#i like to think they’re one of the more naive arch angels

[gaebrial]

sighs lovingly as i think of gabe and corruption. them falling so,, in love with humanity, much like lucifer, and ultimately falling- due to a partner or seeing how much charlie believes in her cause. them doubting too much, unlike emily who had sera to correct her.. yeah

[littlefreya]

Bourbon and Candy

Summary:  After a frustrating day at work, August just wants to sit down and enjoy his princess, in any way possible.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: Smutty Smut, Daddy Kink (alert!), stripping, oral sex on a man, possessiveness, sex, depiction of bodily fluids.  

A/N: I saw this photo and was inspired to write about August watching his girl perform for him. Many thanks @agniavateira​ for being my editor and my muse 💕 Hope you’ll enjoy.

Title: Bourbon and Candy

The harsh CIA agent sits on the sofa wearing a strained look on his face. It has been a long, frustrating day at work and he hasn’t even had the chance to take off his suit. He stirs the bourbon in its lowball, watching the little vortex that forms in the agitated golden-brown liquid

And there she is, his little kitten. She sneaks into the great living room with the  obvious intent to welcome him back. Wearing makeup like an actress from an old French movie, she dons a sheer pink babydoll dress over a luxurious lace lingerie set and golden high heeled shoes. 

Diamonds sparkle on her skin as the sunlight kisses them through the open window. She never owned diamonds before, she’s  not a materialistic girl, but August loves seeing her adorned with expensive necklaces and bracelets as if she is a doll to play with.    

And his to covet.

With a sweet smile of her face, she begins to dance for him in slow, snake-like movements. Her hands caress her soft skin, twirling her long dark hair before she throws it back and lets it fall against her rounded ass. 

August sips the bourbon and grits his teeth as the spiced liqueur hits the back of his throat. His eyes fix on the treasure, the way those slender hands run through her own body sinfully, approaching the mysteries that belong to him, where his big rough hands should be. He muses to himself; the only person allowed to touch her except for himself is her, and only when he permits it.      

The first article of clothing, if you could call it that, falls from her body like a feather floating down the air. She kicks it away with her high heel and pushes her shoulders closer to squeeze her breasts against one another as they’re still locked inside that lacy Victoria Secret’s bra. 

Also a present from her dear love. Cotton-candy pink, of course. He loves her sweet, the way she is. 

The bulge in his trousers becomes overwhelmingly evident. She eyes it while letting the strap fall off from her shoulder, sucking her lips and putting a finger inside her mouth to let him know how badly she wants to taste his cock. August places the empty glass on the end table next to the sofa, the sound sharp against the surface. He places his knuckles against his mouth and ogles her with pure fascination while his other hand rubs at his erection to slightly ease the need.

She exposes her delicious breasts, hugging a hand over them while her bra slips between her fingers. A large smile slowly spreads on his face. He loves it when his kitten acts so innocent, it makes his cock twitch with double the excitement.

There is an ocean of admiration in his eyes for his little pet, his little piece of gold in a pile of coal that is this horrible world. In her, he sees all that’s pure and delicate in this world, the sweet among the bitter. He likes to pretend she was a virgin when he met her, even though she told him she wasn’t, never wanting to lie to a man like August. Yet he’d like to think he’s the only man who picked her ripe fruits and every time he fucks her, his dirty soul defiles her body and steals some of the purity in her soul.   

At last, she reaches for her underwear. Her dance moves are stilled as she looks deeply into those beautiful malicious blues and allows the flimsy piece of lace fall from her thighs, exposing her silky smooth mound. 

Just the way he likes it.

“Leave those on.” He commands, seeing as she means to take off her jewelry. 

Ever so obedient, she nods and then sensually crouches on the floor, crawling naked on the carpet, hair thrown back and resting on her back.She moves to where he is seated with his legs spread conveniently to accept her while massaging the bulge in his groin. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, watching his kitten give him that sweet naive look. She gazes at him with big eyes, adoring her master, greatly devoted to him. She presses her cheek against his thigh, humming gently as he entangles his fingers in her soft hair. 

“My sweet girl,” he murmurs, tilting his head while looking at her dreamingly. Her creme-painted nails scratch at the hard bulge, tracing the metal of his belt buckle against her tips.    

“May I, daddy?” She asks for permission and is granted a pleasant smile as his hand waves away from her head, allowing her space to work on freeing his painful cock from the captivity of his trousers. Her nimble fingers do quick work on his belt. The sound of leather slipping through the metal clasp makes her shiver and the rich juices that drip from between her legs are becoming a burden, but she is not allowed to touch herself yet.

It’s forbidden.  

August growls as her hand sneaks into his trousers, her small digits taking him in her palm, appreciating how vast and beautiful he is. She shifts her thumb across the pulsating veins, trailing across the ridged surface until reaching the head of his cock where sheer precum drops greet her sight. 

His groans are melody to her ears, music that makes her heart flutter and her core throb. She wants him to unload himself in her in any way he chooses. 

Nothing in her body is scared anymore anyway, he made sure of it. 

She lowers herself, breasts brushing against the soft material of his trousers as her tongue slips between her lips to taste him. Her velvet tongue swirls around the tip, eliciting the most pleasant groans from his beautiful lips. Carefully, he is taken into the warmth of her mouth while her gaze is fixed on his and his cock disappears between her succulent lips. 

August throws his head back, relaxing as his kitten works her mouth up and down his big shaft. Her back arching, her ass sticking in the air behind her. An erotic view for him to feast upon with his ocean blues. 

But it’s not enough. He needs more, he needs to be buried deep inside her lush walls, to have his anger surge through her body and cleanse his soul.

His fingers cup her chin, gently pausing her ministrations. There’s a slight worry in her eyes, afraid she might have wronged him in any way but the enamoured look in his eyes relaxes the surge of anxiety that runs through her heart. 

He takes her hand and guides her to sit on top of him. Legs spread with knees to each side of his hips, she sinks herself onto his meaty erection, gasping as he spreads her walls inch by inch until he is sunken in her depth. Her ankles lift in the air, the heels of her shoes point upward as her head falls back. 

“You’re so big!” She yelps, nearly powerless, feeling full with his cock reshaping her taut canal. The tightness of her cunt makes it impossible to move so she remains still, keeping him inside her abundant warmth. 

He grips her ass, squeezing the flesh and guiding her, bouncing her on his cock while taking her breasts into his mouth. His teeth nip at the tender flesh and then licks at the hollows that his teeth created. 

The thrill of the pain and the comfort that comes after makes her body comply with his invasion.,He leaves her no choice anyway, he will keep going even if it hurts, but he’d rather have her enjoy herself as well.

“Good,” he groans, watching her as she begins to ride him, swaying her hip and dancing on his cock, letting her clit grind against him with every shift she makes. He thrusts up to meet her pace, biting his teeth as he enjoys the desperate look on her beautiful face. She looks as if it hurts to have him in there yet the pain brings her so much pleasure. Her body wants to resist and take him at once whilst she is driven into madness by desire. 

Fire begins to tingle in her core, increasing her pace. Something inside her breaks, and his little angel turns into a succubus in front of his very eyes. Her body is thrown back hanging in the air with only their sex keeping them together. Her hand grabs at his tie for support while she squirms onto his girth in an urgent rhythm.

He grunts, nearly choking as the noose tightens around his neck. It does nothing but make him harden even more inside her already too tight heat. Letting one hand glide at the small of her back, he holds her from falling and puts his right hand to his mouth, coating his fingers with his saliva before pressing them against her clit. 

“Who does this pussy belong to, angel?” He asks, another guttural grunt escaping his lips as his kitten tightens around him while he manipulates her clit into submission.

“Yours, August!” She wails, feeling the warmth increasing, fury burning between her thighs. 

“No,” he rasps, pressing harder against her clit. His cock swells inside her, his sack squeezing beneath her ass. 

“Da...daddy!” she cries out, pulling back with all her might as the fire consumes her, making her melt with ecstasy with him hitting her cervix. He lets himself go right after her, coating her walls with his liquid and continuing to push into her until it drips between them, warm and smooth. 

“I’m sorry, daddy…” she bites her knuckle, letting go of his tie and looking at the mess she made.  

He gives her a smile, with his hand still on her back he pulls closer against him, laying soft butterfly kisses all over her face and then nuzzling her temple.  

“Don’t worry, angel. Daddy’s not mad, not this time.” 

___________________________________________________________

[equestrianheart]

ok, humour me for a minute.

this isn’t a fix it fic, it’s more of a fix it episode synopsis.

if i could write my own silly little perfect ending: it would mostly be the same up until jack defeats chuck in 15x19.

then, amara becomes god. she is benevolent and she’s caring and she’s everything chuck wasn’t. like jack does in the real episode, she closes her eyes and all the people who got dusted come back. à la avengers endgame with clint’s wife, we know because sam’s phone rings, and its a facetime call from eileen. the relief in his voice is unmatched as he answers.

back at the bunker, dean is first in the door and thunders down the steps. he’s almost afraid to hope, but there he is. standing in the middle of the library, is castiel. he looks bashfully at the man he so clearly loves.

“hello, dean.”

THEN

15x20. its got a “road so far” segment, god damn it.

it’s a jump five years in the future. it’s 2025, we’re at a house, it seems to be out in the country, under a wide blue sky. they have a barn, which appears to be all set up for a wedding, with white chairs and a flower arch. there is no exposed rebar in this barn.

they come inside to a house bustling with people. the camera pans through the warm home, everyone is hugging each other, all dressed to the nines. bobby. charlie and stevie. jody, alex, donna, claire and kaia. rowena has come up from hell and crowley is also there because idk his mom is the queen of hell and i’ve just decided that in my perfect episode he was resurrected at some point. garth and his family are there. donatello. the GHOSTFACERS are there! becky and her family are there. mrs butters came back from her forest for the occasion! adam is there, since he was killed by chuck and brought back by amara.

the next scene is in one of the bedrooms, and the brothers are both in suits. sam is fixing dean’s bowtie. there’s a closeup of his hand—he has a wedding band on already. it’s not his wedding!? dean looks nervous.

“tell me honestly sam—is it too much? should i change my pocket square? what do you think about these shoes...”

“dean. shut up. you’re freaking out. just breathe.”

the music slows down, all emotional and we get a monologue that i probably can’t come up with now, but sam tells dean all the things he’s done for him, how much he loves him. how hard they’ve fought together to get themselves to this point. how good it is to see dean so happy and in love. they hug. it’s beautiful.

dean leans back and looks at sam.

“my baby brother. I love you so much.”

the next scene, everyone is seated in the barn, ready for the wedding.

amara is revealed to be under the flower arch, ready to officiate, because who better to wed two lovers than god herself?

sam walks dean up the aisle, as an instrumental version of carry on my wayward son is played by a string quartet.

jack walks down the aisle next, and he is clearly the flower girl. he has a flower crown on (humour me) and he’s clumsily throwing flowers all around him. it’s adorable and amazing and kind of hilarious. he sits at the front, next to eileen and sam, who now has their little boy on his lap. jack gives a thumbs up to dean.

everyone turns for the big reveal.

castiel, dressed in the most handsome suit, walks up the aisle.

the music swells and we see dean’s face light up as we have a hundred times before, because he’s never tired of seeing his person. he is teary eyed and humbled and in love. cas reaches the arch.

“hello dean.”

“hi cas.” dean barely whispers.

amara begins, we’re gathered here today to join these two in holy etc etc.

when it comes times for vows, dean’s not always been great with words, and he keeps it short and simple, but it’s clear to anyone how much this means to him.

castiel brings the entire barn to tears with his. something about millennia spent observing humans and he never understood them. he never understood love, or loss, or want. only duty. but pulling one dean winchester out of hell would lead him on a renegade path, to defeat death, the devil and god just to keep loving him.

sam, still weeping, places his son on the ground, gently pushing him towards his uncles, saying “go on, bobby!”

he toddles over with the two rings. dean goes down to his level and takes the rings, giving him a hug. he adores his little nephew. cas puts a loving hand on his head and bobby looks up. cas signs “thank you” to him. cas and dean exchange rings.

“you may now kiss the angel!” amara exclaims.

dean dips cas back and we get the most incredible, passionate kiss. the crowd cheers, (miracle barks), and dean looks at his husband.

“I love you.”

the song ends, and they run out of the barn, hand in hand, showered in confetti by their friends and found family.

the next scene is the first dance, and it’s just got to be “I can’t help falling in love with you”, hasn’t it? they waltz, and the crowd is out of focus in the background. all that matters right now is these two and their love.

dean looks up and the camera follows his eye-line, lingering on one of the barn walls, which has been adorned with pictures of all their friends they’ve lost. the picture of them all at bobby’s house with jo and ellen. pictures from the day they went LARPing with original charlie. a picture of cas and gabriel. the picture of sam, dean and their parents from the bunker.

cas turns and looks too.

“theyre with us, dean.”

more wedding scenes...

castiel throws the bouquet and charlie catches it, looking at stevie and waggling her eyebrows. jack is dancing with little bobby, because they’re both adorable babies. crowley and rowena have some pretty slick moves on the dance floor, because duh. adam hugs his brothers.

dean and cas cut into the cake, which is of course not a cake but a huge PIE!

the last scene is the brothers sitting on the impala bonnet, having a beer together. it’s clearly late in the night, and you can hear the crickets, and the sound of the party dying down in the barn behind them.

dean throws an arm around his brother, pulling him close.

“we did it, sammy. it was you and me against the world, and we did it.”

Fade out

THE END

OBVIOUSLY this is a completely naive disney style happily ever after, but let me have my fun god damn it!!!! if i was ever so inclined, i’d fic it. maybe some day!

[slasherwife]

hey hey hey ✨ how are you? ♥ ️me? new request hihi so i'm good. Why not a fic with either Loki or Geralt where after a long time they meet Reader again, but each thought the other was dead pwease ♥️✨

“My Heart Returns...”

LokixReader

by jena marie

Summary:

Reader and Loki reunite after several years of thinking one another were dead. Warnings: mention of suicide, extreme angst, death, but fluffy ending uWu.

thank you so much for sending in requests @seutarose pLEASEE send in more! i’m so bored haha 😊💜💜🌸🌸

I wrote one for Loki since dis boi has only one fic so here you go!! 💕💕💕💕 it’s kinda itty bitty long (i kinda went crazy XD) but i hope you like it!

It was like an eternity without passion. Without affection, caring for nothing. His eyes, empty. Lips, always open yet never moving. His gaze was the stare of a snake, piercing yet flat— like he stared right through anyone who dare to draw his gaze. Empty as he was, the only person who could ever really make him talk was his dear brother. Thor visited him regularly, which was at the cottage on the beach where Loki and his love were supposed to live, undisturbed and peaceful. He built it before returning to Asgard, where he fought his older sister and escaped with Y/n. She was put in a different ship, but he sent messages about the cottage that they would live in with great joy and compassion.

The first stage of Loki, a troubled, timid, yet calculating boy turned man. The second, overturned with greed and envy, pushed to torture and murder and take. Then the third. It was born out of an image that Y/n had saw in him. As she described him, he was nothing short of an angel, composed out of pure light. Because what Loki let her see, he never revealed to others. He was only ever kind to her, only ever a gentleman to her. Only ever himself with her. Vulnerable. He saw what she was— something innocent, capable, maybe naive, but could see nothing but love and kindness in every person’s eyes. If anything, she was the angel. Even from her first breath, she was so sweet. He didn’t know where she came from, it was like he was manipulating his family, and betraying his people, and all the sudden this woman with a soul woven from flower-petals and diamonds, and galaxies for bones came into his life and loved him like he was the only thing that mattered. In what world, what universe or dimension is that sensible?

Now she’s buried somewhere. Thanos, tearing through the galaxies and stars came to where she was put, taking care of the old folks and children on a separate ship, and demanded her an answer to every question he asked. He knew about Loki’s lover, since Thor and Frigga couldn’t shut up about her since they found out she was courting the prince of Asgard. They made sure everyone knew, which was of course before Thanos was even heard of within a 20000 light-year radius.

She was cooperative. Not warm, not kind, but cooperative. That was until he asked where Loki was. Her lips were open, ready to answer, but then she closed them.

Five minutes of more refusing silence passed, and she was dead on the floor. Blood pouring from her back as her skin whitened and her eyes paled.

It was something Thor never wanted to tell him, but he found out anyway. No man or woman wants to hear what Loki did that day.

Then Thanos found where Loki was anyway.

All she remembers is waking up in a field of yellow flowers, and being immediately comforted. But if she remembers further, she also recalls hearing a piercing cry, a scream. Loki’s scream in a void of darkness, before opening her eyes against the sun of the tulip field.

Then, waking up in the field. She was on Earth, and she asked everywhere of what had happened to the ship set off for Earth, a few hundred light years away. No one knew. And it never arrived. That only meant one thing. Her love was lost. Without a proper funeral, he was gone.

She stayed on Earth for several months, like a tortured and lost soul, waiting for someone who she couldn’t name.

It was like she could still feel him, feel that he was close. Yet the truth kept punching her in the gut whenever she felt hope.

That was, until she saw him. Thor had come to visit her grave. He reasons that he never brought up your name in his presence, let alone suggest that Loki visit your grave— because when he even spoke of you indirectly, his eyes twist into complete agony. His expression as if someone had lit him on fire. He missed you indefinitely, irrevocably, and so immensely that every second of the day was misery. The only reason he didn’t end his life was because he wanted to stay strong for you, and it was hard.

Thor watched, thinking that he was hallucinating, seeing her grave dug up and her casket empty. He went searching, and found Y/n by a lake, having lost a lot of weight, only fed by berries and grass. Her dress was torn, caked with mud. And yet, her beauty still glowed like the brilliance of a thousand suns.

They embraced, and Thor took her to Loki after she had washed and put on a new dress.

The joy and relief was unexplainable. The flowers in her bones were immortal, ever glowing and ever living.

Loki opened the door to their home he had built with his own hands, and he saw his heart and soul standing in front of him, looking up at him with those e/c eyes, with wonder and love. She broke seeing him, and it was like her body had a mind of its own. She practically threw herself at him, sobbing with her arms wrapped firmly around his neck. He was stunned. In shock. His heart returned to him. Loki saw that the moment they saw each other for the first time in years. He almost went into a panic attack, smelling her scent and feeling her soft hair under his chin. He was hyperventilating, eyes wide, running his hands all over her squeezing her tightly with tears in his eyes. He didn’t know what to do.

He thought he was having another hallucination, and yet couldn’t convince himself. She was iridescent. Years and years and years of pent up despair and loneliness spilled out in that moment. Tears spilled endlessly the first hour, and she clung to him like he was her lifeline.

Once they made their way inside and the tears were gone, they held each other for hours. No words, just touch. Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, and he was wrapped around her in a giant teddy-bear hug. The sun went down and they slept like that.

In the morning, they started to talk. Small things. Simple things. They were confessing their love for one another like there was no tomorrow. And so much touching but a little toned down than the day before. Not sexual in any way, just pure love.

They never looked at each other the same way again. If you thought he looked at her sweetly before the incident, this is nothing compared to that. His eyes fill with nothing but hearts as his eye brows arch and his heartbeat picks up. They’re always touching when around each other. Good luck getting him to focus when she’s around.

They seemed to never leave their cottage. Loki was glad there weren’t any people around, because he wanted her gaze all to himself. They walked along the shore, talking endlessly about anything and everything, laughing, kissing, hugging. They put every love story to shame. They weren’t seen for months, and yet they were so happy with each other that they didn’t care that they were practically shutting everyone else out.

But above all, when Loki heard that Y/n was dead, he died with her. But when he saw her again, it was like his own soul was hiding, buried underneath empty liquor bottles and painkillers. All the torture was washed away, like it never existed.

And now he can talk with passion again. He can care about things. He can think. He can live, laugh, and love with her by his side, forever.

[starkerforlife6969]

The Upper Hand - Starker

TW: violence, dark tony, overly protective tony, kidnapping

It’s not often that people get the upper hand on him.

In fact, it never happens. Tony wouldn’t allow it to happen. He plans everything. And it’s not that he’s a control freak and needs things just so, it’s that he expects a certain level from life. Whether that’s silk bedsheets or high-quality drains in the basement, he wants the best. 

Peter Parker is the best. The best thing that ever happened to Tony. 

He’s another reason, an important reason, the most important reason why Tony can’t afford to let people get the upper hand on him. 

The safest thing to do would be to stop. To get a handle on it. To hire a storage unit and move the cage there. And he had plans to do that, really he did, but then Peter had batted his pretty eyelashes and said in that honey-sweet tone, shy and petal-perfect: 

“Wouldn’t it be nice, if um…if you wanted, maybe we could…we could live together?” And he’d looked bare and vulnerable and hopeful, and Tony had kissed him hard on the mouth, rewarding his bravery. 

“My home is your home, sweetheart,” he’d vowed. And that had always been true. Been true the moment he’d first laid eyes on the boy. 

But it had meant, with Peter moving into the manor, that Tony hadn’t quite had the time to arrange for a storage unit. For clean up. For safety precautions. 

“You sick- you sick fuck!” Beck screams, waving the keys victoriously. Tony eyes him, going for bored. Beck is dripping with blood, cocky and stupid with his luck (and it’s luck, luck and absolutely no skill at all. He caught Tony off guard, and like he said, it’s not often that anyone- especially not pieces of shit like Beck- gets the upper hand on him). “You sick fuck!” He yells again, staggering until he’s leaning against the desk. He rummages through the drawers, presumably looking for something to staunch the bleeding. 

“Quin,” Tony murmurs, voice gentle, even as he tries the door. It won’t budge, he knows that. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Or what?” Beck laughs hysterically, “you don’t have any power from where I’m standing. Look who has all the power now, bitch!”

“I have all the power.” Tony hisses, tone dark, “I always have the power.”

Beck spits at them, and then races for the stairs. 

Tony waits, listening.

The door of the basement rattles. Beck’s cries of despair grow louder. 

“Thank goodness for the sound proofing, am I right?” Tony drawls loudly, resting his forehead against the glass door of the cage he’s trapped in. His own cage. It might even serve him right if Quentin escaped. He’s been so stupid.

Beck reappears, shaking with ire. “Where are the keys to the door?” 

“Now why,” Tony wets his lips, arching an eyebrow, “would I tell you that?” 

“Because you’re down here too.” Beck whispers, “you’ll starve to death.”

Tony grins. 

Beck starts searching the drawers. More frantic this time. 

Tony really needs to think. He needs a plan now. The key for the basement door is in his pocket. If he could get Beck to open the door to the cage, take him out- maybe. He can’t get out of the cage without Beck, and Beck can’t get out of the basement without him. It looks like a stalemate then, at least for the time being. 

“Fuck!” Beck yells, kicking at the upturned desk in frustration. He’s wobbly on his legs. 

Tony offers him a sympathetic smile.

—

This, Tony thinks, watching as Beck starts to doze off from a mixture of exhaustion, dehydration and blood loss, could be a problem. He does’t want Beck to die down here, because then he’d be stuck. 

“Hey!” Tony snaps, knocking on the glass, “get over here, you piece of shit, I’ll give you the key. Just open the door.”

“Key…” Beck slurs, head dropping down onto his chest. 

Tony’s about to start jangling the key like he’s luring a dog with a treat when his heart goes cold.

The basement door unlocks and creaks open. Golden light spills down the stairs. 

Beck doesn’t even seem to notice. 

Tony can hardly breathe. 

“Hey, T?” Comes Peter’s gentle, sleep ruffled voice. It’s drowsy and around a yawn and utterly adorable. 

“Fuck,” Tony whispers to himself. 

“Are you down here? I don’t wanna disturb you, I’m just…” Peter’s voice is sweet and shy, “It’s three am and you should get some sleep.” 

“Baby…” Tony whispers. It’s all crashing. It’s crashing around him. He tries to be silent.

Beck lets out a loud, gurgling cough. 

There’s a beat. 

“Tony?” Peter calls, more worried now. And then his footsteps, as he pads barefoot down the steps. Each one a descent closer to the truth, to the depravity, there’s no way out of this. This is a new cage. A worse cage. There’s no plan for this. 

He turns, he can’t help it, he has to see- and there he is. His boy. Peter, frozen on the step. 

He’s in the satin robe Tony bought him, and an oversized tee, and his hair is ruffled and mussed from where he likes to smoosh into all the pillows. His honey eyes are wide with horror. 

They cast over the scene. Quentin, almost out cold, missing teeth and covered in blood, and Tony, pristine, trapped in the cage. 

Peter doesn’t move. He stares: frozen. 

“Peter, sweetheart,” Tony murmurs, and then his voice cracks. “I don’t know how to explain this.”

Peter trembles. His entire body shaking and Tony just wants to wrap him up in a hug. His boy looks at Beck. 

“Is that…” Peter whispers, “is he…is he dead?” There’s terror in his voice. 

“Just passed out, I think.” Tony murmurs, keeping his voice soothing. “He got the upper had on me.”

“Is that…it looks like Beck. He’s been missing for weeks, Tony, has he…oh god…”

“He hurt you, baby, I wasn’t gonna let that stand-“

“Oh my god,” Peter covers his mouth, chocking on a sob. “Tony!”

His crying stirs Beck, who seems to come back to life with a sudden flood of adrenaline. 

“Peter!” Beck yells, staggering to his feet, seeing the open basement door. 

Peter lets out a scream of terror, turning and fleeing up the stairs. Tony can only watch in horror as Beck runs after him. 

He beats at the glass, roars like a trapped animal, but there’s nothing he can do. 

He doesn’t know what’s happening up there. Beck’s probably run out- he’d know better by now, than to try to hurt Peter. He’s called the police. Or Pete’s called the police, and they’re coming. Tony sinks slowly to the ground in quiet contemplation.

He had a good run. He got everything he wanted in life. He knew love. Maybe Peter will visit him in prison. Peter’s beautifully, naively loyal like that. Tony will break out for him- as long as Peter can forgive him, and Peter will eventually.

Right? The thought that he might not makes Tony shut his eyes against the onslaught of pain. What if his boy can never look at him again, what if he’s lost it- his soulmate? 

The thoughts take him to a place of nothing. A tortured infinity. When suddenly-

There’s a horrible clattering and a thumping, and Beck’s, very much dead, body comes careening down the stairs.

Tony jerks up, gets to his feet, and watches as Peter walks down after it. Tony immediately scans him for bruises. There’s blood speckled on his cheek (it’s a very good look) and tears glistening in his eyes. He looks okay, he looks-

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Peter sniffles miserably, finally coming down the stairs and standing before Tony. The glass parts them horribly, Tony wants to reach out and touch. Peter looks small and sad. “He was gonna- he wouldn’t give me the keys. He was gonna turn you in.”

It’s starting to dawn on him. Tony can hardly believe it. “Pete…”

“I begged him,” Peter cries, with his perfect little face. “I just wanted the keys, and if he promised not to tell anyone, it would be- he could leave, but he- I had to-“ and he starts to cry.

Tony presses himself against the glass. “You’ve saved me, baby, shhh, you didn’t do anything wrong. My precious boy, my angel, it’s okay. It’s okay.” 

Peter has to take a few moments to compose himself, before he can stop shaking. And then, miraculously, Tony’s very own guardian angel (and isn’t that funny, he’d thought he was protecting Peter all this time, but he should have known) slides the key into the lock. 

Peter pulls open the door, and stands there, looking at Tony meaningfully. 

Tony gets it. 

He races to his boy, sweeps him into an embrace and peppers him with kisses. Whispers a litany of reassurance and praise. 

He carries Peter upstairs, barely suppressing anger at the state of the living room and kitchen. There’s been a struggle, Peter’s probably more hurt than Tony can see. 

He lowers his boy into a hot bath, full of bubbles and Peter’s favourite fragrance, and the boy’s starting to slump now, his honey eyed angel, adrenaline slipping out of his system. There are bruises forming on his ribs and it’s probably a good thing Beck's dead because Tony would have to make him pay. 

“Sleep, little one,” Tony whispers, kissing Peter’s damp forehead, and letting him nap in the safety of the jacuzzi bath. 

He cleans the mess of the kitchen and the living room. Then he goes to deal with the basement. Beck is dead, and Tony drags his body into the cage. He reorganises his desk and mops up the blood. 

He locks the basement door behind him. 

——

Peter’s still asleep in the bath, so Tony showers quickly, changes into fresh pyjamas, and comes to carry his boy to bed. He wraps him in a towel, dresses him in silk, and tucks him in, sliding in beside him and combing his fingers through that butter-soft hair. 

His Peter, his angel. “What did I do to deserve you?” Tony marvels aloud, “my sunshine, honey, boy. My sweetheart,”

“I love you,” Peter whispers sleepily, eyes still closed. “You should keep a spare key hidden in the cage.” 

Tony blinks. His heart bursts with love. “I adore you, Peter Parker.”

There are problems to deal with, a dead body in the basement, bruises on his boy that Tony will kiss but one more thing is in Tony’s mind. 

The only person to ever really get the upper hand on him, is Peter Parker. And Tony wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 i love you guys!

[schraubd]

Jewish Representation on Television: A Random Review

I've been thinking about Jewish representation on television series over the past few days. The trigger was actually an antisemite who was complaining that there are too many Jewish characters on television -- we apparently have taken over his TV. That struck me, because my naive view was that Jewishness actually doesn't get a lot of attention on TV series (even Seinfeld, if I recall correctly, rather famously did not actually say its characters were Jewish). But I decided to actually think about it more, and look into how Jews are portrayed on the shows I watch. This is therefore not remotely scientific -- though I do watch a fair bit of TV -- and some obvious choices (Broad City!) thus aren't included. I'm most interested in shows that are not primarily about Jews, but nonetheless have Jewish characters whose Jewishness is fleshed out in a substantive way. I include shows that have no Jewish characters. This is not necessarily a critique -- not every show has to include Jews -- but it is worth including to get a sense if there is any pattern to what sorts of shows have Jews and what don't. That said, I'm not necessarily a superfan of all these shows, so it's possible that I could miss something (though it hardly counts if deep in Season 6 a show briefly mentions so-and-so is Jewish, only to never bring it up again before or since). * * * 30 Rock: On a show about New York City comedy writers, only Josh -- Josh! -- might be Jewish. This entire show is a case of "just say Jewish, this is taking forever!" C- Big Bang Theory: Of the major characters, only Howard (and his mother) are Jewish. Neither are exactly positive representations -- Howard, in particular, manages to be the most perverted, awkward and creepy of a cadre of young male scientists whose whole shtick is that they're kind of perverted, awkward, and creepy around women. Interestingly, Bernadette is portrayed as super-goyish even though Melissa Rauch is actually Jewish (Mayim Bialik is more famously Jewish, but to my knowledge Amy Farrah-Fowler is not depicted as a tribe member). D- Billions: At first I thought this show had no Jewish characters, a decision I chalked up to maybe wanting to step lightly around the whole "ruthless billionaires manipulating the financial system" thing. But then I remembered: Spyros is Jewish! Spyros! By far the worst character on the show along pretty much any metric you might consider, including that he's portrayed as a serial sexual predator. Literally every character is at least written in shades of grey, and we get Spyros. Ugh. D Brooklyn Nine-Nine: Jake Peralta is Jewish. It pretty much only comes up when he has flashbacks to his Bar Mitzvah (curse you Jenny Gildenhorn!), but at least it is acknowledged as a part of his character with substance. That said, it almost never is visible in his adult life -- most strikingly, there's no portrayal of it being discussed with Amy in terms of how their family will or won't be Jewish. B- Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and Angel): Willow is Jewish, but it gets almost no attention -- I think by the end of the series she's outright celebrating Christmas. C The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina: No Jewish characters. Community: Annie is Jewish, but it is almost entirely downplayed. Indeed, it basically never comes up outside the first season. Missed opportunity. C+ Crashing: This is a tough one to judge, since so many of the characters are playing themselves. I know Sarah Silverman is Jewish. I think Artie Lange is? I don't know if Ali Reissen is supposed to be Jewish, but the actress who plays her definitely is. I do know Pete Holmes is not Jewish. I can't give a rating here. Dollhouse: No Jewish characters. Elementary: No Jewish characters. Firefly: No real Jewish characters, though they do briefly show a postmaster wearing a yarmulke. It's actually a really neat moment of casual Jewish inclusion that I really appreciate. Fresh off the Boat: I don't think any of the regulars (including Eddie's friends) are Jewish, but Evan's arch-rival Phillip Goldstein is definitely Jewish -- and definitely portrayed as a massive asshole. C Game of Thrones: No Jewish characters (outrageous!). The Good Place: No Jewish characters (actual sad face here -- though I can see how incorporating actual religious faith into this show might be hard). I Feel Bad: Probably not worth including -- it was canceled after one season, and I'm not sure it even fully aired the one -- except to give one last plug to my headcanon where it is Sarayu Blue's side of the family that is Jewish. Brian George -- who plays her father -- is Jewish! He should get to play a Jewish character some time. Alas, the show goes down the more predictable route of making Paul Adelstein's side of the family the Jewish one. It does a good job with that. I guess. Still salty. B Insecure: I don't think any characters are Jewish. Frieda might be Jewish, which would be okay. Joanne also might be Jewish, which would be a less attractive proposition. iZombie: No Jewish characters. Mad Men: Rachel Mencken is great. She also stands pretty much alone. B+ Marvelous Mrs. Maisel: This is the only show that is explicitly Jewish in focus, and as I said that's not my main concern here. In any event, not everyone likes the portrayal of Jewishness, but I actually find it quite warm on the whole. A. Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.: No Jewish characters. Mozart in the Jungle: No Jewish characters (really?). New Girl: Full disclosure: I did not watch this show all the way to the end. Anyway, Schmidt is one of the more famous Jewish portrayals of contemporary television. I'm not his greatest fan -- in particularly, that he's a proud Republican is, shall we say, statistically anomalous -- but once I started comparing him to the competition above he turns out pretty decent. Still, he, too -- especially in the early seasons -- doesn't exactly stand out on the "treats women with respect" metric. B Parks and Rec: The main Jewish characters are the Saperstein twins -- John-Ralphio and Mona Lisa. They are each, in their own way, "the worst person in the world." And with John-Ralphio, we get yet another creepy Jewish harasser. D The Orville: There are no Jews in space. The West Wing: This show actually comes out great. Toby and Josh are Jewish, visibly so, yet in very distinctive ways. It comes up, though it isn't obsessed over, in ways that feel authentic to their character. And the pilot includes one of my favorite "Jewish" scenes in all of television. A+ * * * In sum, I'd say that -- outside of shows where Judaism is a central focus (Marvelous Mrs. Maisel), there are a dearth of characters whose Jewishness is portrayed (a) positively and (b) as a substantive (not all-encompassing) presence in their lives. It seems that sci-fi and fantasy shows are the least likely to have Jewish characters, which is understandably, though it includes series set on Earth or otherwise "near-real world" conditions. This might reflect anxiety around how to portray Jews in juxtaposition with the occult and/or dystopian authoritarianism without reenacting antisemitic tropes. On the positive side, The West Wing, in my view, stands head-and-shoulders above the crowd; other solid performers include Brooklyn Nine Nine, New Girl, and (for what it's worth) I Feel Bad. But these are exceptional, for the most part, the Jewishness of characters either isn't established much beyond its mere mention. And the main exception is when Jewish male characters are portrayed as perverts, creeps, or sexual harassers -- indeed, this might be the most common way of "marking" a character as Jewish, which is worrisome. via The Debate Link http://bit.ly/2YP4sVe

[ohnojustimagine]

Gods and Monsters

Tommaso Ciampa/Reader, Johnny Gargano/Reader, some vaguely implied Tommaso/Johnny feelings

Demon AU; Smut & Angst, 5880 words

Candice is in here a little bit so technically there’s cheating. Sort of. And I started this after Takeover and it probably doesn't quite fit with the latest NXT, but oh well.

-

You couldn't even say how long it's been. Years, you know that, but how many? Hundreds, you're sure, centuries... perhaps two, perhaps three? The passing of time is mostly an irrelevancy for you, but it can be helpful to be aware of such things.

You stir gradually, waking as if from a deep slumber, your human form slowly beginning to shape itself, and you do not rush the process. It requires a very specific set of circumstances for you to manifest, and while there are others of your kind who are less exacting in their needs, you prefer to keep your standards high.

Objects are your thing, what you attach yourself to, items imbued with certain kinds of power by certain kinds of people, and this one is a true beauty, you can tell even now. You hear it calling to you, the siren songs of chaos and darkness, your lifeblood, what sustains you, and as you allow yourself to be drawn in, you begin to see it.

It's a belt of some kind, and obviously not a practical item of clothing (of course, you scoff internally, because as if you would be woken by anything so ordinary and mundane) but something ornate and ceremonial, a symbol of authority that can only be earned, worn by a person who commands respect. Gold plates are attached to the leather, the center bearing a large 'X' and you have no idea what it might mean, but it is... oh, you think, oh yes, because you can already almost taste it, something ruthless and savage, the atmosphere rich with it.

You breathe in, and here you are, in a room, the belt glistening quietly in the dim light, as if welcoming you home. You glance down at yourself, finding you're covered by a sleek black dress shot through with gold thread, and your body might be smaller than you remember, but then your human appearance always does take some getting used to.

There's a man standing there, and he doesn't seem in any way surprised to see you, which is, you think, unusual. You study him: head cleanly shaved, a full beard flecked with gray, and an upper body that is sculpted with muscle.

"Goldie," he says, as if he knows who you are, the word exhaled on a fervent, reverent breath, his pale eyes lit up like they're on fire.

"That's not my name," you inform him, your voice careful.

"It's what I call you," he says.

"Oh," you reply, not caring to contradict him, because you're aware it will be far easier to simply let him think he understands rather than try to explain.

"I knew," he says. "I knew."

"What?" you ask, curious.

"That you were real," he tells you.

"I am real," you agree, and he smiles at you.

"Oh, Goldie," he says. "Oh, baby, I've been waiting for you, I knew you'd come to me." He takes a step towards you, then another, and his hands are on your shoulders, sliding down over your bared arms, skimming across your skin with a touch so light you shiver. You look up at him, waiting to see what he’ll do, and what he does is kiss you, unexpectedly soft and gentle, his mouth closed, but you can tell he wants more, that he's very, very consciously restraining himself.

Which is so delightfully naive you almost want to laugh, but it serves your purpose, because there are rules (archaic and useless rules, in your eternally humble opinion) about these kinds of interactions, and you're obliged to warn him before you can go any further. "You know," you say, "that I'm not human? You understand that?"

"I don't care what you are," he says, shaking his head impatiently. "The only thing that matters is you're mine."

"I am," you tell him, though you're not. You're not anyone's.

"And you look pretty human to me." He smiles, pressing another kiss to your lips, brief and hungry, before he moves away. "You taste human," he says, and you can hear the want in his voice as he moves in to kiss you again, and this time your mouth opens to his, not holding back, his tongue hot against yours, your body awakening as he begins to touch you, his hands roaming over you as if exploring, mapping every edge, every curve.

There's a bed in the room, and he lowers you back down onto it, kneeling up over you, watching with increasing delight as you shimmy out of your dress. It would appear you're not wearing any underwear, and he stares down at your naked form, eyes heated with desire. You can feel it, his need, sharp in the air around you, and you drink it in, reaching up to take his hand, pulling him down on top of you. "Show me," you say. "Show me I'm yours."

He breathes in, licking your neck, his hand between your legs, and you gasp a little at the sensation, shocked at the intensity of it. It would seem this manifestation of your form is more responsive than some of the others you've inhabited, and you smile to yourself, because you know it will only be useful.

"Fuck me," you whisper, biting lightly at his ear. "Please, I need you."

He makes a helpless, desperate noise, pulling off his t-shirt, and you scrape your nails down the broad expanse of his back, careful not to break the skin, licking your lips in anticipation. He unfastens his pants with fumbling fingers, and you don't know how much longer you can wait, but then you’re moaning as he finally enters you.

You wrap your legs around him, arching up into every thrust, only wanting more and deeper, and when he comes it's with a force that you feel, washing over you, the violence of it sweet on your tongue with a flavor of something sinister.  

He lies back, still panting, the expression on his face seeming to hover somewhere between disbelief and sheer bliss, and it's nice, you think, when you don't have to work for it, because you can see he's already perfectly hooked, right where you need him to be.

You turn onto your stomach, kissing his chest, your voice low as you ask, "What do you want?" Because this is what you do: you give people what they want. If all these many years have taught you any one thing, it's that humans are an inherently self-destructive species, and that the very best way to create the disorder and darkness that feed you is to give them what they most desire. "Tell me what you want," you croon at him, letting your eyes flash black for the briefest second, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Nothing," he says. "I have you now, I don't need anything else."

And you'd like to tell him that need and want are most definitely not the same thing, not at all, but instead you once again press your lips to his, breathing in, closing your eyes as you gently, carefully feel out the edges of his mind. There's not a whole lot there right now: serene post-coital satiation and you, or, at least, the you he thinks you are, the belt, but you go deeper, further, finding satisfyingly black-hearted arrogance and ambition, deluded vanity, a raw hunger for power.

And there's another man there, with dark, short hair and a trimmed beard and a troubled, conflicted countenance. You see him, and he looks back at you, mouthing words that you can't hear, but you don't need to, because you understand.

"Johnny," you say as you open your eyes. "You want Johnny back."

Your man, the bald man, frowns at you, just for a second, but then a smile spreads over his face, slow and wide. "You do know me, don't you, baby?"

"Of course," you say, sitting up beside him, trying to contain your excitement. "I can help you, I can help him see that he needs you."

"You can?"

"I can."

"Because I don't want it to be like it was before, I want him to join me."

"No," you tell him, "not like before. The two of you..." You smile, because, even now, you can sense what they would be together, what they could do. "You could reign over them all, you could have everything."

"Yeah," he agrees, greed thick in his voice, and you want to kiss him, drink it in, but you hold yourself back.

"May I go to him?" you ask, quietly.

"Now?"

"Yes, now." You trail your fingers over the defined ridges of his abdomen, hoping to distract him. "We should get started."

"No," he replies, as if panicked at the thought. "No, I don't want you to leave me."

"I'll come back," you tell him. You bend, placing your hands either side of his face, kissing his forehead, the bridge of his nose, lips pressed lightly under each eye, along the edge of his beard. "I belong to you, remember? Where else would I go?"

"You promise?" he says, eyes clouded yet still pale as fire. "I need you, Goldie."

"I know," you answer. "Let me take care of this for you."

He hesitates, but then nods, and you exhale, slowly, feeling the world shift around you.

You're in another room, and the man, Johnny, you think, is lying in a bed, sleeping, breathing deeply, though his expression would indicate it's not an in any way peaceful slumber.

You stare down at him, but there's something nagging at you, someone else's presence, so you wander down the hall, letting it draw you. A different bedroom, and there's a woman asleep there, fine-featured, angelic blonde hair tumbling in loose curls down her back. She's on her side, curled in on herself, her body deceptively small, because it's quite clear her size belies a strength that impresses even you.

There's a rift between them, that much is clear, the tension of it lingering in the atmosphere; shouted words and bitter silences, the air tasting of discontent. And yet, despite that, you can still sense her determined steadfastness, the love she has for the man in the other room, how pure and selfless it is, and you curl your lip in a sneer of disgust, walking away.

Johnny is still sleeping, and you sit down beside him on the bed, reaching out to lay your hand on his head, stroking your fingers through his hair. He murmurs something unintelligible, the words indistinct, and you wonder if he feels you creeping into his mind, your consciousness so very delicately entering into his.

And confusion is what you find there, a man at odds with himself, unable to reconcile his own actions with what he believes, what he knows to be right. He's changed, you can see that, and perhaps only recently, the traces of his former goodness still polluting his thoughts, but there's most definitely potential, and that's all you need.

You whisper to yourself, your palm resting across his forehead, sowing seeds in his mind; ideas that will bear fruit and blossom. There are threads you knit together, strengthen, coaxing the darkness out of hidden places with gentle, teasing touches, and when you're done, you sit back, admiring your handiwork yet also aware this is just the beginning.

But it's enough for one night, and before you go, you kiss him, resting your lips full against his. His mouth twitches lightly in response, and you smile. "Sweet dreams, Johnny," you murmur, and then you're gone.

Back to the belt, and to the other man, whose name, you suddenly realize, you don't even know, and he's pacing up and down his own room like a tiger locked in a cage, stress emanating off him in great, crashing waves. "Goldie," he says, as soon as he sees you, ferocious in his relief as he grabs you, pulling you into a fevered embrace, holding you tight against him.

"I'm here," you tell him. "I said I'd come back."

"I didn't think you'd be gone so long."

"Was it long?" you ask, genuinely not knowing.

"Hours," he says, "you were gone hours."

And hours doesn't seem worthy of complaint to you, but you pull back enough that you can look up at him and say, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"You're here now," he tells you. "Is he..." The question trails off, as if he isn't sure how to ask it. "Is it done?"

"It's started," you say, keeping the scorn out of your voice, that he thinks it's so simple. "If you want it to last, if you want it to be real, then it takes a little time."

"I can wait," he replies, nodding, and, frankly, you doubt that, but you don't argue the point.

Instead, you lower your eyes, submissive, and say, deliberately hesitant, "I wanted to ask... what..." You swallow, as if nervous. "What should I call you?"

"Tommaso," he answers, like it's obvious.

You tilt your head to one side, considering, because that doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. "No," you say, and you've seen enough of his desires to know what he wouldn't ever dare request of you. You smile at him, blithely innocent. "I think that I'd like to call you Master."

He breathes in, sharp and quick, and yes, you think, because that's hit him right in the place where you're aiming.

"I'm not your..." he starts, then stops himself. "I'm not that."

"But you are," you tell him, lies slipping off your tongue like honey. "You made me, you brought me into being." And after all, you think, that's not entirely untrue. "You created me."

Heat and lust are practically radiating off him, and you can feel an answering stirring within your own body, restlessly impatient. You glance down, looking back up at him through your eyelashes, pouting, biting down on your bottom lip as you whisper, "Goldie only wants to please her master."

He doesn't say anything, and you wait, counting out the beats in your head until he lunges for you, grabs you, throwing you roughly back down onto the bed, looming above you, his knee between your legs, shoving them apart. Your wrists are pinned, his grip too tight as he releases one for just long enough to take hold of his cock, lining himself up to push inside you with desperate hiss of breath. He's strong, at least for a human, and you allow yourself to be held down, passively compliant, letting him fuck you. You stare up at him as he comes, drinking in the impact of it, then watch as he opens his eyes to look at you.

"God," he says, his voice hoarse. "You make me crazy, Goldie." There's the faintest hint of guilt in his tone, but you're confident it's not enough that you need to be concerned.

"I like crazy," you tell him. "I want you to take me, to use me. It's what I'm here for." You kiss him, sweetly tender, and say, "You should rest now, Master."

"Oh, baby," he says, smiling at you, stroking your face. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," you reply, and he only laughs, closing his eyes, pulling you in beside him, and you watch as he slowly drifts off into sleep.

A while later you slip out of his arms, careful, and he shifts, muttering something under his breath. You stand, waiting to see if he'll wake, but he only rolls over, breathing in.

You leave him be, spending a little time wandering around his house, curious if there's any knowledge you can glean that may be of use to you, but the place is mostly fairly impersonal, uninteresting. There’s only one object that calls to you, a framed photograph that’s tucked away in a drawer, under a pile of papers. It's of Tommaso and Johnny and the blonde woman, all laughing, so happy you barely recognize their faces. The woman is in a white dress, the two men in suits, and you note that Tommaso's gaze is focused entirely on the other man, sunlight reflected bright in his eyes. You lay your hand on the glass surface that covers the image and feel a sharp, distant layer of regret, hanging over it, unresolved.

But you set the picture back in its hiding place, returning to the bedroom, stretching your arms over your head, leaning to crack the bones in your neck. Tommaso's snoring quietly, and the belt's neatly folded on the nightstand, propped up so the plates are on display. You trace one finger over the center of the 'X', letting yourself fall into it, back into your own realm.

It's dark, and peaceful, and it's a relief not to have to maintain the appearance of being human, even for a brief time. The belt allows you to see the other world, where Tommaso is still sleeping, and so you seat yourself, folding your legs underneath you, settling until you're comfortable, and then wait.

The moment he wakes, you're instantly aware, watching as he reaches out, feeling the empty space next to him, opening his eyes. "Goldie?" he calls, tentative, and then louder, "Goldie?"

"I'm here," you say, back with him, letting out your breath.

"Where did you go?" he asks, rubbing at his eyes, frowning as he sits up, the sheets pooled loose across his waist.

"Here," you answer, tapping the belt. "I'll always be in here." And 'in' is, of course, not the right word, but experience has taught you that it's what's easiest for humans to comprehend. "I can go back whenever I need to," you explain, "but if you tell me to go back, then I have to." You take his hand, lifting it to your lips, kissing along his knuckles. "And I can only come out if you call to me."

"Just me?" he asks, the fingers of his other hand caressing down your forearm. "No one else?"

"No one else."

"Okay." He nods, as if that’s acceptable to him. "But I have to go out today, I have to train."

"I can stay here," you say. "Or I can go back in there." You gesture at the belt. "You can take me with you."

He smiles at you. "I'd like that," he says.

And so the day passes, with you disinterestedly observing the mundanities of current human existence: the gym, a meeting of some kind, several monotonous spells of sitting in traffic, ending with a trip to the grocery store. It's all so trivial you feel you might expire from boredom, but you know you need to be patient.

And then, at last, you're back at Tommaso's house, alone with him, and he sets the bags of food he's carrying down on the kitchen counter. He has the belt slung over his shoulder, and he says, "Goldie," confidently this time, and you're barely even in the room before he's got you bent over the table, fucking into you from behind, and today, unlike last night, he makes it last, slowing down, stopping himself every single time you can feel him about to come. You're soon whimpering with need, fretting and squirming underneath him, huffing out desperate little breaths as he thrusts into you, having to actively concentrate in order to not actually claw holes in the surface of the table. His hands are on your hips, pulling you back into him, and he's so hot inside you, and when he finally lets go, finishing himself, the energy you feel from it is so richly potent you can barely take it in.

You're still shaking as he helps you up, holding your hand like a gentleman, guiding you to a chair. You sit down, and he smiles, greedy, tongue licking wet over his lips, not saying anything.

He makes steak for dinner, and though you don't actually need food in the physical, human sense, you eat it anyway, just to make him happy. It's cooked rare, at least, and the taste of blood and flesh isn't something you ever find unpleasant.

He grins at you from across the table, and says, "You know, at some point you should probably put some clothes on."

"Why?" You smirk playfully, kneeling up on the seat of your chair so he can see more of you, gesturing at your body, and asking, "Don't you like looking at me?"

"I do." His eyes rake over you, so possessive that you feel it, the ownership in his gaze, and you shiver with pleasure.

"And anyway," you tell him,"if I wore clothes, wouldn't you just take them off?"

He laughs at that, swallowing a bite of steak, his mouth stained the faintest red. "I would," he says.

After, you curl up on the couch with him, your head resting in his lap, his fingers threading soft and absent through your hair as he watches some old fight on the television, and you don't pay attention, counting down the minutes until you can ask the question you need to. "Can I go see Johnny?" you say at last.

Tommaso looks down at you. "I don't know," he replies, clearly only half-serious. "I don't know if I should let you."

"He thinks about you," you say. "All the time. In his mind, you're there..." You sit up, facing him. "You take up a lot of space."

"Yeah?" And you can tell he's very deliberately trying to sound indifferent, like it's nothing, like he doesn't care.

"Yeah." You look at him. "Please, Master?"

He stares back at you, and for a brief moment, you think he's actually going to say no, but then he waves at you dismissively, releasing you.

Johnny's again asleep, again alone, and as soon as you see him you can sense that already, your previous evening's work is taking effect. His mind is deeper tonight, rich with possibilities, and so you're more specific, testing his limits a little. You weave in images of Tommaso, of belts and victories; a moral code that can be twisted to justify almost anything and the lasting pleasure of being proven irrefutably right. He smiles in his sleep, and you sit back, letting the thoughts settle in his head, waiting to make certain they take hold in the manner you're intending.

And in the meantime, you're curious, so you idly pull aside the bed covers, looking at his naked body. He's smaller than Tommaso, less obviously muscled, but he's strong, you can see that. His limbs retain a hint of the gangliness of youth, as if he hasn't ever quite managed to grow into himself, yet despite that, there's sturdy physicality about him, something perhaps not unbreakable but resolute enough that it might not matter.

His cock is half-hard, and that's not quite as big as Tommaso, either, but it's a good size, and you lean down, slowly running your tongue up the shaft, tasting it, sweat and the faintest trace of come. He stirs in his sleep, legs spreading wider, seemingly instinctive, and you move, making yourself comfortable as you lick him into full hardness, taking him in your mouth and sucking, lips tight around him as you move up and down.

You keep enough of a hold on his mind to be sure he won't wake, swallowing as he comes, letting it slide warm down your throat, more at one with him than is strictly necessary, but your hunger is, however briefly, satisfied, and you breathe in, contented for now.

Tommaso's lying in bed when you return, and he gives you a questioning look. "Progress," you tell him. "Definite progress." He nods, and you go on. "I don't think this will take as long as I thought."

"Good," he says. "That's good."

You sit down beside him, one leg tucked up under you. "Just so you know," you say,  because you're curious to see how he reacts, "I sucked his cock tonight."

He stares at you, silent for a minute, and there's something in his eyes that you haven't seen before. Jealousy, you think at first, but then you realize that no, that's not what it is. Not at all. "You did?" he asks.

"Yeah." You smile. "Just now, I can still taste him in my mouth."

"You swallowed?"

"Of course."

He doesn't say a word, but you can hear him breathing, and he doesn't stop you as you crawl across the bed towards him, positioning yourself over him on your hands and knees, and his eyes are wide open as you lean down to kiss him. You lap your tongue at his lips, softly persuasive, and after a moment, he opens his mouth. You feel him flinch at the taste, brief and abrupt, but then he's kissing you back with an urgency that tells you all that you need to know, his hands in your hair, pulling you in.

The next night, you fuck Johnny. He's sprawled on his back, and you're on top of him, straddling him, riding his cock, and though your control won't let him wake, you know the noises he's making, even in sleep, are too loud. You tighten yourself around him, and he moans. "Yeah, Johnny," you say, your voice theatrically breathy even as you make certain the words are clear. "Just like that."

And you feel her, before you see her. You look back over your shoulder, turning your head just a touch further than should be possible, and it's the blonde woman, staring at you, her mouth open, eyes wide with astonishment. You smile at her, consciously allowing the mask of your human form to slip away enough that your lips are too wide, showing your real teeth, sharp and curved. Your tongue flickers out, tasting her fear as you hiss, the sound reverberating in your chest as it lowers into a growl.

She jumps back a little, muttering something under her breath, but she stands her ground, doesn't run away.

And you're not interested in that kind of confrontation, so you exhale, your surroundings rearranging themselves irritatingly slowly, but then you're next to Tommaso's bed. He's asleep, but you pay no mind to that, dragging the covers down off him, spitting into your hand and taking hold of his cock, stroking it urgently, willing it into hardness. There's a rush of blood in your head, the sound of it overwhelming you, hunger growing inside you like something insatiable.

He moans, stirring as you climb up over him, grasping his cock as you sink down onto it, letting it fill you, shifting impatiently to take him deep as you can.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice laced with sleep and confusion, and you lean forward, resting one hand beside his head, balancing yourself as you press the other across his mouth, needing to not be distracted.

"Shhh," you tell him, your hips moving on him, drawing out his orgasm, desperate for it, and he thrusts up into you. "Yeah," you say, again, and this time you mean it. "Just like that."

He licks your palm, teeth biting down into your skin as he comes, releasing himself inside you, and you close your eyes, letting out a long, slow breath, relaxing back into your body, calmer now.

"What was that?" he asks, as you climb off him, sliding down enough that you can lap up the the light sheen of sweat that covers his chest. "Are you okay?"

"Sorry." You shrug, not wanting to explain. "I needed to finish." You look up at him, and say, "I think you'll find he's ready for you now."

"Johnny?"

You nod, smiling. "He's... receptive."

"To what?"

"To you." You swirl your tongue over the broad expanse of his pec, teasing at his nipple. "I think you'll find that if you..." You pause, wanting to find the right word. "If you suggest things to him, he'll listen."

"Are you sure?"

You sigh, contented, kneeling up next to him, shaking out your hair, running your fingers through it, smoothing it away from your face. "He's open," you say, staring down at him. "But he'll need your help. You'll have to prove yourself to him."

"But he will listen?"

You're not a seer, you can't see the future, but you can catch glimpses of it, faint shadows and the ghosts of what's to come. "There'll be a cage," you tell him. "And you, like this." You extend your arms out, either side of you, raising your head to the darkened sky you know is somewhere above you, outside this room, outside this small house, vast and still and infinite.

"It's going to be beautiful, Master," you say.

"Yeah," he agrees, and when you look at him, you think you could drown yourself in his eyes, breathe him in until you're filled with him. "Yeah," he says again, "it is."

And it is, it truly is, because it all unfolds just as you saw, and you might think it's too easy but what it feels like is fate, as if this was all meant to be, and now there's only Takeover to wait for.

"I want you with me, Goldie," Tommaso says. "Backstage at Takeover."

"I'm always with you."

"No." He shakes his head. "You the person, I want you there."

You smile a little. "Aren't you worried about having to explain who I am? What will people think?"

"I don't give a shit what people think," he says, fierce, and you know that's true. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and you're behind him, your arms around him, and he takes your hands in his, pulling you even closer. You kiss his head, his scalp freshly shaved, smooth and cool against your mouth. "What if I lose you?" he asks, his voice quiet, troubled, as if even the thought is too much for him to bear.

"You're not going to."

"But what if I did, what if something happened, would that mean you'd belong to Aleister?"

"Of course not," you assure him. You've seen the man, and frankly you can't think of a worse fate than being with a sad little pretender of that type, with his candles and tattoos, thinking he knows anything about the true black arts. "If I had to, then I'd wait. You'd win me back sooner or later."

"I would," Tommaso says. "I wouldn't stop fighting until you were with me again."

"See?" you say. "And you're going to win." You kiss him again, licking down towards his ear, biting at it as you whisper, "You're both going to win."

And so you wear the black dress, and you cling tightly to Tommaso's arm, making yourself seem as small and timid as possible, walking beside him as he stalks the maze that is the backstage area of the Takeover venue. A few people glance at you, but no one pays you any more than cursory attention.

That is, at least, until you see Johnny.

He greets Tommaso in a wary, guarded manner, nodding at him curtly before turning his attention to you, and you see it, the very moment he recognizes you, his eyes widening in sudden shock. "You," he says, slowly. "It's you." He shakes his head, as if he's sure he must be imagining things. "I dreamed about you, I..."

"This is Goldie," Tommaso says proudly.

"Nice to meet you, Johnny," you say, holding out your hand, but he only stands there, staring at you, as if frozen in place.

"Johnny," someone calls out. "We need you for a run-through of your entrance."

He doesn't move, not until you say, "Shouldn't you go?," and he turns without a word, striding away, looking back over his shoulder at you as Tommaso laughs, low in his throat.

You slip back into the belt for the actual fight, watching from the sidelines, muttering incantations to yourself as you focus, directing your energy towards Tommaso, the strength of it quietly, potently dark. He fights as if he's invincible, and you can tell that he feels it, feels you, knows you're with him in every moment of it.

When it's all done, he stands on the stage, clutching you to his chest, triumphant in victory, the crowd's displeasure at the result rich and bitter as it surrounds you. But then you startle as a sudden sharp pulse rocks through you, the surge of it quickening in your blood, and it's Johnny, joining you to stand next to Tommaso, raising his own belt, tentative at first, but then with increasing confidence and certainty.

And oh yes, you think to yourself, because together these two can do anything, they can rule the world if that's what they choose and you'll be right there, whispering in their ears, giving them exactly what they want.

You barely even notice as the Velveteen Dream's music starts up, and the skirmish that follows is both petty and predictable, but you pay no mind to that, waiting as Johnny and Tommaso are hustled away, ushered into a room, told to stay there and then left alone.

They look at each other, electricity crackling like raw chemistry between them, and you stir restlessly, needing to be released, hunger building inside you.

"Goldie," Tommaso calls to you. "You can come out now."

"What the fuck, man, she's not here..." Johnny starts, and his expression of complete and total surprise as he sees you appear really is quite intensely gratifying.

"I am here," you tell him.

"You really are... her," he says, in disbelief. "You're the belt."

"I'm so much more than that, Johnny," you reply, standing up straighter, shoulders back, your spine itching to lengthen itself, but you stay in control. "And now you have a belt too," you say, and you can already feel it, the power of it, hanging weighted in the air.

Tommaso's behind you, his hands on your shoulders as he kisses the back of your neck. "I think Johnny needs to be rewarded for his victory, Goldie, don't you?"

"I think so," you agree, letting him push you down onto your knees. You look up at Johnny, and say, "Put the belt on for me."

"I..." he starts, gazing down at you helplessly.

"I've got you," Tommaso tells him, picking up the belt, moving to stand at Johnny's back, looping the thick leather around his body, centering the main plate over his abs, fastening it tight enough that it sits a little high on his waist, just above his cock. You pull down his trunks, seeing that he's already hard, and you make a small, delighted noise at the sight of him.

"Fuck," he whispers, and you suck him into your mouth, sighing at the taste. When you glance up you can see Tommaso, watching you from over Johnny's shoulder, eyes alight, utterly captivated and there's power inside you, growing and growing, like nothing you've ever felt before. You lay your hand on the belt, hissing at the rush that sparks through you as you go down all the way, Johnny's cock thick in the back of your throat.

You breathe in, and you don't stop.

[missvalerietanner]

The Unseen Soldier | Part 34 | Everything

Subject: Hades & Persephone (aka Aiden & Sophie)

Genre: Southern Gothic retelling

Words: 1,652

Summary: Sophie discusses her return to the town with Aiden.

Updates every Sunday! Click to read.

Aiden woke to an empty bed the next morning and was greeted by the late morning sun glaring at him through the gaps in the curtains. Groaning, he sat up and swept his hand down Sophie’s side of the mattress: cold. She had been up for a while, and his pattern of sleeping in was becoming a habit.

He rose from the bed and dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt before leaving their bedroom in search of the kitchen. His stomach rumbled as he stretched and yawned and stumbled his way down the long hallway. The closer he came to the kitchen, the more fragrant the air became. He smelled melted butter, warm milk, and a hint of cinnamon.

Stepping into the dining room, he found Sophie sitting at the table with her legs curled beneath her and a bowl of steaming oatmeal set before her with a piece of toast balanced on its edge. She was dressed in her everyday clothes, ready for their walk around the boundary, and her hair hung loose down her shoulders and back.

Set before her and covering the table was a large geographical map of the forest and the town at its center. She held herself hoisted on her elbows, closely studying the map with a pen held tight in her outstretched hand.

The scene jarred his mind from the haze of sleep, and though his stomach still rumbled, an overwhelming concern replaced his hunger.

“What’s all this?” he asked, apprehension rising high in his veins.

She glanced up at him with a smile. “Research,” she announced proudly.

“Into what exactly?”

She gestured to an arching line she had drawn around the lower half of the town and tapped the end of the pen against an X marked on the map’s face. “This is where I broke through the wall, and I know it expands farther than I could see that day. I’m completely blind about where the wall lies to the north, but you saw it.” She met his scrutinizing stare. “Will you mark where it is?”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“So we can know where it is,” she said simply.

“Why? Its placement doesn’t affect us.”

She sat back on her heels. “Don’t do this,” she warned with a shake of her head.

He clenched his jaw tight. “Do what?”

“Shut me out--shut this out--like it isn’t our concern.”

“It isn’t,” he retorted with a growl in his throat.

“Aiden.” She spoke his name like an angel, soft and kind yet disapproving of his attitude.

He rubbed his hand across his lips and spoke each word with deliberate care. “You want to save the town.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Don’t you think it’s our obligation to do so?”

“What have they done for us?” he asked, his voice low and stoic and far more unsettling than his howling yell. “They alienated me. They caged you, and they built a wall to keep us apart. They’re so selfish and cowardly. They’re so desperate to hurt us they can’t see they’re hurting themselves, and yet, you want to save them from their own stupidity?”

“They’re my family, Aiden. My parents and my cousins… I can’t let them die knowing I could have saved them.”

“I’m your family.”

She frowned and folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t make me choose between them and you.”

“They forced you to choose,” he spat.

“Yes, they did, but I need you to be the bigger man here. I need you to forgive them.”

He snarled his nose and paced the floor with the fury of an army fueling his movements. “Forgive them?” he howled. “This is their fault. Every decision they have made has been wrong.”

“They were frightened. They didn’t understand--”

“They did. They knew exactly what they were doing each time they sent someone in here to retrieve you. And the brothers? Have you forgotten what they did--what they threatened to do?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you so willing to defend them?”

She smiled sweetly and rose from her seat at the table. Crossing the room, she stepped before him and gripped his shoulders, pausing his frantic pacing.

“In every moment we’ve ever shared, we’ve helped each other. We’ve made decisions, and we’ve faced so much. Together.” She pressed her hand against his cheek. “Why are you fighting me so hard on this when I know you understand what this fight means to me?”

He shut his eyes and let his shoulders slump as he crumpled into a broken pile of raw emotion beneath her touch. “What if you don’t come back?”

She laughed, a startled wheeze. “Of course I’ll come back. I returned once already.”

He grabbed her wrist, and the strength in his grip ceased her laughter. “They saw you drawing the Hollow’s fire. Maybe they don’t know what it means or how you did it, but they saw it. They may be frightened of you now, just like they’re frightened of me.”

He rolled his head back and met her eyes. “They wanted to cage you up when you were innocent and naive to this place. Imagine what they’ll want to do now that you’re benefiting from its power--and using that power against them.”

She drew in a deep breath, alarmed by the truth in his words. His concern was real, and it frightened her. The town hadn’t been kind to her when she was a foolish little girl, and after so many had witnessed her hair on fire the day she burst through the mirrored wall, what would they be capable of now? Most would fear her, true, but would that fear breed hatred? Would they want to be rid of her, or would they try to suppress her?

He swept his hand through her vibrant orange hair and offered a bittersweet smile. “You were gone, taken from me, and I couldn’t stop it. How long until it happens again? How many times will you be taken before it’s permanent?”

Her soul fractured from the pain in his voice. She cupped the sides of his face, stroked her thumbs up and down the edge of his cheekbones, and pressed a soft kiss against his lips.

“I can’t lose you,” he admitted in a rush of breath. “You’re my everything.”

She clenched her jaw, biting back tears. “Aiden…”

“You were gone for a month, Sophie. Your light, your joy, your energy, the life you bring to this place, to me--it was all just gone. In an instant without a word.”

He shut his eyes and winced. “This place was darker before you came. Colder. I can’t go back to that, not after knowing you and seeing the ways you make this place better, the ways you make me better.”

Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes and streaked down her cheeks. She let them run free, afraid to shut her eyes against their sting or tear her sight from him for fear that this perfectly wonderful and sadly broken man who meant the world to her would disappear. She slid her hands around his neck and hugged him tight, lifting her body fully against his own. And she clung to him with the same desperation that beat in his heart for her.

“The Hollow didn’t keep me from you,” she whispered against his cheek. “Neither will they.”

He snaked his arms around her back and crushed her form into his own.

“But I have to go back.”

She dropped her hands to the crooks of his elbows and slid out of his grasp, knowing he wouldn’t dare let her go. She missed his warmth, missed his strength, but touching him made this worse.

“I have to fight this, and I need you to understand that.”

“After everything the town has taken from me and tried to take from me--” He swallowed hard and faced her with agony in his dry eyes. “I can’t. My loyalty is to this forest.”

“And your loyalty to me?” she asked in a sheepish whisper, afraid to push him too far.

He groaned and turned his attention to the map sprawled across the table. “I can’t help you with this, darlin’.”

“I’ll take the fight to the townspeople and make them understand that they need us and this forest. I’d like your support in this, Aiden.”

“I told you.” He faced her with hard eyes and a snarl in his lips. “They won’t hear me.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll make them hear me. For the both of us.”

“Just--” He frowned before reaching out to take her hand. “Be careful. Please.”

A smile touched her lips, and she squeezed his hand tight. “I will.”

He huffed a sigh and flopped into his chair at the table. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. The sooner I go and face this, the better we’ll all be.”

A cheeky grin danced across his lips as he reached out and grabbed her hips, dragging her closer to him. “So… we should make the most of today?”

She laughed, a harmonic sound that chased away the threat of tears, and she wriggled free of his grip. With a lightness to her steps, she crossed to the front door and pulled on her jacket before yanking his free from the hooks and tossing it at him.

“Before we can do all that,” she said with a laugh, “we have actual work to do.”

He puffed his cheeks out in mock annoyance before standing and pulling on his jacket. He snatched the piece of toast off the edge of her breakfast bowl, stuffed one corner into his mouth, and met her by the door.

“Whatever you say, boss,” he said as he tore the corner free from the toast, pushed open the door, and led the way outside where the dogs played at the forest’s edge, waiting for their masters.