#unhinged woman and her gentle husband

[ayowotsdis]

There is a bitch inside me, who finds it thoroughly fascinating when unhinged women have soft husbands. Yes, like "I can't fix her so I will love her with all my heart" and "i can make him worse by loving him with all my heart". Like YES give me that comfort. They balance each other out so well.

[the-lonelybarricade]

They Are the Hunters, We Are the Foxes

Part II: Sunshine Steals From Autumn Frost

Elucien Week Day 2: Nature, @elucienweek2022

Summary: Nesta had been very firm in her instruction not to stray from the path. The path was safe—sprinkled with iron dust every morning by the mercenaries who protected their villages. But Elain had spied the blackberries, plump and ripe for the taking, if only because no sensible human would have dared. Ordinarily, Elain wouldn’t have. Too terrified of the fae and what she heard they did to young, pretty human girls like herself. But today, Elain was to be married. Even facing the woods was less daunting than that.

CW: Little red riding hood AU. Dubious morality, mildly dubious consent, forced marriages, smut, and gratuitious use of the word "wife". Unhinged from start to finish.

Read on AO3・Elucien Week Masterlist・Series Masterlist

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Previous Chapter・Next Chapter

Elain was greeted the next morning to the creaking wheels of a carriage ambling gracelessly up the flagstone step to their manor. Curiosity getting the better of her, she drew close enough to the window so that she could peer out without being seen. To her surprise, it was Lucien who stepped out of the ornate side door. She watched as he glided over to pat the horses, chatting amicably to the footman she did not recognize.

It was fascinating to watch him like this, interacting so pleasantly with someone beneath his station, hands tender as they stroked absently across the gleaming dark bay coat. There was a gentleness to him that did not seem contrived—it caused her to wonder how the rumors had come to paint him so viciously.

Elain cracked her window open, cheeks flushing as she called, “Lucien?”

His braid became a red streak of copper as it whipped from the sharp turn of his head. Immediately she had his full attention, the footman and the horse and the carriage entirely forgotten. Full lips stretched into a smile, shining brighter than the sun that washed affectionately across his skin, illuminating every perfectly placed freckle. “Elain,” he greeted, sounding nearly giddy. “Is there something you need?”

She glanced at the armory full of dresses she couldn’t hope to lace by herself. If there wasn’t a footman at their door, she might have slid into one of the tea gowns. But the arrival of the carriage made her suspect today was an occasion to be properly dressed. “Will you come assist me?”

Lucien needed to hear nothing more before he disappeared from sight. Despite how she had fallen into this arrangement, Elain privately found it endearing that her husband was so eager to help. Within moments, he was knocking at her door, russet and gold eyes widening at the sight of his wife in her shift.

As though he’d never seen another woman in his life.

“Going somewhere?” Elain murmured, forcing an ease she did not feel as she stepped towards her wardrobe to select one of the many dresses.

Though her back was turned, she could feel the way he fell into her orbit. His eyes like a physical touch against her skin, trailing over exposed neck and shoulders and legs until she needed to suppress the urge to shiver.

“To Velaris,” he answered, surprising her enough that Elain turned.

What a mistake that was—to see how close he had drifted, sunlight melting the colors in his eyes. They were a shade so warm she could have been lounging beneath a cloudless sky, for the way her body heated.

“Velaris?” Elain asked, trying to remember all she had been told about the capital. It was a two days ride, for one. It was an effort to hide her disappointment at the thought that one day married, and already her husband would be disappearing and leaving her in the empty estate on her own. “What’s in Velaris?”

Lucien caught at a lock of her hair, thumbing the curls with an admiration that made her feel breathless. “The finest staff I could hope to have my wife interview. Seamstresses who could fashion you dresses of the highest end. A friend that I’d very much like you to meet.”

“I’m coming with?” She studied his face, plain with an affection she could not possibly understand. They were strangers in every possible sense, though her body did not seem to understand such a thing. Perhaps that was why she reached forward to press her palm against his unblemished cheek, his skin soothingly warm like all the rest of him.

“I do not wish to go anywhere without you, if I can help it,”

The declaration stunned her. Enough that she dropped her hand and promptly turned back to the wardrobe, busying herself with finding a dress appropriate for a day’s carriage ride. She suspected they would stop at an inn along the way. The thought excited her. She’d never been anywhere so far from the village as Lucien’s estate. And now… she would see a city. 

She reached for a dress of swaying lilac, not turning to face Lucien as she stepped into it and swept her hair over her shoulder. Forgoing a corset and petticoat was perhaps untoward as a Lady and yet Elain could think of nothing worse than sitting in the carriage for hours with the fabric constricting her air flow. Lucien likely wouldn’t know how to lace one, besides.

If it bothered her husband, he said nothing as he obediently ducked his head and began tightening the lace at her back. He was so close she could feel each careful breath against her exposed neck—fanning so torturously against her skin she wondered if he was doing it deliberately. 

“When do we leave?” She asked, if only to have something to focus on beside those mind-numbingly gentle fingers. 

“The second I have our things packed,” he said, sounding breathless. 

“Allow me to help?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” And truly, he sounded offended that she’d even offered. “There is breakfast waiting for you on the dining table. Pick out the dresses you’d like to take with you and then go eat.”

The way his hand wavered on the narrow curve of her waist made his words feel heavier. It was a reminder of the poverty she came from, regardless of the fine dress she wore. Was this the product of genuine husbandly concern, she wondered? Or an effort to fill out her hollowed cheeks so that she might look even lovelier on his arm. Like an accessory bought at the village marketplace.

If she turned around she knew she would find her answer. And perhaps it was easier to continue to paint him a horrible man than to try to wrap her head around the fact that he’d been nothing but kind to her. Or worse, to see the affection on his face and feel confusingly endeared to it.So she avoided looking at him altogether as she shrugged on her cape and picked some dresses out from the wardrobe to lay across the bed.

 It did not take long for Elain to eat the generous plate of cold meat, bread, and cheese while Lucien loaded trunks of their things into the carriage. Before the sun had crested in the sky, Elain was sat on a plush bench across from Lucien as the carriage rattled off towards the great towering walls of the estate. She glanced out the carriage window as they passed through the impenetrable barrier, head swimming with so many questions yet not brave enough to voice a single one.

“Tell me something about yourself, Lord,” she said, unsurprised to turn her head and find that he had been studying her in that studious way of his. When his eyes darkened, she immediately corrected, “Lucien.”

He seemed to think for a long moment about what to reveal to her. The carriage lurched as it shifted from the raised flagstone steps of the estate to the rough dirt road she had walked the day prior. Fixing his eyes on the changing leaves of the forest, he said, “I prefer being outside. Being in that manor for too long…” he frowned, and she had the sense he was choosing his words very carefully. “It makes me feel restless.”

Elain mulled over this kernel of information, wondering what exactly a Lord’s son got up to outside. Besides hunting. She could only imagine what it must have been like to grow up with all that sprawling land, protected by tall iron gates so that his play was never diluted from fear of the unknown.

Elain and her sisters used to do their fair share of running barefoot through the mossy forest floor. Feyre, braid stretching towards the muddied earth as she hung from a tree branch, cackling as she brandished her wooden stick like she were a warrior who had just discovered the most strategic battle position. Nesta, eyes sharp and discerning as she watched her sisters like she were above it all. Really, Elain knew she was too busy listening for every sound, each crack of wood and rustle of leaves. The woods were dangerous, even so close to their village that they could still see the rotting thatch of their cottage. But how else were poor, starving children meant to occupy themselves?

“I understand what you mean,” she offered, feeling oddly struck by sentiment for her childhood years despite the grey that painted them. “I feel nowhere as peaceful as I do in a garden.”

The way the sun fell across his face as he turned his head illuminated a panel of sharp cheekbones. They bunched into perfect apples when he smiled. “For all the time I spend outside, I admit the art of gardening has escaped me. Perhaps you can teach me when we return, wife?”

“Teach you… to garden?” She asked, having never encountered a man who would even feign interest in such a feminine hobby.

“If you would oblige me,” he said, with an earnesty burning in his eyes that unnerved Elain. She could imagine him, crouching beside her in the dirt, unabashed and gentle as he tucked seedlings into the ground.

Suddenly the carriage felt too warm.

Lucien straightened, chest rising beneath his gold embroidered jacket as he took a deep breath. She swore the corner of his lip tilted into a smirk. “Would you like that, lady?”

The satisfaction in his tone surprised her. She searched his face for the source of it, wondering if she had missed some hidden joke. His eyes had darkened, fixed on hers with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Suddenly her mouth felt dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as she answered, “Yes, Lord. I would like that very much.”

In such close quarters, she hadn’t decided which would make him more bold—to speak his name or his title. She had her answer as Lucien leaned forward, eyes flashing.

“Tell me, Elain,” he breathed, close enough she could taste each word. “How should I teach my wife to properly address me?”

He wouldn’t hit for it, not when she’d seen how angry the thought made him yesterday.

“It is not my place,” she answered breathlessly, struggling to put air into her lungs. Maybe if she brought her face a little closer, she might borrow some from his lips. 

“What’s not your place?” He asked. A challenge. In his words, but also in the way his mouth curled.

Elain licked her lips, desperate to fight moisture back into her mouth. Lucien tracked the movement with predatory precision.

“To tell a man how to discipline his wife,” she said innocently, knowing her eyes were big and wide as she flicked them up to meet his through her lashes.

Why did it thrill her, the way he seemed to consider her words. Wondered if they weren’t an invitation.

Lucien clicked his tongue against his teeth. He caught her chin between two long fingers, firm as he turned her head so that his lips could find her ear.

“I won’t discipline you, wife. Not unless you ask me to.” His voice was low and sweet, like dripping honey. “And yet I’ve asked so little of you but this—it makes me wonder if you’re hoping to be punished.”

She straightened at the thought—uncertainty piercing through the thrall of his proximity. Would he truly punish her, or was this part of the game? She had seen some of the way men punished their wives in the village.

Lucien used his freehand to stroke warm fingers through her sun-drenched curls. Intending to soothe, to lull, as he pressed a small kiss to the skin behind her ear.

“Not unless you ask,” he reminded her. “Not a finger on you, unless you ask.”

If Elain was feeling especially contrary, she might have pointed out that he had several fingers on her she didn’t ask for. Instead she channeled that energy into the haughtiness that laced her voice as she asked, “Then how might you teach me, Lord?”

Pressed against him the way she was, Elain could feel the way his chest vibrated before she heard the hum that escaped his lips.

Elain had never crossed fake swords with Feyre when they clambered through the forest, nor had she stood beside Nesta listening for every sign of danger. She had always been far too distracted by the cushion of moss at her feet and the pretty flowers that bloomed where they knew a human would never dare pluck them.

Her instincts had never been honed for danger. Perhaps that was why she did not recognize the sound for what it was—a warning.

Elain shrieked as she was suddenly hauled into Lucien’s lap by a strong arm around her waist, hoisting her across the carriage as though she weighed nothing at all. His forearm banded her tightly against his chest, holding her firm and flush regardless of how she squirmed against him.

“Lucien—”

“Yes, exactly,” he purred from where he’d buried his face in her hair. “See? You’re learning already.”

She could feel the hard planes of his body pressing into her, his warmth seeping through her dress and beneath her skin until red splotches swelled over her chest, her neck, her cheeks. 

Warm lips brushed over her pulse, causing her breath to catch in her throat. “What are you doing?” 

“You asked me how I’d teach you,” he murmured. Fingers skimmed down her side, tracing the shape of her hips. “Do you still want me to show you?”

Elain did not know where the surge of confidence came from, but she found herself arching her neck to give him better access. There was no shame to be had in this, she reminded herself. She was a married woman, and this was her husband. “Show me then, Lord.”

His responding chuckle tickled her neck, chased with a nip of his teeth. “My wife wants to play, does she?” The hand trailed lower, over the tops of her thighs until it stopped at her knees. There, he slowly pulled at the fabric of her dress, drawing his hand back until it was bunched at her hip. He held her so tightly that all Elain could do was watch as his broad hand began a slow descent along her thigh. The span of his fingers was so wide that it nearly covered the width of her leg entirely. And those were calluses that scraped over her smooth, delicate skin, dragging from the outside of her hip all the way to her bare knee.

“Breathing so heavily,” he noted from where his lips still taunted her neck. His fingers squeezed her knee, almost playful. “Are you nervous?”

Elain was breathing heavily, the air itself working against her as it rushed into her lungs. Every attempt at steadiness was thwarted by sharp teeth grazing her pulse, or the firm hand at her knee that began gently prying her legs apart.

It was why her voice shook as she asked, “Should I be?” 

“I don’t believe in punishment.” Not an answer, Elain thought, before Lucien’s hand began skimming up her inner thigh and any coherency fizzled into dust. He paused midway through his ascent, thumb stroking over the plush skin in such large sweeps that it nearly found the seam of her legs. Teasing—he was teasing her. 

With a soft laugh that she felt like warm silk pooling down her spine, Lucien skimmed his nose along her neck. He nuzzled so close that when he spoke, it was like his words imprinted directly into her skin. “I believe in rewarding good behavior. Have you been good, wife?”

Her lip caught between her teeth, wondering how far she should push him. “Yes, Lord.”

Again, she earned that slow clicking of tongue and teeth, pressed right against her fluttering pulse so that each one sunk low into her stomach. 

“Naughty,” he chided. “And here I thought I spoke so plainly.”

He didn’t stop that deliberate stroking of her thigh, each time swiping closer and closer to the center of her parted legs. It was as though she were a clock, slowly being wound, growing tighter with every passive touch. Something inside her was beginning to throb with such severity that it made even her teeth ache. Lucien sensed it, likely in the way she began squirming in his lap.

“Do you need something, wife?”

Elain said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction. She felt him smile, devious as any man set on damnation, before something hot and wet slid across the column of her throat. His tongue. And Elain was so busy being appalled by the action—and the way it sent her heart racing—that she hardly noticed the hand that snuck up her thigh until it was stroking over her clothed center.

It was difficult to tell who was more surprised, between the air that rushed through Lucien’s teeth or the gasp that fled her own. Elain knew she was wet, could feel the way the cotton clung to her body as Lucien dragged a finger through the arousal that seeped through.

“It certainly seems like there’s something you want,” he said, voice little more than a rasp. The arm around her waist tightened, which was just as well because when Lucien’s thumb brushed over her clit, drawing slowly, lazy circles, Elain slumped into his hold.

“Right here?” He murmured, pressing harder. Elain bucked her hips, a soft moan escaping her throat. Lucien chuckled. “I think so.”

His hand retreated long enough to tug the soaked garment to her knees. Elain used the opportunity to turn her head, seeking Lucien’s lips as a distraction from her shaking legs.

Elain had always been boy-curious. Head addled with thoughts of romance, as a child she used to think that one day her true love would come to sweep her off her feet and save her from poverty. She’d believed a kiss of true love could truly defy any circumstance. It had been disappointing the first time she crashed her mouth to a boy’s and discovered it felt nothing at all like magic. Just two soft pieces of skin pushing against each other. No sparks, no fairy godmothers, no all-consuming true love. Just an awkward clash of tongues and a too-hot sharing of breath.

Now, she thought that she could have spared herself the disappointment if she had only skipped to kissing Lucien first. His lips were soft and warm against her own, greeting her as though she were being welcomed home. He tasted of sun bathed apples and crisp autumn air, and she would have opened her mouth to him for that alone. But it was the gasp as his fingers returned to her dripping center that truly parted her lips and allowed entry to his seeking tongue.

Mouth occupied, all he could do was grunt his encouragement as his fingers resumed teasing her. The stroke of his fingers was a thing of leisure, prodding curiously at her entrance but ignoring her arching hips.

He broke away, panting, to remind her, “All you need to do is ask.”

Elain chased him, eyes half-lidded. “Please,” she said, pressing her lips back to his so that the words were muffled. She didn’t care about the game anymore, she just wanted his taste to never leave her tongue. “Please.”

It seemed it was an effort for him too, by the way he eagerly returned each urgent kiss before he broke away. “Ask me properly, wife.”

She could have laughed, were it not so terrible a thing to be deprived of him. Like even air had become a secondary need. 

“Lucien,” she whispered, fisting her hands into the smooth fabric of his jacket. “Lucien, please touch me. I cannot bare a second long—“

It was all she needed to say, and not a word more. Lucien’s mouth crashed back into her own with all the violence of two objects pulled into a gravity they couldn’t control. He plunged a finger into her and took advantage of her resounding moan to slide his tongue inside her mouth. Every inch of her body was consumed by him. Her husband. And Elain melted into it.

Lucien seemed practiced with the way he smoothly countered each of her clumsy kisses, all the while steadily moving his finger in and out. A clocksmith tightening her gears too far. Too tight. Especially as he added a second finger, his thumb sweeping up to rub circles against her clit. Elain whimpered into his mouth, lost in the building pressure as her existence narrowed to nothing but the feeling of his body against hers.

“That’s it,” Lucien panted, when their lungs demanded air once more. “You want to come, Elain? What do you say?”

The pleasure crested, and Elain was certain she would come whether he permitted it or not. Still, drunk on his touch, she whispered, “Please.”

Humor cut through some of the wildness in his eyes. “Not that,” he breathed.

“Lucien—” she complained, exasperated that he was still playing these games.

He groaned, fingers speeding up. “Yes,” he said, like a man descending into delirium. “Yes, exactly that. Say my name, wife. Just like that. Please.”

“Lucien,” she moaned, the beginning of a chant as she shaped his name over and over, falling from her lips as easily as breath. Like she had known it all along, before she had even known her own name.

Something tight coiled in her chest, warm and vibrant as it tugged her closer to Lucien and wound around them both. Golden light exploded behind her eyes as Elain screamed from the pleasure that scorched through her blood. Lucien captured her mouth again, perhaps in an effort to stop the footman from overhearing what they were doing. She couldn’t find it in herself to care as wave after wave wrecked through her, leaving Elain trembling in her husband’s tight hold.

The first thing she noticed, as clarity began rushing her senses, was that Lucien’s chest was heaving. He was staring at her through wide eyes, bathed in hunger, and it made her mouth feel dry all over again.

“Was I good, then?” She found herself asking. Taunting, more like.

Lucien’s throat bobbed. “Very good,” he said gruffly, nodding his head. Those eyes flickered over her face, assessing. “Do you want to know how I reward my wife for being so good?”

Elain could guess by the way he hastily unlaced his trousers. A distant part of her thought it should have been terrifying, just as it had been the night before. That part must have been the first to burn in the fire that licked through her veins, so desperate and wanting that she would rather die than say no to this.

“Yes,” she whispered, so urgent that the please was unspoken but heard all the same. “Yes, Lucien.”

Hearing his name seemed to unlock something in her husband. He groaned, hands tightening against her hips to guide her over his waiting cock. The flushed head parted her lips, sparing a moment to teasingly glide over her clit before he notched it against her entrance.

Elain held her breath, expecting pain as Lucien allowed gravity to do most of the work, slowing sheathing himself in her body. His arms shook with the effort of stopping it from happening all at once, but Elain wished he didn’t bother. It felt incredible, every perfect inch of him stretching her to madness. When he was seated all the way they both groaned.

It was like satiating some primal creature that prowled beneath her skin. The itching, crawling desire subsided just enough that she could take a heavy breath. She wondered if it let up for Lucien at all, with the way he buried his face into her neck and gasped like his need were drowning him alive.

“My wife,” he panted, muffled against hair and skin and barely-there kisses at her throat. “My beautiful wife. So perfect. Mine.”

The words stirred something inside her. Yes, she thought, tightening her fists into his hair. Mine. 

She considered saying it back, but worried Lucien would collapse entirely if she did. They were hardly moving, too consumed in each other and this new feeling of closeness. Of becoming. 

Slowly, Elain shifted her hips, grinding herself against his cock. The sound that came out of him was low and guttural, more animal than man. She expected to reach some kind of trigger point, to push him until he snapped. But if anything, Lucien yielded to her, moaning into her neck as he matched her pace with slow rolls of his hips. She had the sense that this was not about pleasure for him. He only relished in the unhurried slide of their bodies, lavishing tender kisses along whatever skin his mouth could find. 

It would have been easy to become drunk on this power. It was addictive, the way her husband worshiped her as his fingers slid back between her legs and he returned his attention to that hooded bundle of nerves. 

“I want you to come on my cock next,” he said, voice rougher than the gravel their carriage trodded over. “Then my tongue,” he gasped, laving it against her collarbone like it were a demonstration of what he might do with it between her legs. She felt him shudder. “Then anywhere you’ll allow. Every inch of my skin.”

It seemed absurd, yet Elain only nodded, his fingers extremely persuasive.

“I want to be covered in you,” he said. “So that there is never any doubt to who I belong.”

Mine, something feral in her head chanted. You are mine, and I am yours.

Her chest tightened again, a golden band of tension that shuddered all the way down her spine until she was clenching so hard against him that the air expelled from Lucien’s chest. She felt him buck into her on reflex, but when it made her gasp and tug encouragingly on his hair, he did it again. 

“Lucien,” she urged, knowing that was all it took to unleash him. Her eyes fluttered shut as his hands came to brace around her thighs, holding her open as he lifted her on and off his cock like she weighed nothing.

“So fucking tight,” he grunted, hips snapping fiercely into hers. “My m—wife. My pretty wife. Say it again, please.”

Elain could feel herself being swept away in his rhythm, but she had enough sense to know what he was asking for. And to choose something better. Light swelled in her chest, so bright she was certain he would be able to see it, feel it. She used a fistful of his hair to bring his lips closer, so that he could taste the words as she shaped them. “Mine,” she said, more wild than she had ever heard her voice.

Lucien snarled—the sound half muffled as his mouth collided with hers and he slammed himself to the hilt. Release tore through her, lost to nothing but the tremor of their bodies and the demanding stroke of his tongue. The light burst, so bright it became a tangible thing that wrapped around them, binding them together until they were one. 

The kiss turned soft as the roaring in Elain’s ears died down and her senses slowly returned. His cock was still buried inside her, twitching from the last of his orgasm. Even as they broke away to catch their breath.

“Have you learned your lesson?” he asked through ravaged breath, his eyes shining so brilliantly she would have believed they were gemstones beneath a glittering sky. 

“Yes, Lord,” she panted, earning an exasperated laugh from her husband. His hands traced soothing strokes along her thighs. 

“It’s a long way to the inn,” he murmured, dropping his forehead against her shoulder. “I have plenty of time to continue teaching you.” Then, as if he’d caught a second wind, he straightened and pulled Elain back into his chest. She whimpered, overstimulated, as his fingers found her clit. She could already feel his cock growing harder inside her. 

With a devious chuckle, he asked, “How many times do you think I can make you come before we get there?”

-

Elain was boneless by the time they arrived at the inn—so exhausted she wasn’t even certain she would be able to walk. Thankfully, her husband ensured she wouldn’t have to. It was like every romantic moment she had ever imagined, the way Lucien cradled her against his chest and carried her up to their room. They would be sharing a bed on this occasion, which she could hardly complain about given how she had spent most of the last twelve hours sitting on his cock. 

“Stay here,” he said, gently laying her out on the bed. “I will go fetch us some supper.”

She stretched out on the bed while she waited for him to return, wincing against her stiff and aching muscles. Elain had never sat in a carriage for so long, nor had she ever had anything thicker than her fingers inside her. The ache was to be expected, she supposed, and she was dreading another full day of it. Perhaps Lucien would have to carry her around Velaris, too.

“Sore?” Lucien asked as he cracked the door open to the sight of Elain massaging her calves. He carried two trays of food in one hand and a jug of water in the other, all of which he abandoned on the bedside table in favor of taking her legs into his lap.

His hands were remarkably hot as they massaged into her stiff muscles, and she swore she felt instant relief beneath his touch. He smiled as she visibly relaxed into the bed, nodding his head toward the trays of food. “Eat,” he instructed. “It’s been a long day, I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Elain watched him curiously as she reached for one of the trays, delighted to find a bowl of warm stew. She kicked at him playfully in an effort to get him to release her leg as she passed him one of the bowls.

He was sweet, she thought absently, watching him spoon the soup into his mouth. She liked that he made her feel cared for, and she had enjoyed what they had done in the carriage. Perhaps it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to be married to a man like him.

Lucien raised his brows, lowering the spoon back into the bowl. “Something caught your eye?”

“No,” she said coyly, “But I was wondering what caught yours.”

His brows merged, russet and gold eyes tracking each of her movements carefully. She thought he looked like an animal assessing dangerous terrain. “You’ll have to be more specific. I don’t understand your meaning.”

“When you saw me in the village square,” Elain clarified. “What made you decide you wanted me to be your wife? Why not court me properly?”

It would have worked, she almost added, but pressed her lips together to refrain from doing so. She did not want to give him that control in the conversation.

Lucien frowned, setting down his bowl like the question had chased away his appetite. “I…” That frown deepened, pressing a deep line into his forehead. “In truth, lady, this is not how I wished for things to happen.”

That left such a bad taste in her mouth that Elain abandoned her stew as well. She sat up, an edge creeping into her voice as she said, “You chose for things to happen this way.”

“I did not,” he said calmly. “It is true that I was enamored on sight. But I would have preferred to court you properly. This marriage was Lord Nolan’s design, and my hand in it was as forced as your own.”

The world instantly turned on its side. Elain blinked rapidly. “You… You did not want this marriage?”

Lucien grimaced. It sounded awful to say it like that, but she could not blame him for saying yes when she had felt the same. 

He leaned forward, eyes burning as he said fiercely, “I do not regret it.”

Those words felt weighted. Like a confession. Elain searched his face, wondering what he wasn’t telling her.

Lucien took a heavy breath. “I wish that we had been allowed to court freely, but I will not pretend I am afflicted by our marriage. My only sorrow is that you might view me more as captor than husband.”

The room went so quiet, then, as Lucien watched her place the half-eaten bowl on the bedside table. Part of her wanted to reassure him that she did not feel like a prisoner. The other part had been willing to step foot into the forest and never return so that she could avoid marrying him. And that girl, no matter how fond she had become of her husband in the span of a day, was kicking and screaming for her to stay quiet as Lucien waited for her response.

She would not relieve him of his guilt for his decisions.

When she said nothing, he didn’t seem surprised. Though his eyes lost some of their gleam. “If that is the case,” he said gently, “then I shall endeavor to make you the happiest captive there ever was.” 

-

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[hellsvestibule]

I don’t even “like” Lancelot and Guinevere as a romantic pair bc it turns him into a repulsive mopey drama queen who is unbearable anytime she’s not around and this is often more funny and distressing to read than it is romantic but I love her as a character bc she sort of just steals the show. She’s always feels like she’s the person pulling the strings behind everything and p much every narrative I’ve read has made it clear she’s more politically savvy and socially gifted than everyone else so she just has this like, gently threatening demeanor that cracks me up. Like they take for granted you’re supposed to exclusively find her magnanimous and gentle and kind and ignore the part where she’s honestly kind of scary and it’s Because she laces all her cutthroat actions with such compassion it’s hard to call her out

I brought you a friend. No hetero prommy. Then just. Immediately. Before he can ask what she means by “friend”

Please understand. In context. This guys army is literally 10 times bigger than her husbands and he tried to invade their kingdom like a week ago the only reason they they didn’t fall prey to his plans for world domination is bc he became obsessed w some unhinged little freak man blooming on the battlefield only to realize his little. Flower of knighthood is already obsessed w this woman over here. And hes such a nice guy he hooks them up and sits in the cuck chair about it (he uses himself as the cuck chair actually, he stands over them and lets them make out in front of him. Arthur doesn’t even get the cuck chair) and so she’s like fuck fuck fuck I’ve got to do something about him as a romantic rival bc he did me a big favor by literally not killing everyone. So she goes and makes friends w another woman who is also obsessed w Lancelot bc everyone is tbh and then tries to comp het square them all off so she has less rivals for his affection. She’s great

[kyacchan-comics]

Nobody asked me that but here's my opinion on each of the main characters of Ghost of Tsushima after doing all their quests

Jin: the Man™️. I love him. He says respect women, gay rights, respect the working class, and he remain loyal to his beliefs and stay a gentle and altruistic soul after everything he went through. Husband material at its peak level.

Yuna: the true hero of Tsushima. Feral woman. So smart. A little sassy. I love her. My beloved. My wife.

Taka: HE DESERVED THE WORLD AT HIS FEET OKAY I'M EMOTIONAL

Sora (that's the name I chose for my horse): HE ALSO DESERVED THE WORLD AT HIS FEET. THE BEST FRIEND IN EQUINE FORM.

Lord Shimura: I understand his point of view. A very supportive father figure. But he fucking needs to chill.

Lady Masako: even more feral than Yuna. This woman wakes up and choose murder every morning. Big Bisexual Energy. "I have nothing left to live for" honey look for Mei. Do it. Trust me.

Norio: was I supposed to feel bad when he burned those Mongols? Because I didn't. Nice but troubled man. I'd like to be his friend.

Ryuzo: I know the Fandom has a soft spot for him and I respect it, but I'd spit on his face at every single chance.

Kenji: this dude is a mess but I love him still. He's a funny little man.

Yuriko: this woman had an affair with Lord Sakai Senior and nothing will change my mind. She was very cool. A motherly figure but also unhinged.

Sensei Ishikawa: I want to break his bow in half. Shut up and go back to geriatric.

Tomoe: I mean I get why she hates Sensei Ishikawa (big mood girl), but she has the blood of a heck ton of innocent people on her hands. No I don't trust her version of the facts. Big nope.

Khotun Khan: ofc he's the main villain, he's a bastard, and I will never forgive him (ESPECIALLY AFTER TAKA) but he was so fricking smart. He was an intelligent guy, cruel but he knew his business. He's a good written villain

[thebadboyfanclub]

It’s Alright Darling (Sherlock x Reader)

Ok... Was this requested? No. Am I writing it cause anything Henry Cavill related makes me feel happy? Yes. Enjoy!

Being Sherlock Holmes assistant was something a lot of people would kill for and that makes it even better if you think about the irony of it. However, since Sherlock wasn’t a normal person to mostly everything he did, he had decided to hire a woman as his assistant, Mycroft called him mad and unhinged almost every time he brought up her name. (Y/n) was one of the most intelligent people he had ever been around, combining that with a charming personality was the recipe to success.

“Well, well, well I see my brother is full of surprises”

“Hello there Mycroft is so nice to see you again as well”

She spoke in an clearly ironic tone as she took of her gloves, she was never a fan of hats other than the occasions she knew she would be under the sun for hours. As she walked in the living room area for what seemed like their childhood home, Sherlock had requested for (y/n) to arrive a day later than the brothers, knowing that her and his older brother were like oil and water he chose to “prepare the grounds” first.

“Where is the young little Holmes?”

“Inside, talking with miss Harrison”

“Alright... who is miss Harrison?”

“Miss Harrison is an excellent teacher and a friend of mine, come to think of it maybe you should go in and ask her to take you as well... you might be a bit old but I’m sure she can make an exception”

Mycroft found (y/n) intolerant, she was dismissive, unladylike, mouthy and a feminist, he still does not understand what asset do she brought to his younger brother. She only smiled while sitting at one of the chairs

“I will let you know I was an excellent student in all my academic achievements, although I suppose you were one as well that doesn’t really prove someone’s intelligence or manners, right mister Holmes?”

Sherlock let a laugh be heard at (y/n)’s quick response, even though he would never take sides and sometimes wanted them to get along, he had accepted that it would never happen and simply enjoyed the situation.

“Amused brother? Of course you are as mad as her since you didn’t only hire her, you kept her around and brought her in my home”

“Now Now mister Holmes, what type of gentleman would you be if you threaten to through out not just a lady but your younger brothers guest, unfortunately you are just further proving my point about our little quarrel”

Before he had the chance to respond a young girl walked in, wearing a white undergarment dress and looking disheveled. The girl who (y/n) could only assume was the infamous Enola didn’t even notice her being in this room.

“No, don’t do this to me. Let me remain happy, I am happy here”

“You are a young woman now Enola, you need an education”

“Test me, on anything you think I need to know in order to be sufficient for this world”

“If she taught you so well, you wouldn’t be standing in your undergarment in front of me”

Silence fell in the room for a quick second. His disgusting answer to his own sister made (Y/n) get on her feet, Enola quickly let her gaze fall on the young woman that was now in her house.

“Why is that a problem Mister Holmes? Undergarments are scandalous for the men when a woman they are interested in wears them, she is your underaged sister”

“This is a family matter, it does not- I repeat- does not concern you”

“Of course it does not concern me, but it does concern me when a young girl is being held accountable for walking in her home, to her brothers, completely covered and still being shamed for it”

Enola understood by that quick argument the lady was not here because of Mycroft, so it only meant she was Sherlocks company, she is not his wife since if not invited he would have at least informed their mother, so perhaps a girlfriend?

“Enola you have no hopes of making a husband out of your state, neither do you... miss (y/l/n)”

“I don’t want a husband”

Enola claimed, raising her voice at the ridiculous claim her brother made. Even though they haven’t been properly introduced they had developed a mutually liking for each other, at a brief look they seemed to have the same outlook on life.

“And that is another thing you need to have educated out of you”

At that Enola turned to look at her other brother, Sherlock, who had remained radio silent throughout this entire conversation. Enola kneeled in front of him, as Sherlock looked at her and then broke eye contact to look down at the book he was holding.

“Sherlock, Don’t let him do this to me”

“You are his ward”

“Make me yours. Guide me. Teach me. For him I am nuisance. For you-”

“Enola. I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands”

“Just like his cruelty to our mother was out of your hands”

Cruelty to their mother? No, Sherlock would have never allowed his mother to go through anything, he is a man of honor... isn’t he? (Y/n) felt her stomach tighten as she saw this tragic scene unravel, she hoped Sherlock would have accepted and took her in.

“She is not dangerous. She is remarkable and always has been. And if you still can’t see that then shame on you both”

“So remarkable she left you in my care”

Mycroft shot back. (Y/n) could almost feel the pain the young girl felt, you could see it in her eyes how that was an arrow straight in her heart. (Y/n) decided to step up and try to help, she approached the young girl with a kind smile and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here to calm down. Seems like your brothers don’t share the same love and admiration you do for the woman that made them who they are”

“I am a self made successful man”

“but you wouldn’t be no man if the woman you frown upon had not broken her hips and went through hours of painful labor. Take that as some food for thought before you school me on my manners”

Sherlock looked at her in awe, as she stood proudly next to his sister and became the shield he should have been. Standing up for a girl you haven’t even spoken to or knew before this.

“Let’s go young Enola, seems like a woman’s presence is wanted here only when she does as she is told”

-

“Come in”

“Can I open this door and be promised that I will remain safe or are you holding a dagger and you are ready to take me out of this world?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dagger you in your own household? I would probably wait to poison you a few days after we leave and write the paperwork of you firing me”

He smiled at her plan as he closed the door in her room. It was already nightfall and the only light here were a few candles, he had let her take a breather after the unfortunate event that had occurred previously. Even though he wasn’t the one that she went toe to toe with, his silence was as obnoxious to her as his brothers loud ignorance towards the female gender.

“You are upset”

“Of course not, why would I be? It’s not like you let that man embarrass his own sibling and talk down to his mother without her being in the room”

She had remained sited in the chair next to the table, a book open that seemed like she was writing on rather than reading it. He was aware she was holding a journal, he didn’t blame her for it, having a job like she did she was in desperate need of something to keep her sane.

“This is a very wary subject”

“I am aware of it, I just can’t seem to understand why not comfort her, try to change your brothers opinion, anything that will show you care for her, you do care for her, right Sherlock?”

“She is my baby sister (y/n), that’s a given”

She closed her book. She ran her hand through her  through her hair and got up from her sit, her hands going in front of her torso at a defensive demeanor, even when Sherlock should be cold or show his higher position to her, he couldn’t help but seek some type of truce with her, how could he not? She looked so beautiful even when she mad at him, the eyes he was so caught up in looked at him with fury, her delicate feature went harsh and she was dressed more... lightly now.

“I spoke with her earlier, she was in the garden”

“I know, I saw.”

“She asked me about you, asked me if you were my lady”

Her eyes went wide for a split second before regaining her composer and turned her back to him. She approached the window before she spoke.

“If you think of how she became familiar with me, she was probably certain I wasn’t even friends with your holier than God brother”

“You mustn't be angry at me”

“And why is that?”

“Because other than my sister and mother, I care for you and for your opinion about me”

She remained silent. Not only because she was caught off guard by his comment, she also didn’t know what he was talking about. Sherlock stepped closer to her, his steps making her heart flutter and her palms sweaty. He stopped when he was right behind her, he wanted to hug her, caress her, kiss her, still he was uncertain of how she would react.

“I still remember the night you got kidnapped”

Someone that Sherlock had helped uncover had escaped prison and kidnapped her. Luckily, she was retrieved safely yet again she was still shaken up by the scary experience, when Sherlock found her awake next to the fireplace she was so vulnerable and grateful to be alive she launched at him and kissed him passionately.

He shared his bed with her, in the middle of the night though she had gotten up and left, when morning came she acted like nothing had happened, barely even looked at him in the eyes for a week.

“Please Sherlock don’t pick at my brain”

“Why did you leave that night? Did you regret it that much”

“That night... was the most blissful I have ever been.... However you are still my boss Sherlock”

“That’s all I am to you? Your boss?”

(Y/n) turned to look at him, tears welling up in her eyes. Those eyes would be the death of him, it was with no doubt the window to her soul, that pure gentle soul of hers.

“What am I to you then Sherlock? This wasn’t just about me”

“You are.... what I never knew I needed”

His hands went up to her forearms instinctively, a soft caress that made her think his hands were made out of the finest silk, she felt goosebumps as he touched her. Her lips parted slightly as she took in a heavy breath, her eyes searching for a hint of a lie in his words.

“Sherlock”

“Shhhhh, It’s alright darling. You don’t have to say anything”

At that he slowly leaned in, his lips on top of hers at a shy and gentle kiss. Her hand went to his neck, bringing her torso to touch his as the kiss deepened, her entire body felt a rush go through it as they should the passion they held for each other with this kiss. As she pulled back her fingertips traveled to his face, taking in his attractive features

“I had almost forgotten how good of a kisser you are”

“Oh love, you will never forget it ever again”

[trexy225]

TSS-Character Masterlist

Hello everyone! So this story has many, many characters so I made a master list to help y'all keep track! You will see alternate versions of different Spiderman characters as well as some easter eggs I jammed in there. I hope y'all enjoy this chaotic, unhinged Pirate AU as much as I do! Let's go lesbians!

The Siren Queen- Y/N L/N the captain of the ship The Siren’s Song a bold, arrogant, unhinged pirate who takes what she wants. She is kind to her allies but ruthless to her enemies. A force to be reckoned with. Has a haughty shell but a soft inside. Has a very showy personality, is a drama queen with a flair for the dramatics, but in reality, is very scared and insecure. Became a pirate after her family was trying to force an arranged marriage on her she decided to turn to piracy, after seeing the injustices women were given she vowed to travel the world, taking in women who needed to escape as well as donating the treasures she steals to those less fortunate. Pretty soon she had built a loyal and terrifying crew, she hopes to rule the seven seas and make everyone bow down to her.

First Mate: Alexandra ‘Alex’ Shelley. Your closest friend, sister level bond. Stubborn and loyal she is a pessimist and sarcastic but that balances out your sunny attitude. She is very brave and is reliable, the rock on the ship that everyone goes to for guidence.

Sailing Master/Navigator: Gwen Stacy a brilliant scholar who may be a bit too confident.

Head of munitions: Lilith ‘The She-Devil’ Wilson, an unhinged daredevil adrenaline junkie who dives in headfirst and regrets it later. She is incredible with explosives, guns, and pretty much any weapon and is a useful asset. They don't tell anyone about their past, but she has a military background.

Head of supplies: Rita Hernandez, is the mother of Carlos and adoptive mother of Pepa. Ran away from her abusive husband and was taken in by the Sirens crew.

Crew members:

Kate: Your blue macaw who is very good at distractions and is your second mate.

Jeff: The ship cat, is fat and black but is an amazing mouser, is usually found with Felicia.

Cookie: The cook and the therapist of the group, has a crush on Rita. Came on board after her pub got taken from her by rich bankers who made the rent too high and she lost everything.

Melody Prescott: The singer who leads shanties and creates songs and lullabies, a wisecracker. Used to be in a traveling circus but was exploited and underpaid, she ran away to join piracy where she found you all

Suki ‘The Silent Siren’ Tanaka: The silent lone wolf who is deadly, twins with Akira. Saved by you from slave trafficking.

Akira Tanaka: Suki’s polar opposite, very loud and bold, her weapon is her tongue, being able to get a person's guard down and Suki goes in for the kill. Was saved by you from slave trafficking

Sunny Anne: The persistent optimist, dating Gale Hallewell. Came seeking adventure

Gale Hallewell: The dark one you know all emo and pessimistic, dating Sunny Anne, is here to make sure Sunny doesn’t get killed

Scarlett ‘The Seductress’ Ali: The Femme Fatale, has dated everyone (except the kids) on the ship, very flirty. Was saved by you from a gang of men who wanted to rape her and decided to take her act on the move

Pint-Sized Pepa: A 12-year-old stowaway who snuck on board one day and just became a part of the crew, Rita is her guardian and is very protective. Pepa is extremely headstrong and honestly a lil feral. Adores Lilith

Hattie ‘The Giantess’ Ahmed: A gentle giant, was also a part of the circus but ran off with Melody.

Peggy Li: The old drunk who knows all the secrets of the trade so that’s why you keep her around, everyone is a bit tired of her, but she was one of your first crew members, and deep down everyone loves her. Has a peg leg.

Xiran Li: Peggy's daughter, she’s tired and fed up with everything but she ultimately loves it all. Gives a lot of snarky comments and jokes

Beastie: Feral feral woman nobody knows where she came from and she’ll never tell. She’s incredibly deadly however and doesn’t hurt anyone so she’s just here for the ride. Is dating Sparrow. 

Carlos Hernandez: The 4-year-old wholesome wholesome boy who is Rita’s son. Everybody protects him at all costs

Abuela Gonzalez: The wise grandmother who just sits there and watches it all, she takes care of Carlos and reads him stories but is still ruthless if she needs to be. Rumored to be an ex-bandit but has not confirmed nor denied anything.

Priya Kumar: Literally up for anything and is very go with the flow, was escaping from an abusive husband who was very powerful.

Sparrow: Very stoic and regal, is dating Beastie. From the Tlingit peoples, believes in your mission of giving to the poor. 

Anya Petrov: A functional drunk who is very blunt and takes everything literally. You saved her from a bar fight once and once she found out you made your own booze she stayed.

Agatha Stevens: A witch who escaped the persecution of witches in England and joined your crew

Dalia Salah: The doctor on the ship, no-nonsense kinda gal. Decided to join you all after she saw how horribly everyone was doing without her, she also hated the sexism of the medical community.

Josephine ‘Jo’ Roberts: The latest addition to your crew, is extremely inexperienced but determined, also fiercely loyal. Is Cookies apprentice and is skilled at brewing alcohol.

Stormy Owens: A brilliant, sly, and resourceful scholar who is responsible for getting out of any legal troubles as well as creating false identities and keeping track of numbers and such

Petra Parker: A sunny acrobat who is usually up swinging around the ship's sails, came with Hattie and Melody.

Mary Jane 'MJ' Watson: An old friend from your past who joined because she wanted to write poetry and draw your adventures, is nonviolent, and will only use stun moves.

Lonnie Lincoln: An albino African American who escaped slavery to join your crew, is an expert blacksmith.

Felicia Hardy: An expert thief and pickpocket, best friends with Jeff the cat

Olivia Octavius: the former navigator to an American merchant vessel who you kidnapped but she ultimately joined you. Is a self-proclaimed scientist who claims to know how to control the Kraken, she just doesn’t know where to find the Kraken. You agree to help her find the Kraken if she teaches you how to control it. She’s very erratic and scatterbrained and seems to just be an eccentric scientist who’s harmless. But she can be deadly serious if she wants to be and there’s more to her than first meets the eye

[sweetwolfcupcake]

Allurement: The Five Stages of Grief (Acceptance)

Yandere Namjoon x Reader

The autumnal leaves shone under the soothing sunrays, their prominent hues made up for a sight to behold. But Namjoon's eyes were fixed on the bouquet of pink carnations he had delicately placed over his mother's grave. It had taken him some time- more than six months to be precise- but Namjoon felt the absence of the heavyweight that had been sitting over his chest and gnawing his heart from within. Yes, his eyes were misty still, but at least the tears had ceased.

"You know, I miss you still." he began as a sigh flew past his lips like the gentle but cold breeze making the carnations flutter "I miss our Sunday meals together, I miss the way you could read me like an open book. Me, who manages to bewilder even the most experienced of businessmen, even Yoongi hyung is surprised sometimes. But you...You could never miss what was going in my mind. Because to you, I was just...Namu, your Namu, your only child." he sniffed up the tightening of his throat and the blurring of his vision as he shut his eyes tight and pressed the welling tears back. "You were the only person I could look with my eyes unreserved, speak to without calculating in my head and just be...Namjoon, Namu. Not Kim Namjoon, CEO of the Kim Group of Companies...But I found someone Omma, someone I can open my heart to, I told you about her, didn't I? I thought I would make her my wife, I was dreaming of introducing her to the world as my wife," a slow, humourless smile tugged his lips like a hook over the skin "But your husband is posing a problem...And I'm powerless here, you know? At least until I marry the woman he has chosen for me- as if I'm his plaything- we all are, really. And he wants an heir too. And he would get an heir Omma, an heir (Y/N) would give me." his tight-lipped smile was colder than the chills nipping on his bare cheeks

"It's time to let you go, I must let you go. How would I be devoted to the only woman who would ever have my heart and is allowed to be by my side otherwise? I will choose my happiness Omma...Just as you asked me to. That was your last wish, wasn't it? How can I deny that?... And my happiness lies with (L/N)(Y/N)."

Had his mother been able to see the gleam in her son's eyes- swirling with fragile sanity, delicately unhinged, the deceased woman would have reeled back in shock.

****

taglist- @whatpageisthis @amoc94 @theresa-nam-nam-me @dearbambideer @casualminiaturetimemachine @njrwifey @kpopisnicee @illnevertrustmyselfagain @potterbrooke @luvaffaire @bighitfics @rkive-diary

[giorno-plays-piano]

Lovers End Part 5

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, emotional abuse, threats, PTSD, minor depiction of violence, allusion to non-con, toxic reader and unhinged Bucky, death of minor characters.

Words: 1318.

Summary: Your marriage is falling apart, and you're done trying to save it when all your spineless husband does is crying at night when he thinks you can't hear him. Little do you know how horrifying Bucky can be.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

P.S. It's not me, it's magnificent @navegandoaciegas and her awesome ideas! Also inspired by TDDUP VN!

____________

Once you finished with the vacuum, you locked yourself in the bathroom with Bucky’s diary in your hands - it was the only place where you could bolt the door. Besides, he could hardly hear you crying from there.

His writing was becoming more and more chaotic: soon he had stopped keeping the dates, and all of it became some kind of never-ending essay about things he hated and feared. You could his mental health deteriorating with every page, and God, you were scared of him - and you pitied him, too. Sometimes you could spot your own name, and you cried when you read how much Bucky loved you. His feelings were gradually evolving into some kind of unhealthy obsession, but you were thankful they didn’t turn into intense hatred, considering the way you treated him up until now.

Reading about you tormenting your husband was something entirely different if you compared it with your own memories - or a lack of those - but the more you read, the more horrified with your actions you became. How did it happen? When did you turn from a supporting wife into a cruel fury ready to tear apart the only person you loved? When did you reach the point of no return? You supposed it could have been that day in December, but Bucky wasn't at fault. Not directly, at least, you thought when you considered his negligence and you working like a horse.

Maybe that terrible thing was just destined to happen to you, anyway.

Regardless, that was no the reason to treat Bucky like that. You could have left a long time ago, realizing where all this had been going, and it would still be better than living how you two lived now. Now you could see the true horror of the situation and what would inevitably happen if you didn't do anything to end it: Bucky could pull the trigger any moment now.

The only option you saw was leaving. Of course, in an ideal world you could ask him to visit doctor Romanova and make him confess he wasn't really following her instructions, help him get back on track and try to recover, but you knew this wasn't going to happen. Not when Bucky had almost suffocated you and locked you in the house. Why would he listen to you now, after everything that happened between you? He'd rather think you are doing this just to get rid of him, so you doubted he'd do what you asked him to. Now there were two ways out - leave or die.

You prefered the first one even knowing Bucky was obsessed with you. You could at least try, couldn't you? In the end, you would finish with a bullet in your head if you did nothing at all to fix all this.

You still couldn't believe it was happening to you. Weren't you a really, really good couple before? You remembered your ex-coworkers envying you when Bucky was visiting the office, a bouquet of wild flowers in his hands. He had always been kind and understanding, gentle, loving, cheerful; the best husband you had ever wanted, that very same prince you had been dreaming about. You loved him to the point of leaving your mother, the only family you had, just because you wanted to be with him. Because of that you were desinherited, but you didn't care as long as Bucky was with you.

Huh, all of a sudden you remembered the times when he was in the hot spot while you waited for him at home, every day waking up with a thought somebody would call and tell you Bucky's dead. It was your worst nightmare because of which you were afraid to go to sleep every night. You prayed for him to return safely, and the day when you received a notice of him losing his left arm, you were hysterical to the point your boss had to send you to the hospital to get help.

Oh, how happy you were the day he came back. Crippled, lost, desperate, barely able to function because of his PTSD but alive. You wanted nothing as much but for your husband to come home to you. That's why, even though the company you worked for went bankrupt and you could find nothing better but being a cashier in a local food store, you were ready to do whatever it took to help Bucky get back on his feet.

Was it too much for you? Were you too weak to go through all this for him? Apparently, you were. With months of constant hard work, insomnia because of the constant night shifts, inability to put food on the table, you forgot why were you doing all this. You forgot how much you loved him and he loved you. It all turned to ashes.

Hiding the diary beneath your bed, you did your best to wipe the tears and make yourself a bit more presentable - now you saw how terrible you looked with those dark circles beneath your eyes and wrinkles, bad skin, prominent blood vessels along the inside of your eyes because constant crying... You were a young woman, still, but you felt like your body was falling to pieces. It couldn't continue like that.

"Bucky, I have to leave." You told him once you approached your husband in the living room still sitting on the couch in front of TV with a blank expression.

However, once he heard you, his face clenched up, "Did you not hear me the first time I said it? You’re going nowhere."

Trembling, you tried to pull yourself together and even sat on the couch, your palms on your knees.

"Bucky, we're not alright. Let's admit it. Things aren't going to come back to how they were before... this. We won't get better."

You swallowed nervously, not looking at him, but Bucky fell silent, waiting for you to continue. You were sure he wasn't insane to the point he didn't understand what was happening.

"Please, let me leave. You can have the house if you want to, I won't take anything. I... I'll be sending you half of my salary until you get yourself a job."

Huh, you probably wouldn't be able to rent your own place with what was left, but maybe you convince your boss to let you sleep in the back room. Hell, even sleeping under the bridge was better than being murdered by your own husband.

When you saw him crawling towards you, you held your breath, "T-this is fair! You can have whatever you want!"

But he didn't stop, and before you could jump off the couch and ran, Bucky was already on top of you, his metal hand grabbing both yours and pining them above your head.

"I want you." He shook his head, sitting on top of you, his flesh arm caressing the curves of your body. "Maybe you're right and we can't go back. But we can do better."

"Get off, Bucky!" You desperately tried pushing him away, but all you did was fueling his desire. "GET OFF!"

"Maybe you'll love me again if I put a baby in you." He exhaled, nuzzling against the crook of your neck, and you frozen in fear and disgust, you eyes wet again despite all your efforts. "And we'll be a real family again."

"NO!"

You didn't know where that power to throw your beefy husband off you came, but you were already up, back on your unsteady legs and ready to fight him even he was going to try suffocating you or breaking your neck. You weren't going to let Bucky do... this to you.

Oh God. You wanted to never let him know of what had happened on the 14th of December, but you had no choice now.

"I've already lost my baby. I'm not doing it again."

_________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@void-hoechlin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @iheartsebandchris @ninefuckingoneone

[cdyssey]

Need

Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

—

Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.” 

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe. 

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise. 

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home. 

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels. 

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her. 

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears. 

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire. 

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening. 

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself. 

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts. 

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace. 

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse. 

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

[ingek73]

Fairytales for fuckwits: Meghan, a children's book, and the school bully tactics of the British tabloids...

Piers Morgan's obsession with Meghan Markle continues, while Mike Graham appears worried there may be too many big words for him to understand.

Mic Wright

May 6

On May the 4th, there was a great disturbance in the force, as if thousands of tabloid reporters and talk radio pundits cried out at once: The Duchess of Sussex had announced she was writing a children’s book.

Since the earth-shattering news that Meghan has written a story about the relationship between father’s and their sons — apparently based on a poem she wrote for Prince Harry — the tabloid press and talk radio stations have gone into meltdown.

The Sun has managed to crank out seven hysterically-pitched stories on the announcement since it dropped — the book isn’t out until June 8th — with each more unhinged than the last:

MEG TO PAPER Meghan Markle writes children’s book inspired by Prince Harry and baby Archie about ‘bond between father and son’

MEG-A MOVE Meghan Markle’s first priority should be mending broken relationships with royals not writing kids’ book, expert claims

SOUNDS A BIT WOODEN ‘Schmaltzy’ Meghan Markle ‘on dodgy ground’ with kids’ book celebrating fathers ‘after own bust-up with dad’ says author

DOUBLE DUCH Meghan Markle accused of copying her kids’ book The Bench from another story – but author defends her

NOT WRITE Piers Morgan slams ‘hypocrite’ Meghan Markle for kids’ book on ‘father-son bond’ after ‘ruining Harry and Charles’ ties’

'RIDICULOUS' Meghan Markle using Duchess of Sussex as author name ‘laughable’ after she wanted to cut Royal ties, says royal expert

CUT PRICE Meghan Markle’s kids’ book has price slashed already at Amazon and Waterstones

You’ll notice that Piers Morgan — a man who has turned one drink with Meghan after which he claims she “ghosted him”, which took place in 2016, into a five year and counting obsession — gets his own story there. That’s The Sun filleting Morgan’s spittle-flecked Daily Mail column on the book for its own news piece.

Morgan, who trails his columns on Twitter like they are exciting new releases rather than the tabloid equivalent of a letter scrawled in faeces forced through your letterbox, dashed out his thoughts on The Bench with the indecent haste of a man running along while his trousers fall down.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @BreeNewsome

DEFUND & ABOLISH POLICE, REFUND OUR COMMUNITIES

@BreeNewsome

Piers Morgan’s obsession with Meghan Markle is genuinely disturbing. He’s really just using the guise of journalism to be a public stalker and harasser.

May 5th 2021

1,414 Retweets10,252 Likes”

-

Beneath a typically screaming Mail headline — How the hell can Meghan 'I hate royalty but call me Duchess' Markle preach about father-child relationships when she's disowned her own Dad, and wrecked her husband's relationship with his? — Morgan howled:

… she continues to cynically exploit her royal titles because she knows that's the only reason anyone is paying her vast sums of money to spew her uniquely unctuous brand of pious hectoring gibberish in Netflix documentaries, Spotify podcasts or children's books.

Of course, her equally cynical publishers don't give a damn about any of this shocking double standard.

Forget the fact that Meghan had a good degree of personal fame before she ever met Prince Harry, Piers Morgan accusing anyone else of being a cynical fame chaser is beyond parody. From his earliest days as a gossip hack, Morgan has muscled into pictures with the rich and famous, desperate to be someone.

When Meghan was willing to indulge him, he showered her with praise, but once she stopped taking his calls, he turned into the Tinder match from hell. That he has been married to his second wife, fellow controversialist columnist Celia Walden since 2010 seemingly did nothing to dampen his obsession.

Having repeatedly interviewed Meghan’s estranged father Thomas Markle — another man aggrieved because a woman would rather not spend time with him — Morgan sneers:

If she really cared about father-child relationships, she'd take a chauffeur-driven limousine on the hour-long trip to see her own father who's never even met either Harry or Archie.

It’s projection again: Piers Morgan’s ego is so egg-shell thin that after Meghan decided that one drink was more than enough, he’s spent 5 years seeking revenge and convinced that he’s been wronged, just like her ‘poor old dad’. That’s the ‘poor old dad’ that insists on talking about his daughter to journalists at every possible occasion.

At the end of an article that implies Harry and Meghan contributed to the death of Prince Philip — he died of natural causes — and rants on about “the woke”, Morgan ends with this:

But then as we've seen from her gruesomely self-interested behaviour during a pandemic that's caused so much devastation and pain to billions around the world, Meghan Markle doesn't really care about anyone but herself.

Remember, the Duchess of Sussex’s only ‘crime’ here is to write a children’s book which people will be free to buy or ignore with equal ease. But, as ever, Piers Morgan treats the news with all the proportionality of a US drone strike.

The real story here is about how Morgan — the bittiest of bit-part players in the narrative of Meghan and Harry’s lives — is so desperate to upgrade his place in the cast list that he will rant and rave to stay relevant. His departure from Good Morning Britain came after his last stream of invective about Meghan and he knows this schtick gets him the attention and money he craves.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @MariaLRoach

Maria Roach

@MariaLRoach

Meghan Markle inside the tiny space called Piers Morgan’s head. #duchessofsussex Tap Dance GIF by Miss America

May 5th 2021

122 Retweets1,619 Likes”

-

Aside from Morgan’s column, MailOnline has published 9 other news stories on or related to the book announcement. The most telling of them is one that links the Duchess of Sussex’s book to another one… by the Duchess of Cambridge.

Headlined Bookshelf battle royale! Kate Middleton shares a glimpse inside her Hold Still photobook just a day after Meghan Markle unveiled her own £12.99 children's story, the story unsurprisingly treats Kate with kid gloves while continuing to imply that Meghan is the kind of person who would make gloves out of kids if it suited her devilish schemes.

There’s no shade thrown at the Duchess of Cambridge for revealing further details of her book just hours after Meghan’s announcement. Instead, the story — lavishly illustrated with images from the book — gushes:

The Duchess of Cambridge has shared a glimpse of her photography book Hold Still ahead of its release on Friday…

… Kate, 39, a keen photographer, launched a campaign during the first lockdown last year to ask the public to submit images which captured the period.

It even includes a mention of an image of a BLM protestor saying:

Over the course of the project, the Duchess shared a number of her favourite images on the Kensington Royal Instagram page, including a Black Lives Matter protester holding a sign reading: 'Be on the right side of history.'

If Meghan had done the same she would have been decried for “supporting extremists”. Remember the contrasting way their mutual taste for avocado was covered?

15 Headlines Show How Differently The British Press Treat Meghan Markle Vs Kate Middleton | Bored Panda

Over at The Daily Telegraph, Spiked alumna Ella Whelan offered her thoughts on a book that isn’t released until next month under the headline Meghan Markle’s fun-free children’s book may put an entire generation off reading, which makes it sound like a grimoire full of dark magic rather than a gentle children’s book about kids and their dads.

Just as with the Mail’s story on Kate’s book, it’s worth imagining what Whelan would say if the Duchess of Cambridge had written The Bench. Look at the following section…

It reveals something of the political superficiality of Harry and Meghan’s activism that an “inclusive” book would use the military father as its promotional message. Perhaps it’s a cultural thing, but if my kids have to read about soldiers, I’d prefer Hans Christian Andersen’s tin version rather than the woke posturing of a former royal.

… and notice that because Meghan is the author including a father who is in the military is “political superficiality”. If Kate had written a story that featured an analogue for Prince William — who also spent time in uniform, though in less dangerous circumstances than his ‘spare’ brother — Whelan would likely deem it a ‘touching tribute to their love’.

Similarly, Sarah Ferguson — the ex-wife of Prince Andrew, top Yelp! reviewer for Jeffrey Epstein’s houses and noted avoider of FBI questioning — uses the title Duchess of York on her many execrable children’s books.

Now that Meghan is the tabloid’s new monster in the monarchy, Fergie’s antics are pointed to as a positive with her books flattered even as Meghan’s as-yet-unpublished book is panned.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @talkRADIO

talkRADIO

@talkRADIO

Meghan Markle is releasing a new children's book about father-son relationships.

Mike Graham: "It's so juvenile. This is somebody who acts like she's still in high school... it's not exactly Tennyson, is it?

@mrmarkdolan | @Iromg Image

May 5th 2021

36 Retweets221 Likes”

-

Over on talkRADIO, Mike Graham — a melting mass of expired meat — ranted about a children’s book, worried perhaps that it will contain too many long words. Speaking to his colleague, Mark Dolan — Dennis Pennis without the charm — Graham crowed:

It’s so juvenile. This is somebody who acts like she’s still in high school… I don’t have anything against her for any particular reason, other than she’s a bit too American, you know. She thinks everything is just great and cheesy. Rhyming the words ‘joy’ and ‘boy’. It’s not exactly Tennyson, is it?

Ah yes, that famous children’s author, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, known for such devastating rhymes as this one from The Lady of Shallot: “She left the web/ She left the loom/ She made three paces through the room.”

I’m not saying The Lady of Shalott is rubbish — though I do still hold a grudge against Tennyson after some very tedious teaching in high school — but that focusing on one rhyme in a poem is an easy trick if you want to say its shit. That Graham cannot see the irony in decrying writing a children’s book as “juvenile” is just one of the reasons he’s employed by a station with less than 1% reach.

Image description: “Twitter avatar for @NadimJBaba

Nadim Baba

@NadimJBaba

Piers Morgan ranting about the one who got away in 5, 4, 3.......

Media Guardian @mediaguardian

Meghan wins copyright claim against Mail on Sunday over letter https://t.co/cJZTgDMvgz

May 5th 2021

1 Like”

-

There’ll be a new round of these columns, stories, and talk radio segments when the book is released, particularly as The Mail on Sunday just lost the second part of Meghan’s copyright claim against it.

There’s nothing that either Meghan or Harry could do that wouldn’t drive these rats in a sack rabid. If they did nothing, they’d be called lazy. When they make things, take jobs, or really say anything the very media that benefits hugely from stories about them scream that it’s a cry for attention. And yet Piers Morgan regularly pissing himself in public is “commentary”.

[ratchedspeach]

Can you please PLEASE write a second part to that reader/Alice story you wrote a while back! I need more

Twist my arm why don’t you (-,: ok fine here you go! This is ACTUALLY NSFW. Enjoyyyy.

Read part 1 HERE

Alice spends more time fiddling with her fork than she does eating when your food arrives. You ask if everything is okay, and she nods.

“I’m still feeling a bit ... under the weather.” She admits.

“Acid can do that.” You smirk, and she blushes, and it sends something in your stomach fluttering.

What you had initially mistaken for timidness in her, you now recognize is more contemplative. She watches you with fascination — the way you order, the way you sit, the topics you chose for discussion. It’s all foreign to her. A new world bursting at the seams. She marvels at you, and you’re not sure you deserve it.

“I’ve seen owls stare less than you.” You tease.

Alice blinks. “Sorry.” She murmurs, pulling her gaze down to her plate. Throughout the course of the meal, she’s managed to push the bits of chicken in her pasta to one side of her plate. It’s a nervous habit, you’re sure, but endearing nonetheless.

“Don’t be sorry.” You assure her, sipping your wine. You need the courage. “You certainly apologize a lot.”

“I...”

“It’s alright, Alice. I don’t need an explanation.”

Your lack of expectation catches her off guard, makes something shimmer behind her wide brown eyes. She nods slowly, putting a forkful of pasta to her mouth, and chews. You offer to pay the bill, but Alice won’t hear of it, though, and you eventually agree to split it.

“Can I hold your hand?” You ask once you’re outside the building.

Alice nibbles on the corner of her lip. Wind breaks apart her curls, sending the strands across her face. They look like spider’s silk in the pale evening light. There’s a soft rose to her cheeks from windchill, and you can see the skin of her clavical dipping between the v-neckline of her dress. You think she might be the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes on. Soft in all the ways a woman should be soft, earnest in the ways that you can only blame on her own intrinsic goodness.

“Alright.” She whispers, and you realize you’ve been staring at her chest. “But ... when we get to the hotel, I — well ...” She flusters, and you remedy it.

“You decide when we’re close, and I’ll let go.” Christ, you’ll go through the service entrance if she needs you to.

Alice’s palm is calloused, but her fingers remain soft. She must get manicures, you think you might recall her nails being painted now, but you don’t dare look. You’re afraid of pulling attention to your hands, afraid that when you look down your fingers won’t be intertwined at all, and that it will have been a dream all along. Instead, you walk steadfast against one another. You think maybe you should say something, but Alice seems contented to watch shops and people pass her by.

And you’re content in watching her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many stores so close together.” She breathes, and you realize you’re not sure where she’s from. You don’t really know anything about her.

“I thought the world started and ended in St Louis before I went to college.” You say, faint recollection buzzing alongside the alcohol in your system.

Alice whips around to meet your gaze. “You’re from St. Louis?”

“I am.”

“That’s ...” Alice shakes her head. She laughs, and it rasps in her throat.

“What?” Your stomach pulls into a knot. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m from St. Louis!” She grins.

And it’s ... the way she looks at you, the way she smiles, the way her eyes shimmer as if she’s watching the sun set. You know it means she wants you. More than that, you know it means she likes you. Likes you as more than a mere experiment, as some selfish object. She admires you.

You walk in tandem, talking about your new shared affinity with fingers knit together until you reach the outskirts of the hotel. Only then, with the weight of reality, does she pull away.

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs, gaze pulled to her shoes.

You shake your head. “I understand, Alice. I would never push you towards something you weren’t comfortable with.”

“I...”

“What? What is it?”

“Will you ... will you take me to your room?”

You think you can feel your heart stop — not just skip a beat, but physically stop. “I ... yes.” You breathe, swallowing the smile that’s forcing it’s way onto your features. “Of course.”

Your room is on the opposite corner of the hotel from hers, but you can’t imagine it looks very different. Nevertheless, there’s an uncertainty to the way Alice traces her finger across the bedside table. Her nail scrapes the varnish, eyes lingering there. You know she’s trying not to make eye contact, know she’s not sure of herself. So you step closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, and meet her eyes in earnest.

“Hi.” Your lips press into a smile.

Alice’s chest heaves. “Hello.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.” You nibble on your lower lip. “Can ... can I ...”

But befor you can finish the thought, she’s kissing you. Her palms cup either of your cheeks, her eyes squeeze shut, she holds her breath. And you? You do the oppsosite. Your eyes practically pop out of your skull as you watch her. There’s something so desperate to it. She kisses you like she’s not sure she’ll get the chance again, and you realize that might be true. Alice’s mouth tastes line wine, and something sweet that you can’t place. Your ties into knots. Your hands pull around her waist and press her closer. And then she’s pushing you against the bed — she’s tugging at the buttons on your shirt, she’s mewling softly against your lips.

“Alice.” You half moan, half choke when you feel her fingers scrape across the skin of your clavical. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Alice breathes, and you know it’s earnest — know she’s finding herself, know she needs you. “Please. I ... please.”

And her wish is your command.

You flip her so you’re on top. Alice brings one leg around your waist as she pulls your shirt down to expose your shoulders. You wriggle out of it. You make quick work of the zipper on the side of her dress, and she pulls it down. You can’t help it when you stop kissing her to stare at the expansion of her stomach — smooth, taught, supple. Her breasts heave under the lace of her bra, and you kiss at their highest point. Alice’s hips buck against your thigh. Her fingers grasp against your shoulder blades.

“I ...”

“Say it.” You murmur into the nape of her neck, sending a shiver through Alice.

“I ... want you.”

You smile, and you know she feels the tug of your lips against her skin. Alice tenses when you don’t respond, breath held, nerves burning under the weight of your body.

“Please.” She squeeks, and it’s so uncertain, so openly sincere, it almost catches you off guard.

You recover, though, fingers digging into the inside of her thigh, teeth scraping against her ear, body flush against hers. You’re going to enjoy this, you think, as she lets out a humm of pleasure.

You want to take this slow. Well, no — you don’t. Not really, but your need to make sure she feels safe outweighs your desperation to taste her. So you don’t move until she begs — don’t do anything until she indicates that it’s ok.

Alice is taken aback by how gentle you are, shocked by how much control you are willing to give her while still holding dominance. It’s new. All of it. And she loves it. And her skin tingles, and her throat is dry, and —

“Oh my god.” Alice bites her lip to keep from shrieking when she feels you kiss the cotton of her underwear.

It’s then that you stop questioning if this is alright — then that you trust your instincts. Your teeth graze the inside of her thigh, and she shudders.

“Are you sure?” You ask, promising yourself it’ll be the last time.

Alice nods, chokes on a ‘yes’ as her fingers knot against the bedspread. It’s all the confirmation you need to pull her underwear down. You kiss her first — from her knee, to the soft flesh of her thigh, nipping at the point just below her hip bone. Alice’s back arches in anticipation. When your tongue comes to lick her center, Alice gasps.

“Oh.” Her eyes flutter closed, lower lip catching between her teeth.

When you find her clit, she yelps. You wonder if her husband has ever dared to venture as far with his mouth. You assume not when she can’t stifle another moan.

“G-god.” Alice pants, one leg coming over your shoulder.

Her fingers lace through your hair, knitting against the base of your skull. She tugs there, pressing you closer against her. And you pull away. And her eyes go wide.

“W-wha —“

But her words die on her tongue when you dip down against the base of her jawline. Your fingers trail down her shoulders grazing the her nipples. They pebble under your touch, heave with her uneven breaths. You move further down the skin of her stomach, past her belly button. You stop above her clit, and you feel her tense. When you slip inside her, Alice growls, the low rasp of her natural cadence hitting a new octave.

She’s so soft. It’s the only way you can describe her. Her body feels like silk. She smells sweet, tastes sweet, and god, if she isn’t the gentlest woman you’ve ever felt. Alice’s hips buck against your palm, fingers scraping down your back. Her breath comes in ragged, uneven inhales. She’s close, you think.

You kiss down the expanse of stomach until you’ve found her clit once more. You press your tongue against it, hold still for just a moment, before you’re swiping it in different directions. That, matched with the upward incline of your fingers, sends Alice reeling.

She’s lightheaded, unhinged from this reality, yet still somehow completely present. Alice looks at you, fingers knitting in your hair once more, taking against your scalp as she feels something make her thighs begin to tremble. What could that — oh!

“F-fuck!” Alice screams as her body erupts, and then almost immediately her hand is over her mouth. “Oh, god, I’m sorry!”

And you laugh. She’s the only person you’ve ever seen apologize for having an orgasm. The woman goes slack, hips relaxing. You tease your fingers out of her, reveling in the way she jerks under your touch. Wiping the corners of your lips, you lie next to her and press a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“G-god ... that was ... different.” She pants as her breath struggled to level. “I’ve never ... I mean ... I don’t think.”

She shakes her head, flips to her side so she’s looking at you. One of her hands comes to trace your cheek. “Thank you.”

You laugh again, and she quirks an eyebrow. It wasn’t meant to be funny. It’s not, really. It’s just so honest. You’ve never met someone so honest. You kiss her — tender, and fervent, and with far more understanding than you should have for only just meeting her. Alice smiles against your lips, pulls you into her embrace. She smells sweet, slightly milky, like some sort of melon. She feels like springtime, you think, as you feel her fingers trail down your spine.

[sparklygoblin]

I've been really into the concept of past lives recently, and I thought it would be really fun to post my take on the Haikyuu pairs, and past lives/historical au's. So here is some steamy, self indulgent T R A S H! This is going to be pretty flawed and there is definetly some movie references in here as well as some historical inaccuracies but I did my best. Also there are no happy endings because I thought that might be pretty unrealistic based on treatment of actual gay men in history.

TW: Suicide, Hate Crimes, Gun Violence

Iwaioi is obviously reminiscent of Alexander the Great and his "best bro"😏 Hephastion. Oikawa was the Grand King, destined for greatness from the moment he was born. Iwaizumi was born among corpses and dirt, exiled to Oikawa's kingdom, a twelfth son, useless. He lived as a lonely peasant, starving, until he joined the king's guard. He liked to tell himself he trained with Oikawa because he admired Oikawa's hard earned skill, and he believed that right up until he died at the end of the prodigy, Kageyama's blade. After intercepting a strike that would've inevitably killed the Great King. He falls, looking into Oikawa's shocked eyes, bright, and full of tears as he cradled Iwa to his chest. Iwaizumi merely sighed, still unable to touch the man he loved, lest he ruin his life by exposing his feelings. He dies to the violent, primal screams of his love, and he becomes distantly aware of a missed opportunity, as Oikawa's reciprocation of Iwaizumi's feelings becomes more obvious with each throat tearing wail. It's clear that he will die without Iwaizumi, but everyone already knew that.

Daisuga has just graduated in the summer of 1967, and they've been stealing moments with each other from the moment Suga transferred to Daichi's school sophomore year. And Daichi hated himself for it, he was quarterback, and he had the prettiest girl in school. So why was he so smitten with this nerd? This delicate pretty boy made his blood run hot and his heart skip. He was in love, and damn it if Suga hadn't made it obvious that he felt the same. Daichi had to put a stop to this before someone found out and it ruined his life. Suga heard it from a freshman, the handsome senior, Daichi was going to marry his girlfriend, Michimiya Yui. It made it so much easier to go to Vietnam when he won the draft lottery system. Daichi came to apologize only to find that Suga was gone. Forever. He wrote. Suga ignored it all. Daichi talked with Suga's mother every weekend hoping to collect any information he could, until the news finally broke, Koushi wasn't coming back from 'Nam. Daichi married Michimiya with an empty heart and dead eyes, the fact that they found Suga's corpse clutching one of Daichi's letters replaying in his mind as Michimiya read her vows. They had three kids, Daichi killed himself on what would've been Suga's fifty first birthday.

Kuroken has been side by side for years, Kenma serving as prohibition criminal Kuroo's right hand man. Kuroo has never shown interest in a woman, the rest of the gang doesn't say a word though their suspicious glances between him and Kenma speak volumes. And they're absolutely right, Kenma is everything short of a mob wife. All pretty hair and violent tendencies, Kenma values no one's life, not even his own, but he can't help but value Kuroo in a such a loving way. They die together, when everything falls apart and the feds are chasing them, bullets shatter the car, ripping everything but their hands apart. Those will stay intertwined forever.

Ushijima was okay with his job, he lived such a sparse simple life, and it was enough for him, the life of a holy man. Until he saw Satori, a young man no older than him, residing in a dark hole of the desolate mental facility he was blessing. The sisters merely dismissed him when he inquired as to why the man was in there in the first place. So he took upon himself to talk to the boy and get to the bottom of this. He didn't mean to fall in love with the beautiful, unhinged and unholy Tendo. He didn't mean to commit the ultimate sin, to forsake his faith, but he couldn't bring himself to regret feeling what he felt for Tendo. The only thing he actually regretted was never protecting Satori the way he wanted to. Never scooping his love in his arms and running away from that foul life. The tears that caught in his throat when he came to Tendo only to find him bald, scarred, and permanently empty, shook him to his core. They dug in his brain and ripped out everything dear to Ushijima, they tore a part that beautiful mind all because they couldn't understand it. Ushijima swallowed his tears, and mustered his courage, he was going to save Tendo now, even if it would cost him his soul. His big hands wrapped around Tendo's throat, and didn't release until Tendo's empty eyes went out. He died years later in a prison cell. Maybe he and Tendo could have each other, in the next life.

The village did not like Nishinoya, nor did his family. He for the life of him, could not be modest and quiet like the rest of the puritans. He did not go to church, nor did he read the gospel, he ran about in the woods, tricky and mysterious. The governor's son, Asahi, can't help but be entranced, he is a scholar after all. And he only follows Noya into the dark wood for "scholarly" purposes, he definetly wasn't thrilled when Noya pinned his large body against one of the dark twisty tree trunks deep within the wood. Asahi comes to two very troubling conclusions that night, the village was wrong, Noya was not a witch at all, and Azumane would never be able to keep himself away from Noya not matter the cost. It was over for them the moment they were discovered, Noya wrapped in Asahi's arms. The villagers convinced themselves that Asahi had been put under a curse by Yuu, despite Asahi's violent objections, and surprisingly brave declaration of love. Noya smiled softly as they touched the torch to his feet, and as the flames ate the innocent man up, Asahi screamed begging the whole village to burn him instead, Yuu was innocent take him instead. Asahi stayed only long enough to press a gentle kiss to Yuu's now burnt face, just to show the villagers their love was true and deep, not the by product of some cheap curse. While they were all in shock, he slipped into the dark wood, and never was heard from again.

Hinata considered it an insane stroke of luck when he secured a third class ticket aboard the ship of dreams, the Titanic. He bid his mother and Natsu farewell, hoping to secure a job in the new world, and make enough funds to secure them a passage to America one day. His shipmate is horrible though, all cold blue eyes and pompous attitude, until one night when Kageyama surprisingly offers Hinata a drink. Not wanting to refuse, they obviously get smashed drunk, and with pretty pink cheeks, Kageyama grabs Hinata's face gently. " i jus' think no guy should be so damn beautiful" kageyama whispers sleepily, and maybe it's the liquor, but Hinata doesn't hesitate to lean in and initiate a kiss. When Kageyama doesn't pull away, Hinata crawls into his lap. They fit like puzzle pieces and now Kageyama can't even imagine wanting to kiss anyone else. They make plans to take the new world on, learning fairly quick that they are stronger together. And then there's water and panic and Kageyama and Hinata are trying to rush a gate because Jesus, there are kids down there. Just because they are poor doesn't mean they deserve to die, but unfortunately someone seems to think otherwise, because the gate remains in place. They finally stop when the water is up to their waists, and a sad looking elderly woman tells them they've done what they could. Tearful children and somber mothers nod in agreement, and it is unsaid that they would go to their respective beds and try to rest so that they might go in their sleep. They lay together on the top bunk and even as the water slips above their heads and they begin to die, their arms hold tight, and Kageyama mouths one last "I love you" Hinata's fingers in his hair the last thing he feels.

Bokuto is in love with an heiress across the lake, he's never met her but is sure she is made for him. Akaashi is in love with a rich man right next to him, but that man sees Akaashi as no more than his lowley servant. Akaashi is in love with Bokuto, maybe that is why he involved himself in that horrible mess. He was always getting involved in horrible messes for Bokuto's sake. It was the height of Gatsby era glamor, and Bokuto, though he never did really like parties, was always throwing them, insisting Akaashi rather than work the parties, served as his right hand man. Akaashi always knew Bokuto was hoping he would meet his heiress at one of his parties, and if it made Bokuto happy, Akaashi hoped she would show up too, no matter how much it would hurt. And eventually she did, along with her husband, and she broke Bokuto's heart after a very miserable and short lived affair, for her it was nothing, but Bokuto always fell so hard and fast, he was distraught. Akaashi acted on instinct, pulling Bokuto into his arms no matter what line he was crossing, and smoothing his hair in attempt to sooth the crying man. Things became clear to Bokuto then. His tears ceased as he breathed in Akaashi's soft scent, wrapping his arm around the beautiful man's waist. They were in love then, finally on the same page for a blissful few months, until Bokuto's affair was made public, and he was found beaten to death in an alley. Despite all of his generosity and glamor in the past years, Akaashi and Kuroo were the only guests at Bokuto's funeral. Akaashi never recovered from the loss, he knew Bokuto wouldn't have wanted him to do it, but that didn't stop the smile on his face as he smashed the heiress beneath his tires.

Tsukishima had been protecting Yamaguchi for as long as he could remember, always getting in fights and taking beatings to protect his beautiful best friend. He knew boys weren't supposed to be pretty, he knew what happened to boys like Yamaguchi in the eighties, but that didn't ever stop him. Not even when Yamaguchi worked up all his courage and told Tsukki he loved him during their freshman year. Tsukki was angry at Yamaguchi for saying that, because he felt the same and he knew that he had to hide it if he wanted to survive. His controlled slipped for a second when Yamaguchi pressed their lips together gently, Tsukki allowed himself to dream one last time before he yanked himself away. He immediately began hurling slurs and abuse at Yamaguchi, things he knew would send the other boy running. And it did. But soon Kei felt an unexplainable urge to go after him, a sinking feeling that something horrible was gonna happen. Yamaguchi did not cry, he held his chin high, no matter how hard the boys hit him or cut him. He didn't care if he died but he wasn't gonna do it staring at his feet like a kicked puppy. Kei found him like that, full of fire and courage as he stared down his abusers. The love he felt made Kei's legs shake, and he knew he'd do whatever he could to save Yamaguchi. Yamaguchi smiled with too much glee for a dead man as Tsukki forced his way to his side, gripping his hand. There were eight of them, with murder in their eyes, Tsukki knew before he even got to Yamaguchi that they weren't making it out of this one.

Lev and Yaku find each other in 1700s France, Lev is a soft pretty boy, living a luxurious life in the aristocracy. Until he is thrown to the wolves after the loss of his parents, he is ten when he spends his first night on the street. He is nearly taken by a brothel right away, until he is saved by a particularly feisty thirteen year old street rat, Yaku is half his height but serves as his protector nonetheless. They pass the years protecting each other, growing to love each other, but never daring to hope for more than that. As many people in France were at the time disease riddled and starving, so were Yaku and Lev. Of course Yaku went first, he made it all the way to eighteen before he succumbed to his disease, clutching a crying Lev, comforting him even on his death bed. After that, Lev made the mistake of having hope, he joined the revolution in honor of Yaku. He just wanted to make the world a better place, a place where Yaku could've survived. He died bleeding from a soldier's bullet on a barricade, but he was warm, all he saw was Yaku, holding him, carrying him into their next life.

Yahaba always talks and Kyoutani might be always listening, but it's hard to tell. Until Kyoutani murders his whole family in 1978. He shows up at the gas station him and Yahaba always have their one sided coversations at to find Yahaba working the counter like he always is. He ignores Yahaba's greeting and begins frantically explaing his situation and motive, all while Yahaba looks on in shock, this is the first time Kyoutani has ever spoken to him. When he asks why Kyoutani is telling him all this, he simply sighs dismissively and says "you're my bestfriend", and that's enough for Yahaba. Clearly he's crazy, a cute boy he's never spoken with is in the back of his car and they're leaving the country. All because Kyoutani actually was listening and not only that, he viewed Yahaba as the most important person in his life. They had been in love from the first one sided conversation they had, and that was becoming clear now. They get caught, sent to different facilities, Kyoutani gets life, Yahaba gets a lighter sentence for being an accomplice. Though they never see each other again, Yahaba always writes letters, and for once, Kyoutani writes back. They spend their lives finally having a two sided conversation, their love never even flickers, and for them, that's enough.

[blushing-starker]

Another holiday one: Peter and Pepper going caroling together and they visit Tony in the workshop. The bots are wearing Santa hats

"Peter, darling, you know you can get him anything and he'll be over the moon, right? He loves you and it'd kill Tony to know this is causing you so much stress. We could always do a joint gift if that helps? After caroling, the night is ours and so is the mall."

God, what did he do to deserve Miss Potts? She has a solution for all the problems in the world, never hesitates to take what she wants and could probably kick his ass twenty different ways without breaking a sweat. Just last night, she'd cocked her head, put on a disappointed face and Peter was done, defeated, tore himself away from Tony's side at the lab to devour some freshly baked pie Rhodey had dropped by. They'd been working for hours, basically a hair's breadth away from a breakthrough, but Miss Potts didn't like her boys tinkering too long without eating.

Now she's holding his hand like it isn't serious, like it doesn't set Peter's heart aflame because this is Pepper Potts, kind and strong and witty and amazing, showing affection in a public place without shame or fear. And yeah, Tony would never be cold to him outside, but the man's a koala when you earn his trust. Peter has to practically pry the billionaire off from Pepper when the CEO has a meeting to conquer (he's dating a CEO, he's dating a billionaire, he's dating a CEO, he's dating a-

"Sweetheart, I see the gears turning in that head of yours, same as Tony. What is it, Peter?" The snow starts to fall a bit harder and they quicken their pace, catch up with Nat, Bucky and Bruce as they line themselves up before the next porch, ready to start caroling their hearts out. Who'd have thought they enjoyed the season this much?

The others didn't come because decorating the tower and baking dessert for 20 plus people took a team effort. Peter had wrapped an arm around Miss Potts' waist and swung them to the car before they were snatched up by Steve to help in the kitchen. They'd been pressed pretty close, Peter not wanting to risk hurting his, what, lover? Girlfriend? His lover's wife? Either way, he had curled around the tall woman, tried to not jostle her too much in case she got sick. It had been nice. Very nice, really.

The whole thing had lasted maybe thirty seconds so yeah. Technically, this is the first time they've had physical contact for a relatively long period of time. He's eighteen now, not supposed to be getting so hyped and nervous over something as simple as holding hands and going caroling along a snow covered neighborhood adorned with a thousand Christmas lights. But, but he's always been a romantic at heart and the neon glow is reflected off of shiny snowflakes that taste like something pure and special, his teammates are joyous, look decades younger, Bucky's cat Alpine has stubbornly decided to crisscross his ankles and Miss Potts ' is just really fucking pretty, ok?

"Peter?" He gets why Tony can submit so easily to the force of nature that is Pepper Potts ; is rather sure it has something to do with honest eyes and a gentle way of loving broken men.

"Um, you're very pretty, Miss Potts," way to go, Peter. It's a wonder he and Tony even got together when they share one brain cell and it's mainly dedicated to superhero work. Or to Miss Potts.

She softens, tugs at him until they wrap around each other and then kisses him. Light, barely there kisses on pale cheeks, his eyelids, the curve of a red nose, under an unhinged jaw. Nat shoves the team forward, says the next house will probably give them candy while winking at Peter, grins when he turns scarlet. Bucky grumbles, "it's not exactly Halloween," but she yanks the supersoldier away from them so there's some semblance of privacy present.

Miss Potts sighs, sets her chin on his head and Peter short circuits right there, is delighted by the fact that she's taller than him, vows to buy her as many heels and high boots as possible because this is extremely nice and being tucked under her is a dream come true.

"You're so nice, Pete. I don't think Tony's gonna last a month before he says he loves you, not with someone so considerate and amazing. Nat bet it'd take me three months, but right now? Tony would take one look at me and say three weeks. We've been outside for a while, how about we head back home? See if our ridiculous baby got away with sneaking to the lab?"

Oh. Oh, is he supposed to speak after that? Function when she just sent his world tumbling down in a second or two? He inhales slowly, presses his frost bitten lips to a long neck and shivers when Miss Potts laughs, sound as pure and lovely as the freshly fallen snow around them.

---:---------:----------:---------:-----------:---------:--------:---------:---

On the way back home (HomeHomeHomeHomeHomeHome), he catches sight of a pretzel stand and nearly slams them into the side of a building. Miss Potts does that thing where she chuckles almost silently and maybe it'll take her three weeks but Peter's ready to declare his love for her right then, absolutely smitten and aware of it. He wonders if this is what Tony felt when he fell for Miss Potts. Wonders if his boyfriend would tell him all about it soon enough.

Miss Potts strokes his cheek, smile this side of sharp and mischievous. "Does my boy want something?" It's a soft question with a soft touch with a not so soft look in eyes that could tear him apart any day of the week. His web snaps and they tumble down to the street, are saved by the fact there's three feet of snow by the building's back entrance and they weren't that high up.

Peter gets a pretzel from Miss Potts.

------:--------:--------:--------:--------:--------:--------:--------:-------:-

Their lover (loverloverloverlover) is, in fact, hiding in the lab. There's a neon glow here, too, wrapped around Tony as he reassembles holograms, sketches new designs for the spider suit, revises old architecture plans with the gaze of a hawk.

"Anthony Potts, you put down that hologram right now! You were supposed to help out and decorate; not adjust Peter's suit. Again." Tony jolts back, clicks his fingers and everything disappears from the lab table as if Jarvis had never brought several of the genius' secret files to life. He looks like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and Peter isn't gonna let him forget this for as long as they live.

There's plenty of space on the table now so he settles there, swings his legs up and down, grins up at a fidgeting Tony. "Anthony Potts is new." A cookie tray is tucked away behind a pile of papers and it's too tempting not to snack on one even if he just inhaled a pretzel.

"I can call you Peter Potts, too, you know. Don't tease him, I know you would've been here helping Tony out if we hadn't gone caroling."

It's Tony's turn to grin and Peter's turn to flush now. Two more cookies are snatched, shoved into his face. "I kind of like that. The Potts thing. It's nice."

Miss Potts crosses over to them, wraps a finger around the one curl he can never tame and pulls on it until he's leaning on her palm with the sudden urge to never leave the lab. "I'm glad you like it, Peter. Anthony here has to go clean the dining table, but we can cuddle on the couch to warm up before seeing what's already cooked. How's that sound?"

"It sounds like your husband is being punished for upgrading your boyfriend's suit and making sure he doesn't die fighting some weird alien dog." Tony huffs, steals Dum-E's Santa hat with a pout before dragging himself up the stairs to the kitchen. "I'm saving everyone's lives, but no. I gotta see Steve butcher a Christmas tradition."

"There's nothing wrong with how Steve cooks the meal."

"Tell that to my grandmother and nanny. Even Jarvis could cook better and he doesn't have any hands." Said A. I hums in a suspiciously noncommittal way as his creator starts yelling about blood being spilled if a single stain is found in his prized kitchen.

The bots all seem to sigh in relief, roll over to bump Peter's knee or shoulder as affectionately as Alpine. He patiently fixes their elf ears and hats, rubs a few bells clean from grease and motor oil because Tony probably hadn't noticed and wouldn't notice until they accidentally stained something. Don't ask him or Miss Potts how, but Tony's children could ruin a fifty thousand dollar couch with purple paint without there necessarily being a can of paint around the lab.

Miss Potts' plan of cuddling on the couch is derailed when they hear screeching and curses pertaining to five different languages coming from above. She sighs, takes Peter's hand and he already knows she'll come up with a solution. She always did.

(Maybe it was time to explain he'd already found their gifts, twin silver rings with all their initials engraved hidden in his coat pocket.)

(And then Tony starts shouting something in Italian, Steve might be reverting to an Irish accent, Alpine hops on the dining table to pounce on the chicken, Miss Potts has to yank her husband away from the oven, Bucky's hair nearly catches on fire and yeah, he'll just show them on New Year's.)

[helahades]

the sexiest wip list

alright! reminder that this is a dark fic blog. dark fics are not just noncon, but uncomfortable subject matter and questionable thought processes and unreliable povs. control your media experience and read warnings carefully! they’ll be updated when the actual story releases, but these are wips, and i don’t know them all bc I simply have not finished these stories!

some darker warnings on this list include: threats of sexual violence, obsession, death, and previously mentioned unreliable povs from obsessive characters who justify themselves.

final reminder to read warnings! some of these are intense.

1) Jealous Thor (Untitled)

warnings: cheating, mean!reader, angst

You’re falling for Steve right under his nose. Each day, Thor feels you pull farther away. Each night, he squeezes his eyes shut as you lie asleep next to him, and tries to forget the way you lookat Steve these days with hunger and adoration that you once gave to him.

“He is earthly. For all his body’s and mind’s possession of unnatural experimental growth, he is earthly and limited, so Thor can’t understand why you’re drawing away from him, and telling Steve the jokes, giving Steve all the looks that had him hooked. The lingering eyes and touches… they ride the line of decency.”

—

2) Heimdall Angst (Untitled)

warnings: major character death, grief, existentialism, out of body experiences

Connected by incredible wisdom and duty to fate, you and The Gatekeeper of Asgard are pulled together by the unique pairing of your mutual seeing abilities—made for greatness, and destined for tragedy.

This story stretches from the moment that catalyzes your meeting, across the years of loving him, to the moment you lose him.

“A fateful tragedy. He sees an arrow through a dove.

He wonders how he missed your encounter with him in the whispers of the cosmos.

“—They’re star deaths,” you say abruptly, “the ones that move and change color. They speed up when you watch them—show their whole life to come...I read about them. Most can’t ever see them life this”.

Turning to where you stand beside him, his eyes swirl with the magic of knowing you, of your destinies combined. He sees you stare at his stars like they’re new.

“Only us.”

—

3) Away from the Party - Steve Smut

warnings: smut, dubcon, roughness, manipulation, unintentional exhibition

Steve hates these parties. After a mission, the work has just begun, and he fumes at the impossible way that Tony covers all problems in diamonds and pearls. Some things aren’t meant to be pretty.

You are. You’re soft, and kind, and you coax him gently away from the party—the source of his frustrations, with promises of leaving early, of calming down. Oh. He’ll calm down. And you’re just the toy to help. In a closet a corner away from the government’s finest, America’s golden boy has a hand on your throat and one demand.

“Keep quiet.”

“Of course, you both ended up at the party anyway, but with you swirling cool fingertips at his aching temples and rubbing softly over the stretch marks on his chest, he couldn’t find anything in heart to disagree with you then.

Even now with his erection pressed to you through barriers of clothing, with scarcely retrained and monstrous lust, he is steadily calmed by your presence. This rush, the secrecy—it excites him. And you pull him through the haze of it.”

—

4) Monster Thor Headcanons

warnings: wound and gore descriptions, some sadness

The fantasy of it all. Aesthetic, Lifestyle, Behavior. Some talking points include: hair, horns, hints about how he was influenced by a soft and charming lover many years ago, general horniness. Also spoiler that I’ve decided that He is 8ft tall

“Thor is...ancient. he is a being of war and folklore and raw energy and he’s earthy and elemental and connected. and form follows function. (and also whatever horny thoughts we want )”

—

5) The Call

warnings: voyeurism, death threats, obsession, implied sexual assault threats

When Frank comes to visit you, you beam like a sunflower. You’ve rearranged your room, and you’re excited about it. He would like to revel in the moment with you...but he’s caught up in one detail. Your bed is pushed against the window...and he can’t convince you to let him move it.

After a night of sin and wild lovemaking, you lie asleep bathed in moonlight, and Frank wakes to a call. Billy. He’s set up on a rooftop miles away, and he’s got things to say about Frank’s girl and what he’d like to do to her. A red dot on his chest means he can only listen. To your gentle snoring, and to the twisted fantasy of a brother unhinged.

“Black silk pajamas. Hair wrapped up in satin. Yellow light almost like sun stretches to the ceiling, but not quite over the rolling hills of your silhouette turned away from him in quiet sleep.

Frank’s hardly got the time to wonder why he’s awake, because his phone buzzes slow again. Pulls the moment he realizes he will have to break this magic peace to molasses and he half fills his lungs before huffing it out and flipping the phone open and tucked between his ear and shoulder.

“What.”

“She’s a reaaaaal pretty one, Frankie boy. You sure know how to pick em.”

—

6) Loki Longing (Untitled)

warnings: pregnant!fem reader, angst

On the Eve of the birth of Asgard’s heir, Thor is away. In a bath of flowers and magic to ease your pain, maidens worry over you, and Loki rescues you away, letting you rest in bed, and dreaming of the days when you were his lover instead.

“I’d like to rest…in my bed now, please.”

The ladies look to each other. It hasn’t been long enough for the herbs to take effect.

“My Queen,” the eldest starts—

“She is certainly your queen,” a silky silver timbre interrupts, “I’ve learned it’s best to mind her.”

His eyes fall to your form, and some blocked conflict—some guarded affection rests there. Some longing tucked in a pocket like an impossible secret.

—

7) With Child - Obsessive Steve

warnings: pregnant!fem reader, obsessive Steve

Watching you content, and very pregnant, as you gaze adoringly at your husband Thor from where you rest, half in his lap, Steve can’t help but fantasize. He thinks about impregnating you, the mechanics of sex with a pregnant woman, and being the god who does it all.

“Do you have to lie on your side? Is Thor just behind you, spooning you, fucking with desperate thrusts because you drive him so crazy this way? Steve has heard—and he doesn’t know where—that women get wetter when with child. Steve can’t help but wonder...does Thor need to hold one leg up for you—to save your back that’s so often heavy with the weight of supporting his legacy?”

—

8) Dean’s Girl

warnings: unreliable pov (john), voyeurism, masturbation + voyeurism

John notices the way you avoid him. You always seem to leave a room just as he’s coming into it. He’s living in the bunker now, and having to realize a lot of things that have changed for the both of his sons.

For example, his oldest, the last he’d ever think would fall in love, has got a pretty girl that dismisses her practical father in law with pointed boredom. She’s protective—how can he blame her after all that he’d put Dean through?

She’s pretty, and John is only a man, and can’t stop himself from just...looking. It starts with a convenient bend as she unloads the dishwasher...then he..can’t help that the door was open and she happened to be changing right there. He also can’t help it the next time when he’s just a little too obvious, pleasuring himself to the smell of her pretty lace panties.

—

9) Operator, Operator - Steve Smut

warnings: smut, financial troubles?, mentions of creepiness against and danger to sex workers, exhibitionism via phone call

Underpaid and overworked, you along with your roommate/secret crush/ best friend Steve have trouble making ends meet on minimum wage + his art commissions. When you start picking up calls on a phone sex line, he’s able to reason. It’s quick cash, and Steve is mature enough to keep his thoughts appropriate...at first.

One day, he wakes to the sound of breathy moans and a faked orgasms. He wonders how you would sound if only you were high on real pleasure...and there’s no time like the present. Don’t hang up. This call has only just started.

“By the time this year—junior year—swung around, Steve realized he was only catching glimpses of you. He would hear the shake of your keys when you tossed them on the counter, your backpack when it thudded to the floor, and most recently—your moans.

You must not know he’s home. Ever since you started online sex work, specifically being a phone sex operator, you seemed to also make the silent choice that more graphic calls would be saved for when he’s not around.

He gets it. You both split the rent, and Steve has done jobs he’d rather not mention in desperate times, when commissions came short. Still, sometimes you can’t tell when he’s here, and despite his best efforts to push down his arousal, to tell himself you’re his best friend...he’s an artist, and he can’t help but listen, and certainly not the wandering of his imagination.”

—

10) Professor Steve Medfet - (Untitled)

In an alternate timeline, a washed up Steve Rogers starts a new life in a run down city as an art / anatomy teacher. A class of hungry college students is filled to the brim each year, expecting the unspoken promise of their favorite hands on lab. You.

You keep his class sated, in turn giving the professor job security for funding his simple life out of the public eye. Each year when he calls, you come. Each year the students find a new way to tear you embarrass and degrade, much to the pleasure of the professor.

“Same speech. Same meaningless words. Focusing on the stillness of your skin and how it feels to be alone, you can almost drown out the way his tone edges toward excitement, the way the chairs shift and squeak—the anticipation.

Pretending your heart doesn’t send heat and cold flashes through you and run your breathing shallow, you look at the nicks in the door and try to guess their stories.

But then the metal frame clicks, the door unlatches. Professor Rogers wears a gentle smirk. It doesn’t ease your mind one bit.”

—

11) Swelter - Forest God Thor

warnings: sexual scenes, time limited conflict, religious themes

With a sickness overtaking nearby villages, yours is next, and has decided to sacrifice you to the cause of foraging for preventative herbs. You venture into the ancient woods after a rare vine of flowers, but leave with much more after encountering Thor.

After disturbing him where he lies cooling in the bank of a stream, you vow to prove the true intention of your soul—that you aren’t a hunter, or witch after his form or faculty, but a pious girl, also needing to escape the heat.

“You’re in the old woods now, and aside from the trees and the mossy nature tangled around them, there is only Him. Thor.

God of the harvest, bringer of land’s wealth, fertility, and vitality. You know of the sacrifices, of the woods where He is rumored to live in an unseen form, of livid white fire in the sky if He is severely displeased.

His name must not be spoken outside of prayer or ritual, and even now, you stutter to think it, and wonder if you are alone in your thoughts.”

[...]

“The frustration and the fear in your dilemma disturb the air, disquieting the otherwise enduring peace of the old woods, which rouses a large form in the cool muddy bank of the stream. It is only leaves shifting at first. Faded pumpkin and dried oak scatter—and suddenly the air smells like rain and your mouth sets around the tastes of copper and sage. Then, the leaves tumble off of a beast of a mass that rises slowly, and you note that it felt like the atmosphere changed to accommodate its awakening.”

—

12) Halloween Party - Thor Smut (Untitled)

warnings: smut, heartbreak, depressed!reader

An exclusive and mysterious Halloween party is still on this year—and you’re invited. It’s meant to be so extravagant and flashy an Avenger will one day attend, and all attendees decorate themselves in costumes inspired by the heroes, hoping to be noticed.

Fresh after a breakup with your boyfriend Brock, you take one half of the preordered couples costume and dress up as a goddess, determined to have a good night with your friends, find some excitement, and most importantly, a new god to match.

“Standing solemn, floor to ceiling windows allow in a few milky rays reflected by the moon, but they’re all the gems of your bodice need to gleam to a suitor's eye. Tonight, while you plan to rid your soul of another, you are welcomed with open arms and careful consideration as the final offering at an altar. You are seen by a god.”

—

13) Grief

warnings: dead!reader, guilt, grief, scary science, how do i say this... smut that is borderline necroph—there’s a replica of you, dark!steve, tony lives, pepper dies

Steve’s world is upside down. He’s lost the light of his life, and is completely in the dark. Luckily for him, Tony is back in the business of reality rejecting technology, and has found a way for him to be with you again.

At an abandoned cottage, Steve brings an armful of your scents to give the Tony’s invention sensory data, and faces the strange reality of what’s always been his worst stage...his worst trait. Denial.

“Dozens of test bottles full of manufactured scents, the kind of thing you smell borrowing a sweater, or with your face in the crook of someone’s neck. Essentially, the sort of organic thing that cannot be recaptured.

Steve’s got an armful of perfume and body wash. Of conditioner and deodorant, of all the elements he can think that make you smell the way you would—the way you do.

He wills the thoughts to be present tense. If he pretends you are alive, maybe it will look like it is you only sleeping. He wonders how well Tony knows the texture of your hair suddenly, because if it isn’t right, the experience will fall to shambles. It currently walks a plank over shambles. One wrong interpretation or surprise, and Steve will find himself spinning and burning with the fall into a new and uncharted taboo.”

14) Night Drive - Dean Smut

warnings: road head

On a long overnight drive, your back pressed into the seat of the impala makes you miss lying in bed with your lover, makes you miss his gentle caress right next to you...so you remind him how good it is to be close.

“You think about it when he hums a little tune. When he hums the song he wishes would play and thinks will come up next, it is eerily soft, and eerily similar to the soft contentment he sighs when you kiss on his neck.

When he reaches for your hand to hold, it makes you consider the shortness of the distance between you, and you think of pulling his cock out right here, giving him head that melts him here on this endless road.

Looking at him, he senses your interest—he turns his head to meet your eyes, throws up a grin of boyish charm. He’s happy to be here with you. These night drives are fine. He’s never minded them. But they’re even lovelier when in your company.”

—

15) Shadow - The Bucky Mystery

warnings: stalking, injury, sexual assault, canon typical hydra torture, mentions of bucky being forced to assault people, traumatized reader

On the run from Hydra, there aren’t many things that Bucky can remember. Inside his mind, there aren’t many feelings that make sense. Mostly, he feels guilt. Horror.

Following you to the gym where you practice ballet alone in the nights is all that makes sense, and for reasons he can’t explain, he feels drawn to you.

As time goes on, Bucky feels more enticed by his desire, you start to feel eyes staring from the walls, motivations and traumas are revealed, and in a horrible symphony, you both remember your connection.

“He’s a matte shadow against the noir shine of metal walls—an observer in the unlit quiet on his side of the room.

And he feels his unimportance. It’s humbling. Holds up the room like chunky beams and high rafters, dressed in the same layered neutrals. Framing the same cotton candy dancer, silent as the pad of her slippers when she turns her weight onto a straight leg, other coming up with her ankle pointed to the bend of her knee.

She spins, she spins and she whips her head around with each one, but it’s Bucky who gets dizzy.”

send an ask with any questions, or for more details about a particular story!

[celestianvices]

Genshin Impact

[Tag: teapot vagrant]

Name: Ciavera Alias(es): Vera, Ava, Huxian Race: Adeptus (fox) Class/job: Yaksha Weapon/Element: Pyro Catalyst Age: 5200 Height: 5’6 Weight: 145lbs Hair: Long, black Eyes: Jade green Skin: Light Gender/Pronouns: Female, she/her Orientation: Pansexual/panromantic Distinguishing Characteristics: Can sometimes be seen with golden fox ears and tails.

Appearance: Most commonly seen as an exceptionally beautiful woman with long straight hair silky shiny and black, cut straight at the bottom and in a slight arch across her forehead, with two short sections framing the sides of her face. When she appears like this she has jade green eyes that can peer right through a man, and no matter how gentle her smile may be there is no avoiding her cunning gaze.

When her true self is revealed it is that of a pale gold fox with nine tails. Her eyes a luminous golden color that retain their sharp look. She does not show this to strangers often however; instead preferring (perhaps vainly) her lovely human appearance instead.

She loves to dress in fine silks and when she is not wearing something revealing or contoured to her figure she will lounge in loose kimono acquired during one of her many trips to Inazuma in days long past. .

Personality: Mischievous and cunning, and prone to violence if pushed too far. She is more likely to taunt and tease before she does anything outwardly violent. She is also sultry, cheerful, and charismatic, making it easy for her to convince people to part with their valuables or do her a favor or two. And collecting is her favorite thing to do. Be it money or favors, she hoards them whenever possible.

Those people who gain her favor can earn a rare gift of loyalty from her. Those who earn her ire however, will find her less than merciful.

Background: The Legend goes that at that time the fox Yaksha had lost a wager, and so paid the price and signed a contract with Rex Lapis to fight against the demons and miasma left over after the archon war. After all; a wager in itself is a sort of contract and she was loathe to break her word, despite her greedy and lackadaisical nature.

For many years she served her role and did it well. There was hardly a battlefield that she entered that was not purged of enemies by days end. She executed her foes with elegance and grace and her combat was truly a sight to behold.

But even she had her limits. Even she was not immune to the karmic debt and the poison seeping into her body. Her graceful frenzies becoming more and more brutal as time went on.

She had expected to die on the battlefield, or end up in a fight against other yaksha who were becoming just as and often more unhinged as time wore on. But instead something else came to pass as she tried to find shelter one day. Wounded and delusional, she met a human man. He took her in and cared for her and she became smitten, then attached. Then she was with child...

Ciavera did not return to the battlefield. She broke her contract; something she knew could incur the wrath of stone upon her. She became one of the lost yaksha, those who went missing and were never seen again. Ciavera took her husband and their young daughter and left Liyue for many years, traveling to other lands with her teapot realm and its dandelion sea as their portable home.

Her daughter grew older, she had a son… her husband began to show his age while her children inherited her nigh-immortal lifespan. Eventually they were grown and left home to find their own way in the world, and then he was gone.

Now alone, Ciavera took to wandering once again. In her travels she came across many people and saw many things. She contributed to the legend of the dandelion sea in mondstat. She made her way back to Liyue from time to time, witnessing the changing land and people while trying not to stay in one place for too long. She knew there were adepti who may yet remember her name and face.

Eventually news of Rex Lapis’ fate reached her and though Ciavera hadn’t been to Liyue harbor in more than a century she immediately changed her plans. After all this time what choice did she have but to return to pay her respects?

Powers and abilities:

Transformation – Ciavera is an illuminated beast and as such she naturally has the appearance of a nine tailed fox, however she prefers the appearance of a human. She may also assume the form of a smaller and more average looking fox as well as a very small pipe fox which resembles a fuzzy serpent with a fox’s head and ears.

Pyro vision – Long ago Ciavera was granted a vision, just as all Yakshas were. It allows her to control the element of fire both in and out of combat. She can boil water and create and/or control flames, as well as warming the air around her on hot days among many other things.

Catalyst mastery – Thousands of years of experience has allowed her to use her catalyst as a focus for her pyro abilities, making her a difficult opponent.

Huli magic – A variety of abilities granted to Ciavera by nature of her being an illuminated beast. These include foxfire, the aforementioned transformation, illusion magic, the ability to know things at more than a thousand miles' distance, she can poison men by sorcery or bewilder them, so that they lose their memory and knowledge.

Flame claws – Ciavera’s normal attack sees her catalyst infusing her hands with pyro energy. With this she uses her transformation abilities to change her hands into vicious claws which deal slashing pyro damage. Her movements are fluid and graceful and her strikes swift and precise. Her speed is almost unmatched.

Elemental skill; foxfire – Over time Ciavera has learned how to combine the originally benign foxfire with herpyro elemental abilities to create a new skill for herself. In combat she can create floating flames around her which radiate pyro energy in a certain radius, dealing damage to nearby enemies and applying the pyro status effect. She can create up to 5 of these before her skill cooldown begins.

Elemental burst; Flame Waltz – Ciavera does an elegant and flowing dance, creating a pyro aoe ringed by a circle of dancing foxfire flames that disorient and confuse her enemies. Those trapped within the circle take continuous aoe damage for the duration of her burst. As with Xiao; for the duration of her burst Ciavera’s hp will constantly drain when not attacking enemies, and will replenish with each enemy she defeats.

Teapot realm – Like the other adepti Ciavera has an adeptus’ abode. Her realm within like Madame Ping’s is located inside a teapot which she carries on her person at all times. Her realm appears as a beach with several connecting islands. Her house is located there as well as her many foxes and other companion animals, most of which live on the island containing the dandelion sea.

[jackadler]

JACK ADLER FAMILY TREE.

Julia Adler, a troubled woman, always quiet and a little lost to the stars. Upon meeting her, you’ll understand where Jack inherits his gentle nature. While Julia was an amazing mother to Jack, she struggled deeply with her identity. A lesbian married to a very kind man, too settled to leave her situation. George Adler was always a vision of hard work. There was never a moment where you saw him not determined. But that was always his downfall. He’d drown in what was important to him, constantly falling victim to his own emotions. Even until his timely death.

Jack’s father had died when he was only two years old, so he never knew him. Though he’s always been curious and Julia knew that she eventually would have to speak to her son about his late father. She tells him it was a car accident. Fatal and random, but he was an amazing man. Kind, warm, and profound. Julia does what she can to keep his legacy alive, despite Jack having no real memories to adhere to this ghost of a man. 

Despite this, there’s always been secrets surrounding his father. Things that didn’t quite fit. Julia doesn’t go in detail, always becoming unhinged and upset at the idea of having to unleash all that lives inside her in regards to George Adler. Jack would usually let it go, understanding that the loss of his father was simply a hard topic for his mother to discuss. Though he can’t help but continue to question his existence when he hears even Samantha whisper the words “You need to tell him eventually..” behind closed doors...

But, Jack knows one thing for sure, he apparently has his eyes.

Later on, Julia meets Samantha Landon, the love of her life. The two once worked together until Samantha found employment elsewhere. They remained in contact for a while until a sudden romance blossomed. They fell hard and fast, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of their days together. Jack, young and a tad confused, was wary upon meeting Samantha. But it wasn’t long before they all warmed up to one another, Samantha becoming a mother to Jack in no time. Samantha and her young daughter, Amelia Landon, were invited into their home with open arms. They didn’t have much, just each other, but they were a family.

Soon enough, Samantha Landon is Samantha Adler, deciding to take Julia’s last name upon their marriage. Amelia sometimes writes her name as Amelia Landon-Adler, but mainly sticks with Landon. Conrad Landon, Samantha’s ex-husband, is a sweet man. He often comes over for holidays when he’s not busy with his other family outside of Samantha and Amelia.

You can now find Julia and Samantha running a women’s youth center in Massachusetts, one that Jack publically supports. His fame helps gather large amounts of attention towards their philanthropy. Amelia works as a nurse in Massachusetts, living with her daughter, Diana Monroe. Amelia’s ex and Diana’s father, Seth Monroe, are currently divorced but still on good terms. He still comes around for holidays and birthdays, especially as he doesn’t have much family to call his own. Seth and Jack are also pretty close.

Jack’s favorite family memories are hard to navigate because he truly loves them all. But probably the most prominent are the evenings where him, his mothers, and his step-sister would dance around the living room to The Carpenters, Diana Ross, Bee Gees, Phil Collins, Elton John, and Earth, Wind & Fire. His mother’s had amazing taste in music. They had shelves lined with old records from their youth that they’d all listen to together often. During these times, they fully realized Jack’s musical talent. His tone was always fantastic and he could practically learn every song they played on the piano by ear.

Today, to pay tribute to his parents and sister, he often sings covers of Rainy Days And Mondays by The Carpenters and Can’t Stop Loving you by Phil Collins while touring.

Their family is small and scrambled but close. The love each and every member has for one another is something people could only hope for.