#sugar knocker

[notjoelmiller]

i cared

MDNI simon "ghost" riley x f!reader summary: three and a half years ago and an ocean away, he tore you apart. now he's turned up at your door. wordcount: 4.1k warnings: smut (fingering), drinking, AFAB reader, possible past dub-con (reader was in a bad mental state and simon knew), simon is a shitty guy in this, talk of hypothetical suicide, talk of past bad mental state (depression), mentioned PTSD, heartbreak on both sides, death mention (MW:III canon) a/n: hey remember when i said that my next fic would be joel and i posted a little insert. that was a lie! instead of working on that (12k word, currently) monster, i wrote something else. if you couldn't tell, i started this before the holidays and then forgot about it.

ao3

The house is much nicer than Simon anticipated. When he saw the New York City address, he had expected you to be crammed into a shitty 6th-floor walk-up. But no, not you. Instead, you have an honest-to-God three-story home with red brick delicately dusted with snow. You certainly couldn’t afford it on the 141 salary. He always suspected you came from means. This just confirms it. It just makes him wonder why the hell you decided to slum it in the services for so long.

It reminds Simon that he shouldn’t be there. You weren't made for that life and left for a reason. Who is he to ruin your peace?

He’s not alone on the street. Well-to-do families of strangers pass by, all watching the masked man observe their neighbor’s home. He can still turn around and leave you to the life you so clearly want.

Something shifts in one of the windows, the curtain being tousled by something. A dog. You got a dog– a golden retriever with sharp eyes and, evidently, an even sharper bark. The canine goes berserk, barking and howling and growling at Simon through the window. It’s Simon’s cue to leave, to leave you be with your semi-rabid, semi-domestic canine.

But before he can move, the curtain shifts again– pulled this time –and you’re there. You squint for a moment, surely wondering what masked freak is standing in your walkway like he owns the damn place. He lets you scrutinize him. It’s now or never. Either you’ll tell him to fuck off once you realize who he is or you’ll call the police on him, though it’s not like they would do anything after he calls Kate.

Instead, you disappear behind the curtain, your loyal steed of a dog following hot on your heels. In a moment’s notice, the large front door, with a gilded knocker and door knob open. You beckon him in. He follows, eyes trailing up and down your body once you’re facing away from him. You’re dressed casually but smartly in a short denim skirt and cashmere sweater. Simon’s never seen you in that getup before, even when going out to the pub.

“Shoes off,” you order, motioning towards the neat shoe rack next to the door. They’re all women's shoes of the same size. Simon’s shoulders relax, and he slips off his boots. It was for the best, he figures. His old boots would have just dragged dirt into your space. He takes off his mask too, hanging it up with his jacket. It’s nothing you haven't seen before.

Simon follows you into the sitting room– at least, that’s what Simon guesses the room is. It’s too neat for your taste, or his memory of what your taste is exactly. The couch and single chair seem untouched, the air still, like Simon’s presence is cutting through some sacred stillness.

You point to a couch and Simon obeys, sitting with his hands on his knees. Your eyes lock with his without granting him any semblance of your thoughts. Simon keeps his gaze soft, neutral. You can scrutinize him all you need.

You sigh, straightening your posture. A smile pulls at your lips. Your smile lines crease deeper than he remembered. Or maybe they always creased that deep.

“Tea?”

***

“He’s quite protective,” you drop two sugar cubes into a cup of tea. The spoon in your hand lets out a delicate tink as it hits the porcelain cup. You hand Simon the teacup, it’s just how he likes it. “Always has his haunches raised, even when he’s not working.”

Ah. A service animal. He’s surprised to not have put that together sooner. Always loyal, the pooch plants himself at your feet, gaze burning into Simon. If looks could kill…

“Your home?” Simon asks. He lifts the teacup to his lips and sips. Simon places the teacup on its saucer impossibly slowly. Simon can’t believe you’d trust him with something so delicate.

“I inherited it.”

A smile creeps on Simon’s face. Teacups and generational wealth. He always knew you were posh. Or whatever Americans call posh.

“You’re on holiday?” You ask.

“‘Tis the season.”

You hum. Your house is the only one on the block without some sort of holiday decor. Simon wonders if it was a pointed decision.

“And you came here.” Why?

He can’t tell you the truth. The fact is that every day since you left– all one thousand two hundred ninety-eight of them since John uttered to his fuming lieutenant that you just weren’t fit to serve any more –he’s ached. One thousand two hundred ninety-eight days of no contact. Of his only proof that you ever existed being a photo and a tear-stained note with one sentence scribbled in ink: John has contact info– emergencies only.

“I wanted to wish you a happy holidays.”

You laugh dryly, though it sends a pang of pain through Simon. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Usually people send a card for that.”

You observe Simon with precision, like you never left the force, though the way you scratch Yogi’s belly unconsciously betrays the hardened exterior. It’s a glimpse into the last three and a half years. Of the woman you’ve become– so foreign to Simon. Foreign to your past self. Or not. Maybe this is who you’ve been all along, just hidden behind fatigues. Maybe the woman Simon thought he knew was just a farce. Rich girl playing army for a few years.

Maybe you joined the force just to fuck around for a bit. After a few years, you’d have stories to tell your socialite friends back home. Except, you didn’t get what you wanted, didn’t you? Simon knows well and good that serving, the 141, and him, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, destroyed something in you. 

You tap the porcelain of your teacup. It makes a pleasant ding. “Did John tell you where to find me?”

“No. Well–” Simon tries to tell you the truth without throwing his comrade under the bus. The truth was, John had indulged in one too many drinks at the pub one night and hadn’t locked his quarters. An envelope addressed to you sat front in center on his desk. “Not intentionally.”

It’s a satisfying enough answer. Only a small twinge of annoyance crosses your face before you hum. “This isn’t a guilt thing, right Simon?” You ask, “I didn’t do what I did because of what happened.”

“What we did back then, on the field,” Simon traps you under his gaze. His stare is aggressive, but he hopes it conveys the intense feelings he’s struggling with. “I can’t just leave it. That’s why I came.”

Simon doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t dare breathe while he watches you process his words. It’s a load of crap, he knows it, and he knows you know it. It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to kick him out.

You smize, teeth coming out to tug at your bottom lip. “Have you ever had New York pizza?”

***

You order two pies, hushing Simon when he insists it’s too much. You were right. Two isn’t enough. Simon scarfs down one pie without coming up for air. It’s delicious. It isn’t until he’s four slices deep that he realizes that you, smiling widely at him, haven’t yet picked up your first.

You’re a gracious host– a natural, really. You perch yourself on the kitchen island, legs crossed in a way that makes your skirt ride so sinfully up your thighs. Simon doesn’t look of course, he’s a gentleman. At least, he is for the first bottle of the ungodly expensive red wine you procure. It’s then that you perch your leg on the counter opposite your spot on the island, right next to Simon. Old habits die hard– especially when inebriated –and Simon places a hand on your leg, massaging the skin of your ankle.

You pay no mind to Simon’s ministrations, though, lost in the domestic bliss and mindless conversations you’ve probably been drowning yourself in for the last few years. You wave the glass of wine wildly about, like you wouldn’t give a damn if it spilled all over your expensive clothes. It seems so natural for you. Simon wonders what you were ever doing with the 141 when posh city living fits you like a second skin.

Simon inches his hand higher up your leg as you speak. He doesn’t get very far, but it’s enough so that he can trace patterns into the soft skin of your thigh. It’s too much, though, because your eyes lock onto his. But you’re not mad. You don’t tell him to stop. Rather, you examine him, and in your eyes Simon sees what looks like mirth.

“I missed this,” Simon says. He cringes at the words leaving his mouth. He’s succumbing to the domestic bliss you’ve created, looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses.

You reach for a third bottle of wine and a corkscrew, furrowing your brow in thought while twisting the screw. “I didn't want to abandon you,” you say. Simon, watching you pop the cork off with ease, almost forgets that you’re talking to him until you lock eyes. He watches you sniff the cork, pause, then sniff it again before topping off your glass. You take a heaping swig, like that Pinot Noir worth more than Simon’s monthly pay is unremarkable. “I left for a reason, you know.”

Oh, Simon certainly knows. The rumors had been inescapable in the first weeks of your absence. All around base every soldier had entertained the question of what happened to the American chick in the 141. Simon had only so many threatening looks to give privates before curiosity got the better of him. He abated the desire to ask John for so long, but there was only so much longing he could handle coupled with the cacophony of voices asking the same thing he desperately wanted to know.

John didn’t flounder when Simon finally came to him, demanding to know why you left.

She was discharged.

Why?

For… mental reasons.

Simon lost his shit in Price’s office that morning. He collapsed onto the couch with a gasp, a hand grasping and squeezing his heart. His breath left him, but Simon was too bloody stupid to understand what the hell was going on until Price was handing him a brown paper bag.

Breathe, son.

“Simon,” you breathe, your saccharine voice the most tantalizing sound Simon has ever heard. You lean forward, your finger tracing the scar parallel to the cut of his jaw. You were there for it, saw the knife slice through his mask and the skin underneath. You bandaged it in the helicopter after, making Simon promise to go to medical afterwards. He promised he would. That night he closed the wound with superglue. “Why did you really come?”

Because you disappeared. Because Price said you were on the brink of becoming a statistic. Because I fucked up. Because I said things I didn’t mean and I thought that it killed you.

“Johnny’s dead,” he lies. But it isn’t a lie. It’s true, sure, Johnny’s been reduced to ashes and scattered in the Scottish highlands. But that isn't why he came.

“I know.” You sniffle. Christ, Simon’s made you cry. Nausea washes over him. A voice in his head screams, fix it, idiot! But emotions were never Simon’s strong suit. Instead, Simon reaches for the bottle and tops off your glass of wine, probably a bit more than he should have, but it seems like you need it.

You mutter a thank you and down a bit more than half of the glass. You come up for air and hiccup. “John told me.”

“Price?” He asks, as though there was any other John. Anything to get you talking rather than crying.

You nod. “He dropped by around Thanksgiving. Asked if I wanted to be there when you all…” You wave your hand in the air, “You know.”

Something ugly festers in his chest. Maybe if he actually went to a therapist, Simon could recognize what it is.

“You said no?” He asks.

“I didn’t think I could.”

Simon nods, holding your gaze in a way that he hopes conveys his sense of understanding.

“How’d it happen?” You croak. Your eyes are glassy, a reminder of the ever-looming threat that you could fall apart again. Simon reminds himself that you wouldn’t be crying if he had just kept his distance.

“Bullet in the head.”

You tense, your head flying to Simon. Your eyes are frantic, searching for something in his face. “He…he…?”

Christ. 

“No, no,” Simon scrambles to get his next words out, “Makarov. It was-” His voice cracks. Unusual. “-was too fast to stop it. To save himself.”

You hum, slumping down like it’s comforting to you that Johnny had his life torn from his arms. Like it’s comforting that Johnny couldn’t go on his own terms, but on the terms of a Russian terrorist.

“You know,” you say like you know he knows, “Johnny’s the reason I got out.”

Simon shifts. Johnny never talked about your discharge, always responding to speculation like he was none the wiser. “He is?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. It’s deep and watery. “Things were…bad one night. He found me. Talked me through the night. Listened to me.” You throw your head back, eyes tracing imaginary patterns on the ceiling.

“He told Price?”

You nod.

“That was after we…”

You nod again. Simon feels sick.

“It had nothing to do with you, Simon.”

“I never thought it did.”

“Then why,” you ask, “did you bring it up?”

Simon shifts. “Thought it was relevant.”

You smile, though your eyes are still lined with tears. “Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not, love,” Simon laughs, hoping you buy it. It works, he thinks. You seem to deflate, slumping a bit. You take some time to think. Simon, panicking at the thought that your self-reflection could send him out the door, pulls out the one trick he has over you.

He lets your legs fall. They bang against the cabinets with a soft umph from your lips. Simon slides off of the counter and stalks your way. You watch him and put up no fight as he slots his wide body between your knees. You don't even complain as the parting of your legs forces your skirt to ride even higher.

Fingers card through Simon’s hair. He hums.

“Why did you do it?” You ask.

Simon tilts his head, and with the wine in his veins and your hand in his hair, the world spins. Your other hand slips under the hem of Simon’s shirt. Warm fingers graze the skin of his stomach and then side, before your hand settles on his back, palm splaying across scarred flesh.

“I–” Simon croaks, “–I felt something for you.”

You snort. Simon’s chest burns and he takes some deep breaths to calm himself. He imagines Price’s paper bag, inflating and crinkling over and over.

“You knew I would leave. That’s it, isn’t it?” You accuse with a gleam in your eyes. “I was in a bad place and was leaving so it didn’t matter if you hit it and quit it.” You laugh. “You got what you wanted without risking your position.”

“That’s not true.”

Your thighs bracket his legs, trapping him against you. Your words curl around your wine-stained tongue. “‘I don’t love you’. Isn’t that what you said Simon?”

“Love–”

You tense, thighs squeezing him like a vice. “Love,” you coo, the imitation of Simon’s long vowels curtles unnaturally on your tongue. “Love, love, love. You know Simon,” you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and lean into the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin as you speak, “You say it, but you’ve never meant it.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon utters, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“You’re not.”

He’s not. He doesn’t argue. He could– should, rather –but he can’t think straight with you this close to him. The scent of your perfume itches the deepest part of his brain. You never wore perfume when on duty, rather, always coated in the aroma of base-issued shampoo and sweat.

“I really cared for you, you know,” you whisper, your lips millimeters from his, them parting when his fingers rub you through the fabric of your underwear.

“I know,” Simon closes the distance, capturing your lips with his.

He pushes you back onto the counter, you let him, lets Simon cage your body like he has the right to. You groan into his mouth when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth and melt when his fingers slip past the hem of your panties, his fingers plunging through the wetness into your cunt.

It’s obscene— the noises you make as he thrusts his fingers into you. With his free hand, Simon pushes your skirt up over your hips so he can watch your cunt squeeze around him.

He slides his thumb up to your clit and you gasp. “Simon,” you moan. He nearly stops. It’s been years since he’s heard you say his name, let alone moan it. Fuck, Simon can’t help but grind his cock against the island counter, groaning.

It doesn’t take much to work you into an orgasm. Before he knows it, your moans become softer, higher pitched, and you’re coming apart, clenching hard on Simon’s fingers.

He works you through your orgasm, whispering praise into your ears. Simon gives you no time before pouncing, fisting his hands in your hair and devouring you. You wiggle underneath his weight, uttering something, but the words are lost into Simon’s mouth. He pulls away, his eyes meeting your expectant ones.

“What?”

“Upstairs,” you say, chest heaving. “My room is upstairs.”

***

Simon wakes before dawn. He’s lying on top of you, your strong breath rocking him up and down. Your limbs are impossibly tangled. He’s reminded of an identical morning, years ago, of what he did then, and what that choice led him to. But that was years ago. You were different then, broken. How was he supposed to know that his choice would make you shatter?

He untangles himself slowly. It feels like the process takes hours, though the sun fails to make an appearance by the time he slips out of bed. The clock reads four in the morning. That explains it. It also explains the way the room around him is spinning slightly. He’s still drunk– or at least buzzed –from the night before.

His pants are an easy find, discarded by the door. His shirt though… Simon spins around the room, eyes glazing over the space. He tries not to take anything in too deeply, too personal for this morning.

He spots his shirt on your vanity. Simon yanks it off, but something hard and heavy comes with it. It nearly drops to the floor, but Simon catches it before it can hit and wake you up.

It’s a perfume bottle, heavy and half-filled. Simon can’t suppress the urge of his half-drunk brain to sniff it. The scent— the scent of you —explodes in his synapses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, ensuring you’re still asleep, before pocketing the bottle.

The dog follows Simon as he walks through the house. Luckily, as he slips on his shoes, the dog disappears into the rest of the house.

Simon lingers with a hand wrapped around the door knob. It warms under his touch.

“Are we doing this again?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, “I ‘ave to.” Simon stays facing the door, though he doesn’t make a move to turn around. He knows how he must look to you, too cowardly to face you. He’s reminded of the last time he spent the night with you. He got out scot-free. What would have happened if you found him then? Simon can’t say for certain whether or not he would have left then, if you called out for him in the same delicate voice.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“In New York,” you say, voice dry with sleep. “With me. Get out of the SAS, the 141, all that bullshit.”

“‘S not that easy.”

“It is. I left. You can leave. Or you can stay and end up like Johnny–”

“What do you know about Johnny,’ Simon growls, turning on his heels. He straightens his spine, puffing his chest up like you’re a threat. Your dog buys it, growling and worming himself between you and Simon. You don't take the bait though. You honest to God laugh in Simon’s face.

“I know enough.” You step closer to Simon. The pooch gets the memo, clearing the way for you. Simon almost does the same, he wants to. Some instinctual part of his brain needs to cave to you. “You mean something, Simon,” you flick your eyebrows up, letting them drop immediately. It feels like a challenge, like you were asking Simon the silent question. Do you matter? 

“You’re more than a soldier– more than a body on a field, waiting to drop.” There are tears in your eyes. You don't let them fall. Simon hopes you’ve finally realized that he isn’t worth your heartbreak. He’s never been, but at least your realization would stop his cruel cycle of him chewing you up and spitting you right back out.

“Come to New York, Simon, please. There– there’s a butcher shop up the block, they’re always looking for help. You said you used to do that stuff, right?”

Fucking hell. He had said it to you, years ago after a mission. Simon went drink for drink with Johnny and Gaz and got positively wasted. It was the night he first set his sight on you, when your tenderness sunk its claws into his heart and refused to let go. You didn’t know then what it would lead to. Simon did. Every love Simon had wilted in his claws. Why would you be different?

“Come here,” you plead, “Take the job with them. I can help you find an apartment or you can live with me but–” You grab Simon’s shoulders, tugging. It isn’t strong enough to turn him around, but he does. Your cheeks are wet and eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Simon, it’s too late for us, but don’t let it be too late for you.”

Simon lifts his hand to your cheek, fingers grazing the plump skin. It slides to the back of your head and tugs– yanks you into his embrace as he crashes your lips against his own. The morning makes you soft though, as Simon nips your lips with his teeth, you melt, softening and slowing your movements.

It’s you that pulls away first, staring at Simon. You let him swipe his finger across your cheek, caressing you.

“Please,” you beg, kissing the palm of his hand.

Simon lets his hand fall from you. It sits achingly cold at his side.

It would be cowardly to leave you without a goodbye after forcing himself back into your life, even if it was for one night. Simon considers himself to be many things, but never a coward. Yet, standing in front of you, staring into your expectant eyes, words don’t come easy.

You step towards him. Simon steps back. The door knob presses into his back. His heart is pounding, the blood in his eyes deafening him. Your scent wafts his way, your perfume. The one whose bottle he knocked over, nearly let slip through his fingers and shatter. The one which you never got to wear in the 141. The one weighing down his back pocket.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Simon says.

He doesn’t look back. Not when you gasp his name. Not when he opens the door. Not when he walks down the snowy street.

Price and Gaz will ask about his holiday. They’re kind like that. In the cab to the airport, passing the bottle of perfume between his hands, Simon considers his answer. Single word answers are his forté, but won’t suffice with the prying curiosities of his captain and sergeant.

The answer comes to him when he sniffs the perfume once more.

In the coming week, when Gaz claps him on the back, he will ask, “How was the holiday, Ghost?”

Simon will answer, “I had a meal with an old friend.”

[martha-oi]

•°Captain Syverson°•

°• @sillyrabbit81 •°All her works are amazing!°•

Even If You Don't Mean It •° this one started it all for me♥️°•

Pulled in line

Riding high

Cure for boredom - Cure for boredom part two

Work then play

Pink or black

Close shave

Sy loves quickies

Attached

And so much more

Girls' night needs

Lookout

Candy cane

Blood hound

Wrapped

Cotton tail

Curious inspired by this

Fuse

°• @littlefreya •°is one of my favorite also°•

Lines in the sand

Feral collision part one - Feral collision part two

Shades of Green

Bring it on

Captain cunnilingus

Let me in - Set me free

Waking up the beast

The Captain and the Maiden

Knockers

Florist Sy

Salt & Iron

Buns in the oven

Kiss me in slow motion

Cosy

Tough luck

The beast

Home sweet home

Peach pie

Husband's duty

Pictures of you

°• @angryschnauzer •°

No I in team

Bubbles

By The Waning Crescent Moon

°• @shewriteswhenthewordscome •°

Gray sweatpants season

Returning the favor

Smutbomb

Reading is FUNmental

°• @raccoon-eyed-rebel •°

What's the occasion?

°• @feralrunaway •°

Lower

Yrsa

The predictament

°• @loganbcrnes •°

you are the bane of my existence and the object of my desire

°• @delicate-moon-princess •°

The night of many firsts

°• @wolvesandhoundshowltogether •°

Kissed by fire 🔥

Pearls

A girl chest friend

Of beard and ranks

Good ol' boy

Dog tags

°• @mayloma •°

Sweet things

°• @viking-raider •°

Sy's therapy barn

°• @geralts-yenn •°

Bonfire - Something like that

Dad Sy

°• @augustsprincess •°

Plenty of room

°• @just-chirpin •°

Eyes that see - night terrors

°• @nashibirne •°

Truck stop - Pick up

°• @doll-r-t •°

A warm italien night with the captain

My sweet peach

A cold tent and a warm captain

My baby bear

°• @capncassas •°

Supply run - Twinkies, Ho-Ho's and Ding Dongs

Pretty as a peach °• this one is🔥😩•°

Box truck surprise

°• @gummydummy19 •°

Spanking - the do over

Balance

°• @princess-of-riviaa •°

No strings

What a man

Wet dreams

My Captain - your sergeant

°• @scorpiobitch95 •°

Sugar and the bull

Namaste

Hoodie love

Magenta

°• @mrsarnasdelicious •°

Touch starved

Overseas hero

°• @followyoursecretsmutblog •°

Mine

°• @thelastsock •°

He very much gives a fuck

Handprints on the glass

°• @hertzwritings •°

Yes professor

°• @zealoushound •°

A dose of serotonin

Watermelon sugar

°• @witchersmistress •°

Bite me Sy

[assortedseaglass]

🌟Advent | Yuletide🌟

Billy Washington x fem!Reader

Summary: Billy Washington knocks on his neighbour's door with a case of the wobbles.

Content Warnings: Language, mentions of panic attacks, mild Trigger Point Spoiler, fluff, hurt, comfort.

🎄 Yuletide Masterlist 🎄

Billy hesitated outside the door. He stared at the small wreath attached to the knocker and glanced down the hallway. No-one else had one up.

With a shaking hand and shuddering breath, Billy wiped his eyes. His counsellor was encouraging him to reach out when he had what his mother called “a case of the wobbles”.

It had taken a while. The first time Billy felt his panic creeping in, his terror at picking up the phone and calling his sister had induced another attack. Once, while doing his weekly shop, someone dropped a large box from a top shelf of the supermarket and the noise made him dissolve into violent sobs. A kindly and plump woman in a Tesco uniform took him to the staff room, gave him a cuppa and a long cuddle.

“See,” the counsellor said when Billy told her of this episode. “I know it’s hard after everything that happened, but most people really are good people.”

So here he stood, in the corridor of his new block of flats, hand raised to knock on his neighbour’s door. He cleared his throat a few times, shook out his arms and shuffled his feet.

“Come on, Wash,” he murmured to himself, feeling another knot of nerves tighten in his stomach. Not giving his brain time to betray him, he rapped his knuckle of the door.

“Coming,” the voice on the other side of the door called brightly. The longer he waited, the quicker his heart hammered. Keeping down his lunch was becoming harder with every second that ticked by.

A door to his left opened. A little old lady stuck her head out her front door.

“Hiya,” Billy barely looked at her, focussing on his shoes instead. He didn’t want any more people than necessary to see his tears. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thought you was knocking for me,” she retreated inside with a muffled Merry Christmas of her own.

The door before him opened. Warm light bathed the cold corridor. So too, did the smell of freshly cooked food.

Billy took a step back and rubbed his neck. Still, he looked at the floor, eyes flicking up only when he said hello. You were smiling at him, waiting for to hear whatever he had knocked for.

“Merry Christmas,” you said. Catching sight of his watery eyes you stepped towards him slowly. “Everything ok?”

Billy swallowed hard. His wobbles always made it so hard to breathe, and as though reliving the memory, it felt like he could taste petrol fumes. “Yeah, um. I, erm-” A small, watery sob left him. “Fuck, sorry.”

“It’s ok,” you opened the door wider. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes please.” He said quickly. Billy’s relief was instantaneous as he shuffled past you into the flat. Golden fairy lights were strung around the small lounge, and a Christmas tree that was far too large took up most of the space. Beside it, an old sofa was covered in blankets and on the telly, Jimmy Stewart’s face was paused. It’s a Wonderful Life, his mum’s favourite.

“Sit yourself down, kettle’s just boiled.”

“Ta, thanks.” He perched awkwardly on the sofa and grabbed a tissue from the box on the table. An undrunk cup of tea was sat beside a pile of books and abandoned Christmas wrapping.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Please, ta.”

Billy’s leg bobbed as he waited for his cup of tea, thinking over what to tell you.

“You don’t need to tell anyone why, Billy, just that you are having a panic attack and don’t want to be alone.”

The sofa dipped beside him. Silently, you handed him a cup of tea and placed a small bowl of steaming pasta on the table beside you both.

“Just made it, help yourself.” You nodded to the bowl. “Not very Christmassy but comforting, eh?”

“Yeah, cheers.”

Without saying anything else, you picked up the tv remote and pressed play.

“Oh, whadda ya mean? Nobody’s trying to steal anybody’s girl. Here, here’s, here’s Mary.”

Jimmy Stewart’s voice filled the little flat and Billy felt liked he’d stepped into another world. Had he had a panic attack? Here was a girl, opening her door to a stranger, giving him food and then pretending he didn’t exist. Frankly, his panic made way for worry about her survival instincts.

As if reading his mind, you spoke. “I get them too. Panic attacks.” Billy didn’t say anything, only looked at you over his cup of tea. You’d tucked your feet up on the sofa and snuggled down beneath the roll neck of your enormous, grey jumper. “Shit, aren’t they?”

Billy laughed awkwardly. “Yeah,”

“Don’t worry, though.” You tore your eyes away from the telly then. “We can just sit here.”

And sit there the two of you did. Right until George Bailey saw Clarence’s copy of Tom Sawyer and little Zuzu said, “each time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

Billy smiled as you whispered it in unison with the film.

“Thanks,” he said tentatively, finally broaching the subject of his panic attack himself. “That was just what I needed.”

“Anytime, Billy,” you said, placing your hand on his comfortingly. Billy stilled.

“H-how do you know my name?” Christ. He’d knocked on the door of the high-rise lunatic.

You smiled gently and raised your eyebrows at him, as though saying don’t be thick. “You were on the news, Billy.”

He mentally slapped himself. Of course she knew who he was.

CAR BOMB CALAMTIY: LOCAL MAN ESCAPES AFTER FAR-RIGHT RECRUITMENT

“I won’t ask about it, and you don’t have to say anything, not if you don’t want to. But you can always knock on the door.”

“Thanks mate,” Billy said with a watery smile. He hastily rubbed his eyes.

“Really,” you said with sincerity. “Anytime.”

With another gentle smile, Billy stood up from the sofa. He loomed over you, and so you stood too.

“I best be off,” he indicated to the door. “I’ve taken up enough of your evening-”

“Anytime, remember.”

“Likewise,” he said, remembering you were also prone to cases of the wobbles.

He bade you goodnight, smiling to himself when you waited in the doorway to see him off, even though it was only too steps across the hall.

“Oooh!” you exclaimed. “Hang on!”

You disappeared from the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Billy stood awkwardly with his hand on the doorhandle. When you reappeared, a little out of breath from dashing around the small flat, you handed him a little chocolate covered in golden foil.

“Mum sends me an Advent calendar every year, but I’ve pigged out enough today.”

Something in this tiny gesture on top of an evening that meant so much bowled Billy over. His worry at anyone seeing his panic dissolved as he did too, slumping onto your shoulder and bursting into tears.

“Ah, mate,” you rubbed his shoulder as this giant man clung onto you. “It’ll be a better year next year, yeah?”

“Myeah,” Billy sniffled, standing straight and rubbing his nose. He laughed in spite of himself and you giggled to. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Billy.”

The usual suspects: @arcielee @targaryenrealnessdarling @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @ellrond @cyeco13 @babyblue711 @exitpursuedbyavulcan @humanpurposes @myfandomprompts @barbieaemond @anjelicawrites

[uhoh-but-yeah-alright]

Established Relationship fics by yeah_alright

Larry

Going Green (so fucking green) | 6k | E | D/s; Reduce, Reuse, Recycle but make it BDSM | fic post

Take a Chance, Just Feed Me | 4k | E | Marcel roleplay, Best Song Ever set | fic post 

To Sleep, Perchance to Ream | 4k | E | girl direction, somnophilia, mommy kink | fic post

Are you ready for a new sensation? | 3k | E | toe sucking, kink exploration(ish) | fic post

Knock Knockers! Who’s There? | 3k | E | fluff and humor and smut | fic post

(marshmallow) fluff | 3k | G | domestic fluff, kid fic | fic post

Tossed Salad and Scrambled Eggs | 3k | E | fluff and humor and smut | fic post

Is this for me? | 2k | E | daddy kink, pink bucket hat | fic post

something weird (but it do look good) | Larry | 666 words | Mature | Halloween fic, costumes, fluff and humor | fic post

Maybe I’m A-maized | Larry | 100 words | Explicit | smut and humor, dildos, with my apologies to corn on the cob and all who (used to) enjoy eating it

Larry playing with others + Rare Pairs under the cut

Larry playing with others

Bound and Determined | Larry + the boys | 8k | E | PWP, D/s, O(rgy)T5, rope bondage, sub!Harry POV | fic post

Divide and Conquer That Ass | Larry + Zayn | 4k | E | insatiable Harry, threesome | fic post

I Know My Arithmedick (2 + 2 = 4sum) | Larry + Ziam = Zourriam  | 4k | E | sex club, voyeurism, foursome | fic post

Shoulder ‘n’ the Load | Larry + Louis/his bandmates | 3k | E | PWP, hospital sex, injury/comfort, D/s undertones | fic post

Too Hard to Describe | Larry + anon OMC | 2k | E | unnamed anonymous third party, sharing is caring | fic post

Glory Whore | Larry | 1k words | E | PWP, specialized glory hole | fic post

Rare Pairs

just happy getting you stuck in between my teeth | Zarry | 5k | E | tender bondage, anxious (pillow princess) Zayn & supportive (pleasure top) Harry | fic post

Amenable | Zouis | 3k | E | D/s, PWP | fic post

Take the Middle Path | Zourry | 3k | E | polyamory, identity exploration and discovery, porn with feelings | fic post

Fall into the Middle of her Greatness | Zourry | 2k | E | Dorothrry-inspired, roleplay, D/s undertones | fic post

A Way So Familiar | Ziam | 2k | T | cuddling, fluff, reminiscing | fic post

That’s My Thing | Tomlinshaw | 2k | E | humor and smut, teasing, D/s undertones | fic post

Word Play | Lirry | 1k | T | humor and fluff | fic post

I got this one. (G) + Gratuitous (M) | 1k | Shiall | reminiscing, fluff + public sex, light sugar daddy/baby dynamic | fic post, fic post

We’ve got that one Thing | Zourry | 666 words | M | costume roleplay, fluff and humor | fic post, teaser

(moodboard pics: x, x, x)

[bluelightchipskink]

Actually, I'm curious. What are everybody's favourite notn familiars? Personally partial to the fidget toys, sugar and spice/salt and pepper, door knockers, volume/tome, nutcrackers, and decision maker/rock paper scissors

[astarab1aze]

Places Around the World (P1)

⸻Salem's Crossing, Miami, FL.

Located in the underbelly of Miami, Salem's Crossing serves one of many meeting places for supernaturals alongside Time's Square in New York, Alcatraz in San Francisco, The Denver Pavilions in Colorado, and others. It behaves as a sort of 'pocket dimension', a place separate from the non-magic world, and all entrances into this 'dimension' can be closed at-will from any suspiciously prying eyes. This easy departure from the world as a whole allows the supernatural world to remain hidden and inaccessible to non-magic people and even other sorcerers if necessary. The presiding sorcerers have a tendency to move entrances as well, thus further preventing detection from non-magic folk in accordance with the Secrecy & Safety Statutes agreed upon by Sorciers and the USDRS.

Aesthetically, Salem's Crossing might appear as a place 'out of time' as it maintains a strange mashup of French, Spanish, and contemporary magic and non-magic motifs, decor, and other design choices from prior eras (chiefly the 1800s). For example: The Bubbler's Brew looks akin to an old carnival ground, dripping in Vaudevillian presentation and Creole ornamentation; The Tattered Cover looks like any old bookstore you might find in, say, Salem itself, with northern coastal construction and plain color schemes, though the inside is a bit of a different story for obvious reasons; and so on.

It is connected to Salem, Mass. and is widely regarded as a more culturally diverse extension of the city, merely located in Miami, FL.

The street all the important shops are on is named Rum-Runner's Circle, and it serves as a sort of hub for the Southern sorcerer states in 'dimensional' conjunction with New Orleans' French Quarter. This is also where the first Gildebanque's was opened, with the other two in Time's Square and Alcatraz respectively (Gildebanque's is run by the Gilde Family and Tommy-knockers, landmark accomplishment in unifying supernaturals).

Individual Locations

Nightingale's, a general sorcery supply store based in Salem's Crossing, established in 1732. Owned and operated by Talula Burke, who was the Summoning professor at Belegerande's in the 80's. This is the best place to go when shopping for school or to resupply on the basics.

Bubbler's Brew, an apothecary based in Salem's Crossing, established in 1949 by the Oddry-Collins family. Their inventory contains all the ingredients necessary to brew a fine restorative, invisibility potion, something that'll make you grow taller, shorter, rounder, balder-- If you've the money for it, they do also have rarer ingredients, from blackwyrm organs and glands to whole firenewts, dragon eggshell, dragon glass, whole styxie, boonie wings, crocodingo glow sacs, drakodil feet, and plenty, plenty more. All ingredients are ethically sourced uwu !

The Tattered Cover, a bookstore containing magical and mundane publications of most types, connecting Salem's Crossing with the heart of Denver. Working in conjunction with smaller bookstores, an intricate web strings together yet more populations of supernaturals. In a way, it's more or less a supernatural highway with revolving doors and a bookshop.

Gretle's, once known as 'Of Arsenic & Sugar' and 'The Sug' (Dale Gribble's wife opened this place), is a candy and snack franchise that's been around since 1801. Run by witches with a unique talent for it, it's been pumping out all sorts of famous magical confections such as FrankenLeeches, Snallygobsters, among others.

Strychnine Theater, which isn't so much a theater as it is an event arena held entirely underground in Salem's Crossing that is generally used for illegal dueling tournaments among other illegal activities. It was once a highly respected institution, the scene of many elegant magical plays, operas, and other acts, but fell into shabbyness and disrepair, then to crime and cruelty, with the introduction of the drug Noxium, which has the same effect as heroin when ingested (but was otherwise a great topical ointment for snap-trap bites), by poachers, scoundrels, the odd murderer or two, etc. Now, it's a hotbed for all manners of illegal activity.

Mirewood Crossroads, which is simply another name for any liminal space throughout the swamps of the South, most of which are defunct or overtaken by poachers, drug dealers, murderers, ambitious thieves, the vilest necromancers who've no respect for the dead, unchecked vampires, frogmen, wild animals, supernatural beasts, and other such things. Nothing's been quite right about them either, not since they'd been mostly abandoned. Who knows what may be found there? Maybe a mirror or two remains active. The Mirewood Crossroads locations that are still in use today are located in the town square of Salem's Crossing, Belle's Hollow in Belle Valley (named for Alistair Belegerande's beloved wife, Isabella), one in Texas, Louisiana, and Alabama.

Fleur de Lis', Very Nice™️ supernatural fashion store located in Salem's Crossing, run by Fortuna Damaris - the only known true fae in North america. She broke away from the Court to pursue her dream, connecting with the strange, mortal, and human, and create. Since the 1850's, she's been happily running Fleur de Lis' and has a permanent business contract with both Belegerande's and Madame Scrivener's schools. She alone designs and produces their school uniforms, drapes, bedding, etc. Fleur de Lis' as a business has exceptional marks, but is quite expensive.

[legolasghosty]

Fairytale AU

Oh heck yeah! Had to have a friend randomly pick me a fairy tale, we're going with Hansel and Gretel!

Julie and Reggie as the main characters (Cause make Reggie a Molina forever!!!). They're off to visit their Tia Victoria, but get lost along the way.

Caleb is the witch (of course), he likes stealing souls... he's a bit like Ursula in this I'm realizing. He lures people in with his shiny candy house and then tricks them into selling him their souls and stuff. Is he plotting world domination? Who knows. Not me!

Julie and Reggie are super lost as it's getting dark, so they just go up to the first light they see, which turns out to be Caleb's candy house...

The door won't open for ages and it's long enough for Julie to realize that the knocker is made of chocolate... which has now melted a bit onto her fingers. She licks it off. Reggie gets curious and picks up a bit of the path... which turns out to be gingerbread(Julie is freaked about him eating off the ground).

Suddenly, Caleb appears and starts screaming at them for eating his house. They apologize and Caleb fake chills. He's like, well why don't you come inside and we can sort this out... you're just children after all... (with intent to steal their souls.)

Caleb offers them a place to spend the night in exchange for them signing a 'letter of apology' for eating his house... (it's totally soul stealing paperwork but they don't know that and it's too dim for them to be able to read it.)

They sign and go to bed without a second thought. Only to be woken in the night by two tiny people... are they made of candy too?! But the siblings are warned that soon Caleb will turn them into little sugar people too and they signed their souls away so there's nothing they can do other than run. Caleb has a whole little army of people he's pulled this same trick on.

But Julie and Reggie are smart and, with the help of their new little sugar friends, manage to trick Caleb into falling into a big tub of water. Turns out he's entirely made out of sugar so he begins to dissolve immediately.

The contracts are broken, everyone turns human again, and they all live happily ever after!

(Send me an AU and I'll give you 5+ headcanons about it!)

[capsensislagamoprh]

Victor slid across the ice, blades cutting feather thin lines into its fresh shine. His movements were graceful, fluid, full of possibilities. He was going to gather glamour, he would put it to good use. He would get a hold of the oracle and an interpreter. Or he'd learn Chinese. Ether way.

Gliding, arms turning out, slowly lifting towards the sky, palms arched in reverence, Victor imagined the rain of snow that kissed his skin when ever he felt a fresh dream. He drew his arms in, cupping his heart thrugh his chest, long hair flowing beside his face like a vale of silver ice. His feet arched, one over the other as he gained speed. He jumped. The spin felt natural. It landed clean. A triple. He followed it with a moments notice, a double taking him to the next step sequence. He could feel himself, face mussels and long limbs burning like cold flame. The music covered him in kisses made of dead men, there inspiration caught in the air, Victor's to interpret.

His hips bent as his back arched, toe loop step, fluid hands. Toe loop - try to be en pointe, use that toe pick - step, powerful sweeping motions as you flow that twizzle into a sit spin. Pull it into a lay-back... use your core mussels to rise into a scratch. Step sequence as you convey, emote. Use your whole body. Your face. Don't forget the grace of your line...

"VICTOR!" Yakov screamed into the void. A silver head snapped around as his blades cut a sharp C, stopping himself from continuing. Flicking his stakes as he glided towards the grumpy man, he once again wondered if he wasn't a very well hidden knocker.

"Yes, Yakov," he purred. "Something I can help you with?"

"Arch your back more. You're toe is to low, and your twizzle looked like you weren't even trying. Air, Victor! Air! Look like you're gliding yes, but you should fly!"

Victor felt his smile plaster on. "Sure, Yakov. I can do that." He could almost feel Madame Baranovskaya staring him down, telling him to not waste the dross on something bound to get him tested for sanity.

It goes like this in practice for hours. He's not ready to get off the ice. He knows he can do more. He knows he can make another rotation on his Salchow. But reality is going to gobble him up feet first if he doesn't shower, eat, and hang around people with actual imaginations.

He's not sure what to do. What he knows is that sometimes children let loose dreams. They play in the parks and on the streets. They bounce about pretending fantasies so powerful they taste like sweet cream. Umm, sweet cream. A pastries. Trubochki? Vatrushka maybe? Milk and honey, a basic thing to fey, a kin to vitamins in humans. Mother's milk, warm and welcoming. Damn. He was starving.

Walking to Primorskiy Park, Victor watched the sky, felt the cold, smelled the air, and watched his step. The shadows were trying to cling to him again, trying to warn him of something. He wasn't sure what it was, but for a moment he thought he heard someone laugh, smelled the scent of chocolate, and then it faded. Shaking his silver locks, Victor watched as children played, their screams little more than an echo at the highest end of sound.

Sitting on the frosty bench, Victor looked at the children, their parents keeping lax eyes as the water fountains played with the empty spaces. He'd got his pasties, was about to indulge in a powered sugar covered delight when - like the right hand of Madame Baranovskaya herself - came chaos and sound the likes of which he's not experienced before.

Several small dogs chased a rather large Siberian Husky right over the bench he sat, across the bag of goodies, over his entire form, with one rather enterprising spaniel slamming a muddy paw right across his forehead. It was disappointing. It was disgusting. It was shocking. It... surprised him. He hadn't been surprised since he came to the material realm. How exhilarating!

He could feel himself lift from the soul up. His insides were floating on a glowing tide of power, fueling his innate abilities. A slow, steady snow began to fall. People began to gather their children and animals. They fled to the places snow was not supposed to go. And Victor laughed.

Marvelous! What joy! What was that creature? Could he get one? He must have one! Smile brighter than the cloud covered sun, Victor rose, eyes bright with liquid delight as he whispered with glee, "I must have a chaos animal! Where do I get one?"

He'd use the computer to find a place to get a cleaner animal. One as well breed as himself, and just a much of a joy as the muddy print in the middle of his head.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22

[longveil]

A delivery is left on the doorstep of an apartment above the docks. There is no note, only a vase with a display of white calla lilies accented by the thin and spindly twists of willow twigs and their own verdant leaves.

Mild dismay and some measure of surprise met the unmarked vase’s discovery upon Seraanna’s doorstep. Dismay at the reminder of all that remained undone of her return. The wards yet to be restored, return of the locks and door knocker that had given way to more… mundane… accoutrements while she was away, seeking other Truths. Any one of which might have left some hint as to her benefactor.

And surprise as would come from any such gift, moreso for that she had not been long returned to Stormwind. Other than her sister and the her vessel’s crew, few beyond those present at the recent tiresome event within Stormwind Keep would know to mark her presencem, and fewer still would know where she found her rest. And so...

“The Baron, of all… likely truths. Yet... not one of certainty,” Seraanna murmured to herself. A faded smile pulled at her lips as she took the vase, examined it briefly for any obvious malfeasance, and returned within.

Inside, there was still the cacophony of the newly relocated, the walls yet bare and several boxes yet to be unpacked. A far cry from the careful arrangements of memory. Her wingback armchair however, embroidered in red and gold, had already recaptured its place of honor near the leaded glass window overlooking the Harbor.

One by one the calla lilies were removed from their vase, stems carefully trimmed afresh. The twists of willow were equally tended, Seraa’s handiwork unhurried and precise. Lastly, the water within the vase was changed out for fresh, a generous pinch of sugar mixed in before blooms and twigs were replaced.

Gift so cared for, the vase was given a perch on the end table near her chair, a location to catch the western sun. Seraa returned to the other tasks which remained, but a wisp of shadow remained to curl about the glassware’s base - fading only reluctantly…

[aparticularbandit]

To Be Devoured

Summary: Smoke twists, turns, spirals into signs as it writes its way across the star-studded sky, but here in forgotten Sokovia, from a log cabin in the mountains set on the edge of an ice-covered lake, no one will read them.  Not properly anyway.

Still.

Agatha invited her here through symbols in smoke, testing Wanda’s ability to read them, and Wanda’s prompt arrival means that she is learning.  It would be cruel to keep her locked out in the cold.

Agatha Harkness/Wanda Maximoff

content warnings: vague descriptions of bdsm (particularly with restraints/choking)

word count: 2291

The fire crackles, pops, spits, hisses, its flames flickering violet and casting a cold glow about the otherwise darkened house.  Agatha draws closer to the blaze, hands held out.  The light throws shadows along her already blackened fingers; for a moment, she pretends it is nothing but ash staining them, the same ash she used to paint runes in the snow before returning to her dying blaze.

Magical fire does not put out the same sheer heat that a normal one does, not on its own, so holding a writhing spiral in her right hand while etching in the snow only postponed the chill rather than providing her any semblance of something better.  The blaze in the fireplace soothes her much more readily, licking up logs she templed together in its hearth, and though magical in origin, puts out the same heat as an average fire, despite its color, for it maintains itself not with magic but with the wood set below.  Drawing only on cold air provides no help; logs are much better fuel for such as this.

Smoke twists, turns, spirals into signs as it writes its way across the star-studded sky, but here in forgotten Sokovia, from a log cabin in the mountains set on the edge of an ice-covered lake, no one will read them.  Not properly anyway.

Still, the knock comes the way it always has, even if it comes with a different pattern – not the one, two, three of her normal companion now dead, set as a warning before they enter without requesting permission (because they have never needed it), but the rapid fire knocking of someone who would much prefer a thick metal knocker than using her bare knuckles followed by the accent-laden voice of a witch far too young to hold the power her lithe body contains.

The other witch doesn’t say it, but Agatha hears it in her mind all the same, words of a twisted fairytale which she far outdates:

     Little pig, little pig, let me in –      or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in!

She is no pig, much more like the mystical pixies found within the story’s earliest printing, building herself a house of iron to keep the fox out and switching places once it has trapped her in its little box, but Wanda is much more wolf than conniving fox – huffing and puffing and causing destruction one way or another regardless of whether she is actively searching out a pig to eat or simply trying to ask her dearest neighbor for a cup of sugar.

Of course, Wanda doesn’t need to ask permission before entering Agatha’s stolen cabin.  The runes outside don’t prohibit her from using her magic – not completely, at least – and so she could teleport inside within an instant or phase through the wall in the same manner as her dearly departed not husband.  The knocking, the seeking entrance is performative for Agatha’s sake; she has no reason to believe that Wanda particularly cares for – or respects – her privacy.  If not for the barrier she keeps in place, Wanda would break into her mind and reap secrets that aren’t hers to have.  Privacy is not her strong suit.

Still.

Agatha invited her here through symbols in smoke, testing Wanda’s ability to read them, and Wanda’s prompt arrival means that she is learning.  It would be cruel to keep her locked out in the cold.

Not that the door is locked.

With a single raise of an inky black stained finger, Agatha opens the door, refusing to move even a modicum from the heat pouring out of the hearth. Her hand returns to its position, palm facing the violet blaze, and she does not turn until the flames before her become interlaced with scarlet, until the younger witch collapses just next to her.

“Shut the door, dear.  You weren’t born in a barn.”

“How would you know where I was born?”  Wanda raises a hand, twists once, and the door slams shut so hard that the entire cabin quivers with the force of it.  It almost – almost – covers the sound of the lock sliding into place, but it doesn’t.  As her hand lowers, she shifts closer to Agatha, pressing her shoulder against the older woman’s.  “It’s so fucking cold out here.”  She shivers once, full body, and stares into the flame.

“Relax, hon.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”  Her voice is so weak.

But Wanda relaxes – or pretends to – resting her head on Agatha’s shoulder in the same instant that she lets her illusion drop.  The crown and immaculate curls disappear, replaced with barely contained waves pulled back into half of a speedy ponytail, knotted through with unbrushed tangles; the sculpted, form fitting, scarlet leather like ensemble – the intimidating costume – melts away to a much softer grey sweater with long sleeves to pull over her own inky black stained fingertips; the thin ebony pants that might as well have been tights fade beneath a not-as-flattering pair of mom jeans, although black tights peek out under the edge of the jeans; and her stark boots dissolve into fluffy scarlet socks.  It’s another sort of armor to wrap herself for comfort rather than war.

The worst of it is that when Wanda’s illusion drops, when her head rests on Agatha’s shoulder, the older witch’s clothes also shift, though she hadn’t asked for it – hadn’t quite wanted it.  But she’s grown used to Wanda’s implied possessiveness of her, implied ownership of her, though they’ve never once discussed it. Wanda turns just enough to take in her creation: ripples of purple silk, skin bared to the heat of the roaring fire, violet fluff in the form of a cozy robe that Agatha pulls a little more tightly around her.  At the sight of Agatha’s discomfort, she almost, almost smiles, but that fades as easily as her other illusions did.

“Must you always change me, dear?”

“If you quit with that ugly drapery ensemble, I wouldn’t do it at all.” Wanda kisses her cheek and rests her head against her shoulder again.  “At least Agnes knew how to dress properly.”

“I dressed Agnes, hon.”

“Which is how I know you can dress better.”

Empty words.  It’s never about how Agatha dresses.  She could be in the same plaid dress, black ribbon, kitten heels, and perfectly coiffed hair Agnes wore the day they met, and Wanda would still change her.  It’s a subtle reminder.  No.  It’s not that subtle.  Wanda couldn’t be subtle if she tried.

Agatha stares into the flame.  It flickers, whips, the violet and scarlet at war within it while still remaining one, singular entity, devouring the logs beneath it.  She moves just enough to toss another log in the fire, slipping out of the hand Wanda instinctively uses to just touch her waist, and settles back into that same position as Wanda’s fingers return to her lap.

She lets out a breath, and despite how warm the cabin has grown, it still forms a cloud in the air before fading away entirely.

“Agatha—”

“Don’t.”

Wanda doesn’t plead, doesn’t beg, and yet there’s a pleading tone in her voice. “You called me here for a reason. Tested me.”  She doesn’t ask, but the question underlies it all.

In the fairytale, the pigs don’t open their doors to the wolf, too afraid that he will devour them, and whether or not that was true, they still die regardless, the houses they have spent so long constructing falling down around them, crushing them until they are nothing more than dust.  Dorothy of Oz killed her first witch that way, by dropping a house on her.

Agatha would much rather be eaten, much rather attempt to cohabitate with the wolf, to tame it.

A single probe – just one – to see if this wolf will let her loosen her fur first, but not yet.  Wanda is still afraid of how Agatha would dress her if given the chance.  She respects that.  One day, maybe, she’ll trust her enough for that.  It took long enough for her to trust her enough for this.

Agatha turns, kisses the crown of Wanda’s head first, and as she does, Wanda lets out a breath that she’s always holding until this precise moment, shoulders releasing the weight of tension and rolling forward.  She’s always crying when Agatha begins to kiss her skin, so there’s always salt on Agatha’s lips when they finally meet hers.  It’s the only reliable way for Wanda to taste her own tears.

Wanda can always tell her to stop.  She never does.  Not anymore.

Instead, her fingers curl against Agatha’s face, rings so hot they burn her skin; her mouth opens hungrily to hers – is this what it means to be devoured? – as she curves desperately towards her; her whole self clings desperately to her, hands moving from Agatha’s face to the small of her back as the older witch settles atop her kneeling form, trains her head up to look at her, to meet her eyes.

Love me.

Neither of them ever say it, though every now and again, Agatha catches wisps of the phrase in Wanda’s thick Sokovian accent – unspoken whispers flicking through the air, through her mind, insisting, aching.  Wanda’s body moves against hers, lips across the skin she’d exposed when she’d forced Agatha’s clothes to change, open-mouthed across the expanse of her breasts as Agatha cradles the back of her head, holds her face gently to them.

Agatha glances up, lets out a low sound only because she knows Wanda is desperate for it.  She lets her continue for a few moments before tightening her hand in her hair, forcing her away, forcing her to look up.  “You know what comes next,” she murmurs, searching for the fear in Wanda’s eyes and seeing nothing, seeing only the tiniest of nods.

The thing about Wanda, Agatha has discovered, is that she craves to be punished.  Her hand grips tight around Wanda’s neck, and she slowly lowers her to the cold cabin floor.  A few words and a wave of her hand, and magic cuffs lock the younger witch to the floor at her wrists, her ankles.

But Agatha’s hand stays tight on Wanda’s neck.  She discovered this, too, that using any other form of restraint there causes Wanda to use her safe word immediately, to pull back choking, panicking, hand clasped to her neck, eyes wide and unable to focus on anything, anyone, faltering backward from even Agatha’s gentlest touch until she was able to breathe.  But as long as Agatha keeps her hand there – warm flesh against slightly chillier flesh – Wanda doesn’t panic.  It was awkward, at first, to keep a hold there while she does everything else, but it’s doable.

Her other hand slips beneath Wanda’s shirt, sharp nails digging slow and deep into her skin.

This is how they begin.

~

There is always, always a moment when Wanda starts to cry again.

There is always, always a moment when Wanda, very clearly, yells out, “Stop!  You’re hurting me!”

And always, always Agatha’s response is to hurt her more, to tease those pealing screams through her lips, the shuddering sobs that she stops with a clench of the hand on her throat, drawing up her torso, glaring into her eyes, and growling, “Shut your whore mouth,” staring at her until Wanda swallows, nods, voiceless.

It isn’t about the power.  It isn’t about the control, either.

Wanda could break the bonds Agatha places around her wrists and ankles at any point.  She could throw Agatha off of her, across the room, and bend her entirely to her will – Agatha would put up a fight, but she is not the Scarlet Witch, and eventually, whether she wanted to or not, she would succumb, unless she had the right tricks up her sleeve.

But she doesn’t.

Of course, Wanda always changes her clothes first, as a reminder, always presses her, teases her, snipes at her.  It’s a reminder.  One that Agatha doesn’t need.

She’s learned when Wanda has reached her limit, edges her to it, tempts the line.  And when she’s done, when the cuffs are released, Wanda curls to her, kisses her, praises her with lips along her inner thighs until Agatha grips her head and forces her to please her, rocking against her mouth as the younger witch digs her hands into her ass, her thighs to maintain grip, only pressing tighter when Agatha debases her – “You fucking bitch, you fucking bitch.”

And it’s only after Agatha stills, brushing hands through Wanda’s hair, cupping her face and leaning it up to her lips again that she softens, caresses Wanda’s soft, sore skin with the lightest tracings of her fingertips, gentle, gentle, gentle, murmuring, because she needs to hear it, “You did so good, babe. So good.  Let me take care of you; let me reward you; let me soothe those aching limbs, babe.”

They always end up tangled together, stripped bare, and that’s why it never really matters that Wanda changes her clothes because they’re always gone anyway.  Sometimes, she throws them into the fire, but more often than not, they dissolve, too. She doesn’t need them.

And when the sun breaks across the horizon and the first flickers of light bleed through the cabin’s windows, Wanda leaves.  She clenches the door frame, and she looks back, and her lips press together, and she murmurs the softest thank you that Agatha may have ever heard, except from her, and then she’s alone again, staring into the embers of a once violently violet flame, fingers clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, the taste of the Scarlet Witch still thick on her tongue.

[cyronite-fr]

Night of the Nocturne 2022 Haul 🖤

So I had a goal to get at least 500 Strange Chests to open for Notn this year, without buying any, and I did it! I wasn’t as active as I would have liked to be this year but I am still happy with my haul!! Any chests I got after the 500 I sold (I didn’t keep track of my earnings from selling chests though lol). 

Here is my haul from opening the Strange chests 🥰

Total Nocturne Eggs: 52

Total Treasure: 15024

Specialty

Breed Change: Nocturne x1

Primary Gene: Fern x7

Secondary Gene: Paisley x5

Scene: Enchanted Dungeon x4

Scene: Strange Chests x6

Scene: Witch’s Kitchen x18

Tertiary Gene: Smirch x2

Vista: Conjurer's Hat x2

Vista: Gossamer Flame x4

Vista: Jester x1

Vista: Plasmpool Armor x3

Vista: Snarling Mimic x1

Vista: Spectral Shroud x4

Vista: Spidered Seat x2

Apparel

Basic Book Collection x4

Black Candle Cascade x8

Candles Cascade x13

Conjurer's Cobwebs x2

Conjurer’s Cloak x5

Conjurer’s Hat x2

Conjurer’s Herb Pouch x2

Conjurer’s Staff x1

Enchanted Cat Necklace x12

Enchanted Orca Necklace x7

Enchanted Owl Necklace x7

Enchanted Raven Necklace x4

Enchanted Stag Necklace x9

Enchanted Wolf Necklace x7

Ghost Flame Candles x1

Ghost Flame Cloak x3

Ghost Flame Collar x1

Ghost Flame Headpiece x1

Ghost Flame Tail Jewel x1

Ghost Flame Tail Ribbon x2

Ghost Flame Wing Ribbon x4

Golden Starswirl x7

Haunting Amber Clawrings x1

Haunting Amber Ghastcrown x3

Haunting Amber Grasp x1

Haunting Amber Forejewels x3

Haunting Amber Nightshroud x3

Haunting Amber Pendants x2

Haunting Amber Taildecor x2

Jolly Jester’s Cap x1

Jolly Jester’s Cape x1

Jolly Jester’s Gloves x2

Jolly Jester’s Stockings x1

Jolly Jester’s Tail Bell x4

Jolly Jester’s Wing Cover x2

Plasmpool Armet x2

Plasmpool Flightshroud x1

Plasmpool Forecallouses x6

Plasmpool Hindcallouses x3

Plamspool Spikescarf x1

Plamspool Tailspine x2

Plamspool Tasset x1

Sky Crystal x1

Woeful Gambeson x1

Woeful Gloves x3

Woeful Presence x3

Woeful Vial x2

Familiars

Afternoon Tea x12

Animated Armor x6

Animated Statue x1

Antique Chair x3

Apparition Lance x2

Articulated Fidget Toy x7

Axe Mimic x5

Banshee Brooch x1

Battered Vase x1

Bewildered Broom x2

Blooming Hedgehide x3

Bogsneak Puppet x1

Book Hoard x8

Book Swarm x9

Brass Knocker x7

Calculating Candelabra x1

Catty Cannon x3

Crypto Cameo x1

Crystal Carrier x3

Curious Kettle x2

Curious Parasol x6

Dancing Chalice x1

Danger Decor x1

Deadly Reflection x3

Decision Maker x6

Dirge Fiddlefiend x2

Ectoplasmime x2

Enchanted Armaments x1

Encouraging Quill x5

Ensorcelled Volume x1

Formal Tea Set x11

Four-Eyed Phylactery x2

Furious Faun x3

Glazed Sentry x4

Guest Greeter x5

Inquisitive Shroud x6

Jawlocker x6

Killer Keyboard x1

Kyorinrin x1

Leisure Loaf x4

Living Luminance x2

Living Sculpture x3

Magic Carpet x2

Magic Mirror x1

Manticore’s Might x2

Masked Phantom x1

Nutcracker x4

Opposing Forces x2

Orbiting Spirit x1

Overwatered Seedling x2

Pinpush Mirror Doll x3

Poltergeist Piano x3

Poltergeist Pile x1

Raucous Runner x3

Ravenous Cauldron x6

Rock Paper Scissors x3

Salt and Pepper x11

Scroll Stealer x2

Serpentine Lamp x4

Serthis Support x4

Seething Stove x2

Silverstring Harp x2

Smoldering Sconce x1

Snapper Nutcracker x10

Snarling Mimic x1

Sorcerous Arms x1

Spellbound Tome x5

Splendiferous Sunshade x1

Spirit Armor x2

Spritely Portrait x1

Steadfast Sweeper x2

Sugar and Spice x11

Swinging Chandelier x4

Tick-Tock x1

Time Devourer x4

Tinder Toy x2

Transmuted Treasure x3

Tricky Telescope x1

Undertide Fidget Toy x10

Unlikely Alliance x2

Veiled Vision x1

Veilspun Verse x2

Vulpine Lamp x2

Wooden Marionette x2

Writer’s Aid x2

[reversecreek]

location: dom, rory & abel's, hyland park for: @laughstrack

Lana wasn't particularly sure what it was that she was seeking. She was holding a chipped teacup with a lazy eyed cat printed onto the china; had found it endearingly shoved to the back shelf of an antique store around the corner from Caleb's and felt it her duty to provide the unloved relic with a home; and she was dawdling aimlessly down Dom's street searching for the correct house. Not only that, but it was raining, January, and she hadn't even started her journey wearing a jacket. Wet tendrils stuck to her freckled cheeks, curled up into miniature snakes, a Medusa that only ever knew how to turn herself to stone in the wake of an unwelcome hand. It was by an utter stroke of luck that she spotted Dom through his front window, decided it wasn't just a mirage and wandered up his front path. "Pretty," she observed the door knocker, murmuring to nobody, tongue already tinged a little red from her morning fix of Merlot; a few clacks and she bounced her knees out of sync, eyes wandering up over the building as if she was inspecting it for traces of him, edges that were particularly soft, bricks imbued with the emanating warmth of his curly blonde head. By the time the door opened, she'd almost forgotten she'd knocked at all. "Hi!" It burst out of her like a cuckoo clock striking twelve, all urgent and excitedly loud, before her lips spread into the kind of ferocious, all-consuming grin that she could never seem to help, infectious as smallpox. "I, um--," she began, a little breathless laughter catching her off guard as she lifted up her teacup; she knew it was a flimsy excuse, transparent as glass, "I came 'cause, like -- I wanted to know if-- can I borrow some sugar?"

[knockdiabetess]

Diabetic Diet Chart

Quality of Food is more important than quantity, especially for a diabetic. A diabetes diet is nothing but eating healthy foods in moderate amounts. Always be aware of What, When & How to eat.

With the experience of 30+ Years in the field of diabetes management, Sugar Knocker introduces you to a complete guide for Diabetic Diet chart food that you can incorporate into your routine. Find better control over your sugar levels with food.

[fairyoctopus]

notn wrapped

after grinding in the bamboo falls, i have:

13 baku, 8 dreameaters, 5 ethereal tricksters, 4 tengu, 2 gale wolves, 4 umbra wolves, only 2 each of the hainu somehow, 8 fungalhoof qiriq, 2 blacktalon strikers, 11 raptorik warriors, 7 tigerblood foo, 2 mantled foo, and 5 wandering surgepriests.

75 total.

for notn familiars, ive got:

5 snarling mimics, 7 ectoplasmimes, 4 jawlockers, 7 animated statues, only 1 deadly reflection! wow, 4 ensorcelled volumes, 7 living sculptures, 3 magic mirrors, 2 opposing forces, 9 painted marionettes, 6 spellbound tomes, 2 unlikely alliances, 10 wooden marionettes, 5 axe mimics, 6 crooked hatchets, 6 ball-jointed bogsneaks, 4 bogsneak puppets, 5 calculating candelabras, 4 smoldering sconces, 5 crystal carriers, 3 orbiting spirits, 6 enchanted armaments, 5 sorcerous arms, 4 glowing globes, 3 living luminances, 3 masked phantoms, 5 veiled visions, 10 serpentine lamps, 4 vulpine lamps, 6 animated armors, 5 spirit armors, 3 ravenous cauldrons, 5 curious kettles, 3 colubrid columns, 6 serthis supports, 3 inquisitive shrouds, 4 valorous capes, 3 poltergeist piles, 5 transmuted treasures, 7 antique chairs, 3 spidered seats, 6 tick-tocks, 8 time devourers, 4 tricky telescopes, 3 mischievous magnifiers, 3 blooming hedgehides, 4 overwatered seedlings, only 1 ghost viola!, 9 dirge fiddlefiends, 5 pinpush mirror dolls, 6 four-eyed phylacteries, 5 scroll stealers, 7 kyorinrin, 7 vigilant spears, 6 apparition lances, 8 banshee brooches, 5 cryptic cameos, 6 dancing chalices, 11 vigorous goblets, 9 swinging chandeliers, 5 pitfall fixtures, 4 spritely portraits, 7 furious fauns, 5 seething stoves, 3 bouncy broilers, 4 battered vases, 7 glazed sentries, 5 manticore's mights, 5 catty cannons, 11 wicker dragons, 3 tinder toys, only 1 silverstring harp, 5 veilspun verses, 2 bewildered brooms, 6 steadfast sweepers, 6 magic carpets, 6 raucous runners, 4 poltergeist pianos, 6 killer keyboards, 5 writer's aid, 3 encouraging quills, 3 rock paper scissors, 3 decision makers, 6 leisure loaves, 3 danger decors, 3 brass knockers, 10 guest greeters, 4 curious parasols, 3 splendiferous sunshades, 5 salt and peppers, 7 sugar and spices, 15 book swarms, 9 book hoards, 8 undertide fidget toys, 9 articulated fidget toys, 9 nutcrackers, 14 snapper nutcrackers, 7 formal tea sets, 5 afternoon teas, 10 bands of companionship, 10 venom rings, 26(!!) crystal curiosities, 7 ponder orbs, 14 dismayed devilwoods, 11 wallowing willows, 20 eerie baubles, 24 enchanted jewelries, 24 entrapping shackles, 15 treacherous irons, 16 littlest snapdragons, 21 snappish plantings, 16 rogue apparels, AND 13 whimsical ensembles.

APPAREL:

conjurer's set: 36

9 cloaks, 6 cobwebs, 7 hats, 7 pouches, 7 staves

ghost flame set: 44

3 candles, 16 cloaks, 4 collars, 9 headpieces, 4 tail jewels, 3 tail ribbons, 5 wing ribbons

jolly jester's set: 47

8 caps, 7 gloves, 6 collars, 6 capes, 8 tail bells, 7 wing covers, 5 stockings

haunting amber set: 63

9 crowns, 12 pendants, 6 grasps, 9 forejewels, 9 taildecors, 6 clawrings, 12 shrouds

plasmpool set: 67

8 armets, 11 scarves, 4 flightshrouds, 9 tassets, 10 grimplates, 5 tailspines, 11 hindcallouses, 9 forecallouses

woeful set: 39

4 footpads, 6 gambesons, 5 gloves, 6 hoods, 7 vials, 5 tools and 6 presences

the rest: 114

10 sky crystals, 9 book collections, 13 gold starswirls, 10 candle and 10 black candle cascades, 14 timepieces, 27 fanciful castings, and 21 first wishes

necklaces: 60

12 stags, 11 cats, 8 owls, 13 ravens, 9 orcas, 7 wolves

conclusion: help me.

764 familiars. if we add it with the bamboo falls ones, we have 839 total familiars.

470 pieces of apparel.

i am going to be melting these down all year.

[indproengineer]

vibratory conveyor Manufacturer in Indore | INDPRO Engineers

INDPRO Engineers      

Located in central India, "INDPRO Engineers" is a well-known manufacturer of vibratory equipment. At first, the company worked as a marketing agent for a number of Pune-area businesses.  Beginning in 2004, the business shifted from being a marketing agency to a proprietary manufacturer of vibratory equipment and project engineer for bulk solids handling capabilities.  With nearly three decades of experience in the field of mechanical vibration technology, "INDPRO Engineers" is a highly reputable brand when it comes to the dependability and long-lasting performance of their vibratory equipment.

Policy for Quality

"INDPRO" Engineers is dedicated to raising customer satisfaction through the provision of high-quality, locally developed vibratory equipment that is state-of-the-art. We also work to continuously enhance the efficacy of our design and quality management system by:

Fulfilling and going above and beyond for customers

Supplying goods that are reasonably priced

Advancing each employee across the board

R&D-based innovative solution provision

Embracing the idea of "Doing It Right the First Time, Every Time"

Prompt service responses and assistance

Providing Products

Bin Vibrator

Bin vibrators are used to clear blockages in pipelines that are used in the processing of chemicals, fertilizers, sugar, cement, pharmaceuticals, and other similar products. This makes it possible for material to move continuously from storage hopper to conveyor. Due to the narrow opening, even freely flowing material frequently becomes clogged at the bottom of the hopper. Bin vibrators, which are mounted over hopper or bin walls, eliminate this. Because the Bin Vibrator creates localized vibrations, it must be installed precisely over the wall where the material tends to become blocked in order to maximize efficiency.

Vibrating Aerators

Particle and granular aeration and material flow enhancement are two applications for Vibrating Aerators. With a significantly lower structural load than compressed air knockers and pneumatic hammers, they offer a gentler alternative. They combine material aeration with additional, light vibrations of the silo wall.

Vibrating Aerators work by forcing compressed air through a silicon lip that is attached to the inside wall of the silo to enter the material being stored. The air pressure can be adjusted to vary the elastic silicon lip's vibration intensity between 2 and 6 bar (29 and 87 PSI).

Vibratory Conveyor

Vibratory Conveyors are chosen as the preferred horizontal conveying method for dry bulk solids when there are gentle, hygienic, dust-free, etc. requirements.

The ideal vibratory horizontal conveying system is the "INDPRO" vibratory conveyor. This equipment can be built in MS/SS304/SS316 MOCs with additions & needs for process-specific conveying surface preparation.

Vibratory Feeder

Vibratory feeders are conveying systems that use gravity, controlled vibratory forces, and guiding mechanisms to position and orient materials as they are fed into an assembly process. They have accumulation tracks that are carefully selected to meet the requirements of the application, material, component, or part. These tracks come in a variety of widths, lengths, and depths.

[filipinasgiftsblog]

Christmas Gift Baskets - Christmas Gift-Giving Made Easy

One of the traditions of Christmas is gift-giving to our friends, family, and clients. As Christmas is coming soon, it's time to do our holiday shopping for the recipients on our list. Instead of going through the hassle of shopping in the mall, shop for holiday gift baskets online this season. There will be no more looking for a parking spot, and waiting in long lines in the shopping mall. There won't be any gifts to wrap, nor any trips to the post office. Shopping for gift baskets online is a cost effective and time efficient way to shop for your gifts. gift delivery in Philippines

There are many types of gifts to choose from, including: holiday gift baskets, Christmas fruit baskets, holiday cookies, candies, fresh baked goodies, and special theme gifts for men, women, and children.

An elegant way to send your warm holiday wishes to clients, families, or groups is to send them a holiday gift basket. These gift baskets come in different sizes to fit your gift-giving needs, and can handle any event from a family get-together to a company party. These gift baskets are dressed up in their holiday best, and overloaded with mouthwatering gourmet treats. These indulgent gifts are sure to satisfy even those hard to please recipients on your gift list. Instead of gift basket, you can send holiday gift tower. These gift towers are beautifully arranged collection of gold foil boxes, adorned with red holiday ribbon and filled with richly scrumptious treats, such as white chocolate covered cream filled sandwich, double chocolate covered mocha truffles, chocolate cherries, and walnut fudge. These sensational gifts will bring your holiday wishes with great taste. 

There are many variations of holiday gift baskets that come with keepsake decorations. For example, one popular design is the holiday sleigh gift basket. This beautiful brass decorative holiday sleigh is filled with plenty of holiday goodies, and will serve as part of Christmas decorations for years to come. Inside the sleigh can be a plush Christmas bear, votive candleholders, a CD of holiday music, or jinglebell holiday door knocker, depending on the variation of holiday sleigh gift. Other holiday gift baskets come with heirloom keepsake decorations, gingerbread house candle, holiday bear tree ornament, or angel bear tree top decoration. These gifts are ideal for family gifts, and can add a touch of family tradition to the holiday celebration. For families with young children, You may want to send a velvet Santa's bag stuffed with holiday candy and cookies inside. The Santa's bag can be used year after year to bring back memories of your lovely gift of good taste.

Holiday celebration is not complete without delicious cookies. A popular gift is the Christmas cookie house, which is filled inside with gingerbread men cookies with white fudge icing. Another popular gift is a ceramic hand painted cookie jar filled with chocolate chunky chewy cookies, and hand decorated holiday shortbread cookies. Everyone on your list will love this delightful cookie jar. For family gatherings or office parties, you may also want to include a gift of fresh baked goodies. This special gift features scrumptious coffee house style pound cake, chocolate chip blondies, brownies with walnuts, milk chocolate foils, and aromatic coffee. Comes ready to serve in a cozy wicker basket. gift delivery service in Philippines

For health conscious recipients, Christmas fruit baskets may be the gift of choice. These baskets are packed with a nourishing, juicy, and beautiful variety of harvest-fresh fruits and delicious assortment of holiday treats: white chocolate Christmas tree pretzels, handmade candy cane, butter toffee peanuts, mixed nuts, Ghirardelli chocolate, and beautifully decorated sugar cookies. That's a fun way to say Merry Christmas!

Non-food Christmas gifts are also available. One example is an outdoor decoration panel that will brighten the recipient's home. This adorable snowman family is made from hand-painted, hinged wood panels that stand up wherever you put them. This gift is a lovely expression of your fondest holiday wishes. Another non-food Christmas gift is an all in one container garden which contains easy-grow peppermint seeds, nutrients, soil in a candy cane designed leak resistant container. The recipient can just plant, water and grow the seeds in the container. This gift will make a wonderful addition to anyone's holiday season.

Visit Here - flowers delivery Philippines