#shaggy’s stash

[novemberhaenys]

just finished bojack horseman for the first time…

[kombuuuu]

would u write angst with 1610 miles? Like they’re best friends and both like each other but miles is distant bc of spider-man stuff. Maybe reader tries to distract herself by going on a date but it goes bad and miles comforts her and reveals he’s spider-man and confesses to her that he likes her:,)

“Im Spiderman!”

Miles Morales x Fem!Reader

“What the hell.”

“Mi vida, listen.”

“What the actual hell.”

Of course sugar, this silly little angst WILL BE SOOOOO DELICIOUS

warnings: hurt/comfort, attempted sexual assault (not by Miles)

Miles had been distant.

He kept brushing you off, planning times to meet up and missing them. Calling you in no hurry then all of a sudden there’s a family emergency and he hangs up.

Now you would understand if it was just a few times, hell, even more than a few times you’d just convince yourself you were paranoid. But every time for the past two months?

You’d right about had enough.

If Miles doesn’t want to commit to your.. not relationship..

Then you won’t either.

—

Miles had been busy. Life had gotten ahead of him when he’d least expected it. After a year of Spider-ing (?), he’d finally settled into a nice pattern of, wake up, do things, call you, see you, call you again to make sure you got home safe, protect the innocent civilians of Brooklyn, also do illegal graffiti, then go home. And maybe text you. All of that had been snatched from under him like a shaggy rug. Tripping over his own feet and struggling to right himself.

He had some fued going on with a villain he’d heavily underestimated. Their likeness not only in fighting, but also preying. Miles had started home from his patrols more than once to find a chip attached to his shoe. Beeping only audible from his advanced hearing.

It had stumped him into a nervous stupor. Constantly worried that someone bad is going to waltz through his front door.

He was worried they would catch wind of you, and although that had always lingered at the back of his mind. Losing you had been put on the forefront the moment you came to school injured one time, saying some guy just wanted drug money, and was pretty easy to scare away. Doesn’t mean he didn’t nick you in the cheek real good. Blade running quick against your cheek, and lord were you grateful it was light.

Miles had pulled you out of class, ignoring the behest of his professor and dragged you to his secret stash of first aid supplies, locked away in an empty and unused science room.

“So why’s it here?” He glanced up at you, confused.

“Huh? What’s here?”

His puzzled expression pulled at your heartstrings, giving you some sweet butterflies. “The first aid kit, dummy.”

“Oh.. Oh! Yeah-“ he threw his hand behind his neck, blazer sleeve crawling up his arm. “Uh- For ‘mergencies..” He quickly went back to cleaning your cut, finding your gaze too strong on him, but unable to avoid it.

“This is an emergency?”

He grabbed your chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilting it slightly up and to the side, then continuing with his right hand at dabbing your cheek with antiseptic.

“It will be if you keep moving.”

You prayed he didn’t notice how hot your cheeks felt.

Once Miles finished, he caressed your face softly for a moment, relishing in the contact before he quickly packed his stuff away and rushed out of the room in an excuse of “late for class”. You stayed sitting at the table for a further two minutes before getting up gently, grabbing your bag, and leaving the ‘abandoned’ classroom.

—

You were sitting on the curb of your apartment. Wishing you could just go back inside and sleep. Miles hadn’t spoken to you for a week. You didn’t want to seem like a clingy girlfriend, but god you felt like one. You were waiting patiently on for the bud to arrive, far too early in the morning. Sat in the spot Miles would usually meet you at, you sighed down at your feet. Had you done something wrong? Your relationship had been blossoming the past few months into something you’re sure was reciprocated. There was no way that the endless supply of intimate moments between the two of you was a coincidence.

The way your whole face would light up at the mere sight of him had to be clear as day.

You swore up at the sky, watching your breath fog up in the winter air, the slow screech of your bus coming around a corner brung you back down to earth. Day dreams about a boy who you probably don’t even cross the mind of cut short.

You stood up and groaned, stretching your arms and leaned against the bus pole. Except it didn’t stop. It didn’t even slow down, and when you’d realised the driver wasn’t pulling into the parking bay, you were already too late.

“Oh- C’mon, really!” You kicked your foot against the scuffed ground, pouting at no one and complaining to no one too.

“Miss the bus?”

A man who looked to be around 17 approached you. You stepped back from him, him getting the hint and not getting any closer.

“Oh- Uh.. Didn’t mean to seem like a creep or anything,” he laughed lightly, dimples showing at the action. “I just, also missed the bus.” He gestured down to himself, disheveled clothes and messy hair.

Disheveled clothes didn’t look as good on him as it did Miles, but you smiled and hugged a laugh anyways.

This could be your chance, get out of your rut. Back into the dating scene and away from Miles.

Yet it seems you couldn’t go two minutes without him on your mind.

“Hence why I look like this.”

His eyes flickered back to yours, taking in tour appearance as well.

“Guess we’ll have to walk,”

He laughed, “Guess so.”

“Not like our clothes can get much more creased.”

That brought a genuine chuckle out of the man, eyes squinting at the sarcastic tone you held.

“Well, I know a couple ways.”

He winked at you and you huffed, following behind him as you began the treck to your school.

—

The man you met had been named Arthur. He was understanding of your humour, and pretty well in his own. He seemed king of untrustworthy, though. You just didn’t understand why, something about him made your stomach churn. Maybe it was butterflies?

You had been talking for a week before he asked you out.

The fact surprising you. Never in your life had you met someone and them be wanting to date you within the same month, let alone fortnight.

“Yeah- yeah, okay.”

Miles’ face crossed your mind in a fleeting thought, sending goosebumps along your skin and a buzz through your bloodstream.

You’d just gotten asked out by someone attractive, said yes, and weren’t told it was some joke. And yet, the mere thought of Miles brought a quake to your knees? Good god.

Cross your fingers this date gets him off your mind and his image peeled from the backs of your eyelids.

“Cool, see you Friday?” Arthur stood from his chair, walking backwards towards the door.

“Yeah, Eight good?”

“Absolutely.”

—

Arthur had met you at ten, not eight. So you had spent the better of two hours thinking you got stood up by *someone you didn’t even know.

The moment he’d stepped in front of you, the nice outfit you were wearing felt overdressed and unfitting, he was wearing the same day-to-day clothes. It felt almost embarrassing.

“You clean up nice, babe.”

The name had you near gagging.

“Oh! Uh Thanks!” You grimaced as he winked.

The restaurant you’d arrived at was fairly busy, a quaint place with hung string lights and vines crawling along the ceiling. It led out into a cute garden, where it looked to be their own food growing.

At least he knows how to pick a place.

—

Fifteen minutes into the date, you had just gotten your food. And Arthur wouldn’t, for the life of him, talk.

It was so unnatural, so absolutely awkward you had just picked at your nails until your food arrived.

He had chatted with the waiter more than you.

“So uhm.. Arthur!”

He grunted an acknowledgment and glacéd you at you before returning to his food.

“What do you do study?”

“Anthropology.”

“Cool, I’ve always liked stuff like that.”

“Uhuh.”

You were going to shoot yourself if this man gives you anymore one word answers.

After a few more busted attempts, you had given up on trying. Just focusing on finishing your food faster so you could get the hell out of here.

A man you didn’t know came over to greet Arthur, said man responding enthusiastically. Peeking up and talking with “David” about who-knows-what.

“And who’s this lovely lady?”

“Oh hello, I’m—“

“—She’s my girlfriend David, so don’t try. Maybe after a while i’ll convince her to let me share ‘er with you.”

Girlfriend? Share?? What the fuck.

David laughed whilst he eyed you, his body leaning scarily close to you. You chuckled politely, what the hell.

“Well, let’s hope she agrees, huh?” David’s sly voice sent a shiver us disgust down your spine, seeping into your bones like marrow.

“She will.” Arthur assured him. You felt sick, violated. You need to leave, you need to get to Miles.

—

Another ten minutes passed before you’d both finally left the restaurant, the air getting stuffy with so many people around, and no one to see your fear.

Arthur had insisted walking you home. Which you vehemently refuse, you don’t want him knowing where you live.

Arthur had gone quiet after that, a look of almost anger on his face.

You had stayed quiet too, not wanting to poke the bear. And after a second, he was pulling you towards him and leading you to his car.

You panicked, struggling against his grip on your forearm. “Get in the fucking car, [Name].” He’d almost growled the words, “You fucking wanted this.”

“Let go of me!”

“You accepted in the first place, now you’re not going to give me what you owe?”

“I don’t owe you anything, let go!” You cried out, his grip was painful now and he was trying to shove your body into his car by force.

You were tearing up, your breath catching in panic, you were getting weaker and he was still shoving.

Suddenly, all the weight had been thrown off of you. Your wrist now free, and the presence of Arthur gone out of thin air.

“Your parents ever teach you not to lay a hand on a woman?”

You spun around to be greeted with sight of Spiderman wrapping Arthur in webs.

He docked him in the jaw as he tried to talk back. Arthur groaning heavily.

“Oh, guess not.”

“Fuck you, man. The girl wanted it.”

“Didn’t look that way to me, homeboy.”

Arthur glared up at him then turned to you, “You wanted it. Didn’t you?” It was phrased more as a threat than a statement.

“I—“

“Whoopsie.”

A web shot out and covered Arthur’s mouth, his eyes widening in panic as he tried to scream through it.

“Slip of the finger.”

He picked Arthur up and threw him to a wall, shooting a web at him as he went to stick him to it. The impact on his head swiftly knocking him unconscious, probably concussed.

You stood in shock, not really able to process the sight in front of you when Spiderman turned back, suddenly a lot less collected and a lot more worried.

He moved quickly over to you, raising on hand to caress your injured arm and one to your cheeks, the eyes of his mask downturning in fear.

“Hey-. Hey, hey look at me.”

You did, the tears in your eyes finally falling as the situation truly dawned on you. Your lip trembled. “Oh, [Name], you’re okay, i’ve got you.”

“Spidey—“ You shivered a little in his hold. His arm snaking down from yours to holding you close to him. The other continued to rub circles into your tear-stained cheeks. “—Come here, Chiquita.”

You hadn’t even noticed the names, your name, falling from his lips. You had only registered the immediate feeling of comfort around him. Unlike the feeling of fear, primality, around Arthur. Spidey had felt more like safety, like someone you could call a lifelong friend.

He grabbed you by your waist, talking you through it the whole time.

“I’m gonna touch your waist now, that okay?” “Mhmm..” “Okay, wrap your legs around me when I pick you up, yeah?”

Humming your affirmation, you wrapped your legs around his waist while he carried the whole weight of you in one hand, spread out on the low of your back. The touch sending the first pleasant tingle of your whole night through the tips of his gloved fingers.

“Let me take you home, querida.”

Miles’s eyes squinted in the pitiful sight of you, this was his doing. If he had been there for you, this never would have happened. His paranoia for something bigger had outweighed his realistic worries. If he’s not in your life, who’s going to protect you?

The names of sweet kept tumbling out of him, making up for the weeks he’d been missing. God, even now, holding you to his chest while he swung you home. Your eyes closed and buried into his neck, ignoring the world around the both of you and finding safety in him. Even now, he’s felt better than he had in the last months.

His feet landed softly on your fire escape, the soft thud of the metal a welcomed thought. Or, maybe it was being home again, either one.

Spiderman’s right hand slid under your bedroom window, opening it slow enough as to not wake your parents.

“We’re home, [Name].”

He climbed through the indie with you in tow, leaving it open slightly as you began to undress. He turned around quickly while you put on a large shirt and sleep shorts. Trying graciously to avoid watching you through the reflection of the window.

Once you were finished, he turned around and went to grab the makeup wipes from your dresser. You giving him a quizzical look he ignored.

You sat down on the bed with your legs crossed and he followed, your knees brushing one another.

“Close your eyes.”

You did, letting him softly wipe away any makeup you had put on for the night. You sighed in content, and absurdity. What was the likely hood of your date going so horribly wrong, then being saved and comforted by Brooklyns best vigilante. Then having that very same vigilante sit in your bed and wipe the tear streaked makeup from your cheeks.

“There you go.”

You opened your eyes again, seeing his hooded face so close to yours it made your heart beat.

“Thank you.”

He leaned back, suddenly seeming nervous.

“Hey, I—,“ He stopped and breathed in deep, “,—I need to tell you something.” He sounded conflicted, scared.

Why would a crime-fighting spider be scared of you?

“Yeah, of course. Anything.”

He sucked in another breath, quicker this time. And reached up to the bottom of his mask so fast you almost missed it. He pulled it off quickly, panicky. Leaving you to stare at the soft, plush lips and Hazel eyes that could only ever replicate the fall of an autumn leaf. Or the cinnamon dusted on the baking you would do with your mother.

Miles Morales stared back at you.

“I’m spiderman!” He laughed nervously. Picking at the fabric of his hood.

He looked back up at you and sighed, a smile playing on his lips at your dumbfounded expression.

“What the hell.”

“Mi vida, listen.”

“What the actual hell.”

He dropped his mask and gathered your hands in his. Holding them against one another.

“[Name].”

“You’re Spiderman.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

You looked up at his, he was closed again. Glancing at your lips every now and again. “Miles..” You pouted at him, almost crying his name. His chest aches for you. A thick guilt rendered his voice useless, a longing for you mixing into it.

“Is this why-“ You broke eye contact. “—Is this why you’ve been ignoring me?” You whispered it, like you didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

His fingers twitched against yours, squeezing your palm and rubbing his thumbpad over the juncture between your thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, cielo.” He let out a shaky breath. Saying the term in a quaking sigh.

He watched you watch him, your glassy eyes telling him all the hurt you’ve been through.

“Baby I didn’t mean—“ He shook his head, “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was worried that some bad people would find out I—“ He stuttered, focusing on your intwined hands once again. “I cared for you, and they would use that, use you against me.”

“I never wanted you hurt, I just wanted you safe.”

You let another set of tears fall, the relief soothing the ache of stress in your shoulders, you were still mad at him, sure. And not only for ignoring you. But for keeping such a big secret to himself. But god, you were so happy he was back.

“It wasn’t because of you, cielo. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me.”

“I’m dangerous, [Name].”

He looked back up to you in earnest, desperation and fear clouding his eyes foggy.

“You’re worth the risk.”

“God,” his breathing was heavy, deep. “,You’re making this real hard for me, baby.”

“Good.”

“Jesus christ.”

He surged forwards, using your joined hands as leverage as he pulled you closer into him.

He stopped just short of your lips, breath escaping you at the sight of him, looking as gorgeous as ever. Even with his hair in a mess and smelling like baby powder. “Please let me kiss you.” The man was near begging, desperation of a different kind now.

“Okay.”

He closed the distance, letting your eyes fall shut at the feeling. You never had felt more perfectly at peace than you had right now.

His hands let go of yours, moving up your body and landing on your hips. He shifted his weight onto his knees, leaning over you as you lowered back. You broke apart, panting heavy and laboured, “I’m still mad at you.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” He peppered you with short kissed. You’re back hitting the bed and him crowding over you, trailing kisses from your lips, to cheeks, to just below your jawline. You giggled lightly, his kisses tickling.

“‘M gonna hold you to that.”

He grinned up at you, slotting himself neatly between your legs. His right hand propping himself up beside you head, and left finding any bit of you he could hold.

“I don’t doubt it.”

He kissed you again.

—

okay maybe i lied this is also kind of long

BUT AWE 🫶🫶🫶

[minihotdog]

Caught Red handed // Part 2

Summary: Soap Catches His Roommate Reading an Erotic Novel AGAIN

Part 1

Pairing: John "Soap" Mactavish x Fem!Reader

a/n: I've been sick as a dog and I'm not the happiest about how this one turned out so I'll write a soap fic with a little more punishment in the future when I don't feel like my insides are melting

c/w: P in V, biting, aftercare

word count: 2k

***

Johnny made it clear that he didn’t want to catch you reading dirty books again, but you’re only human. Your newly discovered love for the genre made it impossible to stay away. 

You picked up a new one at the bookstore, this time with a more discrete cover. The summary described a romance between a woman and her soldier husband. It was a love that stands the test of time and struggle as he changes from the horrors he’s seen. Upon getting home and settling down to read it, you quickly discovered that wasn’t the case. The book was downright rancid, a crime almost. You’d gotten comfortable in your PJs and fuzzy socks excited to dive into the story only to receive a figurative slap to the face.

He was so desperate to breed her. His rough and violent thrusts almost put her head through the wall.

“Be my good little wife and take my load.”

“When I come back you better be holding my kid in your arms waiting for me to put another one in you.”

Your hand was over your mouth as your eyes scanned every sentence multiple times to ensure you didn’t pull them from your imagination.

You couldn’t help but imagine Johnny as the character. The author went into detail about the male character sitting and watching his high school sweetheart, turned wife, undress for him. How his thick thighs took up the entirety of the chair and his cock rested to the side atop the dense muscle, all you could see was Johnny with his evil little smirk and shaggy hair he’d grown out on leave.

The jangling of keys on the other side of the front door rips you from your fantasies. You jolt upwards and run towards your bedroom to stash the book in your nightstand. You’d been sleeping with Johnny in his bed so there wasn’t a possibility of him accidentally stumbling on it.

You waltz out of your room coming face to face with Johnny. You jump, clutching your chest with a squeak.

“Johnny! You scared the shit out of me!”

He looks at you with an eyebrow raised.

“Wha’ are ye up tae?”

“What?! Nothing, just getting a heart attack from you.”

He fakes a quick step towards you and your arms instinctively shoot to the walls blocking him. He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and giving your lips a peck. He rests his forehead on yours.

“Yer hidin’ somethin’ an’ I’m gonnae find out wha’ it is.” He squints at you before turning into the kitchen.  

Damn it! Why did I do that?!!

You try to keep an eye on Johnny to make sure he won’t go snooping, but the moment he wraps his arms around you the book is completely forgotten. The two of you cuddle on the couch to watch reruns of old shows together. He runs his hand up and down your side kissing down your shoulder. He settles on your waist and his thumb caresses the little bit of exposed skin. He nibbles on your neck and slips his hand under your tank top taking a handful of your breast.

“You’re worse than a dog in a rut!” You slap his hand away.

“Cannae help masel’ when I’m wi’ ye, bonnie.” He whines, nuzzling his nose into your neck. His hips grind into you and he lets out a groan.  

“Johnny, I haven’t showered today.” Your complaining falls on deaf ears as his arms wrap tighter around you. “Let me goooo!”

“Fine, if it makes ye stop fussin’.” He huffs as you sit up. He crosses his arms making a high-pitched ‘hmphf’. 

“I’ll be back, hun.” You lean down to give him a quick kiss.

Johnny waits for the shower to turn on before springing into action. He tosses the blanket to the side and tip-toes down the hallway determined to figure out what you’d been hiding earlier. He enters your room and begins looking around. He opens your closet, makes a mess of your desk drawers until he stumbles over to your nightstand. He pulls the drawer open and discovers the dark-covered book you tossed in there. The cover looked innocent enough, a soldier walking hand in hand with a woman in a pink sun dress. He flips the book over to read the summary. His eyes scan the text and he lets out a quiet ‘awww’ before opening it to a random page in the middle. 

“Jesus Christ, bonnie, wha’ are ye readin’ now?” His eyes go wide for a moment and he sucks his teeth.

You step out of the shower and wrap yourself in a towel before walking into his bedroom. You pick through his dresser for your clothes. He insisted you move some of your clothes to his room but they quickly got buried under his. You pick out your favorite striped pj shorts and an old shirt of his that you cut into a crop top. You walk out of his room heading back to the couch only to be stopped in your tracks when you notice the door of your room wide open and the light on. 

FUCK!

You quiet your footsteps and slowly peek into the room. You see him sitting on your bed, drawer open, and a very familiar object in his hands. You decide that the best thing you can do is hide but as you shift your weight onto your back foot the floor creaks.

“Bonnie!” He calls out. The stern tone in his voice makes you jump. “Come ower here.” You silently freak the fuck out before poking your head through the door.

“Yes, honey?”

The look on his face pulls you into the door frame.

“Wha’ did I tell ye no tae be readin’ the kin o’ books?”

Shit. He’s mad.

His accent gets rougher and you know for a fact that he’s not happy with this discovery.

You’re quick to defend yourself.

“I swear I didn’t know!” You blurt out. “The summary was so cute I didn’t think it was gonna be like that.”

He looks down, closing the book before looking back at you.

“Ye jus’ bought it? Didn’t ye open it up afore haund?”

His eyebrows furrow. His intense gaze burrows into you waiting for an answer. You chew on your bottom lip. He was always able to get the truth out of you. He knew you couldn’t stand being at the receiving end of his glare. You begin fumbling your fingers.

“I may have read a chapter at the store.” He throws his head back with a groan upon hearing the confession. “BUT, it wasn’t like the rest of the book, I swear!”

His jaw clenches for a second and he shakes his head.

“Oh bonnie, wha’ am I gonnae dae wi’ ye?” He mutters as he stands, shaking the book at you before tossing it onto the bed. He calmly walks towards you. He towers over you and one of his hands tangles itself in your hair pulling just enough to make you look straight up at him. 

“Yer a pure bad lassie. Cannae even heed simple orders.” 

He suddenly takes you by the arm and walks you into his room.

“Nasty wee thing,” He growls, forcing you onto the bed. “Can’t follow directions. Hidin’ things from me.” He sucks his teeth as his hands rush to yank your shirt off. He gives you no time to reorient yourself before he pushes you onto your back.

He climbs onto the bed and straddles you gripping your wrists in one hand. He grabs your chin forcing you to look up at him.

“Needy fuckin’ whore, aren’t ye?”

“Johnny, I’m sorry.” You whine trying to break out of his grip.

He scoffs, “We’ll see about tha’.”

He yanks his sweats off. You watch him closely hoping that he’ll change his mind about this punishment. His size becomes more apparent with the anger radiating off of him. 

“Baby, I promise I won’t do it anymore.” He ignores your pleas. Your eyes trail down and you see he’s rock-hard. He lays his weight on you biting at your neck. His bare cock presses against you over your shorts. His free hand goes to your breast, pinching your nipple and rolling it in his fingers. You half-mindedly grind against him.

“Oh no, Lassie. Yer not getting what you want just yet.”

He kisses down your chest capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue plays with the sensitive nub. He slides his arm under your thigh, bringing one leg to his waist. His fingers run over your clothed cunt and he groans.

“Yer soaked. My wee slut is so wet fur me.” His voice rasps. His mouth moves to your other breast. Your nails dig into your palms when his teeth graze the nub.

“Baby, please,” You cry out, needing to feel him inside you. The ache was becoming too much to bear and he was so close. His scent only helped to cloud your brain and the heat radiating off of him was setting you ablaze.

“So impatient.” He taunts as he pulls away to work your shorts down your legs to reveal the wet patch on your panties that had become transparent. He chokes out a moan at the sight,

“So fuckin’ wet.”

He slips his fingers underneath the fabric at your hips and in a swift motion pulls them until they rip. You gasp, eyes shooting down at him. He’d never acted this way in bed, he’d usually undress you with a thousand kisses, making sure his lips touched every bit of exposed skin until he reached where you wanted him most, he’d slow down for a moment and place a kiss on your clit before devouring you whole and leaving you with soul-crushing orgasm before the big finale. This time he restrains himself leaving your hips bucking for his touch. In this moment, you missed your sweet and caring Johnny.

“I know wha’ ye want, bonnie.” He looks up at you with his little evil smirk. “I’m not gonna treat ye like my princess when yer not actin’ like one.”

Before you can protest his fingers begin playing at your entrance. He slides two of his thick digits into you. Your breath hitches feeling the calloused skin inside you. He pumps his fingers, curling them into that special spot.

“So tight.” He breaths out, occasionally flicking your clit with his thumb. You want him inside you so bad your head is spinning. He lowers his head dropping his tongue to your clit, he couldn’t help himself, his head belonged in between your legs and he couldn’t fight that.

He continues moving his fingers in and out of you, grazing your g-spot each time. His tongue circles your clit and you throw your head back into the pillows. Your pants fill the room, your wrists aching.

“Johnnyyyyy.” Your back arches as he speeds up. His eyes almost roll back listening to your whines.

He feels you tighten against his fingers, waiting for the right moment. 

“Hmmmm.” You tighten around him once more and he pulls away from you, denying you of your release. Your head shoots up and he’s sucking the wetness off his fingers. He chuckles at the frustrated look on your face.

“That’s not fair!”

“Oh, but it is, only good girls get tae cum.”

He leans over you on his elbow grabbing a handful of your hair. He pulls your head back, the pain forcing a whine from your lips. “No woman of mine will be readin’ filth about another man.” His lips graze the side of your face. “I’m the only man ye should fantasizin’ about. I’m the only one who’s cock ye should be thinkin’ of.”

“You are! You’re the only man I think about!”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

He slides himself into you and your body tenses up at the intrusion. He coos at you as you try to adjust to his length. He forces your head to the side and his lips are on yours. He deepens the kiss attempting to capture your tongue with his. He uses the kiss as a distraction to slide the rest of himself into you. He buries himself to the hilt and you gasp into the kiss. He moans softly, breaking away from your lips and resting his head in the crook of your neck. The feeling of being inside you was almost too much for him to bear. So warm and wet, the nerves on his cock fire off when the tip finds your soft cervix.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” He pants into your skin. “This pussy is pure sin.”

He gathers himself before he begins moving. He slides in and out of you and your lips part slightly, eyes clamped shut. He releases shaky breaths, the tightness making his head spin.

“O’ fuck!” He thrusts slowly, pulling away slightly to enjoy the view of him disappearing inside you. His free hand grabs your waist to keep you from sliding away from him as his pace picks up. Your mind goes blank, the stretch of his cock is intoxicating. His thrusts jolt you upwards forcing whines from you. 

“Johnny, please let me touch you.”

“Promise me no more of those fuckin’ books,” He breaths into your necks.

“I promise, I promise, I promise!” You chant. Your voice comes out pathetic and desperate. He releases your wrists, his arms sliding under your body to wrap around you. Your hands fly to his back, nails digging into his skin. He pounds into you relentlessly, your eyesight blurs, and your back struggles to arch against his weight. 

His name falls from you in a chant mixed with small gasps. The bed creaks loudly as his hips slam into the underside of your soft thighs. Your legs wrap around his waist, hands grasping at him for dear life. He moans into your neck, his rasps hitting your skin along with his ragged breaths.

“Oh god, Johnny!” Your mouth hangs open. The feeling of him filling you up so perfectly leaves you almost in a trance-like state, unable to think or form a single thought. 

“Ye take me so well, bonnie, don’t ye?”

He tightens his hold on you, the tight squeeze around his cock has him almost drooling. Your warm velvet walls test him every time, he uses every bit of strength he has to not finish too soon when he buries himself inside you. His tip kissing your cervix shoots pleasure through the both of you. He swears little invisible hearts circle his head every time you whimper out his name.

He digs his teeth into your neck, marking you. “Mine. All mine.” He groans into the now red flesh. He frees one of his arms from under you and begins massaging your clit begging to feel you clamp down around him. 

“Bonnie, ye feel tae good. Cum on my cock, ye been a good girl.” You moan in response. “Gonnae fill ye up nice and deep. Ye want tha’?”

You nod frantically. Your pussy flutters warning him of your impending orgasm. He continues his pace as he whispers pure filth into your ear. Telling you how much he loves your pussy, how you belong to him and only him. You try to warn him but it hits hard and fast, before you know it you’re a mess beneath him. Nails dragging down his skin leaving red lines, your pussy spasming around him pulling over the edge.

He ruts into you shooting thick streams onto your walls. You feel him twitching inside you as he thrusts his cum deeper into you. “Take it all, bonnie.”

He continues thrusting, dragging out your orgasm. Your pussy clamps down on him milking him for all he’s worth leaving you twitching from the overstimulation.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He slows his movements letting out a deep breath before locking eyes with you. A goofy smile appears on his lips causing you to giggle. He mummers a “C’mere,” before kissing you sweetly. He slides out of you slowly as he caresses your thigh.

“Let’s get ye cleaned up,” He plants a kiss on your forehead before wrapping his arms around you once more and lifting you onto his lap. He slides the both of you off the bed and carries you into the bathroom putting you down gently on the counter. He turns the shower on and while the two of you wait for the water to heat up he peppers your face with kisses. 

He carries you into the shower letting you steady yourself on your feet before pulling you to his chest. The warm water runs over his shoulders flowing down your back. His lips brush the top of your head.

“I love you, bonnie.” He whispers.

[kimpossibly]

hi ! imagine Madison Montgomery being frustrated because unlike other witches, reader is super chill, and a little sarcastic, so any time she acts up, reader always replies something witty, but never gets angry at her. so she purposefully tries to piss her off to get a rise out of her, which seems impossible, and turns into a 5+1 type of thing (5 times she tries to annoy her and one time she does). Except that when does, reader gets really pissed at her and it shifts to make-up sex (may i request a soft dom madison). I hope it makes sense because it did in my head. have a good day !

hiiiii!!! omg i love this prompt so much, thank you for requesting it! i ended up only doing 3 rather than 5 because i could only come up with so much HAHA. hope you enjoy ♡

3 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙜𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙨 𝙮/𝙣 𝙤𝙛𝙛…𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 1 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙

pairing: madison montgomery x fem!reader

word count:

warnings: swearing, smoking, drinking, smut

Madison Montgomery has a habit of pissing people off. It's not she goes around trying to ruin people's days (but if she does, they probably deserve it...) but if she doesn't wreak a little havoc before sundown, that pretty much means she's had an off day. Making people angry was her specialty.

Not Y/N, though. Never Y/N. No matter how much Madison bitched and moaned, Y/N wouldn't yell or get pissed off. It was almost like that was one of her abilities. Even Nan would find herself at her wit's end because of Madison some days. But not Y/N.

And so, out of pure curiosity (or enjoyment), Madison decided to do a little experiment.

— attempt #1

"Oh, come on, Y/N! All the cool kids are doing it!"

Already the experiment was failing. Madison had whipped out one of her beloved joints from her stash and propped their bedroom window open to smoke. Y/N sat on her bed, studying. She politely declined to join Madison in smoking, and Madison saw an opening.

"Don't be a pussy."

Y/N just shrugged. "I'm good. Say hi to Scooby and Shaggy for me, though."

"Scooby and Shaggy weren't stoners."

"Please, did you watch that show? They were totally stoners."

Madison didn't respond, taking another puff and blowing it out the window. She looked at Y/N, so calm no matter what. After a few moments, Madison stood and walked over to the bed, taking the book off Y/N's lap and moving it to the side. Before Y/N could protest, Madison threw a leg on either side of her waist and put the joint between Y/N's lips, forcing her to take a hit.

Y/N's eyes went wide for a moment, purely out of surprise, but she quickly recovered. She coughed a bit, smoke spilling out of her mouth. Madison expected her to curse her out, or at the very least yell, but Y/N just looked up at her with a calm expression. "Are you happy now?"

Madison tried to hide her frustration. "Fucking fabulous."

"Lovely. Now can I keep studying?"

Madison just rolled her eyes and muttered a whatever, allowing Y/N to pick her book up and go back to studying.

Well that was a fucking bust.

— attempt #2

The second time, Madison figured a group setting might be best. It all started over breakfast, when a fight broke out between Madison and Queenie. It was about something or other—Y/N never paid much attention to these fights. She usually dedicated her energy to breaking them up when they got ugly.

"Bitch, I swear to God!"

Queenie used telekinesis to send a full glass of orange juice at Madison, who used her telekinesis to send it straight into Y/N's lap. She jumped up as the cold juice splashed all over her legs, a gasp escaping her lips.

"Oops," Madison said with a little laugh.

Y/N let out a deep breath, and Madison was sure she was going to scream. But she straightened up, grabbed a napkin, and dabbed at her now stained clothes. "I'm going to go change," she said as though nothing had happened, "Madison, try not to start a food fight while I'm gone, okay?"

She left, leaving Queenie to snicker in satisfaction. Madison clenched her jaw. That bitch was way too chill.

— attempt #3

"Let's play a game."

Madison was getting desperate. This was proving to be more of a challenge than she previously anticipated.

Y/N, who was levitating a book a few feet in the air, let it drop into her hands. "I'm down."

"Shit, anything's better than this," Queenie said, and Nan hummed in agreement.

Madison grinned. "Forget levitating books," she said, letting her copy of Great Expectations thud to the table. "Let's learn to fly."

With a flick of her wrist, Y/N levitated into the air, a little shriek escaping her lips as she flew. Madison put her down after a few moments and Y/N looked at her in awe. "How the hell did you do that?"

"Please, it's easy. It's just like levitating pens."

"Let me try," Queenie said, focusing her eyes on Madison. Within an instant, Madison was five feet in the air, shouting at Queenie to put her back down. She did so (not before letting her hang a while longer) and crossed her arms in satisfaction. "Huh. That was fun."

Madison flipped her off. Nan looked at Y/N. "Me next," she said excitedly.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, focusing, and then opened them. Immediately, Nan rose a few feet into the air, an excited smile spreading on her face. Y/N smiled a bit, relieved. Madison saw her opportunity. "Come on, bring her a little higher."

"I think this is good," Y/N said calmly.

"Madison's right," Nan said, "I could knock some dust off the chandelier."

Y/N hesitated, pursing her lips for a moment. Then, with a little upwards motion, Nan began to rise higher into the air. Her grin grew as she floated higher and higher, reaching out to touch the crystalline tip of the chandelier.

Madison's fingers twitched a bit as she brought her focus to Nan. What followed happened in the blink of an eye: Madison took control of Nan and proceeded to put her into free fall, and Y/N, upon seeing Nan start to fall, moved the couch underneath her to break the fall. Nan landed with a thud and groaned in pain, having hit her knee in the fall. Y/N's hand flew up to cover her mouth. She hadn't done that, had she?

Before there was too much of a ruckus, Cordelia suddenly appeared in the doorway, having heard the thud. "What happened?"

"Y/N dropped me!" Nan said angrily, clutching her knee.

Cordelia fixed her eyes on Y/N, an uncharacteristic anger taking hold. "Y/N, you know the rules. No using magic on your fellow witches," Cordelia said sharply, going to help Nan.

"I didn't—!" Y/N began, and Madison perked up, waiting for the blowout. But Y/N just paused, taking a breath. "I know. My bad. Sorry, Nan."

Now Madison started to feel a little guilty—a feeling she was not well acquainted with. "She's fine," she said, gesturing to Nan, "she fell a few feet, big whoop."

Cordelia gave her a sharp look before returning her gaze to Y/N. "I trust it won't happen again," she said pointedly.

Y/N nodded. "Yep."

Cordelia left with Nan in tow, and Y/N just turned back to the group, eyes fixing on Madison. "You owe me, movie star."

There was no malice in her words—not even in the slightest. She just went back to practicing levitation with the book without a fight. It was Madison who was fuming and resisting the urge to throw Great Expectations against the wall as she watched Y/N carry on as if nothing had happened.

— attempt #4 (the 1 time it worked)

The last plan was half-baked, as Madison only came up with it when the two of them were at a frat party a few blocks away and Madison had already had three shots of vodka. A guy across the room had been eye-fucking her all night—well, he was one of them. Madison expected all eyes on her when she went out, so she carefully selected those she wanted to reciprocate eye contact with. It was only when she noticed this particular guy's friend that an idea formed in her head.

"Come with me," she said, taking Y/N's hand.

"Where are we going?"

"Ever heard of a two-man?"

Y/N shouted something that Madison didn't hear. They were deep in the throes of the party now, connected at the hand to prevent themselves from getting split up. Y/N stayed a few feet behind as Madison went up to the two guys and started talking. She couldn't make out a word of what they were saying, but one of them kept eyeing her while the other couldn't tear his eyes off Madison. Eventually they seemed to come to some kind of agreement and Madison took Y/N's hand again, both of them following the two guys up the stairs.

"Their names are Andy and...something else, I don't know," Madison said as they went up the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

She didn't get an answer. They ended up in a bedroom at the end of the hallway—empty, secluded, and only a little bit quieter than the rest of the house. For a moment, the four of them just stood there, staring each other up and down like sizing them up. Then Madison grinned at Andy. "Well? Are we gonna get this started or what?"

Andy glanced at the other one (Y/N felt horrible that she still didn't know his name) and then looked back at the two girls. "You first."

Y/N frowned, confused, but before she could ask for clarification, Madison rolled her eyes and pulled Y/N in to kiss her hard. It took a good few moments to get over the initial shock of the kiss. Y/N noticed that she tasted like cigarettes and smelled like Dior perfume. Madison's tongue briefly swiped her bottom lip, and then she pulled away, fixing her lipstick and turning back to the boys. "Happy?"

They didn't respond.

Now, by this point, Y/N had taken at least three rounds of shots with Madison, so her reaction time was a bit impaired. Before she could really assess, one of the guys (Not Andy) had his lips on hers and was attempting to unzip her dress, and she realized all at once that she did not want to be in this situation.

Y/N pushed the guy off of her. "What the fuck?"

Andy looked at Madison. "I thought you said she was cool with it."

"She is cool with it," Madison replied, "right, Y/N?"

Y/N looked at her like she was crazy. "No, Madison, I'm not cool with this! Oh my God!"

Without another word, Y/N stormed out of the room, down the stairs, and out onto the street. It wasn't until she was down the front steps of the house that she realized Madison had followed her.

"Y/N, Jesus Christ, slow down," Madison said. Y/N didn't slow down. Madison rolled her eyes. "This was your idea!"

Y/N stopped, whirling around to look at the blonde. "No it wasn't, Madison! It's always your idea! It's always your shit that gets me into trouble! I've tried to be nice about it and let things go, but I'm fucking done, okay? I'm done."

She turned and kept walking, and Madison realized she had finally gotten what she wanting—Y/N was truly and royally pissed.

Y/N didn't talk the entire way back to Robicheaux's. Madison trailed a few feet behind her (partially because her heels were killing her), trying not to let on how worried she really was. The longer she was silent, the more Madison realized she had never really seen Y/N mad before. Nor did she really know how long she was able to stay mad for.

When they got back, Y/N went straight to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Madison stood outside for a moment, wondering if she should ask to talk, but then she heard the shower run. She took that as her cue to leave.

Ten minutes later, Y/N walked back into the room, wrapped in a towel, hair wet. She sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, absentmindedly brushing knots out of her hair. Madison watched her for a moment before getting up and crossing the room. She sat down beside her and Y/N gave no indication that she even registered her presence. She just went on brushing her hair as if no one was there.

Eventually Madison reached out and gently took the hairbrush out of her hands. "Hey, look at me," Madison said softly.

Reluctantly, Y/N looked over at her, her face stoic. Madison took her now empty hand. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Whatever, Maddie. It's fine—"

"No, it's not," Madison interrupted. "It was stupid. I should've made sure you were fine with it, or whatever. Just...let me make it up to you."

She reached out, moving the wet hair away from Y/N's neck. She leaned in slowly, taking in the smell of her strawberry shampoo and vanilla body wash. Then she pressed a soft kiss to the side of Y/N's neck, right over her pulse point.

Y/N made no objection or attempt to stop her, so Madison trailed kisses up her jaw and cheek. Y/N tilted her head and tried to ignore the pounding in her chest as Madison gently laid her down, placing a knee on either side of Y/N's body.

"Tell me to stop and I will," Madison whispered, but Y/N made no noise, allowing her to continue.

Madison's lips reached hers again, but this kiss was unlike the one at the party. That one had been rushed and performative, trying to stroke whatever fetish Andy and Not Andy were into. That kiss had filled Y/N's stomach with shock and confusion. This one started a fire in her chest, one that sent pinpricks of electricity down to her fingertips. Madison nipped at her top lip and ran her hands through her hair. She was gentler than Y/N expected her to be, but every once in a while she got a little tug on her hair that seemed extremely in-character for Madison.

Y/N and Madison's hands met at the fold of her towel, both of them fighting to untuck it. Soon enough it was discarded on the floor, and with it Madison's shirt. Madison immediately went to work, leaving hickeys on her chest. She came back up and pressed a kiss on Y/N's temple as her hand slowly slid in between her legs.

"Maddie," Y/N breathed, her eyes fluttering in pleasure.

Madison grinned, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "Do you forgive me?"

"Yes."

Madison's lips curled into a smirk. "Good girl."

[gabessquishytum]

Happy New Year!!! Thanks again for the absolute gifts of spicy stories. You've made my year!

Dream has seemingly picked up a shadow.

Ever since he fed part of his burger to a stray dog he encountered in the park when he was feeding his pigeons, it's been following him around. It was pretty big for a stray (and Dream's not really sure how animal control hadn't scooped up a dog that big), but the dog looked so sad. And even "not really a pet person" Morpheus felt bad enough for the thin animal to give it something to eat.

But now,,,,,,,Dream has been seeing the dog out the corner of his eye almost every day. And tonight, the beast got hurt saving Dream from a mugging. Now Dream has to figure out how to treat the bleeding DIREWOLF he was somehow able to sneak into his no pets allowed apartment.

And of course, just as Dream gets the blood they tracked in cleaned off the floor, his building manager bangs on his door. Dream guesses he isn’t as sneaky as he thought.

Dream opens the door and starts arguing -- of course he doesn't have a dog in his apartment. The next bit of the argument just stops, when a (gorgeous) naked hirsute MAN walks out of the bedroom,,,,,,where Dream had stashed the hurt dog!! 😳

Beautiful "Dog?!?" Man: Hiya!

Everyone Else: stares in drooling 🤤

Awwww yes doggie Hobbie!! I love the idea of Hob adopting Dream as his "owner" and following him everywhere, lol. He knows that Dream is going to be nice to him, and he's proved right when Dream takes him back to his apartment! He even tries to carry Hob up the stairs, which proves a bit difficult and is honestly probably why they got caught. So of course Hob has to be helpful to his new best friend/"owner" and shift into human form so he doesn't get in trouble.

Dream would like it to be known that he definitely does NOT scream at the sight of the very sexy naked man standing in his bedroom doorway. Honestly.

The apartment manager leaves them to it (wondering how the hell they mistook a man for a big shaggy dog), and Dream leads an apologetic and obedient Hob into the bathroom to wash and dress his wounds. Dream is honestly just trying not to think about anything apart from first aid, because there is SO much to unpack here. His doggie friend is apparently a whole-ass guy??? A very SEXY guy??? He's so gorgeous and hairy, Dream is just drooling.

Once he's patched up Hob apologies and explains that he can't shift back when he's tired and in pain, and Dream just wants to melt and comfort him. He takes Hob to bed and directs him to curl up under the cover, but when he goes to leave... Hob whimpers softly.

So of course Dream has to cuddle him. Hob obviously needs it. If he wakes up with a very large cock (and knot 👀) rutting against his arse in the morning....... well, maybe that's what he was hoping for. He's not telling.

[simpleeticklish]

Ladies Choice

Note: This is my first time writing for them. Really writing any tickle fic. So my atrocious cajun/southern accent spelling is my own. I was trying to mimic how comics seem to depict their dialogue. Ler!Rogue, Lee!Gambit. I referred to her as Rogue for most of the fic while Gambit is Remy since it seems like she doesn't use or like her real name in the tv show. Implied nsfw, nothing graphic. Hope you enjoy. 

“Pick a card,” Remy flipped two cards facedown, a devious smile gracing his features and making the blood in Rogue’s veins burn. 

Some nights when they decided to have some kinkier fun, they had agreed the choice of who tops should be laid at the cards. Queen of Hearts was her choice. King’s was his. After another day of saving the world, they were all too eager to spend the night in the rewarding pursuit of their own pleasure. 

She picked up the card and triumphantly fluttered it in Remy’s face, "It's ladies choice.” 

“Mmm,” Remy purred, picking up their convenient stash of silk ropes from under the bed, “You’ll be begging me to -” 

“No,” Rogue grabbed the silk ropes and quickly tied it around his wrists, “Ah want to show you how it’s done.” 

Usually, she was more than happy to lay back and let Remy use his nimble fingers to do what he did best, but she felt like it’d been a while since she got to show off. 

Remy’s smile widened and his obediently laid back, “Bout time you did some of the work.” 

“Shut yer mouth,” Rogue playfully swatted his shoulder as she got to work tying his spread-eagle to the bed-posts. 

“Blindfold too?” Remy asked. 

“Nah. Ah’m not gonna do everything you do. I got some plans of my own,” Rogue said. Remy tugged at the rope to make sure it was secure. It held. 

Rogue clambered on top of him, pausing to grind against him before kissing him. It started out soft but when her tongue slipped past his lips and he nibbled at her bottom lip, it transformed into a push and pull that characterized their passionate affair.

The coller-inhibitor was a terrible invention, born out of anti-mutant sentiment. But God! Rogue was grateful for its existence and the chance it gave for her to enjoy all of this without draining Remy's lifeforce. 

The fire, the passion, the heat. She wanted to get close, and never let go. 

That’s why she hadn’t noticed it at first. Feeling up his shaggy hair, the brustle of his five o'clock shadow, the longing press of his lips against hers consumed her senses. She assumed the shiver as she stroked the nape of his neck was out of desire to get closer. 

But then she stroked again, and that shudder was more prominent. He bent his neck and shrugged his shoulders like he was trying to shrug away a bug tickling his neck. Rogue could feel his smile against her lips, but she had a new suspicion that it wasn’t entirely fueled by his love for her. 

One hand still tugging at his hair, she moved her right to feel up the petrocals rippling down his arm. Firm at first, then lighter, just touching with the pads of her fingers until she wormed her way to his armpit where she traced around the rim.

The reaction was instantaneous. 

“Gahhahahahah!”

Remy threw his head back with a jerk, stinging Rogue’s lips from the suddenness. That and the wonderful sound of her boyfriend’s carefree chortle. 

Mischievous excitement jumped in her chest. All those times Remy had surprised her with tickles in the morning, gloating that only he knew her secret weakness and would always be able to defeat her. . . and he had the same weakness! 

Not letting the golden opportunity slip past, Rogue enthusiastically scrambled her fingers into both of his pits. 

The charming thief who stole her heart with his flirty repartee wasn’t able to say a word. 

“ChohohI-hahoRo! Stahahahaha!”

Oh, Rogue could hear snatches of a word. The beginning of her name. But he couldn’t complete it. Couldn’t form a full sentence much less use his infamous silver tongue to talk his way out of this predicament. 

“Oh, chere, if only the world knew the great Prince of the Thieves’ Guild. The great and powerful cardshark, Gambit, could be so weak to a little ticklin’,” Rogue teased, throwing back the same taunt he had used when ambushing her. 

“NonhahaEr-I-hahahaha”

“What was that, Remy? Wanna use that pretty mouth of yours to say something? I’m listening.” 

Remy’s pretty mouth was occupied in laughing his heart out but Rogue was certainly listening. Remy’s laugh was different. It wasn’t the deep, sexy chuckle that charmed the pants off of men and women. It wasn’t calculated to seduce any target or prove his nonchalance. 

This one was unrestrained and light. Almost boyish. It made Rogue’s heart melt. 

Rogue found it hard to let people in, but Remy was guilty of the same sin, hiding behind his scoundrel name like nothing really mattered to him. Like that would make him care less. 

They had managed to let down their walls with each other, after a lot of obstacles, but she hadn’t realized this was Remy’s sincere laugh. 

Maybe he hadn’t either. 

Either way, Rogue loved the sound. 

But she wasn’t going to torture her paramour, and she could tell he was tiring by the way he was straining against the taunt cords. 

She withdrew her hands from the sensitive area and went back to massaging his tense shoulders. It garnered a few reflexive giggles but after a moment he relaxed to his standard cockiness. 

“Hmm, no wonder your costume covers all of your skin- to protect your sensitive side,” Rogue smirked, “Maybe we should hold off trying anything. You being too ticklish for my touch and all.” 

“Ah no, mon chere. I’m not. I was jus’ not ‘specting it. Dat’s all,” Remy smirked but Rogue could see the hint of blush on his cheeks, all embarrassed by how the tables had turned on him. 

“Now, Gambit, don’t mind your touch. ‘Specially if it’s a touch more wicked.”

Remy sat up, brushing his lips against her ears, sending tingles down her spine as she imagined the various wicked scenarios they usually got up to. 

Rogue carefully got up from straddling his waist, and threw a smoldering look over her shoulder. Remy wiggled in anticipation to a sitting position against the fluffy pillows. He didn’t hold back his moan as she trailed her hands down from his abdomen to his thighs. . . past his thighs. To his feet.

“Ah’m sure glad you still want my touch. Cuz Ah was thinking we might have a little more fun before we get to the good stuff. Seeing you can’t go nowhere anyway,” Rogue smiled, one index finger on each of his big toes. 

Rogue began to stroke one finger down his soles to his heels. Then stroke back up. A light touch of her finger down, the tickly feel of her fingernail up. Up, down. Up, down. 

Remy let out a yelp at the first contact, followed by a strangled sound. Still she kept stroking her single finger. Up, down. Up, down. 

“You know, ah don’t like it when ya lie to me. Ah don’t like it all. Ah feel like you’re ticklish. ‘Specting it or no.” 

Remy’s defense easily fell apart to her maddeningly persistent technique. He was already giggling like a schoolboy.

“Come on, Anna-Marie, be sweet,” Remy said, between titters. No doubt, he hoped that the calculated use of her real name would soften her.  

Rogue continued with her single finger, waiting for him to use their safe-word to put this to rest. Instead Remy was trying to hide his face by smashing it against the pillows. Still, he didn’t say the safeword. 

So Rogue took it as permission to use all her fingers on his defenseless soles.

“Ah’m as sweet as you deserve, swamp rat!” Rogue called over his laughter, “It’s been a long time coming that I get to tickle you!” 

“Da-ahahaha-dat’s diffhehahaho!” Remy protested, cut off by his own snickers when she began playing with his toes. 

“Oh really?” Rogue drawled, stopping her ticklish assault to hear his explanation. 

Remy sighed, flushed but unrepentant. 

“It’s dat you’re so pretty, mon ami. Your laugh is gorgeous. Your body so inviting to . . .” Remy’s upper lip curled, leaving the rest implied before continuing, “You’ve had a hard life. A lonely life. I want to ease it a bit.” 

Rogue couldn’t help smiling. Remy had always been good to her in that way. Stubborn as she was, no matter how she pushed him away, resigning herself to a life of isolation because of her cursed touch. He fought just as hard to say different. That she deserved love, life and all that it entails.

And he’d be the one to stand by her side, showering her with compliments and affection. Even if he insisted on tickling and teasing her at 6 in the freaking morning as a valid wake-up tactic.

Rogue walked over to the side of the bed, and captured his face in her hands, leaned over and kissed him. Not their usual battle to kiss harder and more passionately. But a firm, steady one of love and security. They were meant for each other’s side. Always would be. 

Rogue broke away first, lingering a little in the brightness of his smile, “That’s real sweet. Ah appreciate that.” 

She clambered onto the bed and sat above his knees, facing toward him. “In fact, Ah could say the exact same things ‘bout you. So laugh, sugar, Ah love to hear it.” 

She reached behind and squeezed his knee-caps, earning another surprised yelp. But it was when she squeezed his inner thigh and drilled at his hip bone, digging into the tendons that she hit a gold mine. 

Remy whooped, bucking his hips, twisting around, and arching his back in an attempt to unseat her. Rogue stayed on, laughing herself at the surprising noises he was making. 

“Is that some Cajun war-whoop? Do it again!” Rogue cheered, repeating the motion.

Remy was helpless to answer his girlfriend’s teasing. Broken by the “Cajun war-whoops,” he had devolved into silent laughter, unable to muster a sound. Rogue could only ascertain his ticklish agony from the smile splitting his face and the convulsive heave of his chest. 

She quickly put an end to that. Despite the funny sound, it was a bad spot and she didn’t want to bring him unnecessary distress where he couldn’t say the safeword. 

Panting, Remy still managed to put up his arrogant smirk. “Know dat Gambit’s gonna get you for dis.” 

“Good ‘ting Rogue knows how to get back,” Rogue mimicked his accent, tapping at his rib cage. She happily noted how he flinched when she reached the uppermost ones. 

“Have a heart, chere,” Remy said, “I can ‘tink of plenty other things to do with your hands.” 

“I can imagine too,” Rogue said saucily, “There’s just one last spot I want to check. With a challenge.: 

Remy raised an intrigued eyebrow just like she knew he would, “I like a challenge.”

“It’s simple. Say a complete sentence.” 

Not giving Remy time to think, or more likely, retort, Rogue scribbled her fingers all over his upper body. Spidering in the hollows of his armpits, counting off his ribs and feathering around his very ticklish belly button. That spot made him squeal. 

“Fuhahahaahahah!Shihahaho!Chehehehohahah stoahahahp!” 

Rogue continued to speak as if Remy was capable of replying, “Ah think Ah’m being fair. It’s not like Ah’m asking you to hold one of your playing cards between your toes. Though with your squirming I doubt you’d succeed. This one you have a fighting chance.” 

“GahahaheI-Ihehehehohoa!’ 

“Ah’ll even tell you what to say. “I, Remy LeBeau, love it when you tickle me.” 

“WaihahahaNo! I-hahCherahohehehe-IhaNo-” Remy desperately shook his head from side to side as if he was summoning his will power to ignore the fingers fluttering down his sides. 

“Ah I think you do,” Rogue teased, rubbing slightly against his erect member. She knew there were many reasons for his anatomy’s apparent attention. The friction of squirming underneath her. The view of her in his favorite lingerie. But it was worth seeing the wide-eyed shock that blasted his easy-going composure. 

And the obvious blush staining his cheeks.

“I-ahaha I-pl-ahahaha!” “Come on, Ah believe in you,” Rogue cajoled, shifting positions so she could lay across his chest, chin resting at his collarbones. It gave her prime access to his sides and pits with the choice to kiss him whenever she pleased.

She peppered his chest with kisses and nibbles. She nuzzled at his neck while tickling him lightly, knowing she had to ease up if he was ever going to get a word in. Still, the confusing stimuli of sensual kisses with gentle tickling seemed to leave his tongue incoherent. 

“Come on, Remy, you’re so close.” 

“I-hehehahehalohahaheholovehehe-you!” Remy gasped out. 

“Close enough.” 

Rogue stopped, massaging at the ticklish spots until he stopped laughing. 

Fitting her head in the crook of his neck, Rogue looked at Remy, brushing a stray hair plastered to his forehead from his exuberant struggle. “Ah’m sorry if Ah rode you too hard. You didn’t say the safe-word so. . . I know it’s not what you had in mind for tonight.” 

“Gambit can handle anyt’ing. I know dat you don’t get much experience with touch or playin’ around so if you want ta do some ticklin’, I’ll do it.”  

The tender look in his magenta eyes belied his casual tone. Pure Remy LeBeau. Love disguised as nonchalance. Rogue wondered if he’d ever believe he was as good as his deeds. 

She hugged him tight, “Same goes for you, darling. I’ll tolerate it more now that Ah know how much you enjoy it.” 

“For your sake,” Remy countered. 

“You’re the one who always starts it,” Rogue pointed out. “I told you. Your laugh is irresistible.” 

“But you had a good time, now. Admit it,” Rogue insisted. Remy shrugged as much as his bonds would allow like he was placating her. 

Oh well, she’d get him to admit it another day. 

They still had a whole night of fun and sinning to get to.

[catgirlmissy]

In-between commissions Vicar Amelia she is a plushie and you can take her everywhere with you

I wanted to do something using my large stash of shaggy fur + tried to fit an open mouth on a more 2D ith plushie

Maybe I'll try Rom next? 👀

[the-real-couchrat]

Doodle dump bc I want to post something part one (part two here)

This started as “huh, I wonder how Alcor’s outfits could look in the distant future?” and then devolved into “I wonder how much space I can fill”. This was also inspired by @your-local-uwu-artist ‘s Alcor’s tail concept.

Edit: here is the link to crippling defeat

There was a point at the start where I cot bored so I recolored his outfit with the trans flag

I completely forgot to explain the chest mouth. It’s from a post I haven’t been able to find again but it basically like “my chest just split open into a gaping vertical maw, and PROM IS TOMORROW” and I have never let it go. (If anyone knows it pls send me a link)

Also a Transcendence Comics Black Label doodles

I also read this cool fic abt Alcor getting an assistant thing, and it mentioned a sentient Sweater Stash having margaritas with the sentient Answering Machine, and I needed to draw it (with the Rainbow Basher of course)

Ignore the backgrounds pls, it helps me stay motivated

I re-watched wolfwalkers recently, so the only logical thing to do was to make Alcor one.

And a few months ago I was planning on doing the whole cast from Shooting Stars chapter 294, (by @seiya234 )but I lost motivation pretty quick so take these

I had a temporary Jupiter hyper fixation

(Don’t ask why the man looks like Shaggy, it was an accident)

I’m obsessed over the Flip,Flop,Fly concept for a bit

I thought it’d be cool if he volunteered or lived at a Pegasus stable or something.

Ball gown? Idk I just wanted to put him in a dress.

I’ll link the part two bc apparently there’s a 10 image limit on mobile.

[jamdoughnutmagician]

Kisses From A Princess 

Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader (18+)

Summary:Following his indiscretions under the bleachers, a certain cheerleader suddenly takes an interest in the shaggy-haired metal-head (sorry I suck at summaries)

Warnings:Starts with a small bit of fluff, but the rest is just filth. Teasing, Making-out, Blow Jobs (in public kind of? Reader sucks him off at the bench outside the school?) cum-swallowing. Let me know if there’s anything I’ve missed that you want tagged.

Word Count:1,796

Authour’s Note:I really just liked writing for eddie and cheerleader reader so I wrote another one! Follows on from Knee Socks and Pom-Poms, so it might help to read that first if you haven’t. So yeah just more filth from me I guess 😅

Masterlist

For a long time Eddie was very happy admiring you from afar. Gazing dreamily at the back of your head, his eyes following the subtle bounce of your ponytail as he sat behind you in class. His attention being entirely diverted away from whatever subject he was supposed to be studying, instead choosing to scribble your name in his scrawling handwriting in the pages of his notebook, surrounding your name with little hearts. Even going as far as to write your initials next to his, once again surrounding your combined initials in a scratched black ink heart. It was safe to say that Eddie had fallen hook, line and sinker.

Part of him knows it's stupid of him to have a crush on a cheerleader like you. The school’s freak and the popular cheerleader? It was so cliché! You couldn't be more different from him if you tried, and yet,  his crush on you remained all the same. 

He vaguely hears the monotonous sound of Ms. O’Donnell’s voice as she goes through the morning’s lesson. Her voice seemed to be getting louder and louder until he looked up from his doodle-filled notebook.

“Mr. Munson, if you could please pay attention to the lesson at hand. If you paid as much attention to my teaching as you do the back of y/n’s head then perhaps you might actually learn something”

You whipped your head around at the mention of your name to see the boy who sat behind you, sink into his seat. A pink flush quickly spread across his cheeks, as he tried to hide behind his curtain of dark frizzy curls.

You waited until Ms. O'Donnell carried on with her lesson before scribbling down a note in your notebook and tearing it out to pass it to the boy sitting behind you.

Eddie looks up from where he's sat slumped in his seat, still feeling embarrassed at having been singled out like that, to find a folded up piece of paper on his desk. He reaches forwards, and carefully unfolds the note under his desk to read it

Hey Eddie! I know we don’t talk all that often, but just so you know, I think you’re pretty cute :) Meet me out by the bench at the back of the school at lunch? There’s something I wanna talk to you about.

 He smiles as he looks over your swirling handwriting and sweet words, quickly looking around him before scribbling down his own note next to yours before discreetly passing it back to you with a tap on your shoulder.

Nice to know the feeling’s mutual. Until then, Princess.

_____________

Eddie sits at the table in the clearing at the back of the school’s football field. He’d been here many times before, dealing from his stash in his metal lunchbox to the regular stoner students of the school, but for some reason waiting at this table not knowing what was going to happen had a knot growing in the pit of his stomach. Was his note too much? Why did he have to call you Princess? And what could you possibly want to talk to him about?

Just as he begins to get up to leave to save himself the embarrassment of being left hanging, he hears the sound of your crunching footsteps through the leaves on the ground.

‘Sorry I kept you waiting, you know how the rest of the cheer squad can be. I mean they can be very nice, don’t get me wrong but, I don’t really care for all that girly gossiping that goes on.’ you offer apologetically.

You set down your backpack before sitting yourself on the opposite side of the bench from him.

You looked at Eddie, his expression was one of a rabbit caught in the headlights. His big brown eyes searching your face, trying to get any sense of why you’d asked him to meet you here in the first place.

Eddie settles down in his seat watching you carefully as you continue talking.

“You know I saw you, Eddie.” You begin.

“S-saw me? What are you talking about?” He stumbles.

“Last week. I was out on the field with the rest of the cheer squad and I saw you hiding in the bleachers, I know you were watching me.” you explain.

Oh. So that’s what this was about.

“I-I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to perv on you like that I-I just…” He babbles endlessly. Of course you were going to think he was a weirdo! What kind of creep just hides in the bleachers, just to get off whilst watching the girl of his dreams dance for him? What on earth were you thinking, Munson?

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” you reassure “I actually thought it was kind of hot” you say, your eyes not quite being able to look into his deep brown ones. “..and don’t worry, none of the other girls in the squad saw you, they were too busy being concerned about themselves to notice what you were up to.” you told him.

"But you saw me, though?" he asks again.

"Oh I certainly saw you a lot of you, big boy." You lightly tease.

A bright hot scarlet flush spreads across Eddie’s cheeks, and down to his chest. He desperately tries to ignore the twitch of his dick under the dark denim of his jeans at the sound of your sweet voice calling him ‘big boy’

  ‘Y’know, Eddie…” you say as you get up from where you’re sitting on your side of the bench, and slowly begin to make your way over to where he’s sat. “I mean what I wrote in my note. I do think you’re pretty cute.”

He turns around in his seat, looking at you, as you look down at him with a lustful gaze.

“...and you can tell me if I’m reading this situation all wrong, and I won’t ever bother you again, but I’d be more than happy to please you, if you’d let me” you say, your voice dropping to a seductive tone.

“Please me?” Eddie stumbles, he feels his heart thumping in his chest and the press of his cock against his boxers at your suggestion.

Your smaller delicate hands trail over his crotch, where the material of his jeans are pulled tight, rubbing over the growing bulge under the denim.

“I want you, Eddie. I want to taste you. Do you want me to put my mouth on you?” your eyes are looking deep into his, sparkling with desire.

“Y-yes, I’d like that very much.” he smiles.

He feels your fingers beginning to make work of the handcuff holding his belt together, before then moving to unzip his jeans.

“Wait-wait a moment..” he stammers.

“Have you changed your mind about this, Eddie? Because that’s okay.” you reassure him.

“No, not all. It’s just..If we’re going to do this, then I want to do it right. I-I wanna kiss you, I mean I would like to, can I kiss you?” he asks sweetly.

 “I would like that too, Eddie” you say,  before leaning forward and gently pressing your lips to his. His lips are surprisingly soft, kissing you with a gentle tenderness that has you feeling a little weak in the knees. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, eager to slip between your lips and deepen the kiss. His large hands find themselves splayed on your hips, holding you close to him between his open thighs as he kisses you like he needs it to survive. 

You pull away from his lips, both of you breathing a little heavier than before.

You settle yourself on your knees between his open thighs, pulling his boxers down with his jeans to settle around his ankles. 

“I told you, I wanted to taste you, Eddie. I’m not wasting this opportunity” and with that you wrap your hand around his half-hard cock. Stroking your hand up and down over him slowly, letting him feel your grazing over the vein that runs the length of the underside of his cock.

You lower your head, your breath ghosting across the tip of his cock for a moment, before your tongue slips out from between your lips to sweep across the bead of pre-cum pooling from his slit.

Above you, you hear Eddie shudder out a shaky breath.

“F-Fucking hell sweetheart..” he moans.

You start to suckle the head of his cock in your mouth, savouring the slightly salty taste of him against your tongue. Licking up the length of him in one one long sweep, tongue tracing that prominent  pulsing vein.

Taking him further in your mouth you begin to bob your head over him, using your hand to stoke the spit slick flesh of the rest of his cock, twisting your closed fist slightly as your hand stroked upwards.

Your other hand reaches down, to gently cup and roll his heavy balls in your hands.

“Feels so good…Love your mouth, Sweetheart..F-fuck…”

You smile against him, despite how your lips are stretched around his thick cock. Knowing that you were able to get him like this with just your mouth gave you a strange sense of pride.

All the while Eddie is winding his hands into your hair, and he’s desperately willing himself to not thrust his hips up into your face, and letting you set the pace. He feels a tight knot in his stomach tying itself ever tighter with every pass of your tongue over his flushed skin.

“Sweets..I-I’m close..You’re gonna make me cum..Please…” he whines desperately.

“Come for me, Eddie… I want it..” you mumble against him.

“Gonna come in your mouth..down your throat…” he huffs with a moan.

With a few more relentless strokes of your fist over him, he was coming, spilling rope after rope of his load into the warm wet heat of your mouth. Glazing the back of your throat with streams of sticky, salty cum. 

Your eyes never leave his as you slowly pull away from his softening cock. Looking up at where his chest is rising and falling with exhausted breaths, you lock eyes with him, showing him your tongue coated in the evidence of seed, before making a point to swallow down everything he had to offer you.

“You’re trouble aren’t you, Princess?” he breathlessly chuckles.

“Yeah, but something tells me that you like trouble, don’t you, Munson?”

“Fucking love it.” he grins brightly before tugging you up from your knees to kiss you one more time, pressing his lips to yours in a bruising passionate kiss.

Yeah, he’s gonna have to keep you around him, as close as he can, if can help it.

tagged: @harringtons-cupid @mcbeanzontoast @i-me-mine @penguinsandpotterheads

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 71 - Resolutions

On AO3.

It’s a pretty clearing, in the daylight. Not the same one you found him in (that seemed sacrilegious), but close by. Nearer the road. You make sure Gale marks it on y’all’s map and you donate your meager stash of linens to enshroud him.

It’s a small gathering. Only you, Gale, Wyll, and Karlach. And y’all’s new, druid friend. Astarion, understandably stays behind. As does Lae’zel, who seems bored with the entire concept.

Y’all bury Gandrel next to a patch of wildflowers. You got no idea what funerary practices the gur people observe. But burning him seemed too extreme (and some Earth cultures react real bad to that), and you can’t just leave him out here. Wyll and Halsin dig the hole, while you gather stones to pile on, and Karlach comes grunting in with a fucking boulder perched up on her shoulder.

You got no idea what to say. Shadowheart meanders up as y’all finish laying the man to rest. She offers some words about soothing darkness (Gale gives her Looks, again). Halsin adds his own speech about peace and the Oakfather watching over this “place of rest.”

The trees seem to respond to that, which gives the big man a small smile.

They end up leaving you alone with him. You, his killer.

You’ve killed people in Faerun. Directly, or through others. You killed somebody on your second or third day here. You set that owlbear on them two cultists. Shoved Kahga off a cliff. Orchestrated wiping out a whole damn war camp and that’s after bombing the hell outta them fake paladins.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

The freshly-laid stones don’t answer. The wind hisses along the trees and distant birds chirp at each other. You ain’t heard a crow all damn day.

“I’m sorry.”

Too small. Too inadequate. Kinda sums up a lotta things, recently.

“I wish it didn’t come to this. I think we could’a been actual friends, maybe. I…I wish we could’a. My people…my dad’s people. Their kids got taken, too. I got taken. I wanted to help you. I still do.”

Ain’t much in your pockets. But your fingers brush a leather band, decorated in a string of bright beads. You got no idea what it means, if anything at all. But he was wearing it when…when he died. It was the only thing you took off of him (that you late anybody take off him). The beads feel smooth as you roll them between your fingers. You wonder if he held them like you do, traced along the edges with his thumb and thought about his family.

“I’ll find them. Your people. I’ll give them this and let them know where you are.”

The stones don’t answer.

You ain’t expecting them to.

There ain’t no more to say. So you turn and head back to camp.

Lae’zel is waiting when you get there. Her gaze sweeps over you: your clothes all dirty and torn up, muscles occasionally spasming; your hair grown shaggy over the tops of your ears; the blood is washed from your face and mouth, but your hands are bruised, knuckled battered and bleeding from carrying all them stones.

She nods. “You did not die.”

“Um. Nope?”

“Unarmed, against a superior force.”

“He wasn’t…” You don’t think she actually cares what he was doing or what he was like. That he tried to help you at the end and that’s what got him killed.

Her eyes narrow. “It seems you may not be so worthless after all. We will resume training so you do not degrade yourself before my people.”

Oh. Goodie.

For some reason, a twinge of something almost like warmth flickers inside you? This place is so fucked up and weird and it’s fucking contagious.

“Yeah,” you say. “Um, thanks, I think.”

She nods once again, and brushes past you to go do Lae’zel stuff. Probably chew through a tree or something; terrorize the local wildlife.

Shadowheart kneels beside her tent in what you think is meditation, while Wyll practices his footwork with his backup sword flashing in the sunlight.

Karlach’s tent, as usual, sits next to yours. She’s digging through her non-magical pack, looking for something. Gives you a grin and a nod as you pass. “Soldier.”

Y’all’ll be at Lae’zel’s creche in a matter of days, probably. You gotta start making plans. And for that, you head past your own tent to the one that, once more, lurks behind yours.

“Well hello, ally,” Astarion says.

All traces of the hole through his ribs is gone. He wears a different shirt as he perches on his little camp stool. His skin is more white than gray, but still too pale to be mistaken for somebody in good health. Wyll has been kind enough to go hunting, and brought back a few nearly dead bunnies that hadn’t been poisoned (you forbade Astarion from feeding on Gandrel) (“but he’s right there and he’s already dead, darling”).

He moves easier as you come to a stop. And not just from downing four bunnies like a frat boy cracking a six-pack of cold beers. He seems looser around you: his hands flit around easily and he’s back to making those exaggerated expressions that ain’t completely some form of asshole. He’s…relaxed.

You exchange greetings and a couple of pleasantries (how are you; almost fell over peeing but didn’t, so better; you should have let me desecrate that corpse; you can desecrate the next people we inevitably have to fucking murder if that makes you feel better; you’re too sweet, darling). Then you get to the point.

“You think Lae’zel’s people are gonna live up to her hype?” you say.

“Their what?”

Translation. Right. “Fix the worms.”

He toys with the book he’s holding, the pads of his fingers stroking along the spine as he seems to consider. “I suppose if anyone knows anything about our parasitic friends, it would be them. Be that as it may, I’m not terribly eager to go waltzing into a lair of murderous lizards.”

Same.

You nod. And waffle about the next part. It needs to be asked. It’s been weighing on you. But you doubt he’ll appreciate it and he’s probably been thinking about (dreading) the whole damn thing himself.

“Say it does,” you say, starting a good distance from the bush you intend to beat. “Say three or four days from now, we’re all de-wormed. What’re your plans?”

He makes a face at you (it’s the “de-wormed” part, ain’t it). Hums and haws and fiddles with his book.

The man has no idea, does he?

“You said that fuckface can control you,” you press. “I’m sorry to be asking, but I kinda gotta. How? What does that mean, exactly?”

So he tells you. And he wasn’t kidding about “puppet.” You listen and try real hard to keep your posture neutral and your expression blank, even as your guts twist up and the adrenaline gives a rage kick through your arteries.

You breathe out long and slow. Prop your hands on your hips where he’s least likely to notice them shaking.

“So what’s the range on that?” you say. Imagine your body just moving when somebody says so. Imagine what it would have been like on the farmstead. And then you imagine receiving the fucking Oscar you deserve for keeping your voice so fucking level when you continue. “Is there a way to block it, now that you ain’t actively, uh…?”

He catches your verbal fumble. Raises an eyebrow. “Enslaved?”

You want to find that miserable shitting fuck who did that to him and smash his goddamned fucking teeth out, leave his mouth a bleeding cavity of jagged, enamel stumps, the ground littered with blood and spit and chips of teeth.

“Have you heard of any kinda mental shielding or anything? Cause I think we can get Gale on board with that. I haven’t even gotten to the Roman Empire yet.”

Astarion’s face starts to close up again. And you think you know why, catch a hint of the emotions he must be stuffing down. To know somebody has hurt you that bad for so long, and to know there ain’t nothing you can do about it. That’s the kind of anger that chews a person up from the inside.

“I honestly don’t know,” he says, after a moment. “I’ve never, ah, been able to test that before.”

Fucking son of a motherfucking hag bitch. You hope you can find a way to make that fuckface die screaming.

“So it might be immediate?” you say and absolutely hate what those words do to him.

Because a shadow settles over Astarion. Something cold and dark, and you desperately want to look away, but you started this and you gotta stare into that void now.

“I got a proposition,” you say, when the urge to squirm shivers over your skin too long to ignore. “If you’re amenable. We get Gale in on this. Wyll, too. And the others, if they want. Assume the worst might happen and go from there.”

He gives you that guarded look again. Nods once.

You take another breath. Hold it. “Do you trust me enough to tell me all you know about vampire lords? Their weaknesses?”

And he looks at you. Fucking looks at you. Don’t speak for a long time as Wyll grunts and moves through his forms. As Gale mutters to himself and Karlach says, “Yes! There you are!”

Then, “You really intend to pursue this?”

Y’all got brainworms that need dealing with, and some mystery fucking space wizard saying she’s “shielding” you. You got a gith creche and this “Absolute” motherfucking cult. But beyond that lies a dead man in a mountain clearing and a camp full of grief. Stands a pale elf with red eyes and sunken cheeks and a hunted, starving look to him. And all that comes from one man.

You are going to find a fucking way to take that piece of fucking shit down.

“Very,” you say.

Astarion stares at you a moment longer, before his head tilts back and that malicious smile oozes across his features. “Alright then, darling. Where would you like me to start?”

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[brandyllyn]

Lucky Stars

Ezra x GN!Reader 

Summary: “And are you a good man?” “I like to believe myself a man of good intentions.” Words: 3.3k.

My Masterlist

Rating: Teen. Warnings: None? Canon injuries.

I asked for some inspiration and Jen came through with “A kiss for luck” with Ezra. Also, I’m like 80% sure I stole an Oscar Wilde joke in here somewhere.

The first time you met Ezra was coincidentally your first time out on the sling. As the drop engineer, your job was to oversee the operations of each drop ship. To ensure ships weren’t dropped into the same flightpath and to time out the release to be sure that all ships could make it safely to their destination at whatever planet was below.

You’d worked a few of the inner rim planets already - mostly dropping pleasure cruisers onto sunny tropical paradises you could never afford to visit. But the money was crap and the competition was almost always the nephew of some contractor who needed a place to stash their busted ass relative.

The long-haul flights paid bank. Mainly because no one wanted to spend spans at a time out on the circuit. The time, however, suited you just fine.

Your work station was central to the shipyards, a view of all forty-eight pods docked for this trip available between sightlines and video feeds. It sat a few feet above where the corridors came together. Visitors weren’t uncommon, a few credits slipped into your hands to get a better place in the drop zone or to get picked up first on the trip back.

You didn’t handle pickups but their chits spent all the same.

All that is to say that when a shaggy mop of brown hair with a blonde tuft popped into view just below your desk you weren’t surprised. The Green was coming up - a mining planet that had been attracting people from across the eight reaches for some time now - and you’d already had three people asking for advice or information on where to land, where lodes might be and whatnot.

“Well I’ll be,” his soft drawl crawled up to you. “You’re a damn sight better looking than Old Rodge was.”

Checking your monitors once more you leaned forward, giving a smile to the man standing on the platform below your workstation. Handsome, recently groomed - probably his last haircut for a while - and wearing a faded set of work overalls.

Definitely not his first sling.

“What can I help you with, sir?”

“No need to stand on formalities, starshine, we’re all friends here.”

Cocking an eyebrow you gave him an appraising look. “Friends huh?”

He nodded solemnly, taking a step up onto a cable buttress and settling his forearms on your desk. He wasn’t quite eye to eye but it allowed you to lean back in your chair a bit. “I think it would be a singular pleasure to be counted as your friend.”

“The first three drops are locked in.”

His eyes narrowed and he cursed. “Do you think my attentions are so mercenary?”

“Oh, were you just saying hi?”

“Hello. Bonjour. Nǐ hǎo.”

“Ezra.”

Both of you looked at the man coming down the corridor, although your companion’s face was far more disgruntled.

“What?”

“Did you get us a new drop slot?”

Your lips twitched and the man who could only be Ezra turned back to you with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders.

“It is possible that I arrived with an ulterior motive, starshine, but it is only secondary to meeting you at this point.”

“Prophet’s nutsack,” his companion grumbled, shoving at Ezra and forcing him to step down from his perch. A hand appeared, dropping a small array of chits in front of you. “What’ll this get us?”

You glanced over the pile quickly. “Fifth.”

“I thought you said the first three spots were spoken for?” Ezra cut in.

“I did.” With a sweep of your hand you palmed the chits, tucking them into your own work overalls. “If you want better than fifth it’ll cost more. I already moved you up a spot for being cute.”

Ezra preened, mouth opening on what you were sure would be a lovely soliloquy about your charms but you cut him off with a quick jerk of your head to his partner - who was paying no attention to you at all.

Giving a mock huff of indignation Ezra bowed, sweeping his arms out and adding a roguish wink.

“Until we meet again, starshine.”

The second time you met Ezra was another drop-off, four sling rotations later. Yours wasn’t the only sling working the route, each pass taking months to complete.

“Missed you on the pickup, starshine.”

Frowning you pushed your chair back, leaning around the edge of your pod to see who was standing at the step up. When it didn’t spark any recognition for you he pouted.

“Do not tell me you have forgotten me so quickly - such disregard is likely to drive a man to commit acts of singular madness.”

You may not have remembered his face but the voice was impossible to forget. That particular cadence and slow drawl. Giving him a grin you motioned him to step up and he did, finding a place he could perch and nearly look you in the eye.

“An invite into the inner sanctum? I am honored.”

Snorting you flipped a toggle to realign a drop pod. “That is my outer sanctum at best, cowboy.”

He grinned in return. “And yet sacred nevertheless.”

“What can I help you with?”

Another pout. “I seem to remember you doubting my motives on our last meeting as well, starshine. Have I really made such a poor impression on you?”

“Miners only ever want three things. Stone, stim, or-” you cut yourself off, shifting your eyes away and pretending to be busy with a screen he couldn’t see.

“I beg of you to finish that sentence, starshine.” His eyes were glittering with mischief, the corner of his lips twitching up. You shook your head and he laughed. “Well seeing as I am on my way to find stone, and I do not partake of the stim, I suppose all that is left is the…. presence of a lovely companion.”

“I bet you say that to all the crew.”

“A blow!” A hand flew to cover his heart. “You are whatever a moon has always meant - and whatever a sun will always sing is you.” At your confused frown he sighed, “You are not a connoisseur of poetry I suppose?”

“There once was a man from the rim…” you started and he laughed.

“A person of refined taste,” his brown eyes twinkled at you. “A connoisseur of a much maligned art form.”

You couldn’t help your answering smile. “You have any luck?” He raised an eyebrow and you clarified, “On your last run, to the Green. Any luck?”

A heavy sigh. “A few small stones, barely enough to make the run worth it.”

“And yet you’re going back,” you pointed out.

“Ah, but I have a new crew. And a special charm for luck.”

“Oh?” Your eyes caught on an alert and you cleared it absentmindedly. “What kind?”

“Why, an utterly captivating dropship engineer.”

A snort escaped you before you could stop it. “I seem to recall seeing you off to your last drop as well.”

“Ah, but I came to you then with questionable motives.” He spread his hands wide, showing you open palms, “Now I am but a supplicant, worshiping at your altar and hoping for your favor.”

“Do those lines really work on people?”

A casual shrug, “They don’t not work.”

Your console gave a beep and you nodded at it. “Gotta take that.”

He nodded in return. “Until next time, starshine.” He hopped down and started away as you reached for the button and then paused.

“Wait.”

He turned back, a bemused look on his face. “Yes?”

“What was your name again?”

He made a small bow. “You, my dear, may call me whatever you’d like.” You rolled your eyes and he grinned. “Ezra, starshine, my name is Ezra.”

“Ezra,” you tried the name out and his grin deepened. “Interesting name.”

“Well I like to think I’m an interesting man.”

The third time you met Ezra you could not really be said to be meeting him per se. You recognized him and remembered his name so it was really more of an acquaintanceship renewal than anything.

“Ah for you are yet the symphony of the stars.”

You couldn’t help the smile at the sound of his voice, turning to see him waiting patiently at the edge of your work pod. You motioned him and he bounded up like a man half his age, finding a place to stand where he could perch a hip on the edge of your desk. He looked positively smug and you couldn’t help a laugh.

“Hello Ezra.”

His grin was wide, a new scar cutting across one eye. “starshine you are as captivating as always.”

“I take it you had a good trip?”

The Green was a few spins behind you, the last pickup locked in as the sling made its way to its next destination. You didn’t really need to be at your station, but you liked getting a head start on the landing patterns.

“A fruitful conquest,” Ezra was saying, his fingers tapping on one thigh. “Enough to whet a man’s appetite for more.”

“That good, huh?”

“I could certainly treat you in the style to which you are accustomed.”

You glanced around at the dirty workbench, the ancient equipment, your ragged overalls. “Low bar.”

“And one I am happy to clear.” His cheerfulness was contagious, eyes bright even with the sharp red scar cutting through one. You wondered if he expected you to ask about it.

“You sticking to the Green then?”

He shrugged, picking at one nail. “I have a new crew and some ideas as to a new excavation, although I suppose you’d have more information than me about that.”

Nodding you reset a fuel calculation. “Someone found a motherlode, went back to the Ephrate for supplies last I checked.”

His attention was suddenly fully on you. “Is that so, starshine?”

“Mmhmm,” you pretended to ignore his intense scrutiny.

“And is the location of the lode information you might be willing to share?”

“Well,” you tapped a button and glanced sideways at him from under your eyelashes, “that would depend.”

“A share I take it?”

You snorted. “Like I could ever hold you to it.”

“Ah,” he demurred, “you have not had much experience with good men I take it?”

“Out here,” you gestured at the ship, “I’m lucky to find mediocre ones.”

The tips of his fingers briefly touched the back of your hand before he pulled away. “The good man watches our bogus roses, our rank wreath.”

Another quote from someone you didn’t recognize. “And are you a good man?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I like to believe myself a man of good intentions.”

“Yet you’d rob some unsuspecting miner?”

“That my dear starshine is just good business.” He looked so affronted you had to laugh. “And a business opportunity for us both.”

“Aurelac.”

He paused, head cocking, considering you. “How much?”

You cupped your hand a little. “Just one, yay big. And I’ll drop you dead center of the guy’s camp.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me would you, starshine?”

You gave him your most innocent expression, fluttering your lashes for good measure. “Who, me?”

The gem was plopped onto your desk without ceremony, the messy head of distinctive hair soon following.

“I likely would have gifted you this for a chance for your company, starshine.”

It was a little bigger than you’d asked for, the center a beautiful gold that caught even the dim lights of the ship. With barely concealed awe you cupped the aurelac in your palms, feeling the warmth that naturally emanated from it.

“Are you serious?”

He’d stepped up, leaning on your desk. “Were you?”

You pointed at the holo of the planet, “Just north of there, about five clicks. Like I said, I can set you down dead center.”

“And you say there is a bounty of gems there? Just how much is a bounty?”

Carefully wrapping the aurelac into a kerchief you tucked it safely inside your shirt. “The guy was going back for a crew of six, so enough he didn’t mind sharing.”

Ezra nodded thoughtfully. “A worthwhile venture then. And you are sure you do not require a cut?”

“I got mine.” You patted your chest, noticing how his eyes lingered on your chest for a moment - as though imagining what was beneath. “‘Sides, I might never see you again.”

“Surely the universe would not be so cruel.” He clutched a hand over his heart, giving you a pleading look.

“Do you annoy Laquon with your attentions when it’s not me here?” you asked, mentioning the drop engineer working one of the other slings.

“Laquon will not speak to me,” Ezra replied. “Not since the night I took half his wages in a sharps game.”

“Did you cheat?”

“You wound me!”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t.”

The console beeped, announcing you were moving into orbit around the Green. “You should go get your crew ready.”

“Ah, a too quick end to our lovely repast.” He leaned towards you, eyes bright. “A kiss for luck, starshine?”

Giving him a nudge with your foot you shooed him away. “You make your own luck Ezra.”

His amused chuckle stuck with you for some time to come.

It was the last of the day’s pickups at the Green and you were absolutely not supposed to be working. Pickups weren’t your job, drop offs were. You’d already let a dad and his kid down yesterday - two people you were sure you’d never see again - and they were the only people dumb enough or desperate enough to take the trip down to the Green on the last sling.

The last sling ever.

It felt odd, the end of an era. You’d spent the better part of five orbits on this route. The Green, Delphi VI, an asteroid that had a long string of letters and numbers but the miners just called Dave… pit stops and drop ships. The sling’s crew of nine would be dispatched to new routes. You were planning to take some time off - maybe back to one of those paradise planets for a bit.

Yesterday’s drops should have been it. No more work. Just hanging out in your too small bunk while you dreamt of how to spend the credits you’d been saving up.

But that was without the alarm. Or the Captain’s voice on comms.

“Bay 26 has an emergency beacon on.”

Groaning, you punched the intercom. “How is that my problem?”

“Janus is down with whatever flu he caught from the last scrapyard we were at. I need you to check on it.”

With a grumble you knew the mic would pick up you grabbed your pants. “Fine, but I wanna be paid.”

“Yeah yeah,” the intercom cut out and you squeezed out of your bunk to the hallway beyond. Bay 26 wasn’t too far, and there was a shortcut through the anterior cooling room. You moved a little faster than you might have let on to the Captain. It was an emergency beacon, although odds were it’d been hit by accident or was a malfunction.

“Occupants of pod 438-Alpha, are you in distress?”

You waited while the door to the ship sat silent.

“Occupants of pod-”

A face appeared in the window and you yelped. Young, blonde… the kid who’d dropped yesterday. She tried to get the door to open but the safety mechanism held it in place.

“You have to decontaminate,” you told her through the speaker. “Unless it’s a medical emergency you-”

“He’s dying!” she shouted back, hand scrambling at the controls on her side and suddenly her voice boomed through. “He’s sick and I think it’s infected. You’ve got to let me get him to medbay.”

“What kind of infection?” You tried to ignore her frantic movements. The safety of the crew came first. If they had picked up a virus or something you wanted nothing to do with it.

“His arm,” she was making an effort to sound calm. “He got hurt but it’s infected. He needs antibiotics.”

That didn’t sound too bad. Fairly normal - not like some alien chestburster. “Are you sick?”

“No, it’s just his arm.” Her eyes met yours through the tempered transparisteel. “Please, he needs help.”

You weighed your options. The Green was considered a toxic planet, requiring a decom before disembarking. But it was because of something in the air that could stick to clothes. People lived down there with minimal protections. Worst case you’d have to take some antihistamines.

That was assuming this infection was what she said it was.

“Into your suit,” you announced through the door. “And get him into his. Neither of you breathe our air until I can check you’re not contagious. Deal?”

The girl nodded emphatically and disappeared. A few moments later her head popped up again, covered by a helmet. You could see the edge of someone leaning heavily against her.

“Please.”

Regretting it already, you punched the override code for the door. Practicing an abundance of caution you stepped away quickly as they stumbled out. “Follow me to medbay. No sudden movements. Nothing comes off until I give it the all clear. Got it?”

The girl nodded and you led them down the narrow corridor as quick as they were able to pace you. Her dad was in bad shape, head hanging down as he seemed to concentrate on walking. He wasn’t as put together as the last time. Something must have happened to his suit on the Green and he’d scavenged a new one.

“C’mon, just a little further,” you heard the girl encouraging him.

The medbay was empty, no surprise, making it easy for you to find a spot for the girl to set him down. “I have to make sure you haven’t brought anything on board,” you told them, gesturing for her to join him near the scanner.

“I wouldn’t dream of bringing you anything but jewels, starshine.”

Your head jerked around, meeting his slightly hazy gaze. “Ezra?”

“In the flesh,” a sigh and a groan, “such that it is.”

You picked up speed. Not that you’d been dawdling, but your hands began to fly over the controls, waiting until you got the green light before rushing to his side and helping the girl remove his helmet. “What in the seven seals happened to you?”

“A small accident,” he sat up with your help and you pushed his suit down to his waist. A soft curse made you stop and re-evaluate.

“Ezra,” you asked as calmly as you could, “are you missing an arm?”

“A minor inconvenience.”

“Prophets balls,” you muttered, turning away to find the anesthetic. “How long ago?”

“A spin?” He cast a look at the girl and she seemed to be trying her best to not look guilty. “Maybe less.”

“Okay, well, this is going to hurt.” You didn’t wait for his reply, setting the hypospray to his shoulder and injecting it. He hissed through his teeth and then relaxed.

“Much better, I thank you starshine.”

“We’re not out of the asteroid belt yet, hand me the scricorder?” You gestured and the girl handed it to you. It made several alarming noises as you put in a small sample of Ezra’s blood.

“I believe I did warn you of this, starshine.”

Working on autopilot you gave him a quizzical look. “Warn me of what?”

“That something dreadful was going to befall me.”

You rolled your eyes, inputting the medications needed into the replicator so it could spin you up the cocktail you needed. “I seem to recall you being quite cheerful about your prospects last time I saw you, Ez.”

“I believe I did inquire as to some spare luck, however.” The man was an unrepentant scoundrel, twinkling at you even as he fought not to sway from the drugs in his system.

“Are you suggesting that if I’d kissed you you’d still have an arm?”

“I suppose we will never know,” he shrugged. “But I must insist before I go anywhere else that you indulge me in my superstition. Losing one arm can be chalked up to tragedy - two reeks of carelessness.”

A full laugh burst from you as you readied his meds, setting the hypospray to his neck and pulling the trigger. “I’ll tell you what. You come through this all right and we can have a whole conversation about luck. Over drinks. How does that sound?”

“Well that sounds mighty fine, starshine. Mighty fine indeed.”

For updates on stories please follow and turn on notifications for @brandyllyn-writes

Tagging in Jen specifically though for coming through with the inspo:  @writeforfandoms​

[lucidfallacy]

This Is Halloween (Copycat Part 2) Spencer Reid x Reader 18+

As a child, Halloween was a time for smudged black cat whiskers and a dotted nose, drawn on my face with cheap crayon face paint. Momma would drive me all the way into town in our not-so-reliable blue station wagon so that we could hit the 'rich people' neighborhoods. My pillowcase would be bursting at the seams after just a couple of houses. We'd prance up and down the city streets, hand in hand as I wore my little black leotard and tutu that I'd end up refusing to take off for the next week. Back at our farmhouse, Momma searched my stash for candied razorblades as I cuddled up, comforted by the cherry almond scent of her hair. Daddy still isn't home? Why does she look sad? I remember thinking. But our wood stove carried on, heating the living room in a heavenly glow as I stuffed my cheeks with chocolate. In a pure sugar coma, I'd pass out in her arms to a movie like Halloween Town playing in the background. I found comfort in the restless hum of cicadas on the quiet, rural Pennsylvania nights. My reality was always peaceful like that.

But I was only eight on that Halloween night. After I had just experienced the good things all kids should. The hogs squealed with glee out by the side barn, startling me from my sugar-induced sleep on the couch. When I tiptoed to peer out of the kitchen's candlelit dusty windows, I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Why is Daddy feeding the pigs trash bags? I wondered. And the swine were far too hungry to pass it up.

Little did I know how numbered my days really were. How I'd end up chasing familiar smells and childhood memories, forever damned to be without the high of blissful freedoms again. The real world, in simple terms, is scary. That fact alone had me maturing overnight. Every day people can be villains. You may have sat next to one on the bus this morning or had a mindless conversation with them while you both stood in line for coffee. But, the real monster in my life will forever haunt my bloodline. The Clearfield Butcher. He's the very real reason I'll never stop working for the FBI. And I swear I'll be the reason that some little girl might not have to grow up so fast someday.

"Oh my god bitch slow down!" Penelope squeaks as I knock back another disgustingly colorful zombie brain shot.

"Yeah L/N it's not going anywhere, we have all night," Emily adds, patting my back.

We are seated at a rounded corner booth of the progressively indie bar, Tipsy Pumpkin. I watch on as the other partygoers lose themselves on the dance floor, dressed in all sorts of intricate costumes and already sloppily drunk. It's intoxicating, how heavy the atmosphere is with shared breaths and hot sensual sweat. The DJ is sporting the same sunflower glasses worn by Art the Clown from the movie Terrifier. He hypes up the crowd with the song Nasty Dog by Sir Mix-A-lot. It's pitch black in here, only illuminated by the occasional white and red strobe light flying around the club. Very cutesy, very gothic.

Penelope surprised me with her rendition of sexy Velma from that one live-action Scooby-Doo film. She's literally in a full fuckin' orange latex suit, zipper pulled down leaving little to the imagination. Morgan is gonna drool all over himself when he sees her ass at the function. Emily decided to match her, wearing a dark green crop top and brown corduroy bell bottoms. Yes, like sexy shaggy. Remember in the movie, when he drank the wrong potion from the fridge? Well anyway, we are already a margarita flight deep now that it's 9:30 pm and still waiting on JJ to arrive. It never crosses our minds to antagonize her about being late. After all, she has two little ones to care for. Hotch is hosting the actual party at his house, surprisingly. Beth probably talked him into it. But that doesn't start until 11 pm and is apparently going until he decides to kick us out.

My buzzing phone catches my attention as the screen lights up from inside my bag. I pull it out, slightly distracted by someone in a blowup dinosaur costume attempting to twerk in the sea of people. My smile quickly fades as I look down at my screen. No Caller ID. I look to both of the girls feigning ignorance and politely excuse myself. I slink away into a quieter side hall next to the booth. Annoyance overcomes me as I prepare to answer.

Me: Look dude I don't-

Caller: Forget something? Leaving candles burning now are we?

Me: What the fu- excuse me?

Caller: Don't worry, I snuffed it out. Smelled so good, just like you.

Me: Okay, haha I'm so scared, you got me. Now fuck off. or I'll-

Caller: Oh? You'll what? Don't be like that. I'm not quite done with you yet-

I hang up the call in a huff. What in the hell? Did I not blow my candle out? No, I must have. I'm good about remembering things like that. Whatever, I'm just about to hand my phone over to Garcia and have her deal with this shit. I stomp back towards the table and see JJ snuggled up in the middle of the other two, wearing historically accurate pirate gear. My brain quickly forgets the strange caller. I really just want to make some good memories with my team.

"No way! Did your boys pick that out? That's too cute! Just remember, I'm supposed to be the one getting booty tonight," I giggle, holding each of JJ's hands from across the table.

"Ahhh stop! I love you. No but seriously, is there a single cute guy in here? I can't tell from all the body paint and blowup dinosaurs," she laughs, tucking a golden strand of hair behind her ear as she adjusts her hat.

It's true. The girls took me out tonight because I'm in a 'rut' or whatever they called it. I haven't been with anyone in a couple of years now. Putting relationships on the back burner was the smartest decision I could've made for my career anyway. I sped through my degree, did my community service, and boom I was hired into the FBI. Maybe I do a decent job of hiding it, but I haven't been interested in anyone really. Well, there's Spencer, but we all know how that's going for me. And the team would bother the absolute dog piss out of me if they knew about it. For now, I'm cool with them believing we are mortal enemies for life.

"I don't know, but there's bound to be a man in uniform somewhere around here," I tease.

The rhythmic bump of the club's music evolves into a sluttier beat. Pain by Boy Harsher echoes in waves through my chest as the strobe lights fade to a deep ultraviolet. Must be the combination of alcohol and musical energy working in my favor to soothe my earlier inhibitions, because now I'm ready to dance. Almost in unison with my eager thoughts, a firm hand wraps around my waist and pulls me close. Penelope quirks an eyebrow as JJ and Emily giggle like a couple of school girls. I crane my neck to look up at the towering man whose chest I'm fitted against. He wears a simple black leather jacket on top of his hoodie. His mask is a dark silver metallic, made to resemble a chiseled skull. It's outlined in intricate lace patterns, with two horns sprouting from the forehead. And his eyes are a jaded hazel, littered with flecks of gold and emerald green. Damn. Did I say uniform? This is fine too. We enter a sort of silent staring contest as the music fades out. Our pupils dilate, darting to meet each other's as we search for unspoken intentions.

"Well you two go have funnn, I'll be here finishing up your drinks... Y/N, play nice," Penelope suggests as she shoos me away.

Before I can protest, the masked man spins me around, leading me to my certain doom. He filters us through the busy crowd, sheltering me from flying elbows in his arms. We find a comfortable spot away from the DJ booth's mammoth speakers and fall into the rhythm. His gloved hands rub tender circles over my hip bones as we sway around. We press close together once more as he kneads my flesh. I must be insanely touch-starved from how weak it makes me. His gloved hand glides up to brush against my bottom lip, making me shy away. The man leans down into my ear as we spin, breath tickling me through his skull-faced mask.

"I've been watching you all night," he admits, voice huskily accented by a language I can't quite pinpoint.

"Yeah? Well, you're not the only one," I reply, hand traveling up his chest. A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest.

"That's why I had to snag you up. God knows who you could've ended up with. There's a bunch 'a freaks out tonight," he explains, voice low.

I finally get a good whiff of his cologne and decide I am definitely a fucking goner. The woodsy musk has my mouth watering, but I gotta play the game first.

"Hmm, well I can take care of myself. And God knows if you're any better. I don't even know what you look like. Hiding something?" I say sarcastically, my pointer finger pressed up against the bottom of the mask. But he grabs my wrist firmly before I press any further.

"I'll make a deal with ya. If you kiss me I'll take off anything you want. Scouts honor, it'll be worth your time," the man groans, taking in my scent through his mask.

I gasp from the cold sharp plastic brushing against my jugular. He backs me into the bar's brick-lined wall, tipping my head up to await my answer. This annoying god damned phone begins ringing once again in my other hand, but I wait a few moments and ignore it. My nose crinkles nervously as I avert his eyes for a moment in thought. I look around his shoulder to the red LED light-lined bar across the room. On the other end of the L-shaped counter, a man sits completely focused on us. He's a spot-on scream copycat. Completely cloaked, almost unnoticeable among the commotion. The three dark voids of his white mask are hypnotizing, making me forget the very situation I'm in. The crimson glow of the bar casts eerily picturesque shadows across him. He crooks his head, fingers wiggling as he brandishes the bright screen of a cellphone in the air. Buzz. Buzzz. No Caller ID. My throat dries, swallowing hard as I clutch my companion's jacket. My thumb slides to answer, never looking away from the ghostly face across the bar. The blaring music is synchronous on the other line.

Caller: How fast do you think he'll bleed out once I cut his dick off?

[1-800-hwahui]

search for clues || w.jh

member | stoner shaggy!jun x velma!gn reader + high sex genre | smut, humor word count | ~1,700 warnings | marijuana use (smoking with a pipe), shotgunning, soft dom!jun, cockwarming (barely), oral (m receiving), implied oral (reader receiving), jun has a cat pipe this is canon, blond jun notes | lowercase intended, implied established relationship, both jun and reader have smoked before, scooby doo related shenanigans. reader is completely gender neutral, no mentions of anatomy, but they wear a skirt & wig. enjoy! - 💒 disclaimer | this story is a work of fiction. both jun and reader are portrayed as consenting adults above the age of 21. always make sure your partner is someone you trust and have talked with beforehand while sober. i wrote this based off my own personal experiences with marijuana, so keep in mind not everyone will experience the same feelings. remember to practice safe, consensual sex as well as safe recreational weed use!

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“do you think scooby doo ever smoked with shaggy?”

you shove jun, giggling. “he’s a dog, dumbass!”

“who says dogs can’t smoke?”

"uh, everybody?"

you’d been proud of the way your matching costume had turned out. you spent weeks looking through malls and thrift shops for the perfect orange skirt and sweater, and the brown wig you’d ordered online had been thoroughly trimmed and combed out to look like velma.

but when you’d gotten to the party, the first thing wonwoo had done was laugh, pointing out the irony in jun’s costume. “everybody knows shaggy’s a stoner,” he grinned.

so when you’d left the party and taken an uber back to jun’s place, he’d immediately pulled out his stash so you could “get high with scooby doo”, as if it were some lifelong dream of yours. but after a couple hits when you found yourself sitting on jun’s couch, slowly grinding against him and sneaking bites of halloween candy in between drags from his pipe, you decided this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. especially after he playfully suggested cockwarming, too.

your wig and chunky glasses frames lay long abandoned on the floor as you slowly start to sink down onto his cock. he clutches his favorite pipe in one hand, the black one shaped like a cat, and you whimper at the pressure, sighing when he finally bottoms out inside you.

he gives you a minute to adjust, and you take the glass pipe from his hands for another hit, blinking slowly as you wrap your lips around the end. you inhale, sweet smoke filling your lungs as you hold the breath in before pushing it out.

“what’s that thing she says? jeepers?” jun asks, reaching for a twizzler from the bag on the side table. his cock pulses inside you as he adjusts his lap and you whine, every sense somehow both heightened and diminished at the same time.

“no, it’s… jinkies,” you say after a long pause.

time always moves slower when you smoke, the world crawling by before your eyes. everything else seems to fade until you forget if you’ve actually said the words out loud or just in your head.

“what–” he shifts on the couch, “–what do i say?”

“mmm, i dunno,” you sigh, your head filling with a warm fuzz that makes you forget what you’re talking about. jun’s living room is so nice, you notice. you’re acutely aware of the texture of the couch beneath your shin as you straddle jun’s lap, your skirt bunching up around your thighs.

it’s pitch black outside, the quiet hours of the night a stark contrast from the party you came back from. you feel your eyes start to glaze over as you stare off into the distance outside the window, focusing on the neighbor’s halloween decorations outside. the glow of the orange lights is so mesmerizing, and–

“zoinks!”

you drag your gaze back over to him. “huh?”

“shaggy says ‘zoinks’ and velma says ‘jinkies’,” jun grins, proud of himself for remembering.

you think for a minute. "which one says, 'let's search for clues'?"

"the hot one," he answers, his faraway gaze fixated on your chest.

you look down at where he’s staring, then take the rest of his twizzler and put it in your mouth instead. "the blond guy?" you ask, chewing.

your mouth feels fuzzy as you savor the sweet taste, carefully focusing on the sensation so you don't accidentally bite your tongue.

"hey. i'm a blond guy," jun says after a while, as if the realization just hit him.

his words pull you out of your haze, lost in thought. "is that a clue? are you gonna– solve the mystery now?" you giggle at your joke, unintentionally clenching around him. 

he groans, his hands falling to your waist as he starts to absently rock you back and forth against his hips.

you lean forward and grab onto his shoulders, the pipe still in your hand. “you’re not supposed to move, juniee,” you giggle, pretending to pout.

“but i want to,” he whines and closes his eyes, but his hips still.

“mmm…” you trail off. your hands find themselves tugging on the hem of his shirt, pulling it slowly over his head. your fingers trace his skin, observing the texture, the feel of his body like you’ve never noticed before. the tiny scar on his shoulder, the way his nipples pebble when you run your thumb over them lightly, each soft hair on his strong arms.

you allow yourself to get lost watching his muscles flex as his hands gently take the pipe from you. he flicks his lighter over the bowl to reignite it, taking a long, slow hit from the smooth glass. you feel his hands on the back of your neck, pulling you in closer into a kiss, roughly pressing his lips against yours. he parts his lips and you breathe in, inhaling the sweet smoke from his mouth, feeling a rush in the back of your throat as you hold it in before tilting your head away to exhale.

“feel so good,” you sigh, the cloudy feeling in your mind amplifying as the high starts to settle in. you start to grind on his lap. “want you to fuck me now.”

jun leans his head back against the couch, letting out a low moan. he arches his back, lifting his hips up off the couch to thrust into you. if you were sober, the rhythm would’ve been painfully slow, but you’re so relaxed that it feels just right.

your mind is hazy as he pushes up into you, experiencing every tiny movement a thousand times amplified. you can feel every vein of his thick cock dragging against your walls, and slowly you start to move your hips up and down to match his rhythm.

suddenly you feel cool glass on your skin, and you realize he’s still holding the pipe. you plant your hands on his chest and he mewls, slowing his hips for a second. you reach down to take the pipe from him and, with much effort, set it on the table behind you, making sure it doesn't spill.

your mind starts to drift, and suddenly something else seems more appealing.

you push down on his slim waist, forcing him to stop before you lift yourself off of his lap with shaky legs, the clouds in your head not doing you any favors helping your coordination.

“don’t stop, baby, please, ‘s so good,” he rasps, canting his hips up into the air.

“i wanna suck you off,” you say, enunciating every word carefully. 

his lips part in a lazy smile, clearly satisfied at your suggestion.

your legs feel like lead as you hit the floor, but his arms are out to help you down. you feel his glazed eyes watching you as you position yourself at his feet, gently tugging his corduroy pants farther down his legs.

"your dick is so pretty," you sigh absently, resting your hands on his thighs.

you stare at his cock, admiring the pretty veins and the pretty head flushed red and the pretty way it leans against his stomach, waiting for you. your mouth waters at the sight, and you wrap your lips around him, pushing him down your throat eagerly.

"mmph, teeth," he winces, his hand sliding through your hair to pull your head up a little.

"aoury," you mumble around his cock, but you make a conscious effort to keep your teeth from scraping him.

you start to move again, wrapping your free hand around the base of his cock where your mouth can't reach. his grip on your hair tightens and loosens, gently encouraging you.

he lets out a moan, high and breathy, when your hand moves to his balls, tracing the rough skin before cupping them in your hand. his hips buck up into your mouth, your nose pressing against his abdomen.

you can feel him twitching in your throat, and you're acutely aware of the drool collecting at the corners your mouth, saliva pooling around his cock.

"so good, mmh– 'm gonna cum," he groans, his head falling back against the couch.

jun always looks so pretty when he cums, you think, dragging your eyes up to his face to watch him twist in pleasure. his mouth hangs open, and his chest heaves up and down with each deep breath he takes.

you tug your hand up and down along his cock as he whines, and his breath hitches when he finally cums, his release pouring into your mouth with a high-pitched sob. you hold your mouth on him, swirling your tongue around his length until overstimulation starts to set in and he tugs you off of him, panting.

when he finally catches his breath, he helps you stand up before flipping you onto your back on the couch. you shiver as he crouches down to push his face between your legs.

“what do you think, baby?” he says, staring up at you with a mischievous grin. “should i look for more clues?”

taglist | @shuatm @yeosayang @seungminluv3

© lavenderhui 2022. do not repost or translate.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Beast

[Quincy stays late on a stormy night. What could possibly go wrong? Probably the shortest installment of this series.] Below the cut.

Maybe it's the thrill of learning something new, of being able to say, "I did that" and feel like it's actually something he should be proud of, and not just part of his preservation work.

Or maybe it's just because he doesn't want to go home yet.

He hasn't checked his phone since early afternoon, and he has no intention of taking it off of silent.

Especially not today.

Not when he knows people are waiting for him.

Probably wearing holes in the floor the longer he remains out of reach.

He'll blame it on being busy.

On the storm.

Whatever excuse they'll take.

Shifting on to get more comfortable, Quincy leans back into the plush throw pillows behind his back.

He's long since abandoned his desk in favor of sitting beside the large bay window on the second floor of the library, the book he'd found on his first day resting in his hand, illuminated by the warm overhead lighting and the ominous, silvery shine of the full moon outside as he breaks down each word.

Until he has full walls of text.

Scribbled down hastily in almost the same shaking scrawl as they were written.

He feels a shiver of anticipation, of finally knowing, but...

The words don't rhyme in English the way they do in the strange script in which they were committed to paper, but the flow and form of them suggests they're meant to be a poem of some kind, maybe a song.

And while Quincy is glad to finally be making headway on the book...

His stomach has begun to churn with worry.

With a fear he cannot shake.

Distantly, he can hear the faintest... whispering in the back of his mind.

And voice entreating him sweetly, asking him something he can't quite make out.

He goes to tuck a loose lock of hair behind his ear, accidentally dropping the pen in his hand onto the floor, losing it somewhere in the shaggy throw rug at his feet.

A crack of thunder and a flash of light causes Quincy to jump, dropping the journal he was transcribing into onto the floor and descending the library into darkness, save for the moonlight cascading through the window...

...Illuminating the final lines of the "poem"...

"Would You Like To See?"

Quincy inhales sharply, briefly choking on his own spit, spluttering and coughing as he stands slowly in the dark.

Stooping to pick up the book, Quincy yelps as another rumble shakes the window.

Yeah, forget the idea of going home, at least not until the storm has passed, but that could take up to an hour, and Quincy is already here later than he initially intended to be.

Later than he should have stayed.

He's sure it's fine, he was working after all, or rather he was until the book seemingly... called to him.

"Would You Like To See?"

Quincy coughs again, clearing his throat, and reaches for his phone where he's stashed it in the band of his cassock.

There's no service, and the wi-fi is down, but he can still use the flashlight on his phone to guide his way down the stairs.

Carefully, Quincy does just that.

Each creak and crackle of the winding staircase seems so much louder in the dark, and the corners of the room seem to have dissolved into naught but shadows, untouched by the moonlight.

A small part of Quincy thinks to shift his light to gaze into them, as if sensing someone...

But he keeps to his path.

He slips briefly behind the front desk, gathering his belongings, before a distant 'pop' sends him through the doors and out into the main hallway.

He doesn't run, but his fleeing steps clap out a consistent 'click-clack, click-clack' as his dress shoes tap across the marble.

As he reaches the front hall, another crash of thunder lights up the room, making him aware how close he came to walking right into...

The statue of Baphomet.

Quincy shudders as the moonlight makes the eyes glare down at him, a trick he is familiar with in the daylight, but it's not its gaze that sends him to the floor.

It's the head.

Turned sideways.

Looking down at him with intent.

Quincy shouts.

And a voice asks once more, louder than anything in his head...

"Would You Like To See?"

The thunder rumbles once more, and as the lightning strikes.

Quincy covers his ears, expecting the voice to rise over the thunder one more, but then...

...The lights come back on.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Quincy's head snaps to the statue, and he sighs with relief.

It's still as unsettling as ever, but it's definitely not looking at him.

Just a trick of the light.

He lets out a shaky laugh.

"Quincy?" a familiar voice calls over the now dissipating storm, it's Mountain.

Quincy breathes a sigh of relief, "I-I'm over here."

But when he Mountain rounds the corner...

...It's not Mountain, or...

...It's...

"Quincy, are you alright?"

With four massive horns almost scraping the ceiling as he ducks through the doorway, with a face so contorted and... wrong... Quincy can't make sense of it, and heavy cloven hooves stands...

"Did you hit your head?"

He rubs his eyes, staring up, and up, and up at the beast in front of him, who lowers itself carefully to the ground.

"Quincy?" it asks more firmly, clearly concerned, "Quincy, come on, buddy, you've gotta talk to me here..."

Without thinking, Quincy reaches out towards the creature's horns.

"What're you-"

Quincy wraps his hand around the horn, feeling along the ridges, bring his other hand up to hold the one opposite of it.

"Quincy-"

"What are you?" he asks, holding the creature so that he can look it in the eyes, no fear to his tone only...

"I-"

"You look so cool!"

"What."

[fizzycherrycola]

UK Brothers, 1900s

Summary: The UK brothers attend Queen Victoria's funeral. Ireland is upset. Scotland is bored. Wales is eating biscuits. And England is being a royal pain in the ass.

Biscuits and Black Parades

Windsor, UK; 2 February 1901

Long fingernails of ice cling to brick, matte and colourless in the overcast daylight. A thin mist of snow alights upon dark, frozen umbrellas and silky top hats. Cold and damp, the air nips insistently at Wales’ ears and he shivers. He shakes his arms, making the frost fall from his greatcoat, impervious to the aura of death and solemnity that, like the shrouds of the snivelling women who today line cobblestone streets, does drape over Windsor’s train station.  

Slipping his hand into one of many pockets, his fingers wiggle about, then clasp around paper wrap. He smiles. Pulling the small bundle out, he tears open the package without so much as glancing at the label.

Scotland raises one of his great, shaggy brows. “A biscuit?” he asks. “Where’d you get that?”

“From a bakery in London,” Wales says, gazing at the confection’s fancy crucifix design. “Shop windows were piled with them; you should’ve seen it! Loads of different flavours, too.”

With a crunch, he bites into it, rolling his tongue along the golden-brown edge to avoid spilling crumbs on his ceremonial outfit. It’s a lovely flavour, pungent ginger with a dash of cinnamon, causing his toes to curl. The treat is almost enough to help him forget today’s awful weather.

Ireland nudges him. “Is that a mourning biscuit?”

“Mmm!” Wales nods, mumbling around his mouthful of food. “It is! Would you like one? I’ve got more.” He taps his weighty pocket, which rustles. Naturally, he has several treats stashed in preparation for the long day.

Ireland frowns. “I'm not sin-eating for a Famine Queen.”

Wales deflates. “That’s not fair. It’s only sin-eating if you eat it over her open coffin.”

“No, it’s.... Isn’t it if she’s within spitting distance?”

“But she’s not even that,” Scotland mumbles, nodding at Queen Victoria’s casket.  

Slowly, the dark box comes off the train’s platform, obscured by wrought iron fencing and a multitude of onlookers. Ghostly clouds of engine steam linger among the pallbearers – who are equerries, rather than dukes – and they utter not a word while performing their task. All eyes are affixed to the casket, all hands treating it with reverence as it is readied for the final cortege to Windsor castle.

Ireland hums. “Not spitting distance for you, maybe, but if that wind picks up again, I'd probably be able-”

“Shh!!” England hisses, pivoting to glare at his siblings, but making no move to abandon his spot in the procession. “For God’s sakes, will you lot be quiet?”

The trio grumbles. With his soles throbbing in protest, Wales shuffles and is reminded of how relentlessly rigid his dress boots are.

“Feck off,” Ireland moans. “We’ve been on our feet all day in this damn cold.”

England sputters. “All day? It’s only been a few hours!” His eyes flick to Wales, and then narrow. “...Are you eating?”

As if it would help, Wales hides the biscuit behind his back. “Well, it’s already afternoon and I haven’t had luncheon. Figured we were allowed a bite to eat in-between processions. Besides, Her Late Majesty’s not attached to the carriage yet.”

Ireland grins, a picture of mischief. “Aye, that’s military code. Procession can’t begin until the deceased is on the gun carriage.”

“And I’m starving,” Wales pleads.

“You wouldn’t want him collapsing on route to the chapel.”

“Yes, and... well, I don’t think I’d collapse, but-”

“It’d embarrass the whole empire,” Ireland continues. “Just imagine what they’d write in the papers. ‘Great scandal befalls Queen’s funeral! Starving senior officer faints in the parade. Inquiry launched into military’s unprofessional conduct.’ Come on, England, you need to be serious about this sort of thing.”

England pinches the bridge of his nose and curses under his breath.  

Weighed down, with the horsehair plume of his helmet shielding his face, he looks strained; and not unexpectedly so. Wales nibbles his lip. The effort his youngest brother put towards this funerary affair was nothing short of extraordinary, as from the hour of Victoria’s passing, the monarchy was frantic. A military funeral for a sovereign was simply not the thing to do, and yet, it was Her Late Majesty’s final request. England ran meetings with army officers, city representatives, and heaven-knows who else, funnelling crucial resources in a matter of days.  

It was a race against time to get everything in order before the body... decayed.

With a deep inhale, England draws himself up. “Could you at least try to show some bloody respect? Christ, look at Australia – even he’s being civil. We’re almost at the chapel, and after the ceremony, you can bugger off and do whatever you’d like. But until then, keep quiet!”  

He turns away with a huff, back as straight as the Royal Standard flagpole over Buckingham itself.

When Wales is sure that a quarrel is not about to begin in the middle of the street, he risks a glance at his other two siblings. To his right, Scotland yawns. Thankfully.

But, to his left, Ireland is quiet. Rooted within his matching uniform, a defiant lock of carrot hair pokes out the front of his Albert helmet. The metal chin strap looks too tight.  

Wales gnaws the inside of his cheek. “...Ireland?” he whispers.

“What?” Ireland asks.

Wales fiddles with the last bite of his snack. “I meant what I said about the biscuits. I’m not helping the Queen get to heaven; I was just hungry.”

Emerald eyes study him for a moment, before Ireland sighs and the ice water tension trickles out of his shoulders. Small wrinkles trace the corners of his lips – the sort that only appear on stressful days.  

“Never mind,” he murmurs. “What flavours have you got?”

Wales blinks. “Oh. I think I’ve got shortbread, buttermilk, almond....”

“Pass the buttermilk one.”

Riffling through his pocket, Wales finds the treat and gives it to his brother, and the moment it leaves his hand, his heart is already lighter. Taking it, Ireland opens the paper to reveal an eerie skull imprinted on the biscuit and a card, no larger than a finger, that is tucked in amongst the wrapping. His mouth twists into a wry smile.  

“This one has a poem slip,” he remarks.

“What does it say?” Wales whispers.

Ireland clears his throat.

“Thee we adore, eternal Name, And humbly own to thee, How feeble is our mortal frame. What dying worms we be.

Our wasting lives grow shorter still As days and months increase; And every beating pulse we tell, Leaves but the number to be leased.

The year rolls round and steals away, The breath that first it gave; Whate’er we do, whate’er we be, We’re travelling to the grave.”

With an audible gulp, Wales finishes his own biscuit. “Oh, that’s an omen.”

Scotland snorts. “It’s not an omen. They print that poetry shite on half the wrappers; it doesn’t mean a thing.”

“He’s right,” Ireland mutters. “It’s just a reminder, warning humans that everything ends eventually. Lives, families....” He drifts off, eyes glazing for a second or two – and Wales nearly ejects something stupid, like ‘What’s the matter?’ but catches himself – before the whole biscuit is popped in Ireland’s mouth and vanishes.

In the awkward silence, Wales scratches his chin. “It could still be an omen....”

“Don’t start,” Scotland nags.

“Psst!” comes a voice behind them. Turning, Wales sees Australia standing about two metres back with the other colonies. With his wild hair and bright smile, the stuffy, high-necked uniform wholly mismatches his energy. “Can I have a bikkie?”

Wales squints. “A... what?”

“He means a biscuit,” Ireland adds.

“Oh, of course!” Fumbling for the first package he can grab, Wales attempts to pass it to Australia, careful not to move from his place in the unmoving procession.

Beaming, Australia stretches quite awkwardly, as he also refrains from stepping out of position. Wobbling like high-rope gymnasts in a circus, they reach, and Australia’s gloved fingertips are so close, grazing the paper wrap, but then his eyes go wide, and he immediately snaps away, straightening with both arms at his sides. Wales balks. Until goosebumps rise on his neck, and he turns, and England is glaring hot daggers at Australia.  

He sniffs. Then, returns to face the front.

Sighing, Wales buries the confection in his pocket and browses the somber scenery for a distraction. It’s the only apt way to fritter time, between the marching and waiting that has swallowed his day.

On their parade through London, they were surrounded by an endless stream of black-clad civilians, much as they are now. Some wept, but most seemed there to merely gawk at the pomp of the whole thing. And who could blame them? The public showing, the decorated horses, the military marching, the trumpets, the gun carriage – all of it is spectacular, designed for spectacle. Past royal funerals were performed quietly. With this display, one may think a monarch had never died before.

The ceremony is not so terrible, though. In fact, when Wales saw the bakeries yesterday, overflowing with gloomy gifts, he chuckled. The occult and superstition are as close as he can get to the old days, when magic beautifully intertwined with history and science. Faint memories of ancient kings who went to their barrow tombs covered in gold and ensured the doorways aligned with the equinox and the stars. Truly, this funeral is a big, macabre celebration of death, as much as it was long ago.

But, for the sake of his family... Perhaps a quiet funeral would have been better after all.

“Why pick white horses?” Scotland mutters. “And bad-tempered ones at that.”  

Wales snaps out of his daydreaming. “Horses?”

Scotland points ahead of them. “The ones pulling the gun carriage.”  

Eight pale horses are adorned with elaborate gear; fine ostrich feathers, polished collars, and embroidered capes. Their heads hang low, their ears lie flat, and their heavy hooves stomp the frigid earth. “If they wanted cream ponies, they could have got some with better tempers.”

“You’re right,” Wales whispers. “What do you think has them so upset?”

Scotland crosses his arms. “It must be this fucking dreich weather. That, and I’m guessing they’re a luxury type; picked for their prettiness and not much for hard labour.”

Muttering under his breath, Ireland leans closer. “Almost as cunty as the Sassenach himself.”

Scotland grins. “You’re going to catch it.”

“Can’t help myself; not today.”

“...I know.”

“...Where we going after this?”

“Hmm. There’s a pub down Park Street that’s only half-shite....”

Their muted conversation goes on, but melts into the background as a familiar sensation directs Wales’ focus to the animals. The air crackles, ominous and still, as it does before lightening, and a shiver runs up his spine. Something is wrong.

Draped in its white pall, the coffin is at last on the carriage, and all guardsmen, dozens in front and behind, stand ready. An officer calls out for the procession to start, voice booming in the station square, but the horses don’t budge. They resist, as men tap the reigns, insisting they move.

A clink, a clatter. Then, a soldier produces a whip, raising it in the air. Wales’ stomach drops.  

Leather strikes with a smack.  

The horse squeals. Rearing, its front legs kick wildly. Wood snaps and splinters. And the leading horses bolt, knocking their masters to the ground. Chaos erupts.  

Men are shouting. The other horses thrash, whinnying and bucking. Metal clangs to the ground and restraints slip loose. Guardsmen surround them, a mass of outstretched hands grasping at harnesses and horsehair. The carriage jostles. The coffin slips.  

“Look out!”

It falls...  

...slamming into a gaggle of noblemen, who catch it and buckle under its weight.

The animals dash, dodging infantry. Free beasts, they skirt the edges of the crowd. Two or three trip, collapsing, entangled by their reigns. Twisting, wide eyes fearful, lips snarling. Onlookers scream and the procession scatters. Officers rush to form a barrier. Others try to wrangle the crazed animals.

One creature darts backwards. Galloping hooves crash against stone. It barrels toward Wales, and he jumps aside. The horse blows past, an ivory blur. He slips, shoulder hitting the wet road and it bursts with pain. Cursing, he folds over, helmet scraping cold rock. He grabs his scorching arm, eyes squeezing shut, and takes a few deep breaths, willing his blood to slow, his mind to settle.  

Then, flexing, he tests it.  

And it moves. Painfully.  

His sigh comes out like a bark. At least, his stupid limb isn’t dislocated.

Dragging himself up, gravel sticking to damp wool and skin, he shakes off the dizziness. Small mobs surround each horse; tidal human whirlpools that curve and drive the animals back into submission. Guardsmen are gaining the upper hand, bellowing orders while civilians boo and berate them.  

“There are children here, you idiots,” one of them yells.

“What, in God’s name, were you thinking?” roars another.

From the back, Australia brings a horse. It jerks its head back, but he keeps a firm grip on its bridle, hushing it and stroking its neck.

“I saw you topple over,” Australia calls. “Everything all right?”

“Definitely not,” Wales moans, rubbing his throbbing limb. “I smacked my shoulder so hard; I thought I was back at Waterloo!”

Australia laughs. “Do you need any help?”

“...Have you got any whiskey?”

“I don’t.”

Wales releases a long-suffering sigh. “Never mind, I’ll manage. It’ll heal in a minute anyway.”

“In that case, could you wish me good luck?”

“What for? ...Oh.”

Plodding, his smile slightly tighter, Australia leads the horse to England.  

Australia coughs. “England? This mare has ice on her hoof walls. It’s just a thin layer, but it’d be enough to put her in a sour mood. Erm... do you know how long these animals have been outside in this weather?”  

But England is silent and as pale as the mare before him. Statue-stiff, he gapes at the disaster that’s become of the cortege. “England?” Australia repeats.

England startles. “Right, yes. Well done. Just, um... t-take her over to the lieutenant.” He clears his throat and points to a man. “That’s Goldie. He’ll have the answers and find somewhere to house her for now.”

Australia's jaw hangs for a moment. “...That’s it?”

“Yes, that’ll be all.”

“...Right.” Hesitantly, Australia departs on his assigned errand, horse clopping along beside him.

When he’s gone, England buries his face in his hands, fingers split open around haunted eyes, wilting impossibly further. Then, he trudges away, dragging his feet as he lumbers half-dead toward a cluster of Royal Navy officers that seem to know what they’re doing.

Wales gawks.  

“This,” he exclaims, “was definitely an omen.”

There’s a tug on his collar. “Stop havering,” Scotland says, gesturing at the angry crowd. “We need to calm these idiots, or we’ll be stuck here ‘til sunset.”

Wales shoos him off with his good arm, and out of the corner of his vision, spots Ireland. “Oi, Ireland! Can you help us a bit?”  

Ireland shuffles closer in a strange manner; crouched as though trying to hide in broad daylight. His wide eyes are sparkling with awe.  

“Lads,” he whispers. “I think I did this.”  

There is a dead pause.

Heat rises to Wales’ ears, but he keeps his tone even. “...You what?”

Scotland groans. “You unscrewed the fucking bolts on the carriage. Aye?”

Ireland blinks. “What?”

“That was it.”

Wales slaps his idiot brother. “Coc oen!!”  

Ireland flinches. “Ow!”

“I was almost trampled!”

“No, that’s not what happened!”

“It is; you just said it.”

“No, listen!” Ireland leans in, arms wrapping around his brother’s necks as he pulls them near, and Wales fights the urge to toss him off. “When Vicky died, I visited the church on Croagh Patrick; the old one, on the mountain. And when I went, I said the rosary – a dozen times at least – and prayed to Saint Patrick and Saint Michael. And I asked them for a miracle, any kind, I didn’t care, but some type of divine misfortune that could happen at this funeral.” He whispers excitedly, quick bursts in hushed breaths, but his face is aghast. “And then... then, I did the same for the fae outside my cottage last Tuesday.”

Scotland squints. “You said the rosary for the fae?”

“What- no. No! I made them an offering and asked for their help, too! I wasn’t sure it would work, but... I mean, look at this. It seems like my prayers were answered!”

Scotland and Wales exchange a glance.

“Actually,” Wales mentions, “I did hear some sort of clatter before the animals dashed off; right before that oaf raised his whip.”

Scotland frowns. “I heard that, too. It could be coincidence... but maybe not.”

“There, see?” Ireland says, a delighted smile creeping up his cheeks.

Wales huffs. “Fine, but you shouldn’t have asked the fae folk. What if someone died? What if you summoned a vengeful spirit and now, we’re all cursed? And I was still nearly trampled!”

“Nearly trampled,” Ireland says. “Not actually trampled.”  

“I am going to slap you again.”

“Calm down! Nobody died, right? I gave a massive offering when I went to the fae, so everything should be fine.”

“What did you give?”

“Uh... Potato bread, some shiny crystals, a few rings... bottles of ale and whiskey?”

Scotland interjects. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to ask both the fae and the saints?”

Wales ignores him. “What if you summoned a demon, then?”

“Can’t be a demon,” Ireland says.

“Why not?”

“Because when I was praying in the oratory, I made a promise not to drink for a year if the saints came through for me. And demons don’t like that. They want you pissed, not sober.”

Wales narrows his eyes and considers this. Really considers this. Scotland and Ireland watch him, waiting with bated breath.

“Supposing it was the saints,” Wales chances, “and not the fae, that did this... how’re you planning to keep your promise to them?”  

Ireland slumps, gaze falling to the ground. “Ah, well,” he mutters. “I might struggle with that part.”

Scotland pats his shoulder. Wales sighs, in sympathy and pity.

~~~

As order is restored, improvised drag ropes are brought in, lashed to the gun carriage, and the march finally begins.  

Left, right, left, right; leather boots pound cobblestone, as if in defiance of the debacle which just occurred. Her Late Majesty’s gun carriage is towed by hand, by the unluckiest men of the Royal Navy. They drag their heavy load, breath fogging the air, and the general melancholy that earlier befell Windsor station, is eclipsed with wonton embarrassment.  

Trumpets sound with a whimper as the parade passes under the grand frontage and onto the main road. New parade onlookers, who were shielded from the commotion by distance, are gossiping.   “What took them so bloody long?”

“Mummy, where are the ponies? I thought there were ponies.”  

“Why’ve they got sailors pulling the coffin?”

Rolling his healed shoulder, Wales commits today’s scenes to memory. His pockets rustle and he makes note of that, too. He’ll allow Ireland the privilege of scarfing down his half-dozen biscuits, since the poor bastard won’t be able to partake in drinks tonight.  

And at the upcoming service, rather than pray for Victoria’s soul, which he wasn’t planning to do anyway, he’ll instead ask for protection against every fae and demon he can name. Because one can never be too cautious when it comes to old magic.

...Goodness, what a spectacle death can be.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

Please note, for dramatic effect, I may have played up the danger of the horse-emergency. One source I found described the scene as a well-managed “contretemps”, while another claimed the horses bolted. So, I went with the most thrilling and possibly embellished account, as a treat.

A gun carriage is a wagon that typically transports cannons and artillery. In military funerals, it instead carries the coffin.

Mourning biscuits, common in the Victorian Era, were given out at funerals. Family members of the deceased would make or buy them in a shop before the funeral, then give them out to guests on the day of. The way Wales is eating them isn’t how they’re meant to be used.

Sin-eating is a Welsh custom where someone eats food over the deceased’s coffin to “take on their sins,” thus allowing the deceased to enter heaven.  

The Irish Potato Famine occurred from 1845 – 1849, while Victoria was on the throne. For this, she was labelled as the Famine Queen.  

Saint Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland. Meanwhile, in Catholic teachings, Saint Michael has multiple purposes. Firstly, he’s the leader of God’s army tasked with triumphing over Hell. He’s also the Angel of Death, carrying souls to heaven and weighing their merit. The Prayer to Saint Michael asks for the faithful to be “defended” by the saint.

[argisthebulwark]

syd i wanna hold miraak. like im overcome with the urge to just. gently hold him. yknow? his head on my chest, just letting him rest. (oh that rhymes)

this is so real. like yeah i like to treat miraak like my personal stress ball and project all sorts of issues onto him, but he deserves for us to be soft with him after all that.

The trek across Solstheim was grueling and Miraak dragging his feet wasn't helping. You'd reminded him countless times that no one would recognize him without the mask on - he'd traded his sweeping green robes for a set of slightly stained leather armor and the mask was stashed safely at the bottom of your pack. But the anxiety persisted.

Despite your patience wearing thin you propped up the old tent while Miraak started the fire. You hadn't spoken in hours, the annoyance between you two simmering just under the surface. You tried to understand his fears and wished that he would just trust you to get him back to Skyrim, far away from the mistakes he'd made, but he just dug his heels in.

Unfurling your bedroll in silence you let your sore body relax. With your eyes closed you listened to Miraak moving about without a word. Just when you were going to speak up and remind him that you needed to find something to eat you felt a heavy arm land around your waist.

Shocked into silence you merely watched as Miraak's head laid upon your chest, dark hair spreading nicely over your armor. His fingers tucked into the edge of your jerkin and you couldn't ignore how good it felt. He was trusting you, allowing you to see a moment of vulnerability.

Slowly, you raised a hand. His shoulders were still tense and he hadn't said a word yet. When you raked your fingers through his shaggy hair you felt the sigh he released and his body relaxing into yours. You hadn't realized how warm he was, totally banishing the chilly gusts of wind on the island's northern region.

"I'm sorry." You mumbled, cheeks burning when Miraak nodded. Over and over you combed through his hair until there was no tangles, his breathing evening out as he fell into the rest he needed so badly.

You could talk things through once he'd taken a nap. For the moment you resigned yourself to enjoying the small, soft moment he'd chosen to share.