#no edited no proofread no nothing

[vole-mon-amour]

What if Halsin tries his hand at drawing, but feels unsatisfied about it and it never goes his way and it never turns out quite the way he wants to, despite drawing being faster and, in theory, easier? What if he needs his creation to be physical and not just a picture on a paper/canvas? What if whittling is his way to go because he can both see and feel how it takes shape of what he's trying to do? 

So because Halsin doesn't need to sleep for as long as others in the camp, so doesn't Astarion (and technically, he doesn't even sleep, it's a trance-like state, and it's enough for him). Halsin whittles during the nights & Astarion watches him. The closer they become, the more at ease Astarion feels about Halsin and about teasing him. He sees that Halsin's project is big and it vaguely reminds Astarion of a person's face. 

He asks if Halsin maybe has someone, but Halsin says, "No." 

He asks, "Who's this, then?" 

Halsin looks at Astarion with a warm smile and says, "Someone I like." 

Astarion thinks that maybe it's one of those weird druid things, enjoying the gifts of nature and all. Maybe it's an ex lover that Halsin is extra fond of. Astarion doesn't prey. 

It's only after a while, until Halsin finishes his project and comes to show Astarion the bust he's been working on, that Astarion learns what it is. 

"I'd like to show you something," Halsin says. He guides Astarion to his tent and shows him the finished bust. "Do you like it?" 

It's very well done, but Astarion is confused on why would the druid care what he thinks. "It's nice," Astarion says. After all, he saw Halsin carving it away, how much time and effort it took, and he doesn't want to be a jerk about it. At least, he doesn't have to be one. "I think that whoever you did this for is going to like it."

"You can have it, if you'd like."

Astarion is confused—why would he have this sculpture of a person he doesn't even know? A possible ex lover that Astarion has never met in his life? The druid is being ridiculous. "Not to be mean, darling, but why would I want that? I don't even know him."

That's where Halsin smiles, and there's so much love in his eyes. "I know you can't see yourself in the mirrors. I know you don't remember how you look, so I made this for you. It's fine if you don't want this, but you're welcome to have it if you'd like."

'Someone I like,' flashes in Astarion's head. 

That's where he finally connects the dots. 

[counting-stars-gayly]

Semicolons save me…semicolons…save me semicolons

[firstelevens]

hi zainab!!

taylor swift prompt #15 + sambucky? (bc lord knows i've thought about writing a you belong with me inspired sambucky fic too many times)

15. a smile that could light up this whole town

Reading the room is one of Sam’s greatest skills as a teacher. It’s turned around any number of bad days, resolved countless conflicts, and prevented dozens of failed tests or quizzes.

It’s instinctive enough that when he dismisses his Honors American Literature class right as the bell rings, he’s not remotely surprised when the best student in his class joins the cluster of students around his desk, asking about test corrections and extra credit.

Once he’s sent the rest of them off with the answers they’re looking for, Sam turns to Cindy Moon, who’s fidgeting with the cuffs of her sweater and won’t quite look at him.

“Mr. Wilson, do you think you could write me a pass to stay here during study hall?” she asks, her voice shaking a little. “I know we don’t have anything in the works for philanthropy club, but maybe I could do some planning? Or some research, or something?”

Part of Sam wants to say no, because he had very specific plans for his end-of-the-school-day planning period, and having a student in the room will mean that he has to be in vigilant teacher mode for the next hour and a half instead.

The other part of Sam has not missed the fact that Cindy used to constantly be surrounded by a group of her fellow cheerleaders and an ever-present boyfriend—a senior from the football team, Sam thinks, but not one he’s ever taught—and now she’s always on her own, sitting at the opposite end of the classroom to the group she was inseparable from just two weeks ago.

It has to be worse today of all days: between singing candy grams and carnation deliveries and heart shaped helium balloons everywhere, Valentine’s Day has hit Excelsior Academy hard. He can’t blame her for wanting to escape.

Sam is already reaching for the stack of blank passes before he speaks. “I could use some help organizing the classroom library, if you’re up for it? I had freshmen searching for books to write their reviews on, and they basically destroyed it.”

Cindy agrees, her voice still tremulous, and runs the pass down the hall to Rhodey in the physics lab. She comes back in as Sam is erasing the board, slinging her backpack onto a desk before moving towards the bookshelves that line the back wall of the classroom. 

Sam’s class library is his pride and joy, nearly two hundred books that he painstakingly chose and catalogued over the years. The freshmen were enthusiastic in searching for books, but less so in putting them back. Sam had taught them the last period of the day yesterday, and there had been an English department meeting—useless, but then most meetings were, under John Walker’s tenure as department head—so he only had time to throw them onto the shelf and rush over to the other side of the school.

Clearly, Cindy is aware of this on some level, because when he looks back at her, she’s got the first shelf’s worth of books separated across five different desks, one for each genre. He’s about to thank her for taking this so seriously when there’s a knock on the doorframe.

Standing just outside the classroom is Bucky, a handful of students peering around him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Barnes?” asks Sam, capping his dry erase marker and waving the group into the room.

“They finally got someone in to fix the leak in the AC vent,” says Bucky, “but it means the room is unusable for the rest of the day. Can the yearbook kids and I camp out in here?”

“Of course,” says Sam. He turns to the kids. “I recommend the desks by the bulletin board, if you need to plug in laptops.”

Peter and Ned and Kamala head over to the desks nearest the outlets. MJ and Miles come in carrying a large posterboard, and behind them, America is carrying a stack of shoeboxes.

“Is it okay if we push some desks together?” asks Miles. “We’ll put them back before we leave.”

His question is underscored by the sound of both girls shifting desks and chairs behind him to make a larger work surface, and Miles winces. Sam laughs a little and tells him that it’s fine, and the three of them open up the boxes and start placing paper cutouts on the poster board.

“Testing layouts,” says America, when she sees him looking. “Sometimes it helps to do it physically instead of onscreen.”

“Mr. Barnes suggested it,” explains Miles, just in time for Bucky to reappear in the doorway.

“I’m only taking credit if it works,” Bucky says, turning sideways so he can get through the door with the two overstuffed tote bags over one shoulder and a backpack over the other.

“You see that?’ Sam asks, crossing the classroom to take one of the bags. “You haven’t even started and he’s already abandoning ship. Some captain, huh?”

“I’m a navigator at best,” says Bucky. “MJ’s captain; she’s the one at the top of the masthead.”

Across the room, Peter grins at MJ and gives her a little salute. Sam catches a smile crossing her face before she bites it back.

“Mr. Barnes is a pretty good navigator, though. He brought us cookies today.”

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says, and the kids seem unfazed the mild expletive. “Where’d I put the cookies?”

Sam looks into the bag that he’s holding and pulls out two boxes of pink frosted sugar cookies, complete with sprinkles and little candy hearts pressed into each one.

“Valentine’s themed and everything,” he says, grinning at Bucky. “Mr. Barnes, who knew you felt so strongly about the holiday?”

“He doesn’t,” says Ned. “Or, well, he does, but the other way.”

“Oh?’ asks Sam, as Bucky sets the box of cookies on an empty desk and sets a box of tissues beside them, his back to Sam. “And what way is that?”

“He said it was a consumerist holiday that doesn’t have anything to do with the history of all the different Saints Valentine. And then he taught us about Captain Cook attempting to kidnap people and getting killed for it.” Kamala finally looks up from her laptop. “That part was really interesting, actually.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says drily, opening the second box of cookies. “And I don’t want to see you all making a mess of Mr. Wilson’s room with these cookies, okay? We’re guests here and we’re going to clean up after ourselves.”

The yearbook kids murmur in assent. Sam glances over at Cindy, who’s still quietly sorting the bookshelves. He’s about to tell her to join them when Bucky beats him to it.

“Cindy, you’re welcome to have some, too,” he says. “And if you want any help organizing, you can absolutely conscript Ned and Peter and Kamala, because Michelle didn’t even give them an assignment for today, so I know they’re not actually working on anything for the yearbook right now.”

She hesitates for a moment, then sets down the stack of books and walks to Sam’s desk to use the hand sanitizer. “I like those flowers, Mr. Wilson,” she says, gesturing to the arrangement that had been waiting on Sam’s desk when he got in this morning. “They’re really pretty.”

Sam can’t help but smile when he looks over at the flowers. “Thanks, Cindy,” he says. Then, to the rest of the classroom: “I think Valentine’s Day is nice. We could all use a reminder to tell the people we care about that we’re thinking of them, even if that reminder is the day that a guy died for being kind to people.”

“There’s nothing wrong with celebrating Valentine’s Day,” says Bucky. “I just thought it was worth the reminder that our cultural traditions aren’t universal.”

“And also that colonizers getting taken out is a net gain, as far as the universe is concerned,” adds MJ, and Bucky’s lips twitch with a bitten-back smile.

“That, I can agree with,” says Sam. “So am I allowed to have one of these not-actually-for-Valentine’s-Day Valentine’s Day cookies?”

Before he can even step towards the box, Bucky is holding one out to him. Sam takes it with a smile and settles back in at his desk, scooting over to make room for Bucky to join him if he wants.

He does, after a moment, pulling over one of the chairs that MJ and America moved.

“Thanks for letting us hang out in here,” he says, pulling out a stack of tests to grade. “If you’d said no, I don’t know who would have let us in.”

“You mean you don’t know who would have let you get a bunch of teenagers hopped up on sugar in their classroom,” says Sam, holding out a red pen. He nods over to where the kids are now sitting on top of the desks, work abandoned in favor of comparing the messages on their conversation hearts. Cindy, he notes with some relief, has joined them.

Bucky takes the pen and waves his free hand. “Minor detail at best. And you got something out of it, too, didn’t you?”

Sam looks back down at the cookie in his hand and shrugs. “I mean, I’d have preferred homemade,” he says, trying not to grin, “but I guess this works.”

Laughing, Bucky elbows him gently and turns back to grading.

— —

That evening, when Sam’s doorbell rings, he answers it and leans against the doorway, blocking the entrance.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “I thought Valentine’s Day was a consumerist holiday with no historical merit.”

“Peter and Michelle saw us together at that Italian place last weekend!” says Bucky. “I had to throw them off the scent!”

“Uh-huh,” says Sam, arms crossed and unmoving.

“Did you like the flowers, at least?”

Sam glances over at the vase that he brought home from school, now sitting on the mantelpiece. “Maybe.”

“I love you?”

“Is that a question now?”

Bucky huffs. “I brought you wine from that one tiny vineyard you love, and I have The Princess Bride and The Shop Around the Corner, and there’s no one I’d rather spend the day with, and I love you, Sammy. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

For a moment, Sam considers him. Then, he steps aside and waves Bucky in, shaking his head at the triumphant grin that spreads across his face.

“Fine, but only because I want to know what wine you picked,” he says, and immediately disproves it by leaving the bottle on the credenza and hauling Bucky in for a kiss.

[adhd-merlin]

draft sneak peek

Merlin hears the crying as he approaches the door. No point in being quiet, then. He lifts the latch, pushes the door open and steps into the bedroom. Arthur is standing in the middle of it, wearing nothing but socks and his night tunic and a vexed expression, and bouncing his daughter in his arms in a manner clearly meant to be calming, but that Ygraine seems to find increasingly aggravating. Her hands are balled up in little fists, her face scrunched up in misery, and she is crying at the highest volume her small lungs will allow — which, it turns out, is surprisingly loud. “Good morning,” Merlin says, mainly to alert Arthur of his presence. He tries to keep his tone as neutral as possible. These days, Arthur can get snappish if Merlin greets him in a way he perceives as excessively cheerful in the morning, as if it were a personal affront. He must have failed in making his greeting sound sufficiently bland, or perhaps the words themselves are disagreeable to Arthur today, because he doesn’t even bother to reply. The glare he directs at Merlin says it’s evidently not a good morning, and it won’t be, and how dare he insinuate otherwise.

[plantfeed]

location: west wing, museum, during the ball.

trigger warnings: gore, blood, assault, murder etc.

some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. from what i’ve tasted of desire / i hold with those who favor fire. but if it had to perish twice, i think i know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice / is also great and would suffice.

       cold is preferable to heat. the way alma sees it, you can put a jumper on, lace up your snow boots, light a fire in a conclave, but when the sun beats down on your back you can’t peel off your own skin. alma’s never been deterred by the snow — if anything, she feels at home in it — twelve years spent christmassing in vermont would do that to a person. snow was the unexpected knock of a long-lost cousin at the door, a crumpled cushion on the couch that remembered the curve of their spine. snow was the cold november she learned to ride zeta, the sixth star of the constellation, one hand on the horse’s reigns and the other in the wind as the first flecks of winter landed on her nose. of all the elements, water is alma’s, in its liquid form a symbol of change and renewal — but heed too much of it and you’ll drown. in its purest form, ice, sharp enough to cut a throat, cold enough to freeze a man to death. more often than not, she’s the latter. 

       her pervading coldness is less pronounced tonight, the folly of a ball enough to lift her spirits, etch a smile across her perpetually scowling lips, and — in a moment of madness, pure and instinctive — enough to raise her skirt enough for monty to trail their fingers up her thigh, the announcement of a building-wide lockdown breaking them from their stupor. there’s something sexy about the idea of being locked in, no escape, guards on every door. it forces you to rethink, to examine, to play house with the cards that have been dealt to you and send unwise texts for the sheer thrill of it, like if you care to finish what we started, meet me in the rothschilds room in five. little does she know she’ll never make it to the rothschild room, or get to finish the years old game that monty and alma play, or that this particular foray towards a sexcapade in the dark we’ll be her last. that she’ll never get her keira knightley in atonement fucked-against-a-bookshelf moment ticked off the bucket list, or at least not in this life.

       she’s already broken free of the throng of bodies gathered in the great hall when the lights begin to flicker and pulse like a lorde song, making her way down the west wing, skirts trailing behind her. whenever she’s in grand buildings like this one, alma imagines herself in a crinoline, hoiked within an inch of her life and laced up to the nines in whale boned corsets, how she’d tell the servants to fetch her the millais painting from the east wing, then bring it back, then fetch another, how she’d set her family little treasure hunts around the grounds to amuse their rich and listless hours. she could saltburn this place, if she wanted. she could gaslight the shit out of oliver quick, and he’d probably thank her for it. 

       the lights splutter out like a dying dog, harsh and visceral, and with the sudden sense that childhood is over, although she’d mourned it long before she entered adulthood. perhaps they go out all at once, or maybe it’s the slow pop of each bulb before her one-by-one snapping out in turn, the walls closing in around her, until the only one left is the one above her head, her final spotlight. she doesn’t have a candle to light the way, so the flashlight on her phone has to suffice. it’s a little less girl-in-a-period-drama and a little more final-girl-in-a-badly-reveiwed-a24-horror-movie, though she refuses to let her breath catch. fear’s a mind killer. fear is the enemy of a finely tuned performance. fear will kill you faster than the killing thing, if you let it, a virus in itself. she’s never let herself feel fear before without good reason. what’s so scary about a shortage of light?

       a text chimes on her phone, and her eyes struggle to adjust in the lowlight. monty’s waiting. she starts typing a response that she’s on her way, but doesn’t finish sending it, three bubbling dots that never resolve themselves, and then from somewhere in the dark, a pitchy giggle. she’s read every gillian flynn book. she devours murder mysteries. she’s seen the box set of that british tv show set in oxford, morse, and the sleepy small town midsomer murders. there were periods of her childhood where she spoke exclusively in a british accent and claimed that she could see ghosts. this doesn’t feel like one of those times. the laugh feels otherworldly and threatening in a way that cuts her to the core. 

       the rothschild room isn’t far from here, where monty’s waiting to unzip her dress, to kiss her neck, to tell her they’ve thought about it in the rehearsal room while the two of them perform a pas de deux. she should just fucking turn around and go and find monty. but the nancy drew instinct in her begs otherwise, a dull throb that’ll haunt her if she doesn’t find the source of the sound.

       so she follows it, a chorus of screams of ‘no! run!’ from the popcorn-munching audience she pictures in her mind, a projector wheel whirling on. or perhaps they’re bargaining for her death, taking bets on whether she’ll go quietly, what she looks like when she screams, if she’ll pull a knife from the gusset on her thigh and turn it around at the eleventh hour.

       “i’m not scared of you,” alma shouts into the dark, half-impressed by the strength of her own voice. it doesn’t hitch, doesn’t warble, firmer than she feels, though she grits her teeth, balls her fists, and stalks on towards the sound. that giggle again, only this time it’s different, behind her. she whisks around, plastic ballerina in a jewellery box, and feels the breath pulled from her, the throbbing pulse of something sharp in her back. if she had to place it, she’d say between the eleventh and twelfth vertebrae, although the shock of it sends an electric pang all up her spine. 

       it’s like a heat she never imagined, almost a burn. when “jesus christ” splits from her lips, she’s not sure if it’s a curse or a prayer, gathering her skirt (that stupid fucking dress, fuck gwen stefani) as she begins to run. alma clamours through the dark, thankful for the ballet flats she’d chosen in favour of heels, breath hot in her chest as the pain pulses in her ribs, like a belt being tugged around her heart. who the fuck would want to kill her? a knife in the back is perhaps ironic, considering the back catalogue of people she’s fucked over on her way to the proverbial top. there was the girl she’d tripped in their audition for juliard; the actress who developed a mysterious bout of food poisoning on opening night of antigone; the seminar partner who’s research paper had mysteriously disappeared after they left their library computer unlocked; the numerous farmhands whom she’s taunted over the years. perhaps a better question is not ‘who’d want to kill alma putnam’ but rather ‘who the fuck wouldn’t?

       something catches on her foot, and her phone skitters across the floor to a chorus of curses, spilling light across the walls, her hands clutching in the dark. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” she could be getting railed right now. she could be downstairs, dancing with masked strangers in the dark. instead, she’s engaging in a comical scooby doo chase scene, only her killer won’t be caught by a gaggle of meddling kids, and she can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel any more. it dawns on her that she’ll never make it rothschild room. she’ll never make it out of this museum. it's a theatrical way to go.

       when the second blow strikes — a clean blow to the chest — it throbs in her ribs, in her lungs, a spluttering in her breath, the taste of blood in her mouth. death shouldn’t come to her like this  alone in the west wing of an old museum while a ball beats on below. if she tunes out the dull throb of her heartbeat she can hear the pulse of robyn’s dancing on my own the floor below, the rounds of shots exchanged in the dark, mobile flashlights held like lighters at an open air concert. death should come to her as an old woman on a porch swing as she edits the final chapter of her memoirs. death should come to her in the theatre, struck down beneath a spotlight, a spectacle that haunts and amazes in equal measure. she should die before a crowd. instead, she’s completely alone, her breath growing quicker as the dual wounds that punctuate her back and chest grow colder. she knows from her anatomy textbooks that this is the part when she should start to panic, but that panicking will only make her die quicker. coldness pulses in the tips of her fingers. she starts to feel like a walking corpse. there’s no wiki how article on what to do when you feel yourself slipping out of the world.

       consciousness evades her. she swills in and out of it like a dancing moth around a candle, sometimes aware of the blood on her dress, or awake enough to let out a blood-curdling scream. every sound she makes is another claw reaching into her chest, compressing her lungs. in the end, when she cries out for mother, she can’t tell if she’s crying out for the woman who raised her, or for mercy from the mother they build statues of in churches.

       suffering feels religious if you do it right, and when she's hoisted up it feels almost like a crucifixion, the ropes around her torso no longer imagined but visceral. she always imagined that one day she’d get to fly in a show — as graceful in a harness as she is on her feet. well perhaps this is her final show, and to their credit, they’ve made a spectacle of it. it might be her best performance yet. she’d make a perverse joke about the ropes wrapped around her wrists if her lips weren’t too cold to speak. is this really how she goes out? not with a bang, but with a whimper, trying to come up with a kinky joke that’ll never reach its punchline. 

       “i hope…” she starts, and the words don’t seem to come from her mouth but from the mouth of a haggard witch twice her age, like an advert from an anti-smoking campaign. “they fucking… catch you… you cunt.” fitting that the last word she ever says would be ‘cunt’ when most of her life she’s been one. she doesn’t see their face, doesn’t see anything at all, the dark closing around her in more ways than one. above her, the ropes are creaking, body swinging like a witch. the last thing she feels before she slips from the world is a sharp spike impaling her through the heart.

[everymanpdf]

five more pages

[fluffypotatey]

Operation Merthur: Part 1

“You want me to do what?”

Malifer sighed. He really didn't want to repeat this again. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Malifer straightens his posture. He isn’t paid enough for this.

“Sire, I’ve told you this ten times.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that. But...why?”

The poor knight looked so confused and caught off guard. Fair. They did corner him with this request. Maybe Malifer should’ve gone to Sir Gwaine first. That knight always seemed more inclined to give them favors. But this was a special request. One that is not in Sir Gwaine’s jurisdiction. 

“We only ask, sire, is for you to ask His Majesty about...his opinions on his manservant.” Malifer prays for the first time in his life for Sir Leon to not ask him to repeat this request again. “See, we are only asking for the benefit of our dear friend, Merlin. Just in case, you know?”

Sir Leon's eyebrows furrow at the mention of Merlin’s name, but he still looked uncomfortable. Malifer understood why. Sir Leon was always a man who went by the book; very meticulous and always noble to a point that it was a little infuriating. Although, in Malifer’s humble opinion, Sir Lancelot takes the cake on being infuriatingly noble, but Sir Leon is second just for him always feeling the need to be so...virtuous. Great, now Mailer felt like gagging.

Fortunately, Charlie (think of him as Malifer’s second in command) saves Malifer from making a fool of himself in front of the knight. He wraps his arm around Malifer as an act of nonchalance. It’s an act mostly because they need Sir Leon to agree to this request for their plan to get in motion, and there was only so much a couple of nosy servants could do to meddle in the affair of something as important as this. 

“We don’t want you to…snoop, per say. More of”— Charlie made some kind of gesture with his free hand— “investigate the affairs of His Majesty’s heart. We understand that you are a very honorable man held by your code and by no means are we asking you to do anything treasonous.”

“I understand that,” Sir Leon gruffs. It seems this topic has made him flustered. Malifer is seriously ready to call it quits and ask Gwaine. “It’s just...don’t you think this is an invasion of privacy? I feel like we should just leave them to figure out themselves.”

Malifer groans. This isn’t going anywhere. Why did he think he could convince the ever virtuous Sir Leon into joining this operation? New plan: ask Gwaine and pray it works.

“Listen, Sire.” Malifer makes sure to stretch the sire out a bit to let the knight know how annoyed he is becoming. Merlin is a bad influence when it comes to decorum and proper etiquette. “In case you have been blind for four years, let me inform you that there has been no progress between those two imbeciles!”

The knight flinches at Malifer, referring to his two friends with such a name, but Malifer never gives him the chance to defend them.

“I don't know about you, but I am getting sick and tired of seeing them give each other those disgusting dopey eyes. Not to mention the amount of hours I have to hear Merlin talk about the King’s arms, face, hair, and--God forbid his fucking eyes, everyday--and always giving that sickly, sweet smile! I can’t take it, Sir Leon! And if you won't help me, I’ll meddle in these affairs by myself!”

He finishes looking straight at the knight. His chest rising and falling as he recollects himself. Charlie seemed to have grabbed him during his rant to ensure Malifer didn’t get all up on the knight’s face, but the damage was done. 

Sir Leon was at a loss for words. His face said it all. The shock was only a dream that vanished and his face became blank. Leon pursed his lips and crossed his arms. He looks back to the duo.

“You said you and some servants have created a whole operation?”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

-

Operation Get These Dumbasses Together (Gwaine coined the name Merthur but Malifer thinks it’s a stupid name and quite likes its original title, thank you very much) was a work in progress. It was actually an accident on how this operation got started. It was...after the whole fiasco with Mercia and Merlin being poisoned, if Malifer wants to really start at the beginning. 

Anyway, Merica had come for a treaty signing thing (Malifer isn’t exactly one who kept up with things like this, gossip was more up his alley), and everything went to shit the moment Merlin accused Mercia of trying to poison prince Arthur. Of course a servant accusing another kingdom of such an act was laughable and caused some arguments until King Uther (may his soul be forever facing its crimes in the afterlife) ordered Merlin to drink from said poisoned drink because who gives a shit about a servant’s life? Not Uther that’s for sure.

Prince Arthur did though, and would have drank it in Merlin’s stead, but of course that wasn’t going to happen. To sum it up, the cup was poisoned. Merlin, in critical condition of dying, was not doing so hot anymore. Prince Arthur, who had only known Merlin for...was it really only a month?! Wow. Anyway, Prince Arthur left Camelot (against his own father’s wishes) to find some flower to save Merlin. 

This, my friends, was the beginning of Malifer and Charlie’s delve into meddling in affairs they probably should have stayed out of.

It started out as a joke. Honestly, Charlie really was joking:

“Apparently, Prince Arthur left Camelot to save his servant.”

“Did he?” asked Malifer who was stuck cleaning the kitchens and missed all the drama much to his discontent.

“Yeah, it was really dramatic. Seems that the only way for Merlin to survive is to find this...flower of some sort? But the King was against the prince going to fetch it since, well,” Charlie’s face darkened as he remembered hearing the King’s exact words on how he felt about the servant’s fate. Such was the life of servants under Uther’s reign. Don’t be seen, don’t be heard, and never expect royalty to give a rat’s ass about you. Malifer stops his cleaning to face Charlie and his face falls grim in understanding. He reaches to squeeze Charlie’s shoulder. 

“Poor Merlin,” Malifer whispers, “he was quite a firecracker wasn’t he?”

Charlie snorts. He relaxes his shoulders then. 

“But the prince still left?”

Charlie smirks. “Yeah, went against his old man just to save his servant’s life.” A pause. “It must be love.”

Malifer chuckles at that. As if. It still made him smile. The prince and his manservant. Huh. The prince in love with his manservant.

The Prince...in love?

“HOLY SHIT!”

And that friends, is how Malifer dragged Charlie along to spy on the couple at whatever chance they could. Soon, Charlie’s stablehand friend, David joined, adding his own theories. Clara came next, then Greg, then Sean, then Maddox, then Mary, then...every single servant was in on this once small operation. A betting pool was made a month later. 

“I’m telling you! Gwen and Merlin are very close, so maybe—”

“Don’t even suggest that!”

“He did accuse himself of sorcery to save her life that one time,” someone murmured.

Silence.

“Goddamnit, Stephen!”

“What? It’s true! Prince Arthur even said so!”

“Oh please, can we really trust the prince for something like this? He could have assumed wrong and gotten jealous for no reason!”

“Merlin is very adamant on them being friends.”

“See! False alarm everyone.”

“But...don’t some people just say that because they’re in denial?”

Groans echo around the kitchen, their designated place to discuss and plan. A new pairing is added to the chalkboard under Arthur x Morgana (this of course would be later erased after the Lady is revealed to be Prince Arthur’s half sister). Grumbling ensues and later Merlin x Morgana is added as well as Merlin x Lancelot. That last one had a bit more of an uproar but was still added since it was mentioned (fucking Stephen) that Merlin forged Lancelot’s nobility and Arthur was totally jealous of Merlin’s attention not on him (bless you Mary).

When the servants found out about Gwaine, well…

“I asked Merlin about his last adventure with the prince and it seems he was very soft spoken about this stranger named Gwaine,” Melody told Malifer. 

“Really? Soft spoken how?”

“From what I heard, he helped them during a brawl in the tavern—” of course he did— “and got injured. Apparently, he’s staying in Gauis’s care which means he is staying with Merlin”

Melody looked pleased with her deduction. Malifer was not. This could put a damper on the operation’s plans, so Malifer went to find him on the excuse of curiosity.

When Malifer did meet Gwaine, he found him very charming. Gwaine was courteous, fun, and incredibly likable. Malifer felt a tinge of guilt over his quick dislike of such a charming man. He had half a mind to get Gwaine to join the operation.

Unfortunately, Gwaine’s stay didn’t last long, but it was fun while it lasted. In honor of such a charming man, the operation agreed to keep the pairing between Gwaine and Merlin since, admittedly, they would be a good pair for one another.

Skipping a couple more years, (after Morgana’s fall, Uther’s death, and other events) we find ourselves back to the present with Arthur as king, the Knights of the Round Table established, and there is still no progress on those two dunderheads.

However, that doesn’t stop those two from being so disgustingly cute. Malifer sometimes catches a glimpse of King Arthur’s longing looks, touches that stay longer than Charlie would consider “friendly,” and that fucking dopey smile. The servants know very well that Merlin is head over heels. Malifer is actually surprised that they have kept this operation secret from Merlin for so long. 

It’s actually Gwen that Malifer has to thank for that. She’s been in this operation for three years and knows front and center how far gone her poor friend is. It’s also Gwen who gives Malifer the idea of asking Sir Leon for help in these trying times.

-

“So, how did it go?” Malifer asks after Leon enters their agreed meeting spot to share information. He won’t ever admit it to Leon’s face, but having Leon agree to help Operation Merthur (fucking Gwaine) was a Godsend. At this point, Malifer was grasping at the seams because he, as well as every other inhabitant in this kingdom, knew Merlin’s feelings for KIng Arthur and he knew the feelings were reciprocated. Unfortunately, intuition isn’t enough to convince said manservant to confess his feelings (not to mention Malifer is in no way able to ask that of the king being as Malifer has never conversed with him).

“The general meeting we had went well,” Malifer rolled his eyes, “but the minute I asked about him courting anyone, he got agitated.”

Interesting. 

“This could mean one of many things you know.”

Leon then rolls his eyes at Malifer. Well then, sorry for stating the obvious. “I’m well aware of that, so I pressed on.”

“And?” Malifer raises his brow. What is with knights and theatrics?

“And, well,” Leon coughed his cheeks looking a bit more pink than usual. “And well, he’s not courting anyone, but then he started venting about the...silliness of Kings being expected to court someone so soon.” Malifer has a sneaking suspicion that the king didn't say silly, but he nodded along. The king ranting is good. He could let anything slip that he would usually keep well hidden, and this is Sir Leon, King Arthur’s most trusted knight and childhood friend. “He then goes on to say how he has too much on his plate,” Understandable, “and technically he’s not really interested because…”

Malifer frowns at the sudden pause and looks up to Sir Leon (why does he have to be so tall?). His mouth is shaped in a circle. Realization flashes in his eyes. Malifer huffs and crosses his arms.

“Because…?” He taps his foot while he waits for Leon to come back from wherever his mind went. Malifer stares while he waits (he has nothing better to do, really). Sir Leon isn’t wearing his armor today which is a little odd to see since that’s all Malifer has ever seen him in, but it's not...terrible. To be honest, the armor hid a lot of the muscles Sir Leon appears to have. His arms are also crossed so it’s easier to see the muscles flexed there and-- okay! Time to get back on track and not think any more about Leon’s arms, thighs, chest, neck….fuck.

Malifer clears his throat and that seems to get Leon’s attention again. He blinks at Malifer who’s now a little more than flustered to be held under the knight’s gaze. Maifer shuffles his feet and averts his eyes anywhere but at Leon.

“Well?”

Leon coughs and straightens up. “Right. Well, he said he wasn’t interested in courting any lady’s because, well, he stopped himself there. But I think it's probably because he was going to say that it’s because he’s already interested in someone.”

Malifer’s eyes widen and he smiles. Finally! 

“And he’s not courting them?”

“No, it seems not.”

“Hm,” Malifer smirks, “I wonder why is that?”  

Leon smiles. It softens his features. It makes him look-- Malifer shakes his head. That’s not the important thing here. The important thing is that Arthur is interested in someone, but won’t court them.

“Maybe it’s because they aren't technically noble?” He ponders mockingly.

Leon nods but his smile stays firm on his face since he is in on the game. “And this person may not exactly be a lady.”

“But it is very close to him for him to be that flustered.”

They grin at each other, proud they both reached the same conclusion.

“Merlin?” Leon’s eyes twinkle with mischief that Malifer has never seen on the knight before.

“Oh most definitely.”

-

That evening, Malifer wasn’t stuck in the kitchen (Charlie was and had half a mind to murder Malifer for throwing him under the bus to escape the cook’s wrath) and was enjoying himself. He interacted with the other servants, chatted with Gwaine and Percival on the importance of sleeves (“I’m telling you, Perce. It wouldn’t hurt, and someone might try to attack them since there’s no protection.” A huff. “I would get to them first.” “Perce, please.”), and watched the king and his servant float around each other. 

Seriously, it was like they were in their own world or something. 

Merlin went to pour some water for Leon, who was next to King Arthur, but then Merlin must have said something to cause the king to tug on Merlin’s scarf pulling him eye to eye with himself. They gazed at each other for a while, forgetting that Leon was even there. Malifer saw his shoulders slump as he grabbed the pitcher to pour his own cup (it was not water). Malifer shakes his head in sympathy for the poor knight.

When the king finally let Merlin go, Malifer caught Leon’s eye and the knight only shrugged in response to Malifer’s raised eyebrow. The king seemed to catch their interaction and frowned looking between the two. He leaned in to say something that Malifer wouldn’t be able to hear. Whatever it was, it caused Sir Leon to flush profusely and hide his face in his cup while the king laughed. Malifer tilted his head in confusion then shrugged. It’s probably none of his business.

-

The next day saw Malifer's second plan go into motion: breaking Merlin. Many have tried to get him to admit his feelings, but all have failed. However, this can only work with the help of Lady Guinevere and Gaius, the royal physician. 

Malifer doesn’t know the royal physician personally, but he does know Gwen thanks to her lovely contribution to the Operation. With Gwen's help, they should be able to convince Gaius to help them in reaching their goal.

On the way to the physician’s chambers Gwen is skipping and humming in excitement while Malifer is shaking with nerves. It shouldn’t be that hard. It's Gaius, and Gwen assured Malifer that Gaius would definitely be all for this plan. While his mind is running through different scenarios on how this will pan out, he doesn’t notice someone else coming down the hallway and walks straight into metal. Fucking knights.

“Are you alright? Malifer?”

Malifer’s nose twitches as he looks up to who’s talking. Of course. Sir Leon in all his armor glory. He looks down at Malifer (seriously, Malifer isn’t that short!) his face looking concerned. Malifer’s nose twitches (winces really) again and he goes to touch it. 

“I’m fine,” he says, then winces after touching his nose. Leon frowns.

“I beg to differ.”

“Well, it sucks to suck. I’m fine, really.”

Leon still looks unconvinced but sighs as if resigned. Malifer reasons it must be because he knows other people who do the same thing.

“If you say so.”

Malifer’s lips purse. The nerve. He said he was fine. Leon doesn’t have to be concerned. He sniffs indignantly then regrets it.

“Well, I ran into you anyway, so...I’ll be careful next time.”

Leon chuckles. “I hope so.” His gaze stays fixed on Malifer and now he feels caught. Thankfully, Gwen comes to the rescue (bless her, really).

“We're sorry to have bumped into you. Anyway, we were on our way to see Gaius and it’s best to get to him before his work begins.” She gently nudges Malifer to follow her up to Gaius’s chambers. Malifer looks back to see Leon wave with a soft smile on his face. Malifer can feel his lips widen as he waves back.

“At least we now have an excuse to see him urgently,” Gwen says, but her eyes hold mischief in them. Malifer frowns. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“So.” Malifer can feel the floor escape from his feet as she turns to face him. He looks away. “You’re blushing.”

His head snaps back to her. “I am not!”

“Mhm, sure. So….” Malifer groans, already knowing where Gwen is going. “You and Sir Leon seem to be friendly.”

Malifer huffs and crosses his arms (he seems to be doing that alot). “Of course we are! He’s in on the plan. Just, he’s just here to help us get Arthur’s side just like how we’re using Gaius for Merlin! I mean, he’s not a bad guy. Isn’t snobby like some nobles and knights I know. I mean, he's no Gwaine but you know what I mean.”

“Oh? Gwaine?”

Malifer thinks his face just exploded. That’s not what he meant, and she knows that.

“I-I...I meant he’s not as down to earth as Gwaine. Gwaine’s charming, but he’s not my type.”

“And your type is…?”

Was it really taking this long to get to Gaius’s chambers? Gwen said they were close some minutes ago. He looks around avoiding Gwen and his obvious blush. He finds a sign to the chambers not long after and gives out a sigh of relief.

“Come on, the physician’s chamber is this way. I would like to get my nose treated, thank you very much.”

Gwen sighs and follows him up the stairs. Hoping that Gaius will help them in their plan.

-

“Of course I will!” Gaius exclaims.

Well, that was easy.

Gwen smiles and thanks Gaius while he continues to treat Malifer’s nose. He winces a couple of times but other than that he can feel his nose starting to recover.

“I’ve been living with that boy long enough to get tired of his obvious pining and the King-” Gaius rolls his eyes, “-I’ve been taking care of him since he was a little boy. Both of them are quite the pair aren’t they?”

Gwen and Malifer nod in agreement. Nobody is blind when it comes to seeing King Arthur and Merlin’s affections for one another. Now with Gaius’s help, they could find a way to speed up the torturous pining that this kingdom has been suffering from.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Malifer begins to explain his and other’s findings, as well as what Leon has been telling him. Gaius nods along and begins to share his own ideas. Gaius seems against anything that would be surrounded following Merlin, but concedes to confronting Merlin on confessing. Gwen adds that Arthur could be confronted on the fact of why he isn’t inclined to court anyone. 

It’s while they are in their hushed conversation that a tired Merlin enters the chambers. Gaius notices first and opens his mouth to greet him, but something weird happens. Malifer, who could have sworn that his eyes were deceiving him, watched as Merlin's eyes glowed gold and the chair near the shelf covered in potions moved closer to Merlin. Once it’s behind him, Merlin collapses on top of it. Malifer’s jaw drops.

“Merlin!” Gaius hisses. That seems to wake up the servant (no, sorcerer). He dazedly looks up at Gaius and smiles, raising his hand up to wave but freezes. It seems he notices Gwen and Malifer now. His smile falls.

“Well,” Malifer says, eyes still wide, “this complicates things.”

part 2

[meaganfoster]

sent an official email . brb throwing up

[apocalypticdemon]

oh my god i am so tired of writing lmao

[snow-and-saltea]

sorry imma put this one on here, i wanna reply to it but i won't be able to without watering down my intent, and if i do my point loses its weight

edit: nvm LMFAO i worded it nicely in the end, under the cut tho cus this is mf long

(context: in this chapter of a manhwa, the sister of a criminal who attempted to kill the main protagonist talked with her and told her about how her other brother died in interrogation for being part of the revolutionary group against the monarchy. his death was happening in tandem with the main character's violin recital, of which her father left his duty from interrogating the brother, just so he could attend. it was framed in such a way to show how oblivious she was to the political climate surrounding her, how her privilege kept her sheltered, and how even when the criminal's sister went to their gates she was detained and shooed away and dismissed as "causing a fuss". their eyes meet from the MC being up high on the balcony, and the woman from down low past the fences, officers manhandling her into going away as she was a commoner and could be seen as an ally to her brother as part of the revolutionary party. the woman says specifically that she doesn't think that the mc is guilty, she just wants her to know what happened. and the mc reflects on all of this and realises how clueless she's been, how sheltered of a life she had that, until now, she couldn't find the common thread between the two of them, and she starts crying and apologising. later on, when she calms down, the weight of her privileged birth and its responsibilities hits her, and she's steeling herself, and the chapter ends.)

first of all. hmmm?? "what exactly is the FL's fault"? of course, if we were to go by straightforward, linear logic, SHE hasn't done anything wrong. she never ordered her dad to kill people. she doesn't even know people are dying. no one has been put under harms way by her direct actions. all these things would be enough to clear your conscience.... if you are a child, that is.

if you are an adult, like she is, you will eventually realise that you have the power to impact people and things and your surroundings. if you are an adult with a moral conscience, you will feel BAD about your obliviousness to others' suffering that makes you rethink about what your blindspots in perception are; how could i have missed something so vital - how long has this been going on - why did this continue to happen? and this is the stage she is getting at. by our estimates as modern people living in modern world standards, it is very late to be living this long and not realise that you are not the only unique occupant of the world, blind to other people's perspectives. but that's besides the point, because everyone has their own path and pace to follow. it doesn't matter how long it took to get here, we're just glad you're here now to do the good work with us.

do you not feel some sort of revulsion knowing that a family member of yours is acting in immoral ways, and you've been the unwitting beneficiary to that immorality? does it not burden you with responsibility when you realise you could have had multiple opportunities to speak out against the hurt being inflicted onto others, while you were in a position to do so safely and without extreme repercussion? THAT is what she's feeling. she knows that she technically do anything wrong, but she didn't do anything right, either. and it is not enough to know suffering exists, but to strive to heal it, whenever you are able.

this is obviously a fictional story so it doesn't have to be that deep; except it can be, and it's trying to be, because this story is set after the revolution has toppled over the monarchy, so themes like classism, privilege of birth and how to quantify someone's 'value' will be present.

nevermind i wrote all of this but i got so heated instead that i actually managed to write a pretty polite sounding response to the comment, leading with curiosity abt their perspectives and trying to sound friendly and Open to Discussion. the proofreader in me will never die as long as im pissed off at people but trying to find a constructive way of communicating that upset 💪😎👍

anyways. this is what i wrote instead

i don't do zines these days but my proofreader ability for real saves my ass so many times in writing communication. fr i think i would've made some very regretful choices if i were trigger happy ajdhskdjkdjd i'm quite satisfied w what i wrote, i lined out what i got different from them and expressed curiosity on their perspective, posited positives to recontextualize things so that i'm not just going "no ur wrong and Here's Why", gently went "we can agree to disagree!" and remained pretty lighthearted throughout, with no accusatory or pointed language. i'm p proud of myself!! i am able to engage in discussions without pissing myself and other people off!! hurray!!

[lvlyghost]

Remnants

PAIRINGS: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SUMMARY: You got hurt and Simon finds out.

WORD COUNT: 1.0k

TW: bruises, slight angst. reader missing simon. also fluff think that's it. lmk if i missed any. also poorly edited and not proofread. mind the english!🤭✨🤍

A/N: this is so self indulgent. embarrassing how much time it took to get out because i've had this idea for two weeks now. anyway enjoy!💛

Masterlist✨

Laying in bed until it was late was part of your daily routine when Simon was off on deployment. Too tired to even get up when he wasn't around to wake you at 7:00 a.m.

He was a morning person unlike you.

You remember the days he would drag you against him by the waist mumbling something about being too late to be in bed, to which you had groggily bit back and slapped his arm in a playful manner. Then he would be gone for months, leaving nothing but an empty bed and the absence of his deep voice to fill your ears. Feeling that made your eyes well with tears and your heart ache. What if I don't see him again? What if that was the last time I ever felt his touch?

Shaking your head you pull yourself out of the comfort of your shared bed, taking a quick bath before preparing yourself a nice breakfast.

Winter is starting to settle in and your favorite thing to wear is his black hoodie. The one that swallows you entirely. It smells like him, it's almost like being embraced by him.

"Come on don't cry now." rubbing your eyes with the hem of the sleeves. Traitorous, salty droplets spilling down. "Jesus." Taking a deep breath you calm yourself and the ache gradually stops.

The kitchen is somewhat cold despite the heater turned on. You watch as the coffee brews —the one he dislikes— you smile again although small. Barely a quirk of your lips at the thought of him looking intently at you as you take a sip and offer him one.

'Bloody incorrigible.' He had muttered.

But you had seen him smiling that day as well, as different as you both were from one another, the love you two held couldn't be denied, nor broken.

That's why when the front door creaks open your eyes widen, legs moving faster than your brain can register. Socked feet dragging across the wooden floor nearly slipping. Simon stands stall, the door closing behind him as he lowers the black duffel bag on the floor.

"Are you really back?" Your lower lip trembles, the emotion too heavy to hold it back.

"Come here, love." You lunge forward, collapsing against his body. Simon's quick to catch you with strong arms holding you. Bodies pressed together. He can finally let himself breathe. The smell of your home, the smell of that awful coffee you love, the aroma of your shampoo and perfume that drives him absolutely crazy. He pulls his mask off and his mouth is soon against your soft lips. Oh how he missed you. He missed this, his girl softly caressing his face standing on your tiptoes. Simon grumbled, when he feels the air shift and you pull back, his brown eyes glimmer with devotion.

"Don't worry there's tea for you. Plenty. I made sure of that for when you returned." He inhales deeply, kissing you once again on the forehead. Taking his hand you lead him to the kitchen to serve both the breakfast you've been working on. "How are the boys?" You ask taking two mugs out of the top cabinet.

"A bit more scarred than before but they're good." He comes behind you lingering close —too close— to your back. "Price wants a reunion. Told him I'd let you decide."

"You already know I'll say yes." He hums watching you pour some water in the kettle and waiting for it to boil. "Black or chamomile?"

"Black." You try to move around as much as you can with him caging you from behind. Giggling when he once again kisses you on the temple. "Alright, let me see you again..."

Simon grabs you by the forearm it's not hard, it's gentle but firm. Firm enough to hurt your neglected limb. You shriek, a loud 'no' leaves your lips as you stumble back and away from him, soothing the place where he had touched you. It hurt so much but you quickly regret your reaction knowing it'd spark something within him.

Simon's eyes go wide, then his brows furrow so hard you can see the small line that could leave a permanent mark on his forehead.

"What was that?" He growled. The distance you put between you and him is cut off by his long strides.

"It's nothing, I- I swear." You trail off, searching for an explanation. But he's smart and he won't let this pass.

Few things could make him lose his temper, you lying about your wellbeing was one of the top on the list.

"Show me." He demands and the way his eyes pierce through every part of you leaves no room for discussion.

Rolling up your sleeves you hold out your forearms. Simon's jaw clenches so hard you're certain he's cracked some of his teeth. Eyes set on your damaged limb; red and purple bruises on your skin. They're so fucking big and he has to remember how to breathe and control his emotions. "How?" His eyes shot back to yours, awaiting.

"I promise it's not what you're thinking Simon."

"Don't give me that. I asked you a question." he takes one of them careful not to press too hard as he brushes his thumb over one of them. Fucking hell. It's swollen.

"Just work Simon. I had to carry big boxes and you know I'm not that strong, that's it. So stop thinking the worst, yeah?"

Sighing he lets go of your arm, the anger slowly ebbs and he feels fucking tired. He thought the worst. No one could blame him, it was in his DNA.

"Next time let me know beforehand, bloody hell love."

You give him a quick hug.

"I still might have to have a talk with your cunt boss."

You snort.

"No you won't." You declare, motioning for him to follow back. "Tea's ready."

Oh, but he would definitely pay him a visit.

[senseichaos]

hi hi! That one-shot you did with Alastor broadcasting his and reader's..."love-making" was rather delicious but I can't help but think of you know..aftercare. It was quite rough and I'd love to see Alastor being sweet and sorta guilty for going so roughly cause we both know...reader was bleeding after😭😭😭

Yess I love writing aftercare and when I saw this I was immediately wanting to write it ! Thank you

"Pathetic" But still a princess,

Summary: Alastor roughed you up quite badly in your last.. fornication session.. so as to make it a more happy evening he gives you some very much needed aftercare! (Part 2 to "Pathetic")

Genre: Fluff, romance, slight sexual undertones

Warnings: Swearing, blood, Alastor is kinda bipolar considering how much more soft he acts in this compared to the last part, love confessions, lmk if I missed any

NOT EDITED NOR PROOFREAD (YET)

______

Alastor carries you the entire way to his room, not wanting to rough up your brain by teleporting to his room. And oddly he sort of enjoyed the intimacy of it all. It's weird, Alastor is never really one to enjoy intimacy, but this odd time he feels nice giving you this comfort.

As he enters his room, he makes sure to lock the door behind him so no one comes in whilst he bathes you, and with a smile to you walks to his suite. The suite isn't the largest but it's big enough that when he places you on the side of the bath he can walk around you with ease.

"Alastor I think I'm bleeding," You say, looking at some scratches on your thigh as Alastor takes off his overcoat and folds it neatly. He gives you a soft look, placing his coat to the side.

"Well of course you are darling! My fawn had to learn her lesson somehow, hm?" Alastor says with a small chuckle, squatting down (his knees clicking as he does so) to turn on the water of the bath. You roll your eyes, fiddling with the fabric of your shirt as you contemplate taking it off.

"Take off your shirt, dear, it's nothing I haven't seen before," Alastor commands with a rather teasing tone, arranging the correct soap to put inside of your bath. You nod, pulling off your shirt and bra, discarding them onto the floor next to the bath. You almost cover yourself, but understand if you did Alastor would probably tell you off.

After the bath fills a bit Alastor taps the side of the bath, capturing your attention.

"You can get in now, fawn. It should be warm enough," He says, and you give him a small nod. Rather awkwardly with your pained thighs you manage to crawl yourself into the bath, Alastor does end up helping you a bit when you almost faceplant into the water, shifting you so you sit with a weirdly empathetic look for him.

"Now let's not fall on our face, shall we. I'd rather not have you more injured than you are already,"

You giggle, leaning up and squishing his cheek playfully.

"Awe you care about me, that's new," you say, and he takes your hand off of his face with a stern look.

"I wouldn't call it 'new', you just haven't seen it yet," He says, and you give him a confused look as he starts pouring some bubble soap into the bath.

"What haven't I seen?"

He laughs, shaking his head as he begins mixing in the soap with his hand.

"Me caring about you, silly doe," He chuckles, ruffling your hair with his wet hand. This causes you to shake the water off and give him an annoyed look.

"Give me an example,"

He looks up for a moment, thinking of an instance where he's shown care for you.

"Well, how about earlier today when I told you not to drink the tea because it was hot?" He asks, turning the water pressure on the hot water slightly higher. You roll your eyes, pulling your aching knees to your chest as the water around you rises.

"Oh so what, the bare minimum.. how caring of you Alastor,"

"Now don't get pissy with me, dear. I was only giving you an example of my caring for you," He chuckles, giving your nose a soft boop as he continues mixing the water. You notice his sleeve is dangerously close to the water, so you push his hand from the water slowly.

"Careful, you're gonna get your sleeves wet," You say, and Alastor smiles slightly wider.

"Don't worry about it, my dear. It's nothing I can't handle," He says, his green magic surrounding his sleeves and rolling them up to just above his elbows. "You shouldn't have to worry about something so small as my sleeves,"

Your eyes go glossy with tears at the odd affection in his voice. It's something you've never heard from him before. Sure there's the empty compliments, the empty pecks, but this is different. It's as if he loves you.

"Do you really care about me, Alastor?"

Alastor furrows his brows, turning off the hot water tap as the bath is full enough with water. He leans over, pushing his hand against your cheek as he leans there.

"Of course I do, my dear," he pauses, looking into the distance for a moment as if contemplating. "And I do apologize for being so rough with you today, you had to learn your lesson somehow,"

You giggle, pushing his hand away and leaning against the back of the bath.

"It's okay Alastor, I liked it more than I'd like to admit,"

Alastor rolls his eyes at this, grabbing a sponge from the corner of the bath.

"Charming, my fawn," He says, putting his sponge into the water and squeezing it so the soapy water fills it. He begins to scrub you with it, staring with your face as he pushes your hair from your face, holding you there by it.

"Fuck you, as if you didn't enjoy it either!"

He laughs, scrubbing your nose as you scrunch your eyes.

"Well of course I did dear, I wouldn't have initiated it if I hadn't, hm?" Alastor hums, moving to scrub your other cheek. You sputter on a cough, your eyes squinting at the way he scrubs you. He just chuckles, scrubbing your chin and jaw.

"Do you really have to clean the entirety of me?" You ask, biting your lower lip as he tilts your head back by your hair. Alastor continues to scrub your chin, moving to the other side of your jaw.

"Well of course I do, a clean fawn is a happy fawn." He says, pinching your cheek and cooing in a sort of cute fashion. Rolling your eyes you attempt to splash water at him, only for the water to be caught up in his green magic and placed back into the water.

"Now don't try anything silly, fawn,"

You moan in annoyance, hissing when his sponge begins to scrub the raw skin on your neck from the collar he had you in. The skin is bruised and even as a couple cuts from the force he used. You wonder what he thinks about when he looks at the damage. Does he find it funny? Does it feed a possessiveness in him? Does he feel guilty?

"What do you think about when you see the marks on me?" You ask out of the blue, against your better judgement.

Much to your surprise, Alastor just tilts his head in acknowledgement before speaking.

"Hm, well I feel a tad proud, and I feel a tad guilty. But, I also feel like I want to eat you up!" He answers, ending his sentence in a teasing manor. But you don't miss the slight hunger in his eyes at the thought. You narrow your eyes, speaking: "Please don't,"

"Oh I wouldn't, dear. It's just a tad fun to think about," He says with a humor in his voice, and you can't help but laugh. Alastor moves his hand from your hair, placing it on your neck as he pushes your head back with his thumb.

"Bet you'd get your rocks off to it," You chuckle, biting on your cheek uncomfortably as Alastor scrubs the back of your neck. His eyes darken slightly, tilting your head down to get better access to the back of your neck.

"Don't tempt me, fawn," He says softly, pressing the spong to your collarbone to clean the slightly bruised area. Hissing in pain you flinch away from Alastor as his sponge brushes onto a cut. He gives you a sort of stern yet understanding look, reaching out for your arm to pull you closer to him again as soft as possible.

"Sorry my dear, it's going to hurt," Alastor apologizes, setting his hand back onto your neck so he can scrub your shoulders. Once again you hiss when the sponge hits a sensitive area of raw skin, but this time you stay put.

"You know I don't think it's fair that you get to sit outside of the bath.. how are you gonna clean my legs!" You ask, Alastor just humors you with a chuckle.

"Like this,"

He spins you around gently so your legs are hanging off the edge of the bath, dripping water down to the tiled flooring below. He takes a hold of your left ankle and begins scrubbing your foot, causing you to begin giggling at the way he scrubs the ticklish area.

"Ah! That tickles..!" You laugh, clasping your damp hands over your mouth as he continues scrubbing your foot. Alastor doesn't acknowledge you, instead going to scrub down your calf.

"I still think this is unfair, what if I want to clean you!"

"I had a bath this morning, no point in bathing again," He says with an obvious tone. You roll your eyes, looking up at the roof as he continues to clean your left leg.

"Can I at least wash you another time?"

"Maybe If you continue to be steadfast in no longer entering my studio unprompted, fawn," He answers, leaning over you as he finishes your left leg, beginning to clean your stomach.

"I'm bored.." You groan, leaning your head back into the splashback of the bath. Alastor narrows his eyes, and suddenly a tentacle with another sponge appears behind you, pushing you before beginning to clean your back.

"What a needy thing you are,". He says, causing you to huff out in displeasure. To your surprise he leans over you even more, even slightly towering over you as he cleans your breasts. It makes you blush, really. Having him tower over you like this in almost a lascivious manor whilst doing the most domestic of things. He's just cleaning you, for Christ sake!

"Alastor,"

"Hm?"

You wonder. Does he love you? You want to ask it so badly. When he towers over you like this and cleans every crevice of your body does his heart clench? Does his body feel warm? Does he get those butterflies that you do? You wonder.

"Do you love me?"

He stops moving, both him and his tentacle which had started cleaning your lower back.

His eyes reflect a myriad of emotions, many of which you can't even begin to fathom. He seems almost on edge. As if your question had sent him into his brain completely.

"I.. I think I might in my own.." he pauses, placing his pointer finger against his chin in thought. "Immoral ways,"

"Immoral?"

He continues to wash you, along with the tentacle, seeming to have gotten his point across enough to continue what he was doing.

"I'm not a moral demon, dear. When I think of you I want to devour you, but, I also want to hold you,"

Devour you?

"Well, I love you Alastor.."

"I love you too, fawn. Now let's get to cleaning your hair, shall we?"

You groan, pouting in annoyance at the thought of spending another 30 minutes in this bath. Though Alastor just laughs to himself, squeezing your cheek.

"How cute you are when you're all mad at me, hm?"

You stick out your tongue at him.

Normal, well as normal as you can be, once again.

[daisynik7]

Pairing: Nanami x f!reader

Rating: Explicit - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~1.5k

cw: established relationship, smut – PIV sex (doggy style), rough sex, blow job, cunnilingus, bondage, blindfold, use of safe word, slight degradation (use of the word slut), explicit language, safe word, pet names (sweetie, sweetheart, princess, honey), aftercare 

Summary: You send your husband an eggplant emoji as a joke, but he doesn't find it amusing one bit.

Author’s Notes: Barely proofread, hardly edited, all horny. Just my little contribution to the plethora of delicious fics that came out after this latest episode. Tagging @lovekento because this was inspired by your recent ask about the safeword audio we love so much. Also tagging @darkstarlight82 because of your recent ask to be tagged in JJK fics! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated. Thanks for reading! MDNI and support dividers credit to @/cafekitsune (as always).

Nanami does not take kindly to jokes. Years of being together and he’s uptight as always. That doesn’t mean you stop trying, especially when you love how mad he gets at you.

It’s innocent, silly, completely unserious. I’m really craving something tonight, followed by suggestive emojis, including the winky face and a particularly phallic vegetable. You grin at your screen when you notice the three dots blinking, indicating that he’s read it and is currently typing a reply. Probably growing hard in his pants just thinking about it, knowing him. Before he can say anything, you send him a selfie of you at the grocery store, holding up two large eggplants, smiling wide at the camera. Eggplant parmesan! The dots flash once more, then disappear immediately, and you crack up in the middle of the produce section when he ends up not responding at all. 

Back home, it’s eerily dark inside with all the lights off. You carefully set your groceries on the counter, clicking the switch to illuminate the kitchen. You’re startled when you notice Nanami’s burly silhouette in the living room, back turned towards you, sitting upright on the couch, motionless. He does nothing to acknowledge your presence, worrying you even further. “Honey?” you call out, slowly making your way towards him. His arms are crossed over his chest, bulging out of his sleeves, staring straight ahead with a menacing look on his face. He remains silent, ignoring you. 

“Kento,” you say, swallowing hard, nervous at this unusually sinister behavior.   

“Thought you were craving something.” His voice is low and husky in his throat. Almost threatening.  

You kneel in front of him, leaning on his thighs. “It was a joke, honey.”

Finally, he looks at you, gaze intense from behind his glasses, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep inhale through his nose, exhale out his mouth. “So, you riled me up for no fucking reason then?”

You gulp loudly again, taken aback by his sudden vulgarity, simultaneously aroused. “I’m sorry, Kento.”

“Do you think I’m going to let you get away with this?” He grips your chin, focusing your attention on his lap. “Look how hard I am. Look at what your stupid joke did to me.” His massive erection is strained in his pants. Your pussy throbs, mouth salivating at the sight of it.

He unbuckles his belt and splits his zipper open. “You know what you have to do, don’t you sweetheart?” He shrugs his pants down enough to free his cock, veins protruding on the thick shaft. You nod silently, peering up at him with wide eyes, parting your lips, hungry for him. 

“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, stroking himself in his fist, precum oozing from the tip. “Stick out your tongue.” You do, letting it hang from your bottom lip, mouth open.

“Good girl,” he purrs. “So obedient for me.” He swipes his thumb over his cockhead, collecting the precum to smear it onto your tongue. “Swallow. Get a taste of it before you take me.”

You obey, relishing the salty, luscious flavor down your throat, your eyes never leaving his. He smirks, tracing your lips with his thumb, the first hint of softness since you this all started. “I’m going to ruin this mouth. Understand?” 

You nod again, panties wet with your arousal. Hoping he doesn’t notice, you reach between your legs, desperate to touch yourself. He catches you, using his foot to swat your arm away. “Ah, ah, ah. You’ll have your turn later.” He loosens the spotted tie on his neck to cover your eyes with it, knotting it tight. “There. Nothing except my cock to occupy this little head of yours.” He guides his cock into your mouth, sliding it along your tongue until he bottoms out. “Now, suck,” he demands, your face pressed to his groin, bottom lip grazing his heavy balls. You bob your head back and forth on him, drool leaking from the sides of your lips, teasing your gag reflex with every solid thrust, swallowing it down every time he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he whispers, cradling your face. “Such a good fucking slut for me.”

After several more strokes, he pulls out of you, cock wet with your saliva, squelching between his fist as he continues to jerk himself off. “On my lap. Come on.” He lends his hand, helping you up while the blindfold remains. You bend over his thighs, in position for a spanking, just as he expects. 

He chuckles. “Good girl. You already know that you need to be punished, huh? Always playing these ridiculous pranks on me. I hope you learn your lesson after this.” He slides the belt off his waist, binding your wrists behind your back, shoulders in an uncomfortable stretch as the leather digs into your skin. The need to be touched by him overwhelms you, body tingling with anticipation, pussy aching to be filled. 

He pulls your pants down, leaving you only in your panties from the waist down. The first spank sends shivers down your spine, the loud smack bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, flesh prickling from the contact. The second comes almost immediately, surprising you. You whimper, shutting your eyes, clenching your legs together. “Kento.”

A third is delivered, your ass throbbing and swelling against his calloused hand. “What?” he growls, palm ready for a fourth. 

“Fuck me,” you whine, jittering on his lap. You can’t take it anymore. You want him. You need him. 

“Oh, so you’re giving orders now?” He rolls you on your back, tugging your panties off, exposing your glistening cunt. “That’s not how this works, sweetheart. You know that. I can’t just give you what you want after what you did to me.” He spreads your legs apart, teasing your slit with his fingers, spreading your slick across your swollen clit. “Look how fucking juicy you are. All that because I fucked your throat. Nasty slut.”

You hear him spit, then feel the trickle of his saliva coat your aching bud. He repeats, soaking you in his spittle. He readjusts himself on the couch so that he’s between your legs, licking and slurping your cunt until his chin and nose are glossy. You squirm, knees shaky, already pushed to your limits. His lips surround your clit, sucking on it until it’s puffy in his mouth, tongue flicking it aggressively, pussy fluttering with arousal. You’re overstimulated, core incredibly tight, ready to fucking burst. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he muffles, still slobbering. “Come on my face. Squirt all over this couch. I’m going to fucking embarrass you like you did me, you stupid slut.” You whine his name, gushing for him, rutting your hips against his face, writhing on the cushions damp with your juices. 

He rolls you over again, dragging your body until you’re up on your knees, ass up. “I’m going to wreck this pussy. Pound it until you learn your lesson. Got it?”

You nod erratically, ready to be fucked hard and fast. He enters you smoothly, stretching you out until you’re completely full of him, everything so wet and messy between you. He pumps his cock in and out of you, pace increasing the more and more your body yields to him. He fucks you like an animal in heat, railing your cunt like it’s his own personal cock sleeve for him to use and tear apart. 

Blindfolded and still bound by the wrists, you begin to grow scared of his carnal behavior. His nails imprint your skin, grip so strong it hurts with every brutal thrust. The guttural growls he emits sound nothing like the Nanami you know. The way he bullies his cock into your tight pussy, so deep and so rough that a cramp develops in your abdomen makes you think that the person fucking you is a complete stranger now. You want your husband back. It takes you a few tries to get it out, but eventually, you do, whimpering, “Makgeolli.”

He doesn’t hear you, so you say it once more, louder this time. “Makgeolli.”

Immediately, it’s as if a switched is flipped. He pulls out, quickly removing the belt and blindfold off you, his tie saturated in tears and sweat. “Hey, hey, hey. Sweetie, I’m here. I’m right here. You’re okay.” He pulls you up on his lap, cradling you in his arms, kissing your sticky forehead, brushing away any of the remaining tears from your eyes. 

You relax into his hold, nestling your face into his shoulder, steadying your breathing. He massages your back, pressing soft kisses on your cheek. “I’m sorry, princess. I’m so sorry. I got carried away, I admit it.” His voice is soothing now, familiar and comforting in your ear. 

Sniffling, you ask, “Are you mad at me?”

He smiles, nuzzling his nose to yours. “I was never mad to begin with. I just wanted to tease you, but I took it too far. I’m sorry.” He kisses you on the lips, cupping your check in his palm. “Your joke was actually quite funny.”

You giggle softly, running your fingers through his hair, damp with his own perspiration. “At least I got you to finally admit it.”

He gives you another smooch on the forehead, lacing his fingers with yours. “I’ll run us a bath, okay? And then after, we can order pizza and watch a movie. Sound good?”

“Yes. And I’ll help you with this while we’re soaking in the tub. Does that sound good?” You palm his cock, still stiff and wet against his abs. 

“Whatever you want, princess.”

[breitzbachbea]

Also time to make a self-indulgent post :3c

[keisobe]

── ⋆˙⟡♡ 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 (𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐚)

from spider-man : across the spiderverse (spoiler free!!)

characters. miles morales. miguel o’hara. hobie brown & peter b. parker. + pavitr prabhakar

notes. i quickly wrote this because spiderverse has consumed a lot of my attention (cue the tiktok edits i’ve saved of hobie and miguel). anyways hope i did the characterization accurate enough and hope it was fun to read ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) + not completely proofread

𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 ❤︎

he’s painfully awkward when it comes to hugging. his limbs don’t know where to wrap around, so they keep flaring everywhere until you end up locking him into one solid hug.

miles is also very respectful of your boundaries, he would do that weird hover hand thing over your waist that would look very off in photos (his hand literally 3 inches away from your shoulder, but a good photo overall).

but when he’s close to you, he would pull you into a protective and warm embrace— especially if he has been worried sick about you. that’s until he pulls away and let’s out a chuckle accompanied with a light scratch on the back of his neck to ease his worries.

“umm… wait— lemme just…”

miles’ arms were bending awkwardly and moving in lightning speed, a nervous smile plastered onto his conflicted features— twitching brows and all.

you huffed at his failed attempt to simply embrace you, so you forcefully hooked your arms around his neck and brought him closer, feeling the softness of his cheek against your forehead and the pacing heartbeat you didn’t know he had.

“it’s fine, it’s just me silly.” you teased into his ear, prompting miles to chuckle at his own awkwardness and to wrap his strong arms around your waist.

“right, it’s you.” he whispered more to himself, leaning down to reach your height and to cutely rest his head in the nape of your neck. “just you.”

𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 ❤︎

hasn’t been held in so long. he says that he doesn’t do hugs, will probably go into flight-and-fight mode if you even asked for a small embrace. if you’re lucky though, he’ll leave you with a deadly glare and an annoyed huff.

but in the heat of the moment, in the moments of needed comfort, he will be there to give you an embrace. although, his hugs are tight, to the point you have a hard time breathing. it’ll take him a moment to notice that you’re literally breathless and will cough a lousy sorry as compensation for squeezing you to death (but he actually feels bad).

what nobody knows (maybe expect you) is that he prefers hugs that can display his strength. lifting you off from the ground with ease makes him smirk to himself. surprise hugs from the back also avoids the awkwardness of confronting actual romantic contact (it’s also more fun for him).

“what now?” miguel folds his arms impatiently as he watches you dumbly spread your arms out, a determined glint in your eyes.

no response, you simply spread your arms wider. miguel huffs an annoyed laugh and awkwardly comes up to you to embrace you, with a tightness that made you choke for air. then he suddenly lifts you from the floor, making you latch tightly around his neck.

miguel sighs deeply, the irritation that emitted from him suddenly became comfortably warm.

“did you need this hug?” you managed to breathe out, threading your fingers through the loose brown hair in the back of his neck.

“yeah, i really needed it.” miguel mumbles out in embarrassment, tightening his muscular arms around your waist— prompting a weak yet satisfied wheeze from your lips.

𝐡𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 ❤︎

he’s chill with hugs, but he’s very friendly about it. likes to latch an arm on his mates and such— but an immediate sweet embrace you won’t really get (he’s good at reading people, so if you’re vibes are off, he ain’t moving an inch).

he generally prefers to give side hugs, nothing too personal and definitely fits his overall demeanor. match that up with a firm compliment and a friendly pat on the shoulder. but if he’s close to you, he’ll be there patiently with open arms.

then he’s analyzing you closely as you embrace him, listening closely for a change in your heartbeat or any small noise that escapes your mouth. he subtly smells you too and will not forget your scent (will use the same detergent as you right after the embrace). there’s a moment of silence and it’s perfectly comfortable.

“c’mere.” hobie faintly whispers with an expanded arm, his expression unusually soft.

immediately you ran to receive an embrace from his slim body, a wet sniffle muffled into his webbed suit as tears began to pour from your eyes. hobie hovers a calloused hand over your back, thinking for a moment, until he decides that it was fine to do so. he pats the small of your back comfortably, murmuring a song he wrote to soothe your sadness.

“thank you hobie.” you hiccuped, leaning onto his chest. hobie simply nodded, playing with the ends of your hair with a painted finger.

“yea...” he mumbled, noticing that the tears that stained your cheeks before faded and your breathing steadied. “no probs.”

𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛. 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 ❤︎

he’s painfully awkward too. pull him into an embrace, he will let out an uncomfortable chuckle as he carefully pries you off his body. peter makes it obvious he wants his space, rightfully so.

actually, head pats is something he prefers to give. it’s comforting for him to be able to teasingly mess your hair to get a whine from you, or feel the texture of your hair under his palms. also, he’s an old man (will feel extremely insulted if you say his comforting technique is equivalent to that of an elderly folk).

but if he’s close with you or there is a moment when an embrace is desperately needed, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull you into a deep embrace. due to his new plushness to his body and rarity of his soft affection, peter’s embraces feel warm and inviting. sorry though, it’ll only last a few seconds until he’s pulling away immediately (will give up if you pull him back into the embrace tho).

“there, there kiddo…” peter softly pats your head, poorly attempting to cool your temper.

“not working peter.”

peter sighs in defeat as he slowly retracted his hand, thinking of a solution to cheer you up. without a second thought, he quickly pulled you into an embrace with efficient strength— the softness of his stomach contrasted the hardness of his chest. immediately you light up, nuzzling into his warm arms as he playfully swayed your body side-to-side.

“better?” he chuckled at your dazed expression, maybe hugging wasn’t so bad.

“yeah…” you could hear the slow patters of his heartbeat as he tightened the protective hold around your waist.

MOCHIFILM © 2023. please do not copy, translate, or modify any of my work. all of my works are not permitted to be posted on any other sites.

[cinnabeat]

i wanna go back to the khux era actually that made me feel insane in the best way i wanna feel that again