herself and Leigh-Anne as the ones who will often seek a compromise in difficult situations, while they send Jesy and Jade in when deals need to be made. ‘Jesy’s the badass,’ Perrie laughs. ‘Whenever I’m scared, I’ll stand behind her. She’s the one who puts her foot down in a boardroom full of men and says, “It’s going to be this way.” But we pick our battles. We don’t just argue about every decision – it’s when we feel we have to.’ ‘Nobody could say that we are difficult, and if they do, they’re lying,’ says Leigh-Anne adamantly. Adds Jesy: ‘We know what we want, and we know what kids want.’ Little Mix have lived over a third of their lives in the spotlight. They’ve seen how things work, how things don’t, and they’ve learnt how to cope with it all. The lows may have been spectacularly low, but the highs have surpassed any of their expectations. Their story is not your classic fairytale, but it’s one they have learnt they can write their own ending for. If the Little Mix I meet today is anything to go by, I wouldn’t expect that ending to come any time soon. Little Mix’s new album Confetti is out now. Their movie LM5: The Tour Film will be in cinemas nationwide on 21 and 22 November.

[wolfpawn]

Hiding in Plain Sight, Chapter 10

Story Summary - Imagine coming from a line of nobility or royalty and being in an arranged marriage with Loki in an attempt to strengthen your kingdom/alliance with Asgard. You’re not entirely on board with the idea but figured that the best you could do was to get to know your fiancé. You form an agreement with Frigga for you to pose as Loki’s personal servant for a few months so you can get to know who Loki really is – beyond the veil of his responsibility to the Asgardian throne, behind all the masks he wears when facing the public, to really know who Loki is behind closed doors as you slowly fall for each other. How long will you keep up the ruse with the God of Lies?

Chapter Summary - The conflict.

Previous Chapter

Tags - @peppermint-j @alexakeyloveloki @cateyes315 @laserpente @bravotheroyalfool @teylacarter91 @heavenly1927

Raven gave him a withering look. “Again with the ‘she’ and ‘her’. You are going out of your way to be insulting at this stage.” “But you are Raven? Not ‘Breanna’?” Loki demanded.

“My grandmother called me Breanna. It’s one and the same.” She dismissed.

“You hid yourself as a maid?”

“I did.” “Why?” “I heard so many stories about you, so incredibly conflicting, I wanted to see for myself.” “So you pretended to be a maid? You…” Loki’s eyes widened. “You scrubbed my toilet.” He grimaced at that thought.

“In fairness, whatever else was ever said about you, your hygiene is impeccable.”

“Why?” “I told you.” “But why?”

“I learnt you are intelligent and can understand many languages and are very much able to comprehend the spoken word so I don’t think I need to repeat myself again. I know it is something you also dislike. You told me that the first day I spoke to you.” She walked around a little.

Loki studied her for a moment. Watching how she walked, so obviously well-bred and the manner in which she was speaking showing a significant education. He shook his head slightly as he spoke. “My brother said time and again that the Elven princess was raised in a manner that was meek and subservient. You have been insubordinate since the day you walked in here.”

“How can I be insubordinate to you, we are of equal standing. The extra children of the ruling monarch, merely existing in the slight offchance our older siblings do not make it to taking the throne.” She challenged.

“I think your father would rather a republic than have you on the throne.” Loki pointed out, his tone half of anger, half merely stating fact.

“I think he would too but the law is that I can take it regardless of my gender, I just need all four of my brothers to not get on it and have heirs.” She eyed him with intrigue, watching the glut of emotions swirling around in his face. Anger seemed to be winning as the most notable one. “I suggest airing your anger now. It will make this easier in the long run.”

“Was my mother in on this all along?” “Yes. I wrote to her to get her words on your character. Sadly, she gave the view of a biased and loving mother. So, convinced I would see your personality for myself in other ways by being your maid, she suggested I take Tatianna’s place for a few weeks. I can see you have a good rapport with her, so I can see why she would think that.”

Loki felt his anger rise at his mother’s involvement. “My brother, my father?”

“For the Allfather to know anything, he would have had to have come to your rooms whilst I was here, he never did, ergo, he never knew anything of it. Thor was not part of the plan. What I had not anticipated was that he recalled the few occasions that he met me in passing while talking to my brothers over the centuries, especially in Vanaheim. He confronted me, wanting to know why I was playing such games. He did not agree with it but the Allmother and I convinced him to remain silent.”

Loki’s lip curled in anger at his brother knowing such things but also knowing that he had the excuse of being told to say nothing. Not that it would save him from a few choice words and more than a few spells and hard blows when Loki would be able to inflict such on him again. “You spied on me, and you thought it wise?” He scoffed in disgust. “How did you envisage this little reveal going? Pray, do tell.” “I suppose it’s obvious that I had not thought through that fully. I was hoping the Aesir I was meeting was actually a nice being so I would at least feel guilty.”

Loki’s brow rose at that. “You have the audacity to say such things with all your deceit.”

“You literally are nicknamed the God of Lies, tricks and mischief, I would have thought you would have been impressed if nothing else.” “I am anything but.” He became irate at her answers. “You have no right to speak to me like this, you deceitful wench.” He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. “Get out.”

Raven felt hurt but understood fully and had expected him to react in such a manner, sighing, she walked to the door. “Well, it’s done now anyway.”

“What?” Loki had no inkling as to what she was referring to. “Getting this conflict out of the way. I was getting bothered waiting for it.” She spoke as she walked through the door.

“You anticipated this, really?” He did not believe her.

“I anticipated this, at best. I thought you would fly into a rage and throw me out at worst but then again, I thought you had not arrived for lunch because you had realised who I was and were giving me the very much expected silent treatment. Something I would wager all the ore on Alfheim I am going to be receiving from this point forth. I did not think it would last this long.” “What would last this long?” “This conversation. It lasted far longer than I had expected.” She shrugged as she walked to the door.

“Did you really learn to be a maid for this?” “I hardly knew how to be one before. I had to at least pretend to know what I was doing.” “You were so desperate to try and make a fool of me?” “It was never about making a fool of you, Loki. I told you, I wanted to know what to expect here. I tried to find out by other means but to no avail. Unlike you, I had to move to another realm and live with a man I had not met in almost seven hundred years outside of the briefest of moments.” “So you thought the way to get to know me was to scrub my toilet, that is your thinking of me? That is what you considered in getting to know me? I honestly expected you to have little self-respect with how you were raised, what with it being a misogynistic realm but you really do not have any self-worth with how you acted.” He walked over to the main door of his rooms to open it.

“Well, when your muscles ached and you wanted them relieved and when I neatened your belongings, you did not complain and don’t you ever look down at those who clean your toilet. You would not last five minutes in the real realm without your seidr, you pretentious prick.”

Irate at her venomous words, Loki walked forward towards her but stopped suddenly when she flinched as though expecting to be struck. As much as he wanted to say something as vitriolic back, he refrained. “Your little stunt was nothing more than pathetic and ridiculous and your name calling even more so, but it clearly was futile because if your observations were even the slightest bit accurate, you would know I would never lay a hand on you.”

“I knew that. If anyone will bear any physical brunt of this, it will be Thor.”

Loki had to admit, she did learn something in all of this with that comment. “Yet, you flinched as though expecting me to strike you?” “I am not a warrior, I have not learnt how to not flinch when someone rushes forward. But I know you would not. If you had been a risk to me, I would never have come here alone.” She ensured to look him in the eye as she spoke to show her sincerity.

Loki had to admit, that was a valid excuse and indeed statement regarding her safety. “Good, at least you grasped that much in this.” He opened the door fully and indicated outside.

“I guess the deceitful wench will leave the pretentious prick to his day, then.” She walked towards the door.

“Norns but you have to have the last word, don’t you?” Loki pushed the door shut again with some force. “You’re supposed to be silent.” “You literally said one of the things you were looking forward to least about being married to me was that you loathed the idea of a subservient and silent wife. My father should have had someone warn you, I tend to be too sarcastic for my own good, always have been, but you noticed that already too.” “If I had only known.” Sarcasm dripped heavily from every syllable he spoke. He looked at her for another moment. “How could you possibly have thought that we could even attempt to build anything on this?” “You never wanted to build anything, you spoke terribly of me the whole time I was here. You would not even use my name.” “What is with you and that particular issue? Why does it matter so greatly to you?” Loki snapped. “You are like a dog with a bone.”

“What is your obsession with not using it? You have nothing but contempt for me, both in your actions and your words, and have done so before you even realised it was me and do not think for one second I have forgotten your horrid words to your little friend about me, much less my realms’ people. Whatever damage I have done to the idea of creating a cordial relationship, you clean blasted it off the realm long before.” “I already told you, I do not think such, I was just venting.” “I told you in that very same conversation that I do not suffer fools. And if you think me to believe that statement, you are calling me one also.” “I bear no ill thoughts to the Ljósáfar. I would not have my seidr be so strong but for the ability to wield it perfected on Alfheim. I have nothing but respect for the race, you as an individual, on the other hand, not so much since you decided to try and trick me.” “There was no try, I succeeded in doing so.” There was some smugness to Raven’s smirk.

Loki’s lip curled in anger at that statement.

“I recall that day too that you wished to show me that you have no ill against my race, yet my parents and brothers did not deserve the respect required to welcome them, did they?” She shook her head. “You don’t respect us, you respect no one, not even yourself.” This time, she walked to the door and opened it, not wanting to speak to him any further.

“What comes of this?” Loki asked, not wanting to acknowledge her fairly accurate analysis.

“I do not know. You were adamant before, I am nothing but a duty. As a prince, you will be forced to do such duty. Our parents will not forfeit this agreement. My parents because it ensures I am no longer a burden, yours because, as you so crassly put it before, it solidifies my father’s alliance. So I guess we simply avoid one another outside of required interactions. I will not bother you, and you will ignore me. When this farce is done, I will stay in my rooms, you in yours and since I know Thor is being forced to court soon, we do some form of ritual dance that he has as many children as my father and we will not be required to do such things and you can have your conceited little harpy mistress and be happy.”

Loki was going to spit a comment back at her about the woman in reference but he noticed the genuine hurt and heartache in her features that startled him to silence on that matter. He quickly analysed her words again while she seemingly attempted to recompose herself. He did not know what in her statement caused her to react in such a way but it did startle him. “I am still trying to fathom the reasoning for all of this.”

“I wanted to know the true Loki, the one not putting on a facade for his father, or society, the being I would see every single evening after a long day.” “For what purpose?” “I spent my whole life having to be silent in public and mostly silent in private. I spent it being told how to act and who to speak to and how to speak to them. I wanted to know if I had to do that for the next few thousand years again or if it would be different. That is why I did it. I wanted to know if I could finally have someone to actually care for me as a being and not expect me to be what they want me to be, nothing more than a living doll. Norns, but you are right, had I but known.” And with that, she left the room.

[txtniipped]

ode to flower and cloud

genshin impact -- childe/zhongli, childe & venti, venti & traveler, traveler & paimon, paimon & venti

(2680 words)

ao3 version

With the Windblume Festival in full swing, love is in the air. Who better to teach the art of waxing poetry than the Windborne Bard and his two faithful assistants?

Though… tutoring the Fatui’s Eleventh Harbinger on such a topic was not something the three of them were expecting to be doing.

“Well, now that all that’s settled, we have some time to waste until their two hours are up,” Venti says as he turns towards the Traveler and Paimon, a grin blooming across his face. “Let’s go get a drink, shall we?”

The Traveler smiles awkwardly at the bard as they begin their march from under the city’s Barbatos statue to Angel’s Share, Paimon huffing indignantly as she floats along. “You know they don’t drink, bard! You only suggested it because you don’t know how to do anything else!”

Venti laughs, jovial and completely lacking any shame, which only further riles up Paimon. “So? A good drink always tastes better in good company! You can get grape juice or something.” The bard hops down the steps, two at a time, the traveler following in suit as to not be left behind. “Besides—” Venti pauses near the bottom of the staircase, turning himself back towards his companions, gazing cheekily up at them— “what else are you going to do while we wait to check up on our students? Those commissions no one has posted since the festival began?”

Paimon’s cheeks puff, her little hands balling into fists. “You—!!”

“Ahaha, there you are! Figures I’d find you two mixed up in the sprite’s shenanigans.”

Venti’s cheekiness drops the moment he hears that laugh, a thin smile taking its place as he turns to the presence at the bottom of the staircase. The Traveler’s attention snaps to the Harbinger below just as quickly as Paimon’s, who gasps loud enough for them both. “Childe?!”

“Hey!” The Harbinger greets the three of them with a wave, his smile genuine as far as any of them can tell.

“I thought the shame of losing our little contest would have driven you back home by now!” Venti lilts, bounding down the rest of the steps to land in Childe’s space, that forced smile still plastered on his face.

“Ahh, no, see—” Childe grins at Venti, a little too toothy, this smile much more fitting with the dangerous man the Traveler and Paimon now know him as— “a loss leads to more practice, and more practice leads to more polish, and more polish always warrants another go.”

Venti levels the Snezhnayan with an unimpressed stare. “So you’re here for a rematch,” he states.

Childe laughs, pleasant and warm, the epitome of friendliness. It’s so easy to be drawn into that sound if you know little of the man.

“Not yet! Rather, I heard you’re offering the masses lessons in poetry?”

The question catches both the Traveler and Paimon off guard, and if the silence between the four of them singing louder than any cricket is capable of is anything to go by, it’s surprised Venti too.

“You actually, uh...” Paimon starts after a beat, fidgeting her hands as she speaks, “just missed—.“ 

The sudden clap of Venti’s hands coming together cuts the fairy-creature off, his tone much more amicable than it just was. “I am! And these two are my assistants!” Venti gestures over to the Traveler and Paimon, who have now finally joined the other two at the bottom of the stairs. “You did actually just miss our assignment period though,” the bard stresses, offering a pitying expression that clearly irks the Harbinger. Paimon saw his fist curl.

Childe laughs mutedly, lifting said fist to his torso, casually smoothing it out over the front of his uniform. “That’s... unfortunate.”

“But!” Venti chimes, switching his demeanor in a heartbeat, leaning forward enough to force Childe back a step. “I’d be willing to let you join late, as long as you’re willing to pay the fee!”

The laugh that falls from Childe’s mouth this time is much fuller than his previous one, amusement dancing across his face. “Sure, sure. How much is it?”

“Welllll~” Venti’s index finger comes to rest on his chin as he turns his head conspiringly towards his two assistants, the corners of his mouth curled up in such a way that it practically screams mischief. 

“Since you missed the beginning of the class,” Venti begins as he turns a more scholarly expression towards Childe, his index finger tapping against his chin, “we’ll have to catch you up one-on-one. On top of that, you’re cutting into our break time, which we were really looking forward to after all our hard work with our other students...”

Paimon suddenly seems to brighten up in her spot next to the Traveler, catching onto the scheme the bard is putting forth. The Traveler can practically see her vibrating with her habit of greed. “Seriously! Paimon had to explain the ins and outs of poetry so much, Paimon’s jaw hurts!”

Childe’s eyebrows raise as he appraises the bard and the fairy, and when he glances to the Traveler, they can tell he’s not convinced. However...

“Well, why don’t I just owe you double and we move on?” the Harbinger suggests, his attention returning to Venti.

Venti laughs, delight ringing through the air. “Sounds good to me!”

—

The trio filled Childe in on what information he missed from their earlier class within a few minutes, despite how long both Paimon and Venti alluded to it taking beforehand. Childe didn’t seem bothered over paying double for something that hardly took five minutes, but knowing his spending habits after witnessing everything in Liyue, the Traveler wasn’t surprised.

By the end of it, they assigned Childe a poem to be read and critiqued by the bard as they did the others, and soon enough, the four of them parted ways with an agreement to meet at the Goth Grand Hotel later in the day.

The trio’s idle time passed by swiftly, mostly due to the hilichurl camps nearby the city they decided to clear instead of day drinking. The walk back into town and to the Fatui delegation’s temporary place of residence ate up their remaining time, and though they were clearly invited to the building by the Harbinger earlier, the guard at the door seems unconvinced.

“‘Poetry lessons’ hardly seem in the realm of the Lord Harbinger’s interests,” the doorguard, Luke, states in response to the explanation he’s been given regarding the trio’s presence.

“Well, what else do you expect him to be doing during the Windblume Festival?” Venti asks as he tilts his head curiously, a teasing smile on his face.

Luke scoffs, haughtily turning his head to the side. “The matters of the Lord Harbinger’s love life aren’t mine to divulge. Besides—“ the Traveler raises a hand to cover their sudden smile as Luke continues on, amused over the guard’s predictability. Always a talker, this one. “—last I heard, his partner is in Liyue anyway. What use would he have for the festivities of a Mondstadt festival?”

The mention of a partner has Venti perking up like a dog offered a treat, Paimon now joining the Traveler on covering a smile of her own. “Ohhh, his lover is in Liyue, huh~?” Venti sing-songs. “He must be wanting to send them an authentic piece of his time in another country! How romantic!”

The Traveler and Paimon are both left giggling behind the bard as an embarrassed flush blooms over what’s visible of Luke’s face, the Fatui man clearly only now realizing he’s once again shared too much. “Shut it, you twerp,” Luke spits, trying to reign the conversation in his favor, “unless you want the Lord Harbinger shutting you up himself!”

“Must you threaten my guests, Luke?”

Four heads turn towards the amused voice of said Lord Harbinger, who currently has his upper body partially leaning out a window of what can only be assumed is the foyer. His head is propped up on one of his hands, leaving him looking picturesque under the warm sun and soft breeze.

Venti cackles unabashedly as Luke stammers out an apology in Childe’s direction, Childe’s amused smile pulling into a grin.

“Let them in before you spill more of my secrets,” Childe waves as he pulls himself back into the building, tone light. Luke mumbles an affirmative to the no-longer-present Harbinger and opens the doors of the hotel for the three guests, Venti happily making his way inside with the Traveler and Paimon close behind, the doors softly thudding closed once they’re through.

The foyer of the Goth Grand Hotel hosts two sets of socializing spaces to the left and right of the rug running through the room, decorated with high quality rococo couches, loveseats, and chairs. At the back of the room is the counter, most likely vacant of staff due to the occupation of only Fatui here. On either side of that, stairs leading up, the space required for that leaving the room quite open.

Childe is seated in the room alone, in a chair to the left of the entrance, watching his guests with thinly-veiled amusement. He’s perched so one elbow rests against the armrest of the chair, that hand providing support for his head. He’s leaning heavily to the right, his left leg crossed over the thigh of his right, left hand loose and casual in his lap.

“Someone looks comfortable,” Venti comments good-naturedly as he makes his way over to the couch angled perpendicular to the armchair, the Traveler and Paimon following his lead.

“I am!” Childe laughs as he lifts his head from his hand, regarding the three of them with a bright smile. “Mondstadt is just so lovely right now, what with all the vitriol your people have for us Fatui.”

Paimon huffs, crossing her own legs in the air as she mimics Childe’s positioning, only a lot more balled up. “Well, can you blame them? You guys are always up to something!”

“Ahaha, a fair assessment,” Childe muses as he unfolds himself, planting both feet on the floor as he leans towards the coffee table in front of him. There, he snatches the top paper from a stack of several and offers it in Venti’s direction. “Well, shall we? You’ve more students to see, after all.”

“That we do,” Venti hums, taking the paper from the Harbinger. He sits up properly in his seat then and turns his eyes to the paper only briefly, quickly returning them to Childe. “Would it bother you if I read this aloud?”

Childe grins and waves a hand through the air, casually dismissing the need for permission. “By all means.”

The bard smiles and nods, then once again settles his gaze to the paper, clearing his throat before beginning.

“‘Words come easy to me,’” Venti begins, voice light and pleasant. “‘Over dinner, drinks, the shore. But there are some far more challenging, said aloud than written down.’”

The room is quiet save for Venti’s soft countenance. Childe’s gaze has drifted down to the rest of the pages on the table, where the Traveler can clearly see scribbles and scratches of other versions of the poem Venti’s currently reading.

“‘Surely you know by now, how irreplaceable your presence is, to a man so solitary.’”

Paimon looks to the Traveler then, head tilted in a silent question of who the Harbinger could possibly be talking about—at least until—.

“‘How every word that falls, from your lips and graces my ears, is a sweet treasure, more decadent, than any wine or dessert.’”

Paimon’s eyes widen, and she starts rapidly smacking her hand against the Traveler’s shoulder, pieces being put together. She’s excited, despite how hostile she may or may not be towards the Harbinger. The Traveler can’t help but laugh silently at her antics.

“‘Mondstadt prides itself on freedom, but the freedom you’ve given me, will forever be the envy, of the City of Wind.’”

Venti pauses here, though with a brief glance, the Traveler can see another verse written, just two lines. The script is just messy enough to keep them from making out the words before Venti’s laughing stiltedly, catching the attention of all those in the room. Childe’s eyebrows raise in a silent question, and after a beat passes without an answer, he lifts his upper body to sit up straight.

“What?” Childe laughs, the lightest dusting of color painting his cheeks as he leans back into the chair, the iron grip he’s taken up on the armrest betraying his calm. “Don’t want to finish it, little sprite?”

Venti huffs out a laugh of his own and tosses the paper back in Childe’s direction, who catches it out of the air like it’s a precious thing. Which, honestly...

“To be honest, I was expecting the same sort of mess as your form with a bow, but that was actually well done!”

Childe’s smile turns tight, mirrored perfectly back at him by Venti. The tension is palpable. Concerned, the Traveler turns their attention to Paimon, who meets their gaze with a mildly alarmed look of confusion.

The moment passes as Childe breaks eye contact with the bard, folding the paper in his hands. “Well, as unhelpful as you were, I do owe you,” Childe says as he places the piece of paper on the coffee table. He reaches under the jacket of his uniform after, pulling out a hefty pouch of mora and tossing it carelessly into Venti’s lap. It doesn’t take much thought to how much is in there when the Traveler can practically see Venti’s eyes sparkling—most likely, it’s much more than their efforts today are worth.

“Now,” Childe hums, regarding the three of them with a pleasant smile, “get out.”

—

Luke was more than happy to doubly unwelcome them as the trio stepped out from the hotel with a shout of scram! for good measure, since he apparently decided his Lord Harbinger’s icy dismissal wasn’t enough.

Venti pockets the pouch of mora with a guilt-free grin despite their initial critiquing session lasting a grand total of five minutes max, turning his attention to the Traveler and Paimon.

“Well! Next stop is the Knights of Favonius’s headquarters!” Venti announces with a clap of his hands.

—

The nighttime scene during the Windblume Festival mostly seems to consist of lovers holding hands, playing music, feeding one another food, or in that unlucky instance where the Traveler picked the wrong side path, being tangled together.

The PDA is near unbearable, but Paimon’s never ending hunger has driven them out in search of festival food. Admittedly, everything they’ve tried so far has been mouthwatering, and almost makes up for the trauma both the Traveler and Paimon now have with that one path. Luckily, they’ve wandered into a quieter section of the city, most of the festivities contained to the main street and surrounding areas.

“‘...is a sweet treasure, more decadent, than any wine or dessert.’”

The words coming from somewhere above the duo are immediately recognizable as the work of one Eleventh Harbinger they had already heard earlier in the day. The Traveler and Paimon share a startled look as the voice continues—one they just as easily recognize as Childe himself.

“‘Mondstadt prides itself on freedom, but the freedom you’ve given me, will forever be the envy, of the City of Wind,’” Childe recites, to the sky or to another, they can’t tell. Then...

“‘I love you, dear consultant.’”

A low, rumbling laugh floats down upon the duo then, and the Traveler and Paimon both freeze up.

“I never quite took you as the ‘waxing poetic’ type, Ajax,” Zhongli comments, voice something too tender for these two intruders to be hearing.

“When in Mondstadt,” ‘Ajax’ replies, his tone fond.

“Indeed.”

There’s a quiet moment that neither the Traveler or Paimon are quite sure what to do in, until they hear a deep purr of Childe’s given name. That scares them away immediately, the sound of the Traveler’s footsteps rushing back down towards the main street. 

Another beat of silence, and then Childe’s warm laughter rings out from where he and Zhongli are seated against the railing of an upper layer of the city, as innocent as ever. “I cannot believe you,” he says to the consultant through his laughter. Zhongli offers his partner an amused smile in return, his eyes crinkling in delight.

[butmakeitgayblog]

As someone who is an absolute certified hoe for any and all Clexa fanfic, I can’t in good conscious yell at you not to delve into another new fic, but instead maybe... gently try and sway you towards those two fics first? Maybe with very subtle comments about how excellent your pre-existing fics are? I mean, my thirst for demon!Lexa knows no bounds and I’ve got a love for CoA that will never die, but I’m kinda loving this overly dramatic gay bean Lexa.

I mean, we’ve all been there and I feel for her because ouch, but the whole ‘collapse in front of traffic to make a point’ thing? The drama, the theatrics.

I’m so invested in this already.

(Apologies if this sent more than once, I’m out in the middle of nowhere and reception is playing games with me.)

Ok but hear me out

You know the song Bitter? That shit is a b o p

And Mars said it couldn't be a happy ending fic, which, challenge fuckin accepted

The following convo was born:

Ok so it's an angsty fic. Honestly just a oneshot could do. Clexa have broken up a few weeks or months prior and it was ugly. Clarke moved out of their apartment over something stupid but at the time it felt really important even tho now she can't quite remember why. The fic is her seeing Lexa and Costia around campus, smiling at each other and she's fucking bitter. She sees them hold hands and sit together in lecture, they eat lunch together and share study tables and feels like she wants to throw up every time Costia makes Lexa laugh right in front of her. Like she doesn't even exist anymore. The whole fic is Clarke's inner monologue of her watching them and connecting the pieces in her mind of how Lexa must have moved on so quick as her bitterness grows.

And even those few times, those few times that happen every time they're forced to be around each other, when Lexa catches her eye and stares, Clarke doesn't let herself see the pain in green eyes. She can't see it, because all her bitterness lets her see is how Lexa's apparently so happy with this new chick. She imagines them together in the apartment she used to call home, assumes she's probably already moved in because hell if she was that replaceable then why not? Of course. She wants to punch something as hard as she can every time she pictures them kissing and touching and fucking because she remembers the taste of them and now it's all just so fucking bitter.

But she also seethes because she knows how intense their relationship was. She remembers every cry of ecstasy and declaration of love. Their fire that burned hotter than either knew how to deal with. It was what made them unforgettable. It was what made her afraid. It was what made them special and what made her act like an idiot and leave.

And finally she snaps when she sees Lexa alone, a small smile lingering on her lips after Costia has given her a hug and walked away.

The words just pour out of her and they're angry and bitter and filled with every assumption and every accusation and every drop of pain that's been roiling just beneath her skin for the last 3 weeks as she's watched her ex be so fucking blissful even tho she knows, she KNOWS what they had will never be topped by anyone else.

And Lexa just stares at her with a locked jaw, a thin sheen of tears in her eyes as she takes every ounce of her vitriol spews at her. Like she always has.

Until she quietly calls Clarke an idiot and pulls her in by the back of her neck, kissing her with every lick of fire that Clarke remembers. Because of course Lexa hasn't moved on. Costia is her coping buddy. She's tasked with taking Lexa's phone every time she tries to call Clarke and beg her to come home because Lexa didn't think that's what she wanted anymore. Costia hugs her when she cries and cuts her off when she's tried too hard to drink the pain away. She tells really shitty puns that secretly remind Lexa of Clarke and that's the only way she could remember how to smile anyway. So no, her and Costia are not together and Clarke really is an idiot because the whole time Lexa's been in just as much pain as her.

And then obviously they get back together 😌

See? Bitter turned happy ending

Anyway yeah my main focus tho is just those two fics. If I did write this one it'd probably just for like a writing exercise to challenge myself because it wouldn't have any dialogue until the end when they confront each other.

And as Mars eloquently said, have vigorous makeup sex 😌