#easter snippet

[girl-lostconnection]

Concept of a concept time:

Thinking about post-incident (that killed him in canon but never in fanfics) Soap who forgets times and places and gets lost easier and is confused more than he was before. Bloody infuriating that is.

Soap who meets a pretty bird with accent thicker than his in a church, her eyes as heavy as the ones painted saints have, her eyes not welcoming, not adhering to “love thy neighbour like you love yourself” and maybe that should have given him a hint.

But Soap all his life follows people with heavy glares, all his life he follows those who look at him like he shouldn’t and so far, he always survives. Maybe God is trying to show him something.

Pretty bird doesn’t like him rambling awkwardly to her, thin wax candles in her grip, her nail absentmindedly scratching some of the wax down, her eyes almost bored with him. Like he’s a bloke in a dim lit pub that tries to hit on her.

Bird cuts off his rumbling, asking what he wants, her sentences chopped, her phrasing foreign. Like she is from a linguistic branch so distant, it echoes only when she makes a cross with three fingers and nods a polite greeting to the holy father.

Soap who doesn’t know how to explain without looking like even bigger fool that he just wanted to go to his church, that he was sure it was right here but evidently it’s not, because this is not catholic and not Scottish and people look at his torn jeans like he personally insulted their Christ.

Like they have a very different Christ from his own.

So he just chews out “ahm lost” and watches Bird’s eyes light up with amusement, corner of her lips twitching and maybe it’s good upbringing or the heavy glare of painted Holy Mary right across from her, but she just nods.

Yeah, okay, whatever, maybe Ghost rubs off too much on Johnny because the way she looks him up and down makes him feel hot under the collar and it’s sin-sin-sin to get a boner inside the church. Just because a pretty bird looks at him like he is a helpless dumb little dog that wasn’t hit by the bus due to sheer luck and pity of strangers.

It shouldn’t turn him on, it should make him mad.

Unfortunately it does both, so when she jerks her head for him to follow her, Johnny does just that.

More>>

[keyotos]

face-to-face

summary ↯

aventurine has a bit of a staring problem while shopping

tags ⎯ unestablished relationship. like we are in the baby stages of their relationship. minor jealousy. lots of banter. lowk dialogue heavy.

word count ⎯ 3.3k

tana's thoughts ⎯ aventurine has taken over my brain so here's a snippet of the series i'm writing

over the years, it's become easier for you to notice when someone stares at you. before, it was an uncomfortable feeling. you felt eyes peering over your shoulder as if you were a pest–it made your skin churn and shoulders twitch up self-consciously. now though, gazes move past you like air. you don't care as much about the opinions of other people–it's not like you'll be seeing them for long anyway.

except, today is different.

you can feel aventurine's colorful eyes trail your every move. from the moment you chose the necklace, to the moment you took it up to the cashier. he wasn't being as inconspicuous as he assumed to be: that died after the fifth glance that he shot your way while you were inspecting said necklace.

even through his glasses, aventurine's stare was burning and heavy. you never thought that such light-colored eyes could install such a hefty weight on your back, but aventurine proves you wrong.

while the cashier rings up your necklace, you look back at aventurine. coincidentally, he was already eyeing you before you even turned around. so when you catch him, he thinks that the other pieces of jewelry in the store are far more interesting than your face could ever be.

you scrunch your eyebrows and shake it off. by now, you're quite used to his unusual antics, so you brush him off. the cashier engages in light conversation with you, and then you feel it again. the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and everything feels like it's weighted down.

you bid the cashier goodbye, and aventurine follows you outside. his hands are in his pockets while he whistles, almost like he wants you to start talking. you shoot him a confused look back, your eyebrow raised and nose crinkled.

when he only whistles louder, you decide to poke the bear.

"okay, what is it?" you stop and turn to face him.

"what? you don't like my whistling?" aventurine responds with an innocent tone; he even shrugs his shoulders like he has no idea what's going on.

you huff, "not just the whistling. what's up with your staring?" you raise a hand up to his eyes, "we're supposed to be acting normal. i don't think gawking at the person you're shopping with is exactly normal."

aventurine's jolts back, like he was accused of murder instead of ogling. "i wasn't gawking."

you nod, "yeah, you were staring."

"those mean the same thing."

"i think you've been hanging out with the doctor too much," you roll your eyes and continue walking. aventurine quickly marches up to you, matching your pace sooner than you thought.

"are you trying to compare me to him? we're completely different people, you know that, right? i don't act like him at all," aventurine rambles on. his head is turned to you so that his mouth is directly next to your ear, meaning you hear all of his words. you can't tune him out like usual.

"first of all," it's your turn to look at him, "i just said you hang out with him a lot. and you do, don't you?" aventurine's lips fall into a flat as you say that.

"and second of all, stop changing the subject. why were you staring at me back there?"

the man next to you huffs, and it sounds nearly childlike, "i'm not changing the subject. i'm just trying to tell you that i'm nothing like the doctor," he says with disdain.

"you are changing the subject, otherwise you wouldn't be talking about dr. ratio as much as you are now," you glance around at the various stores surround the two of you, and for a second, you swear that you see aventurine's eyes linger on you once more.

"you did it again!" you fully stop, pointing a finger at his eyes.

aventurine has to catch himself before he falls over at your sudden stop. "what? what are you talking about?"

"you keep glancing over at me! do i have something in my face? my teeth?" a large smile blossoms across your face as you beam at aventurine. for a moment, his annoyed facade falters, and his face relaxes.

"no, and if you did, i'd tell you," he swats a hand in your face, "i don't know what you're talking about."

you roll your eyes. it's obvious that he's hiding something, because usually his lies are more believable. but when you're catching him in the act, denial is not a good way to refute false claims.

"yeah, whatever," you look around the plaza the two of you are currently in when another store catches your eye. your face instantly brightens, and you wander towards the doors.

it's another clothing store, similar to all the other ones on the planet. except, something specific drew you here, and it was the display of hats they had near the window. you walk up to it, spinning the shelf around a few times to grasp onto all the options. your eyes are wide and your mouth is slightly parted as you examine each hat with awe.

unbeknownst to you, aventurine catches up to you and finds you fumbling around with each hat on the rack.

he sneaks up behind you, mumbling, "now, that's what you call gawking."

you jump up in surprise, hitting your head on something more soft than the hard shelf. aventurine quickly redacts his hand from the top of your head.

"i'm just doing what any normal shopper would do," you rub the top of your head before going back to the hats. aventurine's long sigh rings in your ear as you browse.

"yeah, okay," he looks at the selection of hats beside you, "i doubt anything you do is normal, but–" aventurine doesn't get to finish his sentence. he hears your boisterous gasp, and his eyes are on you once more.

"do you see this!!" you lift a fedora up to his eyes, "we could match," you whisper it like a secret, as if matching would be your thing. like matching would only be a tangible thought between the two of you, and no one else.

"yeah, no," aventurine lifts the hat down and places it back on the shelf, "sorry sweetheart, but the hat is my thing."

you grimace at the pet name, "mkay. so, you're gatekeeping fedoras now?"

aventurine sputters, "what? what is gatekeeping?"

you heavily sigh, and aventurine is pretty sure you're putting on an act right now. "are you serious? how do you not know what gatekeeping is?" you shake your head as you grab the hat from the shelf, "anyway, i think i know the real reason you don't want to match."

"because it's childish? and totally not my style?"

you turn around and flick your partner on the shoulder, "no. and you really have been hanging around the doctor too much." you shudder and place the hat on your head, "i think it's because you know i would show you up in it."

aventurine muffles a chortle when he sees you put on the fedora, "keep in mind that we're in the land of dreams."

your lips curl up in the way that they always do when you're annoyed. you are not very amused by his bits today. "you suck," you take the fedora off and continue browsing for different options.

you hear aventurine's footsteps gradually get softer and softer as you keep browsing. that's fine, you think, this is his shopping trip too–he's allowed to find things for himself.

one hat after another: that's your current predicament at the moment. you're glad aventurine is off doing his own shopping, but you also wish that you glued him to the ground so he could give you a second opinion. unfortunately, he is nowhere to be seen, and you are having trouble deciding between two caps.

"do you need any help finding anything?" a voice perks up from behind you, making your shoulders jolt up. it's not the voice you want to hear, instead it belongs to a lovely retail worker.

"ah, no thank you," you smile politely and turn back to the two hats in your hand.

"okay, let me know if you need anything!" sometimes, you wonder how retail employees are able to maintain such a chipper tone of voice for hours on end. do they really want to help you or are they just saying that because they have to?

and that's when the thought hits you: either way, they're still offering themselves up. your eyes widen and you rush towards the employee.

"actually, wait!" he turns around when you touch his shoulder, "i do need help. and this is gonna sound super random–and possibly weird–but what do you think of these two hats?"

you put one hat on–a red one that seems to flop on your head, "this one is nice, right?" the employee in front of you just nods. he's a bit tense and stiff; it seems like he's trying not to offend you.

"yeah, i think it's nice too. only thing is that it's kinda flopping on my head, and caps aren't really supposed to flop," you take it off and hold it in your hand.

you're surprised the employee hasn't made his break yet, because he's still standing in front of you when you grab the other cap.

"and this one," you hold your free hand up to the new, black hat, "is the one that belongs to my favorite team. well, i guess the other one also belonged to another one of my–"

"what are you doing?" you can recognize that voice anywhere. that voice that carries a slightly whiny tone. that voice that always seems to have some judgement sprinkled throughout it.

you and the worker both seem surprised. well, the employee seems to be more intimidated than surprised, but either way, his entire face had gone pale.

"um, trying on hats?" you take off the cap and hold it up.

"i can see that," he looks over towards the employee in front of you, "but is it seriously a two-person job?"

you scrunch your eyebrows together, "i needed a second opinion."

"you could've asked me," aventurine whispered, though it sounded more like a hiss.

"i think someone else needs help," the employee takes a few steps back from the both of you, "i hope you find everything!" there it is. he tries his best to sound cheerful, but his voice quivered as he moved away from the two of you.

"he was such a nice guy," you said as you waved goodbye. aventurine did not look as pleased as you did.

"we're supposed to be laying low. you know that, right?" the blond emphasizes.

you shake him off, "yeah, and tell me how a regular retail worker is gonna rat us out? what about us possibly screams 'sleuth'?"

"we're buying hats." aventurine isn't very proud of his answer, and he can tell that you thought it was weak as well.

"so everyone that buys hats are suspicious?" you retort, putting on the cap you previously took off. "do i look like a murderer to you?"

aventurine sighs. his fingers go to his temples and you're sure that you've brought him to his last nerve.

"this hat is better than the other one," he puts the red one back onto the shelf. "the other one practically fell on your face. i doubt you could even see with that one."

you look at the red hat and then look back at aventurine, furrowing your eyebrows together. "that was a specific answer. i never even showed you what the red hat looked like."

aventurine cleared his throat, and the ceiling must look extra nice, "i overheard the other guy talking. you're loud, y'know that?"

your face immediately breaks out in a huge grin, so wide and bright that aventurine looks back at you for a mere second, before turning back to the ceiling.

"you were doing it again!! the staring! goodness, i thought you were good at lying," you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder to garner his attention, "admit it. i've caught you."

"i'm being serious. you're a little loud," aventurine crosses his arms, biting on the inside of his cheek.

"la-la-la-la. can't hear you. guess i'm speaking too loudly to notice," you put the black cap on again–the brim sticking the opposite direction–and look in the mirror. "hey, since you're here, can you give me another opinion."

aventurine nods for you to continue, and you smile, "perfect. does this make me look like a cool galactic baseball player?"

this is what takes him aback, "huh? why would you want to look like that?"

"well, i'm going to a game soon, and i didn't want to look like a fake fan," you shrug and look in the mirror again. "but now that i'm really looking at myself, i think i’d be an amazing galactic baseballer. what do you think?”

you pretend to hold a baseball bat in your hands, getting into a hitter stance. you make sound effects as you swing your pretend-bat into aventurine's chest, aiming for the open hole in the middle.

aventurine reaches over your head, "well first of all, i'm pretty sure baseball players wear their caps the right way." he grabs your hat and places it on the right way, but not without making sure the brim covered your eyes.

"are you serious right now?!" you yelp, quickly pulling up the hat so you can regain your vision.

and there aventurine is, staring at you again.

you briefly gulp before broadcasting, "you're staring!" you march closer to him. "i caught you!" you're only inches apart now. "and it was obvious!" your finger is pointed at his eyes, but unlike earlier, your finger is much closer.

if you had gotten only an inch closer, you would be able to feel aventurine's heartbeat, despite not even being chest-to-chest.

"okay, okay," aventurine is the first one to step back, and you feel something sinking, "but that was only once."

"yeah, whatever. 'once.' not like i haven't caught you a million other times," you shook your head and regained your baseball posture, "you can't hide from these sharp eyes. told you i'd be a great galactic baseballer."

the blond chuckles, and your eyebrows raise up at the sound, "keep dreaming."

"well, a really weird guy did tell me earlier that we are in the land of dreams. so, if i dreamt that i could be a galactic baseballer, it'd actually happen."

aventurine tilts your hat down once more, dismissing your cries while he does it.

"remember what i said about acting normal?"

"this is actually pretty normal for me," you take the hat off.

"can't argue with that," aventurine looks towards the cashier and then back at you. you raise an eyebrow, as if to raise the question, "is there something wrong with my hair?"

if there is, aventurine doesn't do something about it. surprising, since he's practically been doing something this whole trip. "are you ready to go up?" he asks you.

"you're not gonna get anything?" you look around the store, "we can look at stuff for you. there's tons of things here."

aventurine shakes his head and gives you a wink, "i've got everything i need." you suck in a sharp breath, and you try to focus on anything else other than how fast your heart begins to beat. when aventurine turns his back away from you, then you gulp.

when the two of you get to the cash register, you stand next to aventurine, preparing to pay. you're well aware of how costly things on penacony are–after all, this whole planet is like a tourist attraction. that's why you're paying with card instead of the usual credits.

"did you find everything?" the cashier asks you. you smile at the woman and nod, making idle chatter with her while aventurine idly stands next to you.

the woman turns over to aventurine, "i'm guessing you also want to pay for your item too?"

it's aventurine's turn to plaster a smile on his face. from what you've gathered from being with him so often, his smiles are often sly. some would compare it to the cheshire cat, but you thought he rather resembled an evil cartoon villain.

"yes ma'am," his saccharine voice masked his villain grin, "do you still have it?"

"that i do," she responds, grabbing something from underneath the counter. your eyes fly from the woman to aventurine. you simply couldn't believe what you were looking at.

"you're buying the freaking feodora?" your posture straightens and you beam up at him, "i knew you wanted to match!"

"slow your roll," aventurine puts a hand up to you, "who said i was buying this for you?"

your smile drops and you shove his shoulder, "are you serious? i thought you didn't like that hat."

"i didn't not like the hat. i just didn't like the thought of us matching," he tilts his head to smirk at you.

the cashier's eye's bounce between you two, not knowing whose side to take. eventually, she settles for ringing your cap and aventurine's feodora up, not even wanting to say a word.

"alright, who's paying?" she looks up at the both of you.

"i am," you and aventurine say in unison. your face contorts while aventurine displays a confused expression.

"um," you whisper, stepping closer to the blond next to you, "i'm paying."

"um," aventurine mocks you, "you're broke."

"not broke!" you kick his shin, and aventurine grips onto the counter in order to keep his balance, "just budgeting."

"yeah, and you know who don't have to budget? people that aren't broke."

"so he's paying?" the cashier interrupts. you step away from aventurine out of shame. he can have this.

when aventurine sees you put away your wallet, he proudly hands his card up to the woman in front of you. when she looks down to scan his card, he shoots you a sly look and a wink. your mouth rests in a flat line and your eyes show no signs of hilarity.

the moment the two of you step out of the store, you immediately go for aventurine's bag. before he could even catch you, the hat is already in your hands.

"we can switch!" you try to reason with him, "you would be a great baseball player. just, y'know, not as great as me."

"and..." you sing, "we wouldn't match. wouldn't that suit both of our goals?"

aventurine looks over at you, and his gaze is softer. this time, you don't get onto him for gawking. how could you, when he's looking at you like that? you don't think you've ever seen him like that... ever.

you squint your eyes, trying to decipher his real expression. but there's nothing for you to investigate.

"what?" you ask.

"you can keep it."

immediately you take a step back, nearly bumping into a bystander walking behind you. you shout a quick apology before returning back to aventurine, "didn't you buy this for yourself though? what's the point of me keeping it?"

"i just realized that it didn't go with any of the outfits i have," he sighed, looking into the distance, "what a waste of money. so, it's yours."

"what kind of bullshit is that?" you scold the blond, "you always have to think about whether or not you'd actually wear the item before you buy it. that's like... number one rule of shopping."

"i don't shop that much," aventurine shrugs, glancing at you one last time before focusing on the street ahead. he bites the inside of his cheek and tries his hardest not to look to the side. you'd give him hell for it.

but you're not focused on that. everything's slow, and it feels like the street is empty.

"well, then we're gonna have to go more often."

[wolfboy88]

Fuck it Friday Monday

Tagged by @thiamsalpha @thiamsxbitch @ksbbb @rhyslahey @mmoosen and many others over the last few weeks… I haven’t been writing as much as I would like lately

“Yeah, thanks, I’m fine,” Theo grumbles as no one offers to help him. “I’ll heal.”

 

“I know, you’re like the cockroach that won’t die,” Stiles smiles and is quickly chastised by Scott.

 

Liam whacks Stiles on the back of the head with his giant paw to the squeals and delights of the kids and says something muffled, but Theo knows it’s in defense of him.

 

“Aww, thanks babe,” Theo says, fondly reaching up to straighten the crooked bunny head perched atop Liam’s shoulders and in response, Liam snares him in a bear hug.

 

“Getting a bit handsy there. You really want everyone to know I’m fucking the Easter bunny, huh?” Theo murmurs, voice low and fond as Liam’s hands – paws – sneak lower and give his ass a squeeze. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” The chimera suppresses a groan, heat coiling in his belly and creeping down his groin as his hands fall to Liam’s plush, fluff chest, feeling the softness between his fingers. And mmm, that feels nice.

 

“Mr Bunny, I found the big one!” Interrupts Sierra’s voice.

 

“No! I did,” comes the nasally voice of Lydia and Stiles’ brat.

 

 Theo groans, simultaneously annoyed and relieved at being interrupted.  The last thing he needs is to pop a boner right now in the backyard. “I think I know where I can find an even bigger one,” Theo murmurs against Liam’s neck, right where the mask meets the rest of the costume.

 

“Alright, come one you heathens,” Stiles chides, exasperated. “Stop hogging the Easter Bunny’s attention and let him get back to his job: the egg hunt.”

 

“Yeah, Uncle Theo! Let us finish the hunt!” Thomas says, sounding just like his father – impatient, irritating and a little neurotic. Too bad he didn’t end up more like his mother.

 

“It’s not my fault the Easter Bunny finds me irresistible,” Theo smirks smugly, only to be rewarded with another long, and indecent grope from Liam before Stiles all but drags him away.

 

Theo shakes his head fondly and tries to tamp down on his inappropriate thoughts because he’s definitely not thinking about what those paws would feel like on his bare skin… and ass.

A snippet from a forthcoming Easter Fic

Tagging @chasing-chimeras @theoceanismyinkwell @hemlocksandfoxgloves @blue-hair-and-angels @gayholloway @outcastpack @transdunbar @gayholloway @maplesyrizzup @rd-eternity

[hedwig221b]

please queen hedwig221b tell ur humble servants when the next twilight installment is due for publishing. i am dying of starvation over here and i think i speak for the other people of ur court.

Let's go with June? Yeah, June, if nothing horrible happens.

I am happy to announce that after months of writer's drought, I have a lot of inspo for New Moon. I am writing nearly every day now, and I feel like it's gonna be big. Literally plotting like this:

I am incredibly locked in. It's all I think about. Doing everything to write it so you would grip the edge of your seat as you read

[lottiecrabie]

happy easter everyone As a little blasphemous treat here’s how pfms started before i abandoned it<3

Faraway beyond the heavy wood doors, the sound of the organ resonates. It’s a deep, solemn melody, shaking up the insides of your ribs. Monotone voices rise just above it, though the words are drowned out through the walls. Against that very wall, drenched in the reds and blues of a Blessed Virgin Mary stained glass window, Matty kisses your neck. 

His hands are deep in the mane of your hair, his lips greedy against your skin. You tilt your head, panting, scratching at his back under that leather jacket of his. It’s a messy, hungry affair; rushed like the end of the world is near. 

[hayffiebird]

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 55 (part two) - Sneak Peek

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay (Canon divergence) Multi-chapter, Rated M

Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie becomes a fixture in Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is rekindled. Will it lead to something more?

Meanwhile, Panem has entered a new era. The rebellion’s over, the borders are open but in the shadows, anger and mistrust are smoldering. Something which will affect Haymitch and Effie’s life in a way they never saw coming. READ MORE Chapter 55, The dove and the butterfly (part two)

Joe Chance knew the baby wasn’t his. Throughout his and Gwen’s short marriage he never let her forget how he “took pity on you and that larva in your belly.”

It was her older sister who made things come to pass. Who coerced Gwen into marriage, to try and hush up the scandal.

Ever since the two of them were orphaned, Meaghen – practically an adult herself – shouldered the role of guardian. At least on paper.

But the woman was sickly, due to a bad heart, so at the end of the day, it was really the other way around. Of Gwen tending to her every need, from a very early age.

That’s the thing about Meaghen though. She may be frail in a very physical sense, but she still ruled her baby sister with an iron fist.

Hard to say what drove Joe. Because he certainly wasted no time in telling his new bride and later wife what a piece of living garbage she was.

Maybe he grew a shine to the young woman, because in his mind they were like two peas in a pot.

No one wanted Gwen because of that ugly, scary birthmark. And no one wanted Pissin’ Joe, period.

As for Gwen, life just seemed a mere passage between two jail cells. Like she traded one set of chains for another, with no hope of escape.

According to Sae, Meaghen had always been skittish. Mistrustful. Prone to fits of rage, when triggered.

But something happened when her husband died in that coal mine fire. That’s when her paranoia completely tipped over.

Because there were rumors. Rumors that the fire had not been an accident. Some said Lando died sabotaging the mine. Others that his crew was targeted by the Capitol bosses for being a pack of troublemakers.

Whatever the case, her husband’s sudden demise, and in such a way, had indirect yet dire consequences on Meaghen and her family.

She began displaying the flag of Panem in the window, without needing any prompting from the peacekeepers.

She started quoting Snow and the Capitol posters every chance she got. “No peace, no bread! No peace, no security! No peacekeepers, no peace! No Capitol, no peace!”

And some days, when she felt well enough for a walk into town, she would harass kids on the square for laughing or playing too loudly,

“Don’t you know today’s a remembrance day?” she’d hiss at them, weak of breath. “For the late Crassus Snow? The father of our president! Show some respect!”

Maybe it was all about overcompensating, for her husband’s supposed crimes. To try and shield the family from further retaliation. She wouldn’t be the first to use that strategy.

Maybe she believed a fierce Capitol loyalty would protect Gwen against those many many tesserae she had to take in order to keep the family afloat.

Or perhaps it was simply the overwhelming stress on an already anxiety-ridden mind, that finally made it snap right in half, causing her to lash out like she did.

The peacekeepers couldn’t care less about the unstable woman. The people of Twelve neither. Every man, woman and child steered clear of her and her vicious tongue, but you couldn’t say they viewed her as much of a threat. Not like they did Joe.

She hardly left the house anyway – if not bedridden yet, she would be soon enough. And they wouldn’t kick a dog when it’s down.

That’s how people saw her, really. A dog without bite, living on borrowed time.

But they were wrong.

Meaghen did bite. She did cause harm.

Gwen loved school. Always had. If her sister got her way, she would’ve been homeschooled but such arrangements weren’t allowed in District 12. To Gwen’s secret joy.

She adored her teacher. One of the few people in her life who didn’t stare at her birthmark constantly.

Once upon a time, Gwen wished to become a teacher herself. But of course, she soon learned it was all just a foolish pipe dream. Nothing more. And dreams you need to look out for, Meaghen said.

“They’re hazardous. If you hold on to them for too long, they start to fester and rot.”

Yes, Gwen knew the reality of her situation. Dreams don’t put food on the table. The moment she turned eighteen she needed to clock in at the mines and that’s that. Nothing anyone could do about it.

But at least those hours sitting in a school bench, meant a much needed break from caring for her ailing sister.

Gwen soaked up knowledge, like a sponge. Because of her birthmark, she had no friends to speak of. So while the other kids played or talked in small groups on the school yard, Gwen preferred spending her lunch breaks and recesses, seated in the shade of the old oak tree, with her nose in a book.

It was a secluded place. Peaceful. Here people left her alone. Forgot she was even there. Most of the times.

Until one faithful day, when she met Tara’s father.

Of course, she didn’t know that back then. And neither did he. He was just a boy, who approached her one day, asking what book she was reading.

He had a warm smile. Dappled green eyes. His hair impossibly curly and such a glorious red it didn’t seem real. All so different from what she was used to back in the Seam.

She recognized him from class of course. He always finished his work up fast and then sat with his chin in his hand, a dreamy expression in those apple eyes while he stared out the window, quietly tapping his foot, as if to some imagined melody.

“I love books too”, he told her, the day under the tree, and that was the beginning of it.

When asked, Gwen was reluctant to tell Tara his name, but her daughter was relentless. Wouldn’t back down. She had to know. Finally, Gwen said,

“We called him Kit for short. Kit Raven Baird.”

[everytaylorswiftsongisaboutcats]

Once again here I am… clowning…

Do I think Taylor will announce something at the AMA’s?

Why yes, I do.

Am I probably wrong?

Most definitely!

Have I seen this film before?

Of course!

Will I probably do this again?

Yesss!!!

Really the only question left is…

Are we ready for it? …

[sugarsweetvirgo]

💚Eve's Biology Fun Facts💚

[girl-lostconnection]

Continuation to this, Happy Easter, everybody

Patron Saint of One-way trips

You come to pray, Easter is right around the corner — violets blooming all over the yard of your apartment building, silver cross darkened from time feels April-cold on your neck at night.

You come to pray and light up a candle or two and for some reason he is there — so obviously out of place and out of his depth, unsure of who to turn to.

Good catholic boy with his pretty rosary, stranded in a church. 

Like he got out on the wrong floor, but the elevator disappeared behind him as soon as he stepped out. 

He eyes warily the glass-covered remains of saint Barbara, fingers tightening on a rosary of his, eyes flickering back and forth like he isn’t sure if he can stare. 

Actual remains right there, right under the glass with people praying nearby like it is nothing special. 

Or nothing unusual. 

It would be a bit rude to say that your saint is nothing special when she is anything but. 

But then his eyes land on you and you have the carelessness to look right back at him, making up his mind right then and there (when everyone else probably did the smart thing and ignored him). 

Because the stranger starts walking towards you, charting the course through the innards of your church, blue jeans of his ripped and so painfully out of place. Even more so than he is. 

You notice his eyes before you notice everything else. Before the mohawk, before the star-shaped scar on his temple, before the hand tremor.

His eyes — azure of old gravures, his eyes — the biblical shine people would usually leave to God's messengers. 

Seers of divine, heaven’s favourites, prettiest angels of the Allmighty.

He awkwardly smiles at you, rolls his shoulders, silent overly friendly “can you believe it?” of the gesture makes you cringe a little. 

But then he opens his mouth and god, no. 

He is babbling so quickly that it takes you a minute to understand which language he is speaking.

Stranger stands haunching, tries to be smaller in the close vicinity to the golden walls of your church, his shoulders curling like he tries to fold vertically right in half. As if he wants to curl in on himself under the heavy, too realistic (too human) painted eyes of your painted saints. 

“You need help?”, you finally ask, interrupting the flow of his consciousness and he gives you three quick blinks as if unsure how to respond to that. 

The blue of his eyes makes you mentally come back to the phrase you said, translating it back and forth. 

Your English is rusty but it is not too bad. At least, not enough for him to not be able to understand you. 

But, maybe it’s the accent that catches him off guard — rolling and clear, too hard for someone who looks like you. 

Phonetic cracking down of consonants as if they were walnuts in your mouth reminding him of the similar melodicity that his own harbours. 

Well, here is something for you two to bond over later.

He blinks at you one more time and you chew down the urge to roll your eyes at the man. 

Not a good thing to be too prideful in the temple of God and it’s another 30 meters to the exit and down the stone stairs until you are free. 

Whether to walk away without looking at him another time or snap something in a sharp enough tone and unfamiliar enough language for a stranger to get the hint and leave you alone.

You aren’t in the mood for pleasantries. 

Easter is right around the corner, thin wax candles in your grip smell the same sweet way that most old things in your grandmother’s home did. The way your grandma herself did. 

Wax and honey and dust. 

Could be a holy trinity of your every nostalgia, but nothing seems to stick well enough in the constantly foggy mind of yours. 

Wax of entirely different candles still drips molten heat on the nape of your memory. 

Rough hands and heavy gazes and off-handed “same time next month” rub the burn of it in and you almost space out before the stranger starts speaking again. 

You always remembered sensations better than you did faces.

(Doesn’t help that your usual “same time next month” never shows his.)

“Ahm lost”, the stranger finally manages to choke out, his hands shaking in a way that reminds you of your mother’s bottomless wine glasses and immaculate covers of nail polish that she never could put on herself.

But the stranger in front of you doesn’t seem to be drunk and doesn’t have the same muted look in his eyes, the same glossiness, the same reaction coming just seconds too late. 

Stranger in front of you doesn’t smell like the usual cocktail of urine, stale sweat seeped through the clothes and covered with deodorant of choice. 

No smell of ethanol — days old and persistent. His tongue doesn’t dart out to lick too dry lips.

He doesn’t ask for spare change either. 

Just for directions. 

This much you can surely provide, eyes of the Holy Mary burr in the side of your head — heavy and disapproving of your tone. 

“Where…”, you start before pausing, the sentence formation melting into goo inside of your head, proper words escaping you like you are going to eat them if they don’t. 

Like your accent cracks them down - linguistic melodicity of a working Nutcracker that scares them shitless. 

“What do you…find?”, you ask awkwardly, brain tossing up all your folders of phrasal verbs and you are tongue-tied and annoyed in front of a stranger. 

The man looks at you quizzically and you choke out the urge to roll your eyes (again. and harder). What exactly does he not understand when…

Shit.

You rewind the phrase you just said and click your tongue, your head shaking from side to side. 

Trying to shake out the red ink of false-false-false shining on your old English tests. 

Fuck, it’s not “find”, it’s “look for”. 

You take a deep breath and settle for the lesser of two phrasal evils and toss the politeness out of the window. Stained glass of your propriety cracks and yeah, no word cathedrals for the gentleman with blue eyes and annoying downturned smile.

You are not in the mood for a nice chat, you come to your church specifically so no one would try to have a conversation with you. But here you are, your vocabulary in disarray and your frustration climbing. 

“What do you need?”, you reiterate and the stranger's whole face lights up with relief.

There we fucking go. Finally, thank you, God. May your blue-eyed wayward sheep not be abandoned under your watchful eye, amen. 

“Catholic church.”, he quickly blurts out as if nervous that you will forget your English (again) and you have to fistfight the urge to smirk.

Of course, he does need a catholic church. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

The man clearly needs some good prayer and maybe a sacrament before he can be sent on his way.

Something to calm the tremor of his and the nerves oozing off the tips of his outgrown greasy hair. 

You tilt your head to the side, sudden urge to put your fingers in his mouth and press down on his tongue pulsing through you at a concerning intensity. 

Stranger has a beautiful mouth. 

You spend a second too long looking at it and catch the glimpse of his teeth when he starts talking again, his lips curling in that “could you believe that” smile and you push down the urge to pry his jaws open and rummage around, pressing your fingers to the sharp ends of his teeth. 

How inappropriate would it be if you asked the man to bite you? Outside of your church, obviously. Wouldn’t want to scandalize anyone in the Lord's house. 

“It was somewhere ‘round here. Could’ave sworn.”, he says apologetically and you rummage through your memory for an adequate translation of the “sworn”, but all that comes up is knight’s armour and swords. 

So you just nod and force down the mental image of a stranger as a knight. 

On his knees. Panting-

“Go.”, You huff out command and nod, turning away and fishing a hand in your bag.

Thin wool of your scarf is getting thrown over your shoulders like a shal and stranger gets thrown off balance by your immaculate ability in oratory. 

He pauses, looming awkwardly just behind your shoulder — a big dog too used to someone taking his leash and getting confused when you don’t. 

He starts moving only when you do, making a beeline to the heavy wooden doors of your church, slight limp in gait that would make you slow down normally. 

But when you tried just a moment prior, he sent you a glare so heated you had to actually smirk. 

Prideful. 

Not a good thing to be in the Lord's temple. 

In your defence, he started first.

Thankfully, you are already outside the church, giving yourself a pat on the back for good control of facial muscles. 

Lord cannot judge what Lord cannot see. 

And whatever transpires beyond your routine hours of church visit is between you and you. 

And, hopefully, also between you and a blue-eyed stranger with a beautiful mouth you’d probably enjoy licking into. 

“Ye ken where tah go?”, he asks after a few moments and it’s so tentative that you feel like smirking again.

That’s a good catholic boy right there — follow first, ask questions later. 

“No”, you say, drinking in a way his eyes widen and he stops in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at you like you just kicked him. “You are pretty. I take you home with me”, you add, stone-faced and it feels like a little more and stranger will either tackle you to the ground or condemn you right next to your church for a very unchristian-like behaviour. 

But he sends you a glare instead and stumbles back, cheeks of his burning and oh, he is angry with embarrassment, won’t you look at that? 

Angry and so obviously lost that he has to tuck himself to the gates of your church. 

Heavy set of his jaw and his head purposefully turned the other way from you do absolutely nothing to put out the fire of insistent “ask him to bite, ask him to bite, ask him to bite’ in your head.

The stranger stays silent and angry, not looking your way so diligently that you can’t help but smirk again. 

Wounded pride, was it? 

Asked for directions from a lonely bird in the foreign church and got some nonsense thrown in your face.

So mean of you. 

Almost enough to make you wonder what God would say if he saw it. Probably nothing good, but that would also be nothing new. 

Religious guilt is not something you practice, religious atonement on the other side…

Lines from yesterday’s shibari pull on your skin with satisfying tingling. Every movement is a live reminder of how you sought absolution. Amen to that. 

You shiver like a well-petted dog and roll your shoulders, wrapping tighter in your shal. Your fingers (sticky with wax and sweet with devotion) softly tug on a stranger's sleeve.

When he refuses to turn around, stubbornly staring away, you just sidestep, putting yourself in his direct line of sight.

The man is too ragged to snap his head from side to side every time you move, you are pretty sure he’d pinch a nerve and refuse to admit forever staying turned to the left. That would be fun. You’d love to squeeze the nape of his and get a whine. Or a hiss.

You aren’t too picky in that regard. Just a sneer would also be lovely, maybe he’d snap and sink his teeth into something. You, for example.

“You look so sad”, you start with a tone so sympathetic that he glares at you with suspicion of someone who got a taste of your Christian hospitality and not only haven’t gotten fed but was also robbed of his dignity in the process. “So very sad.”, you continue in the meantime, your fingers wrapping around his wrist and maybe he should have shaken you off, should have snapped at you for getting touchy.

But he doesn’t, his pulse pumping under your fingertips, his head tilting to the side.

Big lost dog, unsure whether to snap his jaws at you or nuzzle in.

“A little more time and people will throw you coins.”, you finish with the most innocent look on your face and the stranger looks at you like he cannot believe your audacity. 

“Ahm not sad”, he spits out and you have to kick down a bubbling giggle. Of-fucking-course not. Just look at him sulking at the steps of your Orthodox Church like he’s an orphan abandoned at the wrong doorstep. 

“Very sad.”, you nod solemnly, cheeks flushed and hair bouncing, your lips trembling from how hard you try not to laugh. “Come. I show you the church.”, you peel him off the gates and tug the man to follow, masking your cackle with a cough when a granny actually offers him some change. 

Stranger sends you a glare so scalding that you have to pretend to cough again, pulling your scarf over your nose. 

Very sad, indeed. Like a big dog someone tied to the lamppost and left to wait for a thing that would never come. 

Stranger trails just half a step behind you, a little too practised, a little too intentional. Exactly far enough for you to keep holding onto his wrist and close enough for you to not drop it when you feel a pull of his arm. 

“Ahm John.”, not anymore a stranger introduces himself and you smile, glancing at him sideways. Good name. Strong. Rolls off the tongue. 

Old enough to rival yours. 

“Nice to see you, John���, you nod, dropping your own in his palm and force down a shiver when he holds it between his teeth, drawing out. His lips twitch in something very similar to a grin, almost wolffish in his satisfaction, not a trace of earlier puppy-like awkwardness. 

“I’s ‘nice to meet ye’, bonnie.”, he corrects you and you pause, part of you shrinking away, again small and again in fifth grade with your test returned. Older part just smirks and presses the nail on the tender inside of his wrist, poking him hard. 

“Maybe for you it’s nice to meet me. For me right it’s only nice to see you.”, you look him up and down, covering your own snappy defensiveness behind bluntness most would take for the lack of shame. “What do ‘bonnie’ mean?”, the sudden change of topic makes John grin wider, his eyes crinkling. 

Oh, fuck, he’s pretty. 

“Good-lookin’. Beautiful. Nice to see.”, he copies your accent, his eyes half lidded and shameless and you feel your lips twitching. 

Yeah, you can ask the man to bite you alright. 

You get him to the beautiful Catholic Church and wait outside, mentally giving the man half an hour before your toes would start freezing off inside of your beautiful thin-leathered boots.

Maybe if you knew God would send a beautiful man your way, you’d dress better for the weather but alas. Easter is close, you were out only to pray a little and light up a candle for saint Sophia.

Stranger is out in exactly 8 minutes, his head turning from side to side like he’s looking for someone. His eyes lighting up when he spots you loitering on the doorstep of his church.

Pretty bird with heavy glares and lips he’d like to bite until she yelps and tries to push him away.

Johnny grins, rasping out “ye come here often, bonnie?”, something inside of him swelling with warmth when her lips twitch and she wheezes out surprised laughter, her cheeks flushing.

Pretty-pretty-pretty, pounds in his head when she rolls her eyes at him, her lips curled in a smile, her hair in disarray from the cold April winds.

Johnny flirts with pretty bird on the steps of his church and forgets that his painkillers are shit, that he haven’t had a shower in god knows how long, that he got lost and laughed at for stumbling around like a fool.

She laughs and nothing else matters much, her eyes crinkling in a way that make Johnny want to ask if he can come home with her and sleep in her bed and maybe live in her skin.

As long as she laughs like that, as long as she’s this warm, as long as she sparks like a live wire.

And for the first time since getting discharged he feels like doing something with his hands.

What’s there inside of ya, if he cracks you open and takes a look inside? Would you blow up in his face, would you be patient with his wooden, trembly hands that once were as dexterous as they get?

Would you even let him get this close or have you been tracking the way he moves since he came up?

Johnny offers his elbow and to his absolute delight you take it, pulling him someplace nice and warm. Someplace with decent food and a drink stiff enough to dull his perpetual migraine.

Pretty bird, would you tell him why you are so mean to a stranger in a house of the Lord and so flirty with a man that looks like he’s falling apart?

What is it, questionable tastes or a kink for saving God’s most hopeless 2025?

Johnny grins when you scoff at him, not responding outright, telling him he’d see if he’s good.

Johnny licks his lips, nodding and leans to your ear, creature in his head eagerly wagging its tail when you hiss at him to fucking move. He can be good, bonnie.

Wanna see?

You roll your eyes at him, snappy and curt, accent too hard and consonants clicking off your teeth like you have a habit of chewing down suckers.

Johnny’s a sucker alright, you can chew on him.

The memory of you wheezing when he offers it haunts him as he sits in the quiet dark wooden box that is confessional.

Heart pounding, silence stretching, his tongue tying because he doesn’t…he didn’t want this. Not like that, never like that. But here he is.

“Forgive me father”, Soap starts, his hands clammy, migraine thumping in his temples, agitation setting on the inside of his jaws, tightening them together until it hurts his molars. 

You appear out of nowhere , you don’t even find him yourself – he finds you and it’s a little less cold out on the street of the city he is supposed to know, but doesn’t anymore. 

You, with your scarves and your horrible horrible jokes and your accent – sharp like the pieces of walnut that you crushed with the heel of your palm, popping it in your mouth right after. 

Crunch of it echoes in the way you pronounce “darling” and “ridiculous” when Johnny steps on his shoelaces because tying them up felt like too much work and bending down made him dizzy. And being dizzy annoyed the bleeding fuck out of him. 

You crush your walnuts on his kitchen table, always splitting in two piles so you can share with him the excess he kisses off your fingers. 

His whole kitchen still smells like spices and nuts, remnants of your baking all over the table. 

Johnny sits in the confessional and doesn’t know how to choke out that he wanted you to stay for more than a few more days or weeks, so you would sit in his kitchen and colour your bloody eggs for “your” Easter and shush him while the dough rises in a towel wrapped bowl.

Soap doesn’t know how to say that for the first time in forever, he cared whether someone leaves or stays, that he had so much fun with you that his cheeks ached, his lips now twitching on pure instinct when he thinks of you. 

He often heard that he must be the sun in the relationships, that he is the chatty shiny half to your moodiness and sharp tongue, but by god, you are the sun in his sky – merciless and radiant, your eyes burning-burning-burning him.

Yet he still stayed and later peeled off the charred layers of himself, your kisses between his shoulder blades left him shivering.

Left him wanting, because Johnny is from a place where sun shines only 60 days per year, so your heat left him greedy and raw. 

Sun comes into his life and he decided that he never want it to leave.

 “Forgive me, father, for ah was prideful”, Soap says instead, his grip tightening on rosary, your eyes looking back at him whenever he blinks, your “bye, John” aching in him with the shards of mirror he hit so hard, that he had to call himself a bloody cab and go to the urgent care.

16 stitches on his useless shaky scarred hands. 

“And seven years of misfortune.”, your voice grumbles in his head and maybe that was it, maybe his 7 years has begun. 

God finally delivered some proper divine retribution for the daftest of his wayward sheep. 

Soap got so used to you always being there, snapping right back at him, smacking him to keep going and keep moving and “don’t whine, John, you aren’t a baby, you are a darling” that when it went away with you and he felt like a shockwave finally hit him, deafening. 

Ripping him open and cauterising immediately.

Soap thinks of the way your lips twitched and brows furrowed as you silently got up and left because he is dumb-dumb-dumb, because you breathe out “you aren’t the only, you are just one” and he recoils.

Red haze of anger curling in his head, stuffing his throat with things he shouldn’t have said, not to you, never to you. 

“Ah’ve been selfish”, Soap says, his heart pounding because his hunger was always the size of him whole. Gnarly needy beast with gruesome ways and questionable tastes.

At least, Ghost always managed to make his own unhinged doors to the dark cavern of his head look like a gothic bloody lair that birds with big eyes and tastes as questionable as Johnny’s liked to explore.

Too many people had crushes on serial killers and it shows, but that’s just Johnny’s thoughts, not like someone asks him what he thinks on the matter. 

Not when Ghost got a bird of his own and Johnny – not used to this much free time on his head and head this loud and flat this empty bumped into his sun. 

And lost his mind.

Whatever was left of his rationality after taking a bullet to the head, flew right out the window when a pretty bird with heavy eyes and cold fingers dragged him through the street. Laughing and chatting in grammar she borrowed from somewhere else and orthography of English she butchered mercilessly.

Johnny’s hunger is a vicious wild thing that he kicked down for years (good boys don’t ask for anything, don’t cry loudly and don’t crawl back from an injury that should have killed them immediately), but the beast grows up and now tears him apart to get even. 

Suits him well.

Creature of aching shameful need kisses your inner thigh and Soap feels them merging into one, no longer separate sinful pieces, no more bad-wrong-stop in his head. 

You’d pull him in, smiling under his smooches and biting hit arms and spreading your legs and he wouldn’t feel wrong. He wouldn’t feel like a freak.

Like a sinner.

Not when he kissed your inner thigh and your legs opened for him like gates to Heaven, his absolution glistening at the apex of your thighs. Nor when he leaned in and kissed the soft mound, your coarse curls pressing to his nose.

“Ah’ve been selfish and…”, he tries again, his shoulder aching, his head pounding, hunger of his getting out of control. Because you’d sit on his lap and his head would finally get silent – your fingers in his mouth, opening it wider, prying open his jaws so he’d drool all over you, whimpering when you’d sink on his cock. 

Mean as fuck, bonnie. Not going to let him say even a word? 

You’d just just hum in a language he doesn’t understand, prying his jaws open and licking into the wet maw of his mouth, your hips rising and falling, rolling into him – the tides of your sea were coming up to wash him off of his sins. 

Your eyes – the storm, your eyes staring at him with the same heavy intensity he’d see in the eyes of your painted saints, your eyes – silent promise and question. 

What were you asking of him? What did you really want in the space between Johnny’s hunger and Johnny’s rage? What did you say when he was cut open and drooling all over your hands, the insides of his want showing, the edge of his delusion fraying? 

What did you want with him when he wanted nothing with himself even on the good days? Too moody, too drowsy, too broken and too slow. Not a match to his shiny talented brother in arms, not a match to his reliable ever standing captain, not a match to the heavy authority his L.T yielded. Not a match. 

He couldn’t keep up, he got sloppy, he broke down and now he was on the fucking bench. 

Why did you need to come and bring him down with your radiant merciless shine?

Why did you make him want for something he did not deserve and was never worthy of? 

He remembers asking in the delirium of his pleasure, in the aching raw need to be soothed, to be loved-loved-loved.

What did you say, Johnny couldn’t remember to save his life. He just remembers the way his teeth would press in the pads of your fingers. 

What did you want with him, m’eudail? 

Johnny laps at your fingers, presses down his teeth just shy of breaking the skin – your cunt spasming around him, almost unmaking him on the spot. 

Johnny whines when you pull your fingers out, babbling answers to the question you didn’t ask.

Yes, m’eudail, yes. Anything. 

His eyes are shining, tears rolling down his cheeks when you’d raise your hips and let his head slip out of the slick heat of your pussy with a wet sound.

Mean as fuck, bonnie. Not going to let him come for the third time in a row now? 

Soap aches all over on a good day, but this is aching of a different kind, his eyes half lidded and half feral when you’d roll out “wanna be good for me, John?”.

Yes.

Yes-yes-yes-yes.

Please, he wants to be so good, he can be so fucking good for you, bonnie. He’d do anything, whatever you ask, anything at all, please, m’eudail, please let him come. 

Corners of your lips twitch when he’d cry, drooling all over your hands. Dog of a man – aching for approval, aching for salvation. 

“No.” would seal his fate for another hour with Johnny groping your ass and hips, fingers rubbing in the touch of his in your skin like he doesn’t want to just leave bruises on you but fingerprints.

Greed of his almost as big as his hunger, his jaws closing around you the day you dragged him down the street to show that he had just missed a turn to the Catholic church, your eyes shimmering with laughter, your lips cold from winds and sticky with lipgloss. 

“Mine.”Johnny aches, his hips jerking up to meet yours, slick and lube dripping down his shaft and scrotum, sweat dripping down his face – star-shaped scar on his temple itching from salt. 

Johnny is selfish, he burns himself out from inside, slams down the nails with “dread-shame-guilt” written all over until he can’t feel anything but divine suffering, until everything else blurs out. So he can keep ignoring the tender flutter under his ribs when you kiss his jaw and murmur “darling John”, your accent thickening and your lashes casting long sharp shadows. 

Selfish-selfish-selfish, sneers the voice in his head but Johnny looks up at you, his thumb circling around your clit, his lips curling in a smile when you bite the inside of your cheek and glare at him. 

“Mean as fuck, bonnie.” Johnny breathes out, feeling so free he could breathe without hurting, his eyes warm, his whole face lighting up with tenderness he refuses to acknowledge. 

Nothing to look at there, nothing at-fucking-all.

“Gonna be guid fer me, m’eudail?” He murmurs, two of his fingers stretching you out, torturously slow, infuriatingly good, your pelvis practically in his lap when he pushes a pillow under your lower back and drags you closer.

He toys with you, taking every bit of pleasure from your reactions, no matter how small – his fingers curling inside of you until your breathing hitches, your eyes getting glossier, your mouth falling open.

That’s because you deserve it, bonnie.

That’s because the hunger the size of Johnny wants you pliant and trembling, wants you teary-eyed and babbling, wants you to fuck yourself on his fingers so he can watch.

Same fingers he’d use to sign the Catholic cross – forehead-chest-left to right shoulder – his thumb tapping your clit just so he can get all of your attention to himself. His middle and forefinger finger your fluttering dripping hole.

For the Father, the Son and The Holy Spirit, m’eudail. Isn’t it right?

“Amen.”Johnny breathes out, pulling your legs up, hoisting them over his shoulders so he can get closer. His thumb on your clit moving, slick sound of your own hunger scorching your face, your lids closing shut.

How inappropriate would that be if you asked the man to slap you right now?

“Амінь.”, you instead choke out, forgetting your English and Johnny grins, his head falling between your legs.

Silence stretches in the confessional, someone’s cough snapping Soap out of his daze, the feel of your legs on his shoulders is so vivid his headache backs off and he can see a little better. Thank God for that.

He sits in the dark, smell of wood and dust not soothing him like always before, rosary in his hands not clicking like it should, his face too hot and his pants tight when he forces himself to keep talking.

“Ah’ve been vain.”, Soap says and tries not to think to the way he sported your lipstick kisses all over his neck last time he met the rest of the team, feeling on top of the world, feeling like maybe he is not behind and he is doing something right.

Like he’s finally reaping the good stuff and not the usual “sorry about that, mate”, not the condescending advice of ever friendly Gaz, not the silent stares Ghost gives out, not the arched brows of Captain who acts like Johnny is 15 and can’t fucking see the way they act around him ever since he got discharged.

Soap tries not to think that he boasted about his bird to his team, grinning like a madman, hammer of his excitement swinging when he’d lean on the table sharing details, sharing things he probably shouldn’t have.

Sharing about his bird who is not really his.

Soap tries not to think the way Ghost at some point went out for a smoke break and he followed the man, still chirping away his lieutenant’s ear and trying to get…what was he even trying to get out of Ghost?

A rise? A reaction?

Pat on the back for being a good lad and adjusting all well and proper to civilian life even though three months ago he was clawing up the walls and calling Simon at the middle of the night, slobbering about his headaches and heartaches and asking for things he shouldn’t have?

Things Simon gave him with excess. Until he didn’t.

And then Soap really slipped, spiralling down, clawing at every excuse to see the team, to chat them up, to not feel like he’s being left behind.

And now…now that he got you, now that he’s sporting sticky lipstick kisses all over his throat and cheeks and grinning like a madman as he shares even more with Simon. Because that’s…that’s his L.T., right? That’s his Simon. That’s his Ghost. He can tell him anything, can’t he?

But just because he could didn’t mean that he should have.

Not when at some point Simon hummed, his eyes heavy with something Johnny didn’t fucking like, Simon’s hollowed out eyes crinkling when bastard’s lip curled upwards, when he leaned in and breathed out smoke sideways.

When he rolled out your name off his bloody tongue like he did it a hundred times before, the easy familiarity of it burning Johnny, hitting Johnny in the chest like a bitch of a recoil, deafening Johnny with rage-hurt-rage.

Because why did he have to say that?

Why did Simon need to go and take away the only good thing that appeared in Soap’s clusterfuck of a life after deployment?

“Ah’ve been selfish and prideful and vain.”, he confesses, shame and rage warring in him, his grip on rosary tightening, his face burning. Because bad-bad-bad. Bad fucking dog, Johnny, bad sergeant, bad boy.

No wonder you got up silently and left without arguing when he rained down on you like a hysterical wife, when he said things he shouldn’t have, when he got so fucking jealous he could hardly tell left from right.

The only thing in the empty cracked shell of his head is the way Simon grinned, rolling out the name of yours, easy affection — old and practiced, like Ghost was there before Soap even could dream up you in the painkillers-induced delirium and before God lead him to you.

The only thing in his brain is the way you shrugged off his initial snappy mean comments, not seeing a problem with the fact that you fucked with his fucking lieutenant.

That Ghost fucked Soap’s bird. Soap’s sun.

Soap’s you.

“Ah…pushed someone away. For guid. Dinnae ken how to take it back and…ah messed up.”, Soap continues and braces his forearms over his knees, his shoulders aching, his head pounding, his heart hurting.

Fucking hell, how did he even get into this?

When did he went from having your easy shine and sharp teasing to not having you at all? Not as a hook up, not as a friend with benefits, not as his bird. Not as anything.

Soap tries not to think about he way you dragged him out to hike after he finished up his fucking rehabilitation. God knows you were stubborn and dragged him to hell and back until he relented and went in.

Snapping and cursing and complaining all the way.

But he went and as the result you were driving out somewhere in the smack of the dab of the god of his own homeland to “see pretty places, darling John”.

Didn’t see much of pretty places, but got drenched in the rain and almost had a fistfight on some bridge, because you just don’t know how to stop and he just doesn’t know how to back down.

Too chatty for your own good, both of you are. No fucking wonder you both fucked Ghost. Seems like L.T. has a type.

Soap clasps his hands together, memory of you — sweating and groaning flashing through his mind like a lightning bolt. Some people are just not built for hiking but you refused to accept that you were one of them.

Dragging Soap up and down the trail so he’d get his steps for the day before you relented and started the journey down to the cabin you rented.

Also in the smack of the dab of the bloody gob.

But you’d grin at him a little too excited and suddenly it all would be worth it. The rain, the cold, the gloom and endless green-green-green of the hills because really, there was nothing else but like hell you’d let Johnny to just go back.

He can sit on his ass back in the city, out here you two are walking the trail up and down and sideways.

Didn’t help much that Johnny was evidently built incredibly well for hiking and tolerated the difficulties of it with infuriating ease.

“Speed down”, you’d huff out, tugging on a sleeve of happy and overly energetic Soap. He does, but grins with a little too much satisfaction for your liking.

You should get on his nerves more often, the man looks moisturised and well-rested, seems like you aren’t trying hard enough. 

“Ye meant, “slow down”.”, he points out, savouring every syllable. Big dog of a man, a little more and he will drool all over his sentences. 

And all over you if you aren’t going to pull the cut of your sweater a bit higher. 

“I meant, fuck you, John.”, you scoff at him, deliberately ignoring his energetic “wha’? right here, hen?” and smack his hands off when he attempts to pull your sweater lower to get himself some more cleavage to look at. 

Big bad dog of a man.

“You are so sad.”, Soap starts, grinning like the Devil’s prettiest henchman. “Very very sad.”

You groan loudly, trying to drown out his gloating with your wails as you walk away from him, people turning their heads at the two of you. But unfairly so, even post rehab Soap’s legs are faster than yours. 

“So so sad. A little more time and people will start throwing coins at you.”, he draws out in an infuriatingly good imitation of your accent.

“Ah will leave you at church step like ye are a bad dog. Or a bad orphan.”, you threaten in poor imitation of his and Johnny cackles so hard he has to stop walking and steady himself on someone’s fence. 

“They didnae take me”, Soap grins at you like it’s good news not even Catholics wanted him all too much and takes a turn to ignore your “i wonder why”. “Ye are stuck, bonnie.”

“I will leave you at a different church”, you grumble and he has the nerve to giggle again and louder, almost slipping into a full chested laughter, the one that makes blood flow to your face and he knows it a little too well. Fucker. 

“Like a wee bairn?”, Johnny asks with too much enthusiasm, the arch of his brow curious and effortless. He slings his sweaty arm over your shoulders and beams like a thousand suns when you hiss at him. 

“Like a wee saint”, you murmur, squinting at too bright and not warm enough sun. The weather is so atrocious that you risk turning into ash at this point. 

But Johnny cocks his head to the side — just watches you for a few moments like he is not sure he heard you right. He is no saint, he’s hardly the part of the wolf pack that 141 often feels like. 

John is a big mutt of a man. A stray that found you and refused to leave later. 

All coarse hair and big beautiful mouth full of teeth that you still want to touch. 

“Saint of what, hen?” 

You take a pause, eyes trailing star shaped scar on his temple and you grin again, like it’s something funny, like you could come up with a dozen jokes on the spot — each new worse than the last one. 

“Patron Saint of one-way trips”

Johnny blinks at you. Thrice. Quickly. 

Realisation dawns on him at the same time you start cackling and he gasps, smacking your hip. 

Wicked wicked woman you are. Mean as fuck, bonnie, mean as fuck. 

“Real dark, hen.”, he mumbles and leans in to bite the apple of your cheek for good measure. Just to keep it between his teeth, pretending to chew on the soft flesh so you don’t go getting chattier than you already are with him. 

“They won’t take you as anything else”, you laugh, your shoulders shaking when you add, “You eat too much otherwise.” 

“Now, THAT you gonna take back”, Soap gasps scandalised and tries to walk in the direction opposite from yours. 

As if either of you knows this trail well enough not to get lost. 

“John, come back! Come back, John, don’t leave me here, I’m no orphan”, you gasp out laughing, following him on shaky buckling knees and Soap starts walking faster. 

His shoulders also shake and maybe that’s why he refuses to slow down, only picking up his pace when you threaten to throw a rock at him.

Blue-eyed bastard.

“Ah took mah blessings for granted. Ah…did things I shouldnae have. And ah’m not sure I can take them back. Not sure she’d take me back.”, John continuous, dragging himself out of the memory that makes him ache just harder because he doesn’t fucking deserve to sit here and reminiscence.

He doesn’t deserve the warmth, doesn’t deserve to know how you laugh when you are so mad you could strangle him but he made just the right joke and now you are furious but doubled in half.

Johnny doesn’t deserve you. But God knows he wants you.

God knows he doesn’t know when to back down, so he sits in the confessional and the same evening packs his things up and takes off.

God knows he doesn’t deserve shit after stunt he pulled.

God also knows that on occasion Soap couldn’t care less what he deserves, what he’s allowed, what would be okay to take.

On occasion, Johnny gets why the wide-eyed perfect birds fall for bastards like Ghost. Because Simon always took what he wanted.

At times it was a fresh kill, at time it was Johnny, at times it was Johnny’s head he liked to fuck with.

Old affection of his destructive and poisonous, but as stable as a man like Ghost could ever get.

So in a rare moment of solidaric compassion Soap packs things up and sets off to go and see you again.

You don’t have to take him back, bonnie. Don’t have to do a single fucking thing, not after things he said, not after him being a daft fuck who couldn’t grow a pair and admit how much he wanted you.

He just…just wants to say that he’s sorry.

Though it doesn’t seem to make you any friendlier when your eyes cross with his.

Johnny stands in the middle of your church, awkward and out of place, his Mohawk freshly shaven, his eyes the impossible blue of old gravures and God’s wayward sheep, his legs long enough to walk him to hell and back.

You stare back at him, fingers clutching the wax candles, your brows furrowing, your defences snapping in place because what the fuck he is doing in your church, when you come to pray and not have a pleasant chat.

“What do you need?”, you cut to the chase, glaring and Holy Mary is behind your back and you are not going to feel guilty and you aren’t gonna cry.

But Soap steps closer, angles his head to look at you, shoulders spread out, his gaze unwavering when you try to make him look away-away-away.

“Ahm sorry.”, he murmurs quietly, not touching you. Not yet. Not when you are wound up spring that will uncoil and push him till he breaks. “Ah was a cunt.”

Your grip tightens on your candles, the smell of frankincense sweet and cloying, you rage simmering just under the surface when he stands there and has the nerve to look hurt.

Because he deserved it. Because he hurt you and you want to hurt him.

Your fingers twitch to scratch, to slap, to hit him again and again until he recoils, until he curls in on himself like a wet napkin of a mutt he was when you first met.

Because you don’t know how to stop and he never learned how to back down and doesn’t plan to start learning now, hunting you down in a city that should be as foreign to him as your language is.

Because you come to pray and not to have a pleasant chat.

And here he is, standing in your church in his blue jeans and blue sweater with his blue eyes.

What does he even want with you? After everything said and done what would he want with you?

When he made it so clear what he thinks of you and your past and your ways and your sins. When he condemned you and himself, his voice cracking, his eyes feral and hurt, his scarred shaky fingers curled into fists that he’d slam into the mirror as soon as you’d leave his flat. And leave him.

“Don’t swear in my church.”, you snap at him and Johnny nods, eyes impossibly soft, lips of his curled into the annoying downturns smile.

“Want me to step outside?”, he offers gently, having the nerve to joke when you are that mad at him, when you want to bash his head on the wall of your church and leave his star-shaped scar cracked open and bleeding.

New saint for your church. Saint of one-way trips.

“I can’t say what I want you to do, God wouldn’t approve of it.”, you grumble, turning away from him and light up a candle, your hands trembling when he sidesteps around you.

“Never stopped you before, m’eudail.”, Soap mentions off-handedly and you roll your eyes at him because yeah, maybe he is right but you have standards. No swearing in your church. And no sex in his.

Boundaries had to be drawn when you started…whatever the fuck that was. Not like you could call it dating. You just were together. Always and everywhere.

Until you weren’t.

“What do you want, John?”, you sigh, glaring at him sideways so he tilts his head to be able to look you in the eye, getting a little closer.

Half a step.

Not enough to make you pull away, but enough to make you notice that he is starting to fill the field of your vision. “You watch me like a big dog. It’s scary.”

“Ah’m not a big dog”, Soap corrects you automatically and steps a little closer, standing just a finger away from you, practically crowding you in the corner of your church. “And ah want ye. Always. Forever. As long as ye’d take me.”, he shrugs like it’s obvious and not a thing he remembered only after blatantly stating his need to have you.

“You are a massive dog”, you snap right back, smacking his hip when he gets too close, his hand snaking over your shoulders, his fingers plucking candles out of your loosened grip and silently lighting them up in front of saint Galina’s mural. “Stop pressing to me, you said yourself no sex in the church”, you hiss at him, feeling his smile when he leans lower, his lips ghosting over the temple of yours.

Wolffish grin of his sending flutter that you refuse to acknowledge. You don’t want him, you don’t need him and he doesn’t want to have sex with you.

What’s more here to say? The man is just wasting your time.

“Ah said, no sex in my church, bonnie. Whatever happens in your church is between you and God.”, Soap says with surprising diplomacy, your face freezing when you turn your head to him. Like you can’t believe his audacity.

“All this time I could have fucked you in a church and you were silent, MacTavish?”, the hiss of yours sends shivers down his spine, uncoils sweet aching in his lower abdomen, his nose pressing to the cheek of yours, teeth aching to sink in and drag you back to Scotland.

“You still can.”, Johnny murmurs, nuzzling in you, breathing you in like this is exactly what he needed. His mean bird, snapping her beak at him, threatening to leave him without his bloody fingers if he’s not quick or smart enough.

His sun, his soulmate, his wife.

There is a stretch of silence he feels acutely, breathing your smell in just deeper, trying to remember the way it makes him dizzy in case you smack him in the middle of your church and call the fucking police on his ass for harassing you in the house of the Lord. That would not be fun.

“Doesn’t mean im taking you back.”, you announce after a moment, your glare on him heavy and exasperated when he beams at you like Devil’s prettiest henchman.

Like God’s wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“Ye dun have to, mo chridhe.”, Johnny rumbles, pressing himself tighter in you, your palm slipping under the hem of his sweater and shamelessly groping his pec. Someone’s been missing him just as badly, didnae ye?

Johnny lets you pull him under the stairs and pull his cock out of the pants, pumping it too rough and too quick, his tongue darting out to go over his lips, his eyes only on you.

Johnny doesn’t mention that you don’t have to take him as anything. He’s just going to be yours.

“Would ye be sad if ah broke Simon’s jaw?”, he murmurs quietly and rolls his hips in your stilled grip, your head snapping up to look at him.

Needy creature in his chest rumbling that he has to get you back home. Under him. Crying and babbling and spreading your legs and laughing at his smooches.

“Did you?”, you ask instead and spit on the head of his cock, smearing it over the sensitive flesh, rubbing it in, tightening your hold on him.

“Ah plan to.”, Johnny shares like it’s a good piece of gossip and you can’t help but kiss him, your tongue licking into his mouth, his drool dripping in your mouth and down his chin, his hips rolling into your touch. “Can take it as yes?”, he breathes out, breaking a kiss and gripping the wall harder when you growl at him.

Mean as fuck, bonnie. Won’t let him say even a word now?

“You can take it however you like, John. But you break his jaw and he’d break your spine.”, your throat works, the free hand of yours holding onto his shoulder when Johnny slips his palm under your skirt.

Touchy, cocky, bad bad dog of a man.

“You will just have to kiss it better.”, Soap smiles a little dazed and his fingers pull your panties to the side, finally getting to touch the wet heat of your pussy.

Aw, hello to you too, lassie. He’d missed you just as badly, not to worry.

“Can’t even leave you at church doorstep anymore. Fed you too good, now you are too big”, you breathe out, angling your hips so he can slide a second finger inside of your pussy, Johnny’s eyes hungry and dazed, Johnny’s eyes half lidded and half feral.

Johnny just nods at all your complains and stretches you until you drip down his fingers, choir singing something beautifully, his free arm wrapped around you. Holding you in the dark corner under the stairs.

Maybe he should lift a ban on sex at his church. Confessional booth would have been more convenient.

“Gonna be yers then”, Soap slips up and adds when you open your mouth to remind that you aren’t taking him back and aren’t letting him wiggle his way back in and he should go fuck off back to Scotland. “Could be yer saint, bonnie. Could be so guid to ye for being guid to me”, he promises, his thumb circling your clit, his middle and forefinger nestled inside of your fluttering needy pussy.

Hungry fucking thing, he can feel how much you missed him and his fingers and his unhinged ideas and his borderline insane lewd babbling during sex.

“Kinky.”, you murmur quietly and nuzzle in his shoulder when he hoists you knee up, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. “You have to know, I’m bad at praying”

Johnny laughs quietly, sinking into you like he never left, like he’s coming home and bringing you with him and calling his L.T. to fistfight the bastard until he breaks him something. At least a pinky.

His grip around you tightening, his lips ghosting over your cheeks and nose and temples and all over. Wherever he can reach, his smile imprinting on the inside of your eyelids.

Should be illegal for a man to have a mouth this beautiful.

“Think we gonna be alright, bonnie. Think we gonna be fine.”, Johnny breathes out like it’s a little more than just about your lack of praying knowledge or a little more than sex in your church or a little more than your tug of war ever since you two met.

You grip him tighter, your cunt spasming around him and Johnny has to count to ten and back. In Gaelic.

But you breathe out “yeah. Gonna be fine”, and Johnny pulls you up, pressing your back to the wall, letting you kick his lower back as much as you want.

He’d let you do just about anything.

Whatever it takes to be yours. Whatever it takes to earn another blessing of his sun.

Soap rolls his hips into you, his breath hitching when someone walks just above the two of you, adrenaline pumping through him when you pull the collar of your sweater down so he can get his mouth on your tits.

Forget what he said, bonnie. Next time you are gonna do it in a confessional booth.

He needs his better half riding him as close to God as possible. Maybe this way he’d show that he may be the worst wayward sheep there is, the saddest bastard in the universe when it comes to blessings and chances.

But he sure as hell knows a thing or two about devotion.

Even if it’s the one aimed only at you.

[kiwiaok]

since my aftg hunger games au is still in the making and it’ll probably take at least a few months more till I start posting imma just throw snippets in here every now then. just to remind anyone interested that I haven’t given up yet

for now, the very beginning of the very first chapter

[aphetaliamessages]

Broke: "Ich Liebe" uses baking as a metaphor for Germany's love for Italy

Woke: "Ich Liebe" is Ludwig being really excited to share his special interest with someone he cares about

[thevalleyisjolly]

WIP Wednesday

From Draft 2.0 of the Jynbixmelshian fic (to motivate myself through the rewrites)

-

"Yes?" she calls out, stepping out from the relative coolness of the veranda with some regret. "Are you looking for something?"

The stranger clutches the strap of their satchel (also fine dyed leather) in a nervous sort of way. They open their mouth and close it without saying anything, then open it again.

"Hello," the stranger says. Their accent is pure, polished Core, like something one might hear on a holoshow. Wealthy Core too, though she could guess from the clothes. "Is this Grappler's Salyard?"

She resists the urge to point to the signs on the gate and above the gate and ask if they teach them how to read Aurebesh in the Core. Comments like those are why she's generally not on customer duty. But Cassian and Melshi are out with the freighter, chasing up a tip from a contact about some old freezers, and Bix is engrossed in the guts of a speeder engine back in the workshop, so the people are stuck with her.

"You've found us," she says, trying not to sound too sarcastic which Bix says can come across as off-putting and hostile. "What are you looking for today? We've got parts for all your mechanical and repair needs. We also buy and trade if you have something worth selling."

[kember-writes]

Monday snippet

Big big thanks to @prongsfish for the tag <3 Here's a few paragraphs from chapter five of Hateful Creatures.

James leaned back in the chair, his head tilted slightly to watch Regulus. “You were mumbling in your sleep," he said. No, no, fuck no, anything but this. “And shaking. Lily told me you’ve been having bad dreams. Is that something… new?”

He made no mention of any incriminating words, and Regulus felt something in his chest loosen slightly. “Yes, ever since I ended up here I’ve been having these terrible dreams where idiots from my childhood won’t leave me alone. Oh, wait.” James’s face turned sour at the statement, but Regulus pushed through. “Lily doesn’t know as much as she likes to think she does. And I’m fine, thank you,” Regulus said, swinging his legs off the bed and standing to prove his point. He barely wobbled. “So you can go now. Please.”

“You know,” said James, also standing, and Regulus realised again how tall he was, “you were actually becoming somewhat bearable these last few days. Like you used to be. But if you’re going to get like this the moment something riles you up, I’ll be happy to lock the door again.”

“Be my guest,” Regulus said with a smile, sweeping his arms towards the door as though to usher James out. “It might keep me safe from your awful friends and their experimental curses.” He sneered as James stormed past him, wrenching the bedroom door open and slamming it shut behind him. After a pause of a few seconds, there was a squelching sound as it sealed.

Regulus kicked it, but it didn’t budge. It vibrated on its hinges as someone on the other side kicked back. He heard stomping in the hallway, footsteps clattering down the stairs, then silence.

Brief background: Regulus is temporarily detained at the Potters' house and they're all being Completely Normal about it. The Situation isn't putting anybody under any sort of Stress. Dumbledore is being Extremely Helpful.

Tags for @wolfpants because I'm always interested to know what you're cooking and @veryinnovative because the workings of your mind both frighten and intrigue me. And an open tag for anyone else who wants to share something :)

[marlynnofmany]

Do you have illustrations for your mottley crew of couriers? I think it’d be fun to meet Zhee, Paint, the other crewmembers who’s names I can’t remember, and the various Captains over the course of Robin’s trips.

I have sketchy drawings of some of them! I never did decide whether Heatseekers have those little head-fins or not, but it seemed right:

And I've drawn a few characters from the book, who are the same species as some of the courier ship crew:

Plus there are close to 20 comics that I drew well before writing the current short stories, which I'll say take place after those stories. (This has turned out to be a complicated timeline for a character I originally thought would just live in a couple pieces of flash fiction.)

(But it's worth it.)

Here, have a Strongarm in an Earth Holiday Sweater:

[yours-truly-henry-jekyll]

So I wrote this tiny scene in a little more than half an hour. It's kinda marauders fandom adjacent, though I have no idea how to stick this into any fanfic continuity, so let's just say it's a big ode to characters with daddy issues... BEWARE, IT'S TEEMING WITH EASTER EGGS.

And every night it's all the same. Every damn night Barty knows that as soons as he falls asleep it will start again over and over. The visions, fascinating, bizarre and barely comprehensible… Where he is, he doesn't know. Some kind of void, maybe. And he stands here, in this void. A hammer in his hands, and the mysterious Mirror of Erised is right before him. He doesn't have enough time even to quickly glance at it. Then immediately follows a bright blinding flash and almost deefening sounds of broken glass and finally he sees the Mirror of Erised cracked from side to side and falling into the myriads of pieces. Almost like in that fairytale about the Ice Queen… And in every of these mirror shards Barty sees a peculiar twisted version of himself.

Soon he loses count of time and of all these parallel worlds. In one of them he is a superstar, a prodigy composer during the times when rococo and harpsichords were all the rage. An extravagant genius and the 18th century shitposter who wrote church canon starting with "Kiss my ass". Then a girl, a princess with pyrokynetic magic in a country somewhat resembling a mix of medieval and World War Two era Japan. The heiress apparent and the magical ace, broken and gone completely insane barely aged fourteen. And many more. Faces, names, centuries and universes, it all just merges in his head into an eerie motley caleidoscope. And this caleidoscope keeps spinning and spinning. Barty is already feeling dizzy, or is it even Barty anymore?

In one of them he is in 19th century France. In this reality he is an illegitimate son of the Crown Prosecutor, raised in Italy by the gang of highwaymen and contrabandists. Then right in this reality he later impersonates a viscount and before that becomes a protege of a mysterious man, known only as "The Count", who for some reason, bears an inexplicable resemblance to Regulus Black's older brother. Then this shard dims and another one comes into focus. In this universe he is a young poet in turn-of-the-century Ireland, a daydreamer, fully dedicated to art, and a lover of Shakespeare. An iconoclast and a confirmed atheist still in mourning for his mother and still morally disoriented by his own refusal to kneel and pray on her deathbed. And after all of this, just a sensitive soul condemned to the ineluctable modality of the visible.

Then snap. And the illusion melts away. He is in his Ravenclaw dorm. This night nothing has happened. And nothing will during this day. Until the next night. And there Merlin save his soul…

[unproduciblesmackdown]

barely alternate version of that billions 4x12 scene